Short story sketch – Jenny Grace's Poetry and Creative Writing Techniques

Shades of Purple: A Short Story Sketch

Pressed against the lilac sky, rain clouds marched across the dusty, beige hills. Haddie watched the advancing storm from her kitchen window and clicked her chipped cherry red fingernails in rhythm with the song playing on her transistor radio.

Purple rain, purple rain, purple rain.

The man’s voice pleaded as if he were stuck on a thought that was at once sorrowful and unintentionally seductive.

Jazz, Haddie’s scarlet macaw, scratched at the mauve and fuchsia threads of Grandma Heloise’s old afghan. Jazz strutted along the back of the sofa and perched himself smugly on the top of the tiffany lamp, also Grandma Heloise’s.

Purple rain, purple rain, purple rain.

There was that sorrowfulness. That catch in his throat. Rawness of emotion.

She switched the volume louder in an attempt to merge with that voice, in an attempt to absorb the freedom of that voice, the freedom to feel, to expose that raw emotion.

Then the voice stopped.

She drowned in her own sorrow as torrents of rain pelted the tin roof of Grandma Heloise’s bungalow. It had been built by her grandpa Carlton in 1939.

Time had stood still in that little space.

Time had stopped.

But the rain pelted the earth with a cruel, unrelenting voraciousness.

Haddie turned the transistor radio dial in search of that voice that had the capacity to express emotions that she had clamped down deep within herself.

Note: Unless you’ve been living on another planet in a distant galaxy several light years away you should recognize “Purple Rain” is the title of a song sang by the musical artist Prince in 1984.

Misinterpretation: A short story sketch

Miss Naiomi had not been been pleased in five and a half decades.

That money, oh, that money! Oh, she would have been able to have broken away earlier had she not been such a coward. Cowardice was a genetic trait, of that she had convinced herself.

“Dang fool,” she announced to the skinny nurse’s aide who had just walked into her room. “Stop pursing your lips and staring at me with pity. I’ve got the money. Why don’t you go and eat a sandwich.”

Linda M., the nursing supervisor on the night shift, bent to hug Miss Naiomi. “You’re such a sweet lady, aren’t you? You don’t mean a cross word you say.” She turned to the skinny nurse’s aid and whispered, “it’s such a shame the dementia is progressing this quickly.”

Miss Naiomi rolled her pale blue eyes. “Dang idiots, the whole of you.”

“I know you don’t mean that Miss Naiomi,” Corrinne H., nursing home social worker, touched Miss Naiomi’s thick cottony hair gently. You’ve got such lovely hair.”

“Turds, you’ve all got turds in your teeth.”

Linda M., Corrinne H,. and the skinny nurse’s aide, simultaneously tilted their heads, pursed their lips, and smiled with compassion. “Such a sweet lady,” Linda M., restated. “She doesn’t mean the insults. She’ll be ninety-seven tomorrow. That’s hard to believe. She barely looks seventy.”

Miss Naiomi glared at the three women as they turned to leave. “I have the money. I had the money. Now, they’ve got the money.” She stabbed her fingers into the metal bed railings. “If only,” she muttered as she nodded off to sleep.

Note to my readers:

I am trying to return to my passion, writing, after a long stretch of being the caregiver for my husband who passed away on September first from a long battle with cancer. Daily I am doing activities to try to return to some sense of normalcy. Actually, I doubt if I’ll ever truly feel the same again. But, that’s okay. God has walked with me through this dark, painful season in my life. Now, I want to start a new chapter and move forward with a spirit of hope for my future. God is in control and I turn to him for my strength. Our lives are short, so we need to focus on making each moment count. If we live long enough we will inevitably lose someone whom we love. That emptiness is real, but only God can fill up that void. So, I am turning my eyes to God who is my strength and my fortress in this storm. I am beginning to see the sunlight. I will always miss my husband, but this life is not all there is. One day, he and I will meet again in eternity. But, for now, I am going to focus on living the best life I can. I am going to focus on my writing and getting published. I am going to focus on enjoying this beautiful world that God has bless me with the opportunity to see. With gratefulness I turn to God of miracles and I rest in his abiding love.

Thank you, readers, for your prayers during this difficult season.

Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think about my short story sketch (but be kind).

