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Jennifer Sorrell
160 E Adams St
Ionia, MI
48846
(616) 523-6423
Mainstream/Literary Short Story
1.
“I have to write something spectacular this time.” Her voice was loud and
demanding, and it rang like a gong in her ears. Her dream was to be a writer. That was
the only goal she had ever had for her life. She made no other plans for the future.
There was nothing to fall back on if she should fail. She was blissfully confident that she
would succeed without difficulty. She knew she would break through, that she would be
the exception. She had submitted many stories to contests but failed to place in any of
them, and was beginning to doubt her own abilities. The newest contest deadline was
fast approaching and she had not typed one word on the old Smith-Corona typewriter
that sat on her desk. She desperately wanted to win the grand prize. She had always
wanted to visit New York City, and she longed for validation. She was beginning to
wonder if she was wasting her time like her mother was constantly telling her. She was
a good storyteller, but had trouble creating a story to tell. You’re not good enough to
win; the voice in her head was cruel and unrelenting. “YES I AM!” Her voice rang
through the house and startled the cat sitting on the windowsill. “I’m sorry Jo Jo.” The
cat approached her cautiously and began to purr. “I will find a story to tell, and it will be
a masterpiece.”
2.
An old man sat in the park on a weathered wooden bench staring at the people
walking by. His hand reached into a brown, crumpled paper bag and emerged with a
handful of dusty birdseed. He loved to feed the birds; they comforted him. They were so
accepting, and each time he came to the park they crowded around him as if they were
old friends. It made him feel good to be recognized again and not thought of as a
burden. He could hardly remember his wife’s beautiful eyes anymore or even his own
children’s names. But he still remembered the way to the park. The home his children
had sent him to was pretty, but the people were snobs. No one ever made conversation
or invited him to play pinochle in the clubhouse. He felt like he was a ghost, lost
between heaven and hell. Maybe he was. Life felt like a dream, hazy and dark. His days
were starting to blur together now and he was growing tired. But, there were some nice
things about the place. A nurse, Gilda, loved to hear him tell stories. She was a cute red
head with freckles scattered on her cheekbones. She would come in early to give him
his pills for the day, and he would regale her with stories of mystery and intrigue. Her
favorites were stories about his sideshow days in Louisiana. His face lit up when she
asked for a story because despite all the details that had been forgotten, he could still
remember the stories that filled his life.
3.
She stared at her typewriter blankly. The typewriter hammers struck the paper
loudly. The words appeared slowly on the page, I s-u-c-k, f-u-c-k a d-u-c-k. The
pounding that had taken root in her head grew more painful with each slam of the
hammer. She grabbed the paper out of the typewriter, wadded it up and threw it as hard
and as far as she could. She stood up angrily and the chair fell to the floor behind her
with a crash. She loved writing stories and wanted to spend her days getting paid for it.
But delayed gratification didn’t appeal to her. She wanted everything NOW, fast money,
fast love, fast notoriety. As with many beginning writers she labored under the typical
delusion that every word she wrote was a masterpiece of epic proportions. She walked
past the overturned chair into the kitchen. She took the lid off of a pill bottled labeled
Xanax and popped one of the little blue pills into her mouth. She took a swig from her
coke can and closed her eyes with satisfaction. “That’s better.” She left the kitchen,
passed the chair, and made her way to the couch. She plopped down and springs rang
out like the cry of rats you see in the movie’s littering the sewers. She lay there starring
blindly at the ceiling, watching the fan spin. She felt numb and the pounding in her head
grew worse. She closed her eyes and searched for relief but all she could see was the
key hammers of her typewriter striking the page leaving no trace of anything meaningful.
Soon she felt numb. Her body filled with a warm feeling that quieted the pounding of the
keys.
4.
“Okay Mr. Zelnick, its time for your medication.” He sat up in the bed and asked
the nurse her name. “Its Gilda, Mr. Zelnick.” Bells went off in his head and he realized
that he was beginning to forget things more often. He looked at her with an
embarrassed blush, and she looked back at him lovingly. “Its okay. I forget names all
the time.” He knew that she was just being polite, but he appreciated the gesture. “So,
yesterday you were telling me about the monkey that escaped from the Detroit Zoo.”
