Writing Stories

I am an author of cozy mysteries: the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series, which can be found on Amazon at amazon.com/author/vickyearle but I also enjoy writing short stories. As a member of the Uxbridge Writers' Circle, I get the chance to participate in the "Word Challenge": we each select a word and then we write a short story using all of these words. We also write a very short story "on the spot", limited to ten minutes, using various prompts, such as photographs.
This is one of the Word Challenge stories I wrote. The words I had to use are in italics.
I hope you enjoy it!

Nuptial Bliss

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Newly-weds are supposed to continue in nuptial bliss at least until they return home from the honeymoon.

           

The wedding was held in a fantasy world created by Don, and Sybil had been enraptured from beginning to end. Her cheeks hurt from holding a smile for so many hours. Don had said that he was determined to make her smile, to show off the perfect, whitened teeth she hid so well most of the time. He said she took life too seriously, she needed to lighten up.

            The ceremony took place in a simulated ancient Greek temple, with its ionic columns wrapped in green vines and white cone-shaped flowers. The marble floor was covered in perfumed pink rose petals, and a harpist plucked her strings, surrounding the wedding party with heavenly music. Sybil half-expected to see angels float down from the bright blue ceiling.

            Yes, it was perfect. Sybil was certain that she’d done the right thing in agreeing to marry Don, having quashed the doubts stirred up by her father and brother. Both of them thought it was the wrong thing to do – for her to marry a subordinate. At the very least, Don should leave her father’s company. It just wouldn’t work. And her father was adamant that there was no room for Don at the top.

            Sybil stood, breathing in the soft scent of the petals, convinced that she and Don would live happily ever after, just like the romance novels (which she loved) promised with their happy endings.

            Don and Sybil had agreed to delay their honeymoon until after the company’s year-end, but each started planning the special vacation a couple of days after the wedding.

            Sybil wanted a simple honeymoon, to hike along the Amalfi Coast in Italy, perhaps, staying at various bed and breakfast places. Being outdoors, walking in nature, listening to birds, discovering silvery spider webs, acted like a tonic for Sybil. She had her most creative ideas while hiking in the woods - often solving problems, sometimes bringing issues into a more balanced perspective, and always feeling re-energized, ready to get back to work.

She knew Don loved the outdoors too, so she was certain it would be easy to plan this get-away, together.

But Don had jumped the gun, and had booked a week at a ranch in Wyoming. When he told her this news, his smile was broader than Sybil’s had been on their wedding day, if that was possible. Don knew she loved the outdoors. They would be helping in the round-up – gathering hundreds of cattle scattered across the summer range, which covered thousands of mountainous and forested acres.

When Sybil said she hadn’t ridden a horse since she was a little girl, Don’s eyes sparkled as he told her that they offered riding lessons, and taught riders the basic techniques used in cattle work. He said that the clincher was that the food was fantastic, and there would be lots of it.

Sybil’s stomach fluttered. Her cheeks flushed and burned. She wasn’t used to decisions being made for her. She was accustomed to her position of authority, of having her opinion respected, and of having the final say on just about everything that affected her life and work.

Don brought up the website on his laptop and, as he became more animated, gesturing, pointing and peering, Sybil retreated, sitting back, keeping quiet, fiddling with her wedding ring.

“Oh, aren’t you interested?” Don asked, as he turned to look at her.

“It’s not my idea of a honeymoon.”

“You don’t want to go to one of those shitty resorts, do you? Or one of those floating prisons?”

“No.”

“Well, then, this is the thing.” He turns back to the laptop, quiet now, rapt in the pictures and lengthy description.

Sybil stood up as a sigh escaped from between her dry lips.

“Okay, then,” Don said.

Sybil turned, anticipating that he would cancel the booking.

“I’ll take Pete with me. You don’t have to go.”

That’s the moment when Sybil decided to cancel the marriage.

And Don didn’t return to work after his vacation on the ranch.

Their nuptial bliss didn’t even make it to the honeymoon.

Vicky Earle Copyright 2019

           

Another Free Story by Vicky Earle: "Too Close For Comfort"

This story was written using prompts provided by Uxbridge Writers' Circle members - these words are shown in italics.

The woman’s gaudy skirt swirled around her as she swept up some of the books and magazines in her arms, to make a space for me to sit. Millions of dust particles were disturbed and caught in the sun’s rays that had forced their way through the dirty window pane.

            Her bare toes brandished long nails that had the remnants of colour at their tips. I didn’t get a good look. I didn’t want to stare at her grubby, flaky feet.

            This wasn’t an ideal time to meet, she’d told me. The mornings offered her the best creative hours, when the words flowed and the verses gathered on the paper. She always wrote with pen on paper, she’d let me know.

            A terra-cotta sculpture caught my eye and she noticed my interest. She explained that she’d been a sculptor once, before it happened. The fact that she made reference to the tragedy, albeit fleeting, gave me an opening.

