As I sit here, the calendar just flipped over to February. February 2nd to be exact. I’m writing ahead to prep for travel, family obligations and generally buffering in time to allow for the inevitable chaos that always creeps up before a trip—especially a much-looked-forward-to trip.
You know how it goes… Best laid plans and carefully calculated calendar pages are uprooted by illness, unexpected visitors, acts of God, blown tires, and the coronavirus (big news as I write this—hopefully it won’t be bigger news in a couple of weeks…)
So, by the time this blog goes live, I should be in the middle of my Vegas trip. Three hours behind, so don’t call me—I’m likely asleep. Or, if insomnia has hit, or my jetlag hasn’t resolved, I’m prepping my notes and over-stimulated brain cells to get to the Anthology Workshop on time and ready to learn.
Ada Kenworthy is content with her home and her hoard, sipping tea alone and keeping to herself. When her aging neighbor asks for help, Ada’s spryness surprises her, and she finds an unexpected friend and a secure future in the process.
Ada Kenworthy straightened her thin housecoat around her shoulders. Her wrinkled hands smoothed the pale blue seersucker fabric. She tidied up one of the buttons, the cloth had gathered awkwardly, causing the pink of her nightgown underneath to show through. Modest lady always, even alone in the house, alone for ages, she’d never permit the nightgown to show itself in any room other than the bedroom.
She allowed her fingers to inspect the pockets, pockets she’d carefully sewn onto the garment using the old Singer upstairs in a room she’d not seen in years. A tiny hole was starting in the right one. She’d have to dig out her mending kit from under the bathroom vanity and fix it. Someday.
In the left one, she’d tucked a souvenir from her neighbor. If she stood very still, she could hear the ticking from the pocket watch. Eighty years old she may be, but her hearing was keen.
She exhaled deeply as the kettle on the stove whistled, blowing steam into the already humid kitchen. She drew the roller shade closed against the black night outside the window above her table for two. She could feel the tension leave her back and neck as she steeped her teabag and sank into the chair. She’d been chasing this moment the entire day. The entire week, actually. The moment she could breathe, albeit in the dusty corner of her breakfast nook. The moment she could close her eyes and not fear what she’d see when she opened them. That moment when the only sounds were those familiar to her. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the front room. The hum of the refrigerator. The sound of the creaking boards under her feet.
Thank you for hanging out for a bit. Check back on the first Monday of every
month for a free fictional short, and be sure to visit my Amazon page.
Copyright © 2019 by B.A. Paul
All work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. All work published on this site, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Beth's passion for writing started in grade school with an epic outer space adventure scribbled on 158 sheets of wide-ruled notebook paper with not-sharp-enough pencils. That manuscript was lost in a basement flood.
Thirty years, marriage, two kids and several dogs later, she's garnered enough story fodder to resurrect her passion—and this time she backs up her work!
She currently resides in Indiana with her family and a couple of meowing fur babies who enjoy walking across her keyboard.