She pulled out the pills; there were many different colors and shapes. She put them into
a little white cup. He used to ask the nurses what pills he was taking and what they
were for. But he had gotten tired of their impatient looks and snide huffs. He tried
desperately to remember but it always slipped away before he could grasp it. He could
recall some large chunks from his past and small pieces of the present, but most of his
life was long gone. It reminded him of the morning fog that hung slightly above the
ground on the farm. She handed him the white paper cup and a glass of water. The pills
slid down his throat like a piece of sandpaper. The water was not of much help anymore.
His throat was always dry and crackly, and it affected his speech. He cleared his throat,
“Ah yes, and the monkey.” Mr. Zelnick regaled Gilda with the slightly exaggerated tale of
a monkey who escaped the Zoo and found his way back to South America. Gilda
listened intently to the story and took pleasure in every word. “You have a great talent
for telling stories Mr. Zelnick.” He turned to look at her and said, “Call me Louis.”
5.
Startled out of sleep she sat up on the couch suddenly in one fluent motion.
“What the hell was that.” Jo Jo sat in the center of the living room howling from deep
within his throat. “Jeez you scared the crap out of me Jo Jo! Go play or something.” She
couldn’t remember what had happened before she fell asleep on the couch, but it
couldn’t have been anything good. Goodness wasn’t something she often experienced
anymore. Her father had died three months ago in a car accident. She often had
nightmares about that night. She pulled herself up and walked over to the chair on the
floor. She picked it up and sat down, resolved to write something useful this time. “This
is what you managed to write? Great job. And your gonna write a winner huh?” She
stared at the words she had managed to type on the paper. “Shut up!” Once again the
cat jumped, startled by the sudden noise, and ran out of the room fast. Her voice was
growing increasing louder each time she responded to the “kind” words of
encouragement from her inner-editor. She sat down and began typing furiously. The
hammers struck with such force that they seemed as though they might imbed
themselves in the paper every time she struck a key. Her demeanor began to change,
and a faint smile revealed itself. “Finally,” she said, “I am getting somewhere.” She felt
good for the first time in days, and she knew she was finally pounding out her
masterpiece. “So what do you have to say now? Huh?” She was filled with such
satisfaction and she knew that her inner editor would not be back, at least for a while. Jo
Jo watched from the hall as she pounded out pages with fluency. She worked all night
and into the early morning hours.
6.
Louis made his way to the cafeteria to get his breakfast. He got toast and coffee
every day it was always the same. The stiff’s at the home wouldn’t let him have
caffeinated coffee so he was stuck with decaf, which pissed him off greatly. What is so
wrong with letting an old geezer like me have a little cup of joe. I’m half in the grave as it
is.” “How are you today Mr. Zelnick?” The morning food server was always very cheerful
and made a point to ask him about his day. His name was Trey. He was a nice kid in his
mid thirties. He never patronized Louis or feigned concern to earn points with the
bosses. Some of the nurses did that, actually most of them did. It was as though when
you reached a certain age you also reverted back to childhood and needed their false
encouragement to keep you going. After breakfast Louis made his way to the park to
visit his friends and give them breakfast. While sitting on the bench a young woman sat
down at the other end and was riffling through her purse. She pulled out a pack of lucky
strikes and a lighter. “You don’t want that do ya? My wife smoked those and it was the
death of her.” Louis continued to look at the birds pecking away at his feet. “Well I think I
need one, rough day ya know?” She held the cigarette between her fingers and
watched the birds hop up to Louis’s hand. “They eat the seed out of your hand?” He
looked up from the ground and turned to her. “You have very pretty eyes young lady.”
Her cheeks began to fill with a red pigment that can only come from a great big blush.
“Your so kind. I haven’t had such a nice compliment in quite a long time.” He handed
her some seed and she held her hand down low to the dirt. The birds bounced slowly
toward her hand but didn’t quite make it all the way. “Why won’t they come up to me?”
She turned to Louis with a disappointed look on her face. “Well they have to get to know
you a little before they will trust you.” She huffed and poured the seed on the ground so
they could eat it without fear. “Figures, the birds won’t even get close to me. Are they all
males?” Louis began laughing out loud, and a large toothy grin filled his face. The roar
of his laugh came from deep inside his belly and he patted her hand firmly.
7.
She sat eating a piece of black toast and sipping on some hot peppermint tea.