            “As you know, Serena, I’m here as a representative of the private investigator hired by your ex-husband’s father.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “We’ve re-opened the case.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “This must be difficult for you, but please tell me all you know about what happened. I’ll be recording this for my use, to help me with my notes.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “I realize you’ve told the police, probably several times, but please would you tell me again.”

            I watched as she sat on a wooden chair behind a dark table that was covered in papers. I wondered what she was thinking. Her reminiscence about the events surrounding the death of her son would be clouded by time and distorted by grief.

            A giggle. I was certain I heard a giggle. She stood up and threw her hands into the air.

            “I won’t tell you what I said before.”

            I kept silent and watched as she twirled on the spot, her skirt ballooning out, the papers curling up in the breeze.

            “I won’t tell you the lies.”

            “I’m here to get the truth,” I said, somewhat bewildered by her behaviour, wondering if the unbearable grief of losing her son had sent her stark raving mad.

            “I’m not mad. I’m just sad. See, the poet can’t help it.”

            “Okay, tell me.”

            She sat down on the chair again, rested her elbows on some papers and stared at me.

            “The only problem is that you won’t believe it.”

            “Try me.”

            “Bert, …”

            “Your husband, or rather your ex-husband.”

            “Bert told Len he must be home by midnight. Len drove Bert’s Mercedes home at three in the morning and it had a dent in the roof and was covered in mud. You know all that.”

            “I do, from your statement. The Mercedes was found in the driveway.”

            “Now the truth part. Bert was angry. He was really mad. I screamed at him to leave Len alone, but he wouldn’t. He lost it. You know he beat me up just about every evening, right?”

            “I didn’t know.”

            “Violent man. Angry man. Hateful.”

            “What happened?’

            “Bert punched Len so hard that he fell and hit his head on the hall tiles. I screamed some more. I was half-way down the stairs. Bert threw the small sculpture at me, that I’d put on the hall table. It smashed on my shoulder and I fell down the stairs. I couldn’t move for a couple of minutes. I don’t know why. Fear, pain, not sure.”

            She smiled.

            “It feels so good to tell someone. Now that fiend of an ex is sick, I can tell you the truth.”

            “Please go on.”

            “La, la, la,” she sang. Her behaviour shook me and confirmed my suspicions.

            “I’m not making this up,” she said, looking straight at me through a web of wispy hairs hanging over her face. “Bert dragged Len into the living room. I made myself crawl on my stomach to the doorway. I don’t think I was screaming anymore We had large, puffy cushions on the sofas and chairs in there. Bert took one of them, the soft stripy one, and put it over Len’s face. I thought Bert would do the same to me. I had to get out of there. I crawled backwards down the basement stairs.”

            “You were found outside in the pool hut.”

            “I don’t remember that part.”

            “And Len was found in the garage.”

            “Yeah, yeah. Where Bert hung him up to look like suicide.”

            “The reason you feel free to tell me this now…”

            “Is because Bert’s sick and can’t hurt me any more. La, la, la.”

            “What’s wrong with him?”

            “He’s an alcoholic. You know, liver stuff, brain function. It’s caught up with him.”

            “I didn’t know that. What he said doesn’t match with what you just told me.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “Nothing in any of the statements or evidence pointed to him. He wasn’t under suspicion.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “Was there evidence of his physical abuse of you? Did you ever go to the police or a hospital or your doctor?”

            “No.”

            “So, your injuries didn’t require medical attention?”

            “No.”

            “Did you get checked out after you were found in the pool hut that night?”

            “No.”

            “But you must have appeared to be injured. You said you were hit by a sculpture and you fell down the stairs and could only crawl on your stomach.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “But Bert had bruises on his head and neck that he couldn’t explain.”

            “Yeah, yeah. Time for you to go.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you don’t understand.” She stood and turned to face the window.  “Bert and Len ridiculed me day and night, night and day, demeaned me, made me feel worthless. That’s why. I wasn’t going to take the abuse any more. They were both so blind drunk that night that they had no clue what happened. I couldn’t get Bert to die. He was too strong and I was too tired, after Len.”

            “That explains Bert’s injuries.”

            “Bert told the police that he couldn’t remember anything, but I wasn’t sure. Now he’s so sick he can’t remember anything, for certain. I’m free. La, la, la.” She whips round, her skirt catching on the chair and it crashes onto the floor. “Except you’re here.” Her steel-grey eyes stared at me with unwavering intensity. Her chest heaved and I could smell her sour breath.

            I’d set my personal alarm off in time. My trusty ex-cop turned private investigator colleague, Clive, appeared in my peripheral vision just as Serena lunged towards me, hands extended as if she planned to grab my neck. I felt the warmth of her body and saw her jagged finger nails.

            It was a close call.

Vicky Earle Copyright 2019