Deadline for submissions for Part VIII is: Saturday, September 24, 2011 at 11:59 PM, Eastern Time.
Visit this post for more information on submitting content.
Part VIII has been added to the Google Document. You can click to read the entire story or scroll down to read this week's submission.
There was one submission this week - by Maria Fisher.
There was one submission this week - by Maria Fisher.
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“She held the hat directly in front of me, showing me white satin interior, then turned it around and put it on her head.”
“‘I’m thinking of something’ she said, tapping the hat with a short-nailed finger. ‘You will see.’”
“I shivered then, the way you do right before a sneeze. She took off the hat, flipped it toward me, and inside was a large, round gold coin.”
“‘You take,’ she said. I reached for it, but the weight was all wrong, like it was made out of wood.”
“‘Chocolate,’ she said, and laughed. ‘It is my favorite. The only thing I can make.’”
“I opened the foil wrapper and took a bite. It was fantastic chocolate, rich and smooth with a slight cayenne kick at the end.”
“‘It’s a cute trick,’ I said, but I’m not much of a magic man.”
“‘You try it,’ she said. ‘Try now.’”
“I shook my head but put the hat on anyway.”
“‘Now, think of something,’ she said. ‘It has to be what you love most of all, but it can’t be a living thing. Those do not work.’”
“I thought about my father then. About the evenings on the porch when I was a child. We sat around his feet listening to the adults talk, listening to the radio play the ball game or the radio shows. But my favorite was the music. Sometimes my father would sing along, his voice a strong low bullfrog call in the night.”
“Rita shivered. ‘It is done,’ she said. I took off the hat, and looked inside. There at the bottom was a fine silver comb.”
“She looked at the comb then at me. ‘You want to be...’ she waved her hands vaguely at her head ‘... hair … cutter?”’
“‘Well, no ma’am,’ I said, chuckling. ‘I’ve always hoped to be a musician.’”
“Rita furrowed her brow for a moment. ‘Can... piene... play music?’”
“'Yes, I suppose, when held to a newspaper,'” I told her.
“‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You play this then. Very good music come from this.’”
“You’re letting me keep the comb?” I asked. “Si. Comb, hat, it is for you. But now you go.”
“She’d given me a good story to tell and a very fine comb I was sure I could hock for a week’s pay, so I left. I liked Rita, although how a housekeeper ever picked up such subtle slight-of-hand, I couldn’t imagine.”
“Did you ever play the comb with a newspaper?” Shannon asked.
“Well, now, that’s a funny story, too.” Nomad replied.
“‘I’m thinking of something’ she said, tapping the hat with a short-nailed finger. ‘You will see.’”
“I shivered then, the way you do right before a sneeze. She took off the hat, flipped it toward me, and inside was a large, round gold coin.”
“‘You take,’ she said. I reached for it, but the weight was all wrong, like it was made out of wood.”
“‘Chocolate,’ she said, and laughed. ‘It is my favorite. The only thing I can make.’”
“I opened the foil wrapper and took a bite. It was fantastic chocolate, rich and smooth with a slight cayenne kick at the end.”
“‘It’s a cute trick,’ I said, but I’m not much of a magic man.”
“‘You try it,’ she said. ‘Try now.’”
“I shook my head but put the hat on anyway.”
“‘Now, think of something,’ she said. ‘It has to be what you love most of all, but it can’t be a living thing. Those do not work.’”
“I thought about my father then. About the evenings on the porch when I was a child. We sat around his feet listening to the adults talk, listening to the radio play the ball game or the radio shows. But my favorite was the music. Sometimes my father would sing along, his voice a strong low bullfrog call in the night.”
“Rita shivered. ‘It is done,’ she said. I took off the hat, and looked inside. There at the bottom was a fine silver comb.”
“She looked at the comb then at me. ‘You want to be...’ she waved her hands vaguely at her head ‘... hair … cutter?”’
“‘Well, no ma’am,’ I said, chuckling. ‘I’ve always hoped to be a musician.’”
“Rita furrowed her brow for a moment. ‘Can... piene... play music?’”
“'Yes, I suppose, when held to a newspaper,'” I told her.
“‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You play this then. Very good music come from this.’”
“You’re letting me keep the comb?” I asked. “Si. Comb, hat, it is for you. But now you go.”
“She’d given me a good story to tell and a very fine comb I was sure I could hock for a week’s pay, so I left. I liked Rita, although how a housekeeper ever picked up such subtle slight-of-hand, I couldn’t imagine.”
“Did you ever play the comb with a newspaper?” Shannon asked.
“Well, now, that’s a funny story, too.” Nomad replied.
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