She breathed in the vapors and closed her eyes. The tea relaxed her, and when she
took the time to have a cup she always felt rejuvenated. She imagined she was a
famous writer signing books for fans. Jo Jo walked along the table and lay down on the
open newspaper in front of her cup. “What are you doing? I love you cat. But sometimes
you’re a real pain in the butt.” She stroked his belly. His fur was so soft. He was all black
except for a white patch between his hind legs. He was a special cat. He was special to
her. He had been left outside the door of a shelter with his mother and siblings. Jo Jo
had a personality all his own. He always looked at her when she called his name and at
night he slid around the floor batting around the wadded up papers that littered the floor
around her desk. He had already been named when she picked him up from the shelter
and she never changed it, it didn’t seem fair, but she wanted to name him Poe. He had
been there for her in the good times and the bad. When she was down he would lay by
her head and purr. He would talk to her with a series of short meows when she asked
him questions. Whenever she came home from being out for the day he would come
running, delivering lots of meows in short succession all the way. He cared about her
and she loved him dearly. He was the only thing that was good in her life now. He was
the only thing left that loved her.
8.
“Hey Louis!” He turned to look at the door with a twisted look of curiosity on his
face.” His children only visited once every three months when they managed to make
the time for him. What a sore spot. His children tucked him away in a safe place where
he wouldn’t burden them. He loved them of course, and always would. But he often
thought, I could never have dreamt of being without them, no matter how much they
cried or needed my attention. Yet they would so easily choose to be without me.
Whenever he thought on the subject to long, a perfectly shaped tear would present itself
ever so delicately in the corner of his eye. “Hi there.” A young woman with fair hair and
beautiful green eyes walked through the doorway. He was excited to have a visitor but
confused about it. His eyes shifted from wrinkled confusion to wide delight. It was clear
from his face that he had remembered her. “Well how are you today?” He searched his
mind for her name, but had no luck in that department. “Its Jessica, Louis, remember?”
Louis’s cheeks filled with that deep red pigment. “Oh, yes. I do remember you dear.
How are you today? Are you visiting a relative?” She looked at him with an amused look
and giggled ever so slightly. “No silly. I came to see you. I thought we could go feed the
birds again and you could finish telling me the story about how your met your wife.” His
eyes glistened with happy tears, but he didn't allow even one tear to roll down his cheek.
“Yes that would be wonderful. Are you sure you want to be seen with an old geezer like
me?” She tilted her head to the side and the look on her face conveyed the thought, are
you serious? She walked over to him and stretched out her hand. He waited only a half
second and then fit his old worn hand into her lush pink one.
9.
Finishing her tea she down once again at her old typewriter. She had completed
thirty pages of her story already. She was close to going over the word count required
for the contest. She knew she had to wrap it up. But her ending had to be flawless. The
ending was the most important part. She could scarcely remember what she had written,
but she knew that it had to be a winner. She decided to go over the story completely
before she finished it up. It had to be great. A showstopper. Jo Jo rubbed up against her
leg. “Not now Jo Jo. I am right at the end. Its gonna be great! I’ll read it to you when I’m
done” He walked away and curled up in the crumpled sweater on the floor. Before she
even began reading her head began to pound and she was sweating. Well now we will
see what you are made of. The voice was rife with sarcasm and doubt. She began to
read her work slowly. A look of terror slowly formed on her face. Horror shown in her
eyes and she stood straight up from the chair with a jerk. “A perfect masterpiece. A
perfect masterpiece. A perfect masterpiece.” The words went on and on. She riffled
through the pages and each one contained the same sentence. Over and over again
lampooning her. The words shot at her face and struck her with terrible force. Her heart
began pounding harder, and faster. So this is what you came up with? Great work.
Really stunning. “SHUT UP!” She pushed clear her desk and her typewriter hit the floor
with a piercing crash. Jo Jo shot upstairs as fast as he could, his feet slipping out from
under him on the hardwood floor. She began pulling her hair and screaming “What’s
wrong with me!” She ripped the papers one by one and threw them into the air. The
pieces spread throughout the house like confetti during Dick Clark’s New Years Rockin’
Eve. Harder, faster, harder, faster. She fell to the floor with a thud surrounded by the
scraps of paper.
10.
