I decided that I didn’t leave enough time to write a quality story for the Writer’s Journal contest. I am falling short with this mini-milestone to submit a story to the Write To Win contest that is due to tomorrow. I have written 1,083 words of a story that is not well put together and has a ton of work left to do. My wife read it and the look on her face told me that. I suppose trying to do this the same week I ran the Boston Marathon has been a tough task.
I will make a more focused commitment for the next deadline—June 20, 2007 for “They could see…”
In the meantime, I am pasting the first scene from my incomplete story to display the valiant effort put forth.
He reached for…
…the gold-plated letter opener out of a birch memory box that rested atop the credenza. The den inside the old Colonial was uncomfortably cool even for July. Wade pawed his antique mail sword carefully with veins bulging from his frail hands.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” whispered Allison as she clenched Greg’s hand. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”
Allison showed her husband a hopeless frown. She wished he would yank her out of her chair so they could dash out of the old man’s house together. Instead, she found him gazing at the crown molding and the vintage canvas collection that adorned Wade’s study.
“We can get through this, Ally. Your mother asked for this meeting to take place. The least we can do is respect her wishes,” whispered Greg.
“Respect her…?” Ally’s hand flew out of Greg’s grasp in a blaze. She tightened her lips, while she lunged her head straight ahead. Her sarcastic response was interrupted by a familiar voice that crooned from behind her.
“Yeah, we’re at Wade’s now,” barked Danielle into her cell phone. “Once we sign the papers, I’ll meet you at Cedar Woods. Tee time is set for 10:00.” It was a classic portrait of Danielle, who again was blissfully defiant of the destructive gravity that women in their family had battled for years.
Though Allison appeared steady, her eyes seeped out the occasional tear. She was unable look at her mother’s long-time attorney, her husband and especially not Danielle. She diverted her stare into the tapestry of wood knots on Wade’s executive desk in front of them, which looked like a universe of frozen embryonic creatures to her.
Wade gave Danielle a polite smile, which prompted her to end her phone conversation. He then held out his weathered hands like an ordained prophet as he greeted the three mourners, stirring up a strange energy inside of his plush Connecticut estate. Danielle stood distant from the married couple, ruffling creases out of her khaki slacks.
“As you may know, we don’t typically read the deceased’s last will and testament in person like this, but we know your mother was far from typical. Madeline designated me as her executor and asked that I assemble us together,” explained Wade.
Madeline’s longtime advisor drove his letter opener into a massive manila envelope with geriatric force. Danielle balanced her Starbucks cup and swayed breezily from side-to-side. Wade appeared distracted by her pendulum swing.
“Danielle, please, won’t you sit down?” Wade paused his shredding of the large packet and motioned one of his puffy, decrepit hands toward a leather-wrapped chair beside Allison. Danielle sneered as she slid her large bottom onto the armrest of the large recliner opposite her older sister.
