She sat on a bench across the street from the museum, studying the sculpture in front. It was a man, seemingly sculpted from wood, reading. He reminded her of a book she once read, “A Man of Two Faces.”
If you looked closely at the man, you could see his skeletal-like face. Above it, between his forehead and the crown of his head, another face appeared to her. You could distinguish two eyes and a nose that would be looking skyward if the sculpture could have looked up. He captured her imagination particularly given the times she was living in.
The outward looking face of the man was bowed, reading a book. The book he was reading, she imagined, was a book on American culture in these unsettled current times. There were bitter political rivalries, hundreds of conspiracy theories, religious involvement, misinformation and disinformation. Neighbors turned against neighbors and family against family. Long-time friendships were forever destroyed. The American dream to her seemed to be gone and she had no understanding of half the American population and its thinking.
She looked at the other face of the sculpture. That face wasn’t as clear, the expression was more off-kilter, perhaps confused, and a little dreamy. Maybe that face was dreaming of what could be, but wasn’t, in America. The American Dream, but this time an inclusive American Dream that was available to everyone. Was it now lost forever? Destroyed by greed and the lust for power? The sculpture had no answers.
Mollie scurried around her kitchen, cooking for the festival in her town. Food from the southern US is often prepared differently than food from anywhere else.
Mollie couldn’t decide between entering her stack cake or a cushaw pie in the competition. Her neighbor was going to enter cushaw pie, but Mollie’s pie was her specialty dish.
The day of the competition came and Mollie’s pie won the blue ribbon. Her neighbor was angry and threw Mollie’s pie to the ground screaming.
Mollie learned that real friendship is hard to find and should be cherished and nurtured.
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Note: Cushaw pie is not common outside the southern U.S. A cushaw is a gourd and the filling is used to make pie. Many think it is tastier than pumpkin pie.
I awakened with a start. What had I heard? Oh, it was only Sophie, my German Shepherd dog who sleeps beside my bed. Wait! Sophie! Why was she whining? I leaped out of bed realizing my clock said 6:45 a.m. I usually took her for a walk on the beach by 5 a.m.
We walked outside. She pushed open the garden gate and started for the beach. I followed trying to stop her. Since one of her strides is equal to three of mine, there was no hope of catching her.
I jumped in my car. What else could I do? My dog was taking herself for a walk to the beach.
I pulled up in a parking space watching Sophie run gleefully around on the beach. As soon as I stepped on the beach calling her, a police car pulled up beside me. Sophie immediately ran to me, fearing I was in danger.
Ma’am, get your dog off the beach.”
Sophie barked at the officer. Her bad dog bark.
“Get off the beach with that dog,” he said in a loud, aggressive voice.
“Officer, if you would just give me a………”
What happened next wasn’t very pleasant. Sophie and I ended up looking through the bars of the backseat of a police car.
I was unhappy. The officer was unhappy. But Sophie? She had gotten to defend me from the bad police officer. Now if she can only figure out how to charm us out of jail.
The old lady trudged up the street to the church she had attended for more than 60 years. The light from the steeple caused the white church to glow. She climbed the stairs up to the steeple.
The violin was lying on the table. She opened a window for some cool air.
The old woman started to play. She played Horner’s “My Heart Will Go On.” A crowd gathered on the street. They waited for her to come out to praise and thank her.
The steeple went dark. She didn’t appear. They looked for her, but she had vanished.
It was an old locksmith shop located in an ancient building in a small town. The windows were broken. The inside was filthy and filled with rats. Henri was determined to revitalize it. He was a locksmith by trade and felt like he could make a good living here.
Henri had seen all the special, butnecessary, services drain away from the town. Occupations like clockmakers,shoe repair, and locksmiths were gone as young people wanted to work in themore exciting field of technology. He dreamed of a large town square wherethere was an abundance of such services. Henri had hope since, just down the street, another space would house a clockmaker.
As the crews went to work on the locksmith shop, they found so much that had to be completely redone. Henri also found treasures. Equipment from over 75 years ago. He found antiques that, although he couldn’t use them, he could display them.
Henri’s friend, the clockmaker, also found treasures in his shop. As they talked, the thought of a small museum featuring the old treasures popped up.
One day, a young woman, happened along and spent some time talking with Henri. She was a painter and a former museum curator who was looking for a store front. She had the idea to share her space with the old treasures.
As time went on, Henri’s vision of a town square started to take shape. He and Anais, the painter, grew close and worked together on their projects, both for their work and their lives. Finding that old store front turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to Henri, Anais, the small town and even the clockmaker.
They found that dreams can come true with a lot of vision and a little luck.
She sat under the protective canopy of the tree reading on a summer afternoon. No one could see her sitting there, but she could see the going’s on outside.
As a small girl, she’d had a tree house. It was a rudimentary one that her dad built for her. That tree house just had a floor and stairs to the ground.
She dreamed of a bigger tree house now, as an adult. The small deer stand was a start. She wanted four walls, a roof, and even heat for winter.
Lily always took her morning walks along the banks of the canal. She loved to watch the graceful and elegant swans as they glided across the water glistening in the morning light.
Lily was nostalgic about her own life. She loved the old, dilapidated boat docked there and she could see its potential. The boatman who owned it seemed content to leave it as it was.
One morning, Lily was standing near the old boat on the canal dreaming of taking it to far away places. A big, white dog bounded up to her full of joy and love. She wondered where he belonged and when she looked up, she saw a man approaching, calling the dog. He was an older man and handsome in a distinguished sort of way.
She and John fell into a conversation about their mutual love for the canal. Over the next few hours, John regaled her with stories of the history of the canal and they set out to explore it together. Over the next few weeks, John filled her heart.
One morning, John told Lily that he had bought the old boat from the boatman. He then declared his love for her, and she fell into his arms.
A few months later, they started off on a magical journey in the old boat. As they left, the swans danced in joy.
One year later, Lily thought back to that day. She was glad they hadn’t known what would happen during the coming year.
Thank you to CE Ayr and Jenne Gray for hosting #TheUnicornChallenge!
She was 20 years old the first time she heard him sing.
It was a normal weekend day. She was in her senior year in college and was studying for exams, sitting on the sofa in the living room. He walked into the living room with a Budweiser beer in his hand and carefully sat it down on the coffee table. He was in his work clothes, dirty from working overtime as the town electrician with a five o’clock shadow on his face and tired eyes.
She was hard at work at her books and had just looked up to say hello. There was no music playing, no television interrupting the quiet. She looked back down and continued to read.
Her head shot up when he started to sing. She listened for a moment. He wasn’t singing just anything. Without preparation, he was singing…..opera? How could that be?
Through her shock, she tried to place the opera and it was easy. He was singing a part of Don Giovanni in a beautiful baritone voice.
She had never heard him sing anything as simple as a lullaby. She couldn’t believe her ears.
Somehow, she knew not to go to him. She just listened. He sang the most beautiful music for what seemed forever but must have been just a few minutes.
”I don’t know what got into me,” he chuckled, as he started to walk off.
“Daddy, that was beautiful. Sing for me again,” she said as tears rolled down his face.
The Write Scribe 