Louis and Jessica sat on the park bench feeding the birds and talking. Well Louis
talked, and Jessica listened. “That’s amazing. You must have loved her so much to risk
everything just to speak to her.” Louis’s face filled with a solemn smile remembering the
love they shared for so many years. A love he continued to hold in his heart. “She was
my love. She was my world.” Jessica leaned forward. She put her arm down to the
ground and opened her hand. A curious bird hopped cautiously forward. Slowly, it made
its way toward her outstretched hand. It sat staring for a few seconds and then began to
peck at the seed in her hand. “Wow this bird is as brave as you are Louis. I bet it took a
lot for it to take that first step.” Louis looked at her with a happy glint in his eyes. “Thank
you Jessica.” She looked up at him and smiled. “What for?” He patted her hand ever so
gently. “You have brought more joy in my last days than anyone has in a long time.”
Jessica crinkled her eyebrows. “What do you mean last days? You are gonna be
around for a while yet. You still have stories to tell me.” She smiled and her eyes
returned to the seed spread on the ground.
11.
Her eyes opened slowly. Jo Jo was licking her cheek and lying by her on the
ground. She sat up and looked around the house. The remnants of her masterpiece
were strewn from one end of the house to the other. She touched Jo Jo’s face and
kissed his head. “You have been such a good friend to me Jo Jo. I wish I could have
been more of a comfort to you.” Jo Jo looked up at her face and gave a long, low-
pitched meow. She got up off the floor and looked around. Her face was blank. She
stared at the typewriter on the floor. Jo Jo continued to rub her up against her leg, but
she no longer responded. Back and forth, back and forth, his walk was a stoic one. She
walked into the kitchen with the same blank look on her face, her head tilted slightly to
the side. She searched desperately through a kitchen drawer. Then the it slammed shut.
She walked toward the bathroom, pushed Jo Jo out and closed the door. The sound of
the lock caused Jo Jo to meow repeatedly. He clawed at the door furiously. The door
remained closed for a while and Jo Jo resigned himself to lying in front of it patiently.
12.
“Mr. Zelnick? Can you hear me?” Louis lay on his bed looking upward at the
ceiling. “He’s going down hill fast.” A nurse yelled out the door, “Doctor, we need you in
here!” Jessica sat next to Louis holding his hand. “Don’t worry Louis. I’m here with you.
Tell me a story.” He looked up at her lovingly. She had walked into his life and brought
such joy with her. She loved his stories and listened to them intently. “Did I ever tell you
that my wife’s name was Jessica?” The duty nurse turned toward the bed. Jessica
looked at him. “You never did, Louis.” Gilda came rushing in the room. “I just heard.
How is he?” Louis’s eyes were growing heavy and his breathing was becoming
increasingly shallow. “He was just talking to someone.” The duty nurse looked puzzled.
“Mr. Zelnick? Who are you talking to?” Gilda grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight.
“I’m right here. Tell me what it is.” His eyes closed and the sound of his final breath rang
out like a trumpet in Gilda’s ears. “He’s gone isn’t he?” She turned toward the nurse.
“Yes, I am afraid so.” The Doctor came walking into the room with a sandwich in his
hand. “Well I hope we didn’t disturb you during your lunch hour!” Gilda ran out of the
room and headed toward the bathroom. After she composed herself, she headed back
down the hall. She walked past Mr. Zelnicks room heading to the cafeteria. Something
caught her eye and she backed up to looked into the room. At first glance she could see
a young blonde sitting on the edge of the bed. But when she turned to look directly at
the bed there was nothing there. She walked into the room toward the bed. There was
something under it. It was the corner of a picture frame. She picked it up. The photo
was of a beautiful blonde with piercing green eyes. Suddenly the photo slid out of the
frame and hit the floor. She bent over to pick it up and there was something written on
the back. To my storyteller, I love you. Your beloved, Jessica.
13.
She sat in the tub soaking in the water. A perfect masterpiece. A perfect
masterpiece. She repeated the phrase. Her voice was hollow and it bounced off of
every wall. It echoed into her ears and she clasped her hands over them. Her
inadequacies surrounded her and closed in, choking her. Why don’t you do us both a
favor and get it over with. She stared at the knife and pictured it covered with dark blue
blood. “I have been a failure all of my life. I couldn’t even save him.” The water
continued to run in the tub, filling it up to the rim. It began to cascade from it like a clear
wall. Jo Jo jumped up and shook some droplets from his paw. The water flowed out
from under the door spreading slowly, creating an ever-widening puddle. It was tinged
with pale read streaks. Jo Jo sat looking at the puddle. He edged backward as it
creeped forward toward him. He jumped on the couch and curled up in a blanket that
was wadded up on one end. It was her favorite, and it smelled of her lavender lotion.
