The Inspiration:
A story:
Great-uncle Virgil never married after Ruby left. The other town girls tried to woo him, showing up at the house he had built for his erstwhile bride with covered dishes and no underwear. He turned them away, keeping a picture of Ruby in the foyer.
Packing up the house after the funeral, I lifted Ruby from the wall, meaning to put her in the trunk I discovered in the foyer closet. The inset held a locket of her hair, a yellowed blouse – I smiled at Virgil’s sentimentality.
Then I saw the pile of bones at the bottom of the trunk.
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Now, your turn.
I liked it.
Edgy.
Belmondo Belmondo Belmondo . . . (imagine shouting that in earnest)
. . . must be some Italian somewhere in that woodpile
O bel mondo, O pretty earth, O new wave what has such schnozzes in’t . . .
. . . and red capes! and capers with capers . . .
. . . or Corsican, maybe? The dashing swarthy midget — like ol’ Nappy, if a tad taller or less serious about his conquests, one who can pretend and play, play at the incorrigible con-man, disregarding all worldly effect of slaughter and order . . .
. . . he’s 42 there. Forty-two. Surely that wouldn’t mean he‘s the answer? Couldn’t, could it?
Nah . . . . . . . . . just another swingin’ dick scuffin’ along in gay Paree
[…] Fiction picked up this week from Darleen at protein wisdom and Matthew of Old Line Elephant. My story might not be the creepiest this […]
I like Darleen’s variation on Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily.”
In case anyone thinks my last comment was meant in any way to demean Darleen’s story, I sincerely deny it. Had I attempted to write on the picture without having read Darleen’s take on it, I would have gone in exactly the same direction, but I doubt if the result would have been as good.
thanks Tai
I read and enjoyed Faulkner’s story long ago … it must have been lurking there when I ran across the pic
But I also was thinking of a couple real life cases of people who didn’t really leave at all.
[…] has his take on Darleen‘s Friday Fiction […]
Thinking of nothing, she pulled on the tarnished handles to open the aged cabinet. Her parents returned to dust long ago, then MeeMaw, now PawPaw. She was allowed to enjoy the blazing fire as well as the chilling fan often in this room. Still, she never was impudent enough to touch the absent tasseled key that held the anonymous bindings. Spent from grief, her fingers fell on the gold bound manuscript that seemed so tattered, yet familiar. It’s charm was unmistakable, something she had always felt here. Criss Cross Applesauce. She submissively leafed through the pages…finding her comfort at last.