Thanks,

Jenny

Short Story Sketch: Pyramids Amid Lost Dreams

Billie Mae splurged her last dollar on a trip of a lifetime.

Forty-five years of marriage had ended badly. Jack had been an ass.

Mustafa pointed to the imposing blocks of rock melting like a mirage in the sweltering distance. Well, they weren’t actually melting; it was an optical illusion, an illusion much like her happy life had been. “That, that is the Great Sphinx of Giza,” he announced with pride as if he himself had had a hand in constructing it. With a flourish, he waved his cigarette out the car window, slowed to a stop, and tapped ashes into the stagnant air.

She’d barely said a single word to the young man after she had gotten into the taxi at Cairo International Airport. From her vantage point in the backseat, it occurred to her that what should have been a half-hour ride had turned into over two hours. There was no meter; the old black taxi reminded her of a hearse. She briefly recalled seeing newer white taxis. Perhaps, a newer taxi would have had air conditioning. She rolled down the window and swiped at the sweat coursing down her forehead. She hadn’t even considered how she must have appeared. At sixty-eight years old, she’d learned to completely ignore her feelings. She’d learned not to cry; she’d learned to shove down each and every feeling she felt. Jack and their five children ignored her. She had strived to be the perfect wife and mother.

“Madam, are you okay?” Mustafa lit another cigarette and adjusted his rearview mirror so as to get a clearer view of her. “Your bottom lip is twitching. I think you are very sad.”

Sweat soaked her white linen blouse. She adjusted the mint green scarf she had tied around her shoulders. In the distance, the Great Sphinx of Giza consumed the horizon with its grandeur and mystery. Tears and sweat coursed down her cheeks and splashed into the palms of her trembling hands. “I’d always wanted to see the pyramids of Egypt every since I was a small child. My daddy would stand in front of the congregation and give his sermons and talk about Egypt. Those Bible stories.” Her voice caught in her throat. The words drenched in bitterness spilled forth like a dam breaking.

Mustafa tapped his cigarette butt into the ashtray, and then he turned to look directly at her. “So, you are here now. So, why are you crying, Madam? I think you should be happy.”

At sixty-eight years old, she felt the soreness of her bones. Arthritis had settled into her knees. She adjusted her glasses, and stepped out of the taxi. The hot sand seeped through the thin rubber of her white sandals. Mustafa exited the taxi and stood beside her.

“I gave up a full academic scholarship in archeology. He’d said I didn’t need to go to graduate school after Natalie our first baby was born. Then, after he left me for Corinne he told me I needed to get a job, that since the kids were grown I needed to get a job. He left me just last month. I am sixty-eight years old. What am I going to do? I gave up everything for Jack and our kids. And now.” Her voice trailed off.

Note: Hi Everyone,

Thanks for reading. Please leave me a message and let me know what you think.

Out of Town

A short story sketch by Jenny W. Andrews

Edna crumpled the receipt, flung it into the garbage can after rolling it tightly into a ball.

Harris, in his starch white button down shirt, rifled through his desk’s top drawer, and muttered, “I know I put it right here.” He clutched the key. “Nobody else has a key. I just don’t understand.”

From her perch at the top of the staircase, Edna smirked and swallowed a giggle. “Darling, is something the matter?” She called to him. The sound of his little key locking the top drawer sounded so stupidly tiny, ineffective.

“Nothing’s the matter, Edna. Nothing at all.”

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs Harris was seated in his brown leather recliner sipping a glass of white wine.

“Oh, I thought I could have sworn I heard you muttering. You sounded a bit upset. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Harris rested his wine goblet on the glass table top next to his recliner. “You must be imagining things, Edna. I wasn’t saying anything. I’ve been sitting here reading my book.” He patted the book that he had balanced precariously on his knee.

“Probably. Yes, I was probably just imagining things.” She leaned her back against the desk.

His face as of late ceased to remind her of the man she had once loved. No, he didn’t look anything at all like the man she had once loved. Now, he just looked shifty. Yes, that was the word. Shifty. The lies he told were beginning to etch themselves throughout the contours and creases of his face. . .

Hey, everyone, thanks for reading. This is just a sketch. I wanted to write about how people (especially married couples) try to manipulate and play mind games with each other as if it is an Olympic sport.

Please leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Thanks!