The typewriter lay on the floor in two large pieces. A piece of paper still on the roller
read two words. The End.

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The Storytellers

  • 1. Jennifer Sorrell 160 E Adams St Ionia, MI 48846 (616) 523-6423 Mainstream/Literary Short Story 1. “I have to write something spectacular this time.” Her voice was loud and demanding, and it rang like a gong in her ears. Her dream was to be a writer. That was the only goal she had ever had for her life. She made no other plans for the future. There was nothing to fall back on if she should fail. She was blissfully confident that she would succeed without difficulty. She knew she would break through, that she would be the exception. She had submitted many stories to contests but failed to place in any of them, and was beginning to doubt her own abilities. The newest contest deadline was fast approaching and she had not typed one word on the old Smith-Corona typewriter that sat on her desk. She desperately wanted to win the grand prize. She had always wanted to visit New York City, and she longed for validation. She was beginning to wonder if she was wasting her time like her mother was constantly telling her. She was a good storyteller, but had trouble creating a story to tell. You’re not good enough to win; the voice in her head was cruel and unrelenting. “YES I AM!” Her voice rang through the house and startled the cat sitting on the windowsill. “I’m sorry Jo Jo.” The cat approached her cautiously and began to purr. “I will find a story to tell, and it will be a masterpiece.” 2.
  • 2. An old man sat in the park on a weathered wooden bench staring at the people walking by. His hand reached into a brown, crumpled paper bag and emerged with a handful of dusty birdseed. He loved to feed the birds; they comforted him. They were so accepting, and each time he came to the park they crowded around him as if they were old friends. It made him feel good to be recognized again and not thought of as a burden. He could hardly remember his wife’s beautiful eyes anymore or even his own children’s names. But he still remembered the way to the park. The home his children had sent him to was pretty, but the people were snobs. No one ever made conversation or invited him to play pinochle in the clubhouse. He felt like he was a ghost, lost between heaven and hell. Maybe he was. Life felt like a dream, hazy and dark. His days were starting to blur together now and he was growing tired. But, there were some nice things about the place. A nurse, Gilda, loved to hear him tell stories. She was a cute red head with freckles scattered on her cheekbones. She would come in early to give him his pills for the day, and he would regale her with stories of mystery and intrigue. Her favorites were stories about his sideshow days in Louisiana. His face lit up when she asked for a story because despite all the details that had been forgotten, he could still remember the stories that filled his life. 3. She stared at her typewriter blankly. The typewriter hammers struck the paper loudly. The words appeared slowly on the page, I s-u-c-k, f-u-c-k a d-u-c-k. The pounding that had taken root in her head grew more painful with each slam of the
  • 3. hammer. She grabbed the paper out of the typewriter, wadded it up and threw it as hard and as far as she could. She stood up angrily and the chair fell to the floor behind her with a crash. She loved writing stories and wanted to spend her days getting paid for it. But delayed gratification didn’t appeal to her. She wanted everything NOW, fast money, fast love, fast notoriety. As with many beginning writers she labored under the typical delusion that every word she wrote was a masterpiece of epic proportions. She walked past the overturned chair into the kitchen. She took the lid off of a pill bottled labeled Xanax and popped one of the little blue pills into her mouth. She took a swig from her coke can and closed her eyes with satisfaction. “That’s better.” She left the kitchen, passed the chair, and made her way to the couch. She plopped down and springs rang out like the cry of rats you see in the movie’s littering the sewers. She lay there starring blindly at the ceiling, watching the fan spin. She felt numb and the pounding in her head grew worse. She closed her eyes and searched for relief but all she could see was the key hammers of her typewriter striking the page leaving no trace of anything meaningful. Soon she felt numb. Her body filled with a warm feeling that quieted the pounding of the keys. 4. “Okay Mr. Zelnick, its time for your medication.” He sat up in the bed and asked the nurse her name. “Its Gilda, Mr. Zelnick.” Bells went off in his head and he realized that he was beginning to forget things more often. He looked at her with an embarrassed blush, and she looked back at him lovingly. “Its okay. I forget names all the time.” He knew that she was just being polite, but he appreciated the gesture. “So,
  • 4. yesterday you were telling me about the monkey that escaped from the Detroit Zoo.” She pulled out the pills; there were many different colors and shapes. She put them into a little white cup. He used to ask the nurses what pills he was taking and what they were for. But he had gotten tired of their impatient looks and snide huffs. He tried desperately to remember but it always slipped away before he could grasp it. He could recall some large chunks from his past and small pieces of the present, but most of his life was long gone. It reminded him of the morning fog that hung slightly above the ground on the farm. She handed him the white paper cup and a glass of water. The pills slid down his throat like a piece of sandpaper. The water was not of much help anymore. His throat was always dry and crackly, and it affected his speech. He cleared his throat, “Ah yes, and the monkey.” Mr. Zelnick regaled Gilda with the slightly exaggerated tale of a monkey who escaped the Zoo and found his way back to South America. Gilda listened intently to the story and took pleasure in every word. “You have a great talent for telling stories Mr. Zelnick.” He turned to look at her and said, “Call me Louis.” 5. Startled out of sleep she sat up on the couch suddenly in one fluent motion. “What the hell was that.” Jo Jo sat in the center of the living room howling from deep within his throat. “Jeez you scared the crap out of me Jo Jo! Go play or something.” She couldn’t remember what had happened before she fell asleep on the couch, but it couldn’t have been anything good. Goodness wasn’t something she often experienced anymore. Her father had died three months ago in a car accident. She often had
  • 5. nightmares about that night. She pulled herself up and walked over to the chair on the floor. She picked it up and sat down, resolved to write something useful this time. “This is what you managed to write? Great job. And your gonna write a winner huh?” She stared at the words she had managed to type on the paper. “Shut up!” Once again the cat jumped, startled by the sudden noise, and ran out of the room fast. Her voice was growing increasing louder each time she responded to the “kind” words of encouragement from her inner-editor. She sat down and began typing furiously. The hammers struck with such force that they seemed as though they might imbed themselves in the paper every time she struck a key. Her demeanor began to change, and a faint smile revealed itself. “Finally,” she said, “I am getting somewhere.” She felt good for the first time in days, and she knew she was finally pounding out her masterpiece. “So what do you have to say now? Huh?” She was filled with such satisfaction and she knew that her inner editor would not be back, at least for a while. Jo Jo watched from the hall as she pounded out pages with fluency. She worked all night and into the early morning hours. 6. Louis made his way to the cafeteria to get his breakfast. He got toast and coffee every day it was always the same. The stiff’s at the home wouldn’t let him have caffeinated coffee so he was stuck with decaf, which pissed him off greatly. What is so wrong with letting an old geezer like me have a little cup of joe. I’m half in the grave as it is.” “How are you today Mr. Zelnick?” The morning food server was always very cheerful
  • 6. and made a point to ask him about his day. His name was Trey. He was a nice kid in his mid thirties. He never patronized Louis or feigned concern to earn points with the bosses. Some of the nurses did that, actually most of them did. It was as though when you reached a certain age you also reverted back to childhood and needed their false encouragement to keep you going. After breakfast Louis made his way to the park to visit his friends and give them breakfast. While sitting on the bench a young woman sat down at the other end and was riffling through her purse. She pulled out a pack of lucky strikes and a lighter. “You don’t want that do ya? My wife smoked those and it was the death of her.” Louis continued to look at the birds pecking away at his feet. “Well I think I need one, rough day ya know?” She held the cigarette between her fingers and watched the birds hop up to Louis’s hand. “They eat the seed out of your hand?” He looked up from the ground and turned to her. “You have very pretty eyes young lady.” Her cheeks began to fill with a red pigment that can only come from a great big blush. “Your so kind. I haven’t had such a nice compliment in quite a long time.” He handed her some seed and she held her hand down low to the dirt. The birds bounced slowly toward her hand but didn’t quite make it all the way. “Why won’t they come up to me?” She turned to Louis with a disappointed look on her face. “Well they have to get to know you a little before they will trust you.” She huffed and poured the seed on the ground so they could eat it without fear. “Figures, the birds won’t even get close to me. Are they all males?” Louis began laughing out loud, and a large toothy grin filled his face. The roar of his laugh came from deep inside his belly and he patted her hand firmly. 7.
  • 7. She sat eating a piece of black toast and sipping on some hot peppermint tea. She breathed in the vapors and closed her eyes. The tea relaxed her, and when she took the time to have a cup she always felt rejuvenated. She imagined she was a famous writer signing books for fans. Jo Jo walked along the table and lay down on the open newspaper in front of her cup. “What are you doing? I love you cat. But sometimes you’re a real pain in the butt.” She stroked his belly. His fur was so soft. He was all black except for a white patch between his hind legs. He was a special cat. He was special to her. He had been left outside the door of a shelter with his mother and siblings. Jo Jo had a personality all his own. He always looked at her when she called his name and at night he slid around the floor batting around the wadded up papers that littered the floor around her desk. He had already been named when she picked him up from the shelter and she never changed it, it didn’t seem fair, but she wanted to name him Poe. He had been there for her in the good times and the bad. When she was down he would lay by her head and purr. He would talk to her with a series of short meows when she asked him questions. Whenever she came home from being out for the day he would come running, delivering lots of meows in short succession all the way. He cared about her and she loved him dearly. He was the only thing that was good in her life now. He was the only thing left that loved her. 8.
  • 8. “Hey Louis!” He turned to look at the door with a twisted look of curiosity on his face.” His children only visited once every three months when they managed to make the time for him. What a sore spot. His children tucked him away in a safe place where he wouldn’t burden them. He loved them of course, and always would. But he often thought, I could never have dreamt of being without them, no matter how much they cried or needed my attention. Yet they would so easily choose to be without me. Whenever he thought on the subject to long, a perfectly shaped tear would present itself ever so delicately in the corner of his eye. “Hi there.” A young woman with fair hair and beautiful green eyes walked through the doorway. He was excited to have a visitor but confused about it. His eyes shifted from wrinkled confusion to wide delight. It was clear from his face that he had remembered her. “Well how are you today?” He searched his mind for her name, but had no luck in that department. “Its Jessica, Louis, remember?” Louis’s cheeks filled with that deep red pigment. “Oh, yes. I do remember you dear. How are you today? Are you visiting a relative?” She looked at him with an amused look and giggled ever so slightly. “No silly. I came to see you. I thought we could go feed the birds again and you could finish telling me the story about how your met your wife.” His eyes glistened with happy tears, but he didn't allow even one tear to roll down his cheek. “Yes that would be wonderful. Are you sure you want to be seen with an old geezer like me?” She tilted her head to the side and the look on her face conveyed the thought, are you serious? She walked over to him and stretched out her hand. He waited only a half second and then fit his old worn hand into her lush pink one. 9.
  • 9. Finishing her tea she down once again at her old typewriter. She had completed thirty pages of her story already. She was close to going over the word count required for the contest. She knew she had to wrap it up. But her ending had to be flawless. The ending was the most important part. She could scarcely remember what she had written, but she knew that it had to be a winner. She decided to go over the story completely before she finished it up. It had to be great. A showstopper. Jo Jo rubbed up against her leg. “Not now Jo Jo. I am right at the end. Its gonna be great! I’ll read it to you when I’m done” He walked away and curled up in the crumpled sweater on the floor. Before she even began reading her head began to pound and she was sweating. Well now we will see what you are made of. The voice was rife with sarcasm and doubt. She began to read her work slowly. A look of terror slowly formed on her face. Horror shown in her eyes and she stood straight up from the chair with a jerk. “A perfect masterpiece. A perfect masterpiece. A perfect masterpiece.” The words went on and on. She riffled through the pages and each one contained the same sentence. Over and over again lampooning her. The words shot at her face and struck her with terrible force. Her heart began pounding harder, and faster. So this is what you came up with? Great work. Really stunning. “SHUT UP!” She pushed clear her desk and her typewriter hit the floor with a piercing crash. Jo Jo shot upstairs as fast as he could, his feet slipping out from under him on the hardwood floor. She began pulling her hair and screaming “What’s wrong with me!” She ripped the papers one by one and threw them into the air. The pieces spread throughout the house like confetti during Dick Clark’s New Years Rockin’
  • 10. Eve. Harder, faster, harder, faster. She fell to the floor with a thud surrounded by the scraps of paper. 10. Louis and Jessica sat on the park bench feeding the birds and talking. Well Louis talked, and Jessica listened. “That’s amazing. You must have loved her so much to risk everything just to speak to her.” Louis’s face filled with a solemn smile remembering the love they shared for so many years. A love he continued to hold in his heart. “She was my love. She was my world.” Jessica leaned forward. She put her arm down to the ground and opened her hand. A curious bird hopped cautiously forward. Slowly, it made its way toward her outstretched hand. It sat staring for a few seconds and then began to peck at the seed in her hand. “Wow this bird is as brave as you are Louis. I bet it took a lot for it to take that first step.” Louis looked at her with a happy glint in his eyes. “Thank you Jessica.” She looked up at him and smiled. “What for?” He patted her hand ever so gently. “You have brought more joy in my last days than anyone has in a long time.” Jessica crinkled her eyebrows. “What do you mean last days? You are gonna be around for a while yet. You still have stories to tell me.” She smiled and her eyes returned to the seed spread on the ground. 11.
  • 11. Her eyes opened slowly. Jo Jo was licking her cheek and lying by her on the ground. She sat up and looked around the house. The remnants of her masterpiece were strewn from one end of the house to the other. She touched Jo Jo’s face and kissed his head. “You have been such a good friend to me Jo Jo. I wish I could have been more of a comfort to you.” Jo Jo looked up at her face and gave a long, low- pitched meow. She got up off the floor and looked around. Her face was blank. She stared at the typewriter on the floor. Jo Jo continued to rub her up against her leg, but she no longer responded. Back and forth, back and forth, his walk was a stoic one. She walked into the kitchen with the same blank look on her face, her head tilted slightly to the side. She searched desperately through a kitchen drawer. Then the it slammed shut. She walked toward the bathroom, pushed Jo Jo out and closed the door. The sound of the lock caused Jo Jo to meow repeatedly. He clawed at the door furiously. The door remained closed for a while and Jo Jo resigned himself to lying in front of it patiently. 12. “Mr. Zelnick? Can you hear me?” Louis lay on his bed looking upward at the ceiling. “He’s going down hill fast.” A nurse yelled out the door, “Doctor, we need you in here!” Jessica sat next to Louis holding his hand. “Don’t worry Louis. I’m here with you. Tell me a story.” He looked up at her lovingly. She had walked into his life and brought such joy with her. She loved his stories and listened to them intently. “Did I ever tell you that my wife’s name was Jessica?” The duty nurse turned toward the bed. Jessica looked at him. “You never did, Louis.” Gilda came rushing in the room. “I just heard. How is he?” Louis’s eyes were growing heavy and his breathing was becoming
  • 12. increasingly shallow. “He was just talking to someone.” The duty nurse looked puzzled. “Mr. Zelnick? Who are you talking to?” Gilda grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. “I’m right here. Tell me what it is.” His eyes closed and the sound of his final breath rang out like a trumpet in Gilda’s ears. “He’s gone isn’t he?” She turned toward the nurse. “Yes, I am afraid so.” The Doctor came walking into the room with a sandwich in his hand. “Well I hope we didn’t disturb you during your lunch hour!” Gilda ran out of the room and headed toward the bathroom. After she composed herself, she headed back down the hall. She walked past Mr. Zelnicks room heading to the cafeteria. Something caught her eye and she backed up to looked into the room. At first glance she could see a young blonde sitting on the edge of the bed. But when she turned to look directly at the bed there was nothing there. She walked into the room toward the bed. There was something under it. It was the corner of a picture frame. She picked it up. The photo was of a beautiful blonde with piercing green eyes. Suddenly the photo slid out of the frame and hit the floor. She bent over to pick it up and there was something written on the back. To my storyteller, I love you. Your beloved, Jessica. 13. She sat in the tub soaking in the water. A perfect masterpiece. A perfect masterpiece. She repeated the phrase. Her voice was hollow and it bounced off of every wall. It echoed into her ears and she clasped her hands over them. Her inadequacies surrounded her and closed in, choking her. Why don’t you do us both a favor and get it over with. She stared at the knife and pictured it covered with dark blue
  • 13. blood. “I have been a failure all of my life. I couldn’t even save him.” The water continued to run in the tub, filling it up to the rim. It began to cascade from it like a clear wall. Jo Jo jumped up and shook some droplets from his paw. The water flowed out from under the door spreading slowly, creating an ever-widening puddle. It was tinged with pale read streaks. Jo Jo sat looking at the puddle. He edged backward as it creeped forward toward him. He jumped on the couch and curled up in a blanket that was wadded up on one end. It was her favorite, and it smelled of her lavender lotion. The typewriter lay on the floor in two large pieces. A piece of paper still on the roller read two words. The End.