A few months ago, I released an anthology of short stories I'd written over the years for a contest my online writing group has had, called the Phantasmagoria Contest. I finaled with these three short stories and since they were sitting on my laptop gathering cyber dust, I figured I'd put them out there for others to enjoy.
Below is one of the stories, The Fruits of His Labor. It's about a husband's love for his wife. The anthology, Off The Beaten Path, written as J.A. Fenn (so everyone wouldn't expect it to be like my light-and-fluffy paranormal romantic comedies), is available on online retailer sites (links below if interested) for $0.99.
Below is one of the stories, The Fruits of His Labor. It's about a husband's love for his wife. The anthology, Off The Beaten Path, written as J.A. Fenn (so everyone wouldn't expect it to be like my light-and-fluffy paranormal romantic comedies), is available on online retailer sites (links below if interested) for $0.99.
The Fruits of His Labor
A man is entitled to enjoy the fruits of his
labor…
But to what extent?
John uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into her
glass, the merlot glistening like blood in the candlelight.
He contemplated the thin neck of the pink wineglass.
Pink. Christ. As if he were some fucking fruit. He shook his head, setting the
glass back on the pristine tablecloth. The shit he put up with for that woman.
He folded the gray cotton napkin. Tonight he’d make
the swan he’d been practicing with the tin foil. Maybe a rose petal for the
beak.
More shit for her.
The timer sounded in the kitchen on her
state-of-the-art range she’d “had to have.” It’d cost him an extra week in New
York, but “everyone had one.” So he’d lined up more clients, worked more than a
lawyer who’d just passed the bar, and logged twenty hour days, seven straight.
She’d been so appreciative.
John finished the curve of the swan’s neck. He’d have
to go to her rose garden out back for the petal. Another thing she’d “had to
have.” The gardener cost him more than the range and he couldn’t help wonder if
he was paying in more than just cash with all the visits listed on this month’s
bill.
He went into the gourmet kitchen. Why she had to have
all the granite and tile and stainless appliances, he had no idea. They’d been
in the house six months and she hadn’t gone anywhere near them. He wondered how
much a chef would cost.
He turned the burner off and looked for the
potholders. Couldn’t find a damn useful thing in this mausoleum. Hell, it’d
taken him a good ten minutes to find the pot. He slammed the drawers—well, as
much as they could be slammed since she’d ordered the self-closing kind. Damn
it. A man couldn’t even take out his frustration on a fucking drawer.
Fuck it. He reset the timer. He still had to get that
petal.
He pulled on his Wellies by the mudroom door. Two more
of her “must haves:” special boots for walking in the yard and the mandate to
leave them by the mudroom door. When he’d been growing up, his mother had
bitched about the muddy footprints, but she’d smiled the whole time, dancing
with the mop she’d kept propped against the wall for just that reason. With
seven kids, five of them boys, Mom had constantly been cleaning up after them.
Careworn and haggard, scraping by on welfare and the kindness of strangers, Mom
had somehow managed to keep a smile on her face, and she hadn’t had one
thousandth of what he now did.
He saw that now. At the time, all he’d seen was the
poverty, the laughs and looks from the other kids.
He’d shown them. He’d looked them up after the first
million. No one in his graduating class could touch him for the pedigree of his
wife, nor financial security. And, Mom, thank God, had had it easy in her final
years. He’d made sure of it.
The rain had fizzled out, but the Wellies squelched in
the mulch bed of the rose garden. White, yellow, orange, red, pink. More pink.
Another row of pink. How many fucking shades of pink were there? No way was he
going to be able to match that glass stem.
The low rumble of thunder in the distance reminded him
the timer was ticking. He grabbed a petal from the closest flower, then another
just in case he couldn’t get it right.
The door on the mudroom stuck when he returned. He
shoved, hearing the weather-stripping screech as it swung inward. Time to call
the handyman she’d found for those odds and ends the builder hadn’t gotten
quite right.
More cash. Why the fuck had they bought this
monstrosity?
Oh, that’s right. She’d wanted it. He’d been happy
with the condo in the city and the one on the golf course in Palm Springs he’d
built before she’d come along. But this place was bigger, had a better address,
she’d said.
He started to take off the Wellies after he hung up
his coat then decided the hell with it. He’d paid for the house and he could
damn well walk around in muddy boots if he wanted.
He made it as far as the door to the kitchen when the
guilt got to him. He took off the damn boots and stepped into the slippers that
were his normal indoor footwear.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. Damn. He
was late.
He bypassed the pot and ran down the long marble
corridor back to the dining room, taking the one petal from his pocket. The
pointed end slid beneath the fold just as he’d imagined, covering the “beak”
perfectly. Gray and pink; the colors of their wedding party. She’d insisted, of
course.
He checked the placement of the silverware, the bread
plate, the coffee cup and saucer. She’d left the etiquette book on her bedside
table for so long he’d had no trouble setting the perfect table for their
anniversary dinner.
And she said he never did anything thoughtful for her.
John took one last look at the table then went back to
the kitchen. He pulled out the silver serving tray her aunt had sent all the
way from England. She’d even told people about it in an English accent, as if
it were from the Queen herself. John shrugged. It’s what she’d want.
He walked over to the range and lifted the lid. Their
ten-year celebration would be perfect.
He carried the laden serving tray back to the dining
room, setting everything in its proper place at the table: her left hand he
placed on the forks, her right on the spoon. Her spine, sewn together before
he’d boiled off the flesh, rested against the chair cushion. Her head he
propped on the plant stake he’d lashed to the back of the chair.
From across the table, he raised his tumbler, ice swirling
in his Southern Comfort that glowed amber in the candlelight. It was his
favorite drink and he no longer cared if she thought it “too common.” A man was
entitled to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
“Happy anniversary, darling.” He toasted her. “To us. ’Til death do us part.”
The other stories are:
The To-Do List: It's said that good fences make good neighbors. So what happens when one of them crosses the line?
Not Quite What It Seems: Paybacks are a bitch. And so is Karma.
How fun, Judi!! When I was a kid, I loved to make up spooky stories! I guess I still am, but with a humorous, much, much sexier twist!
ReplyDeleteHalloween 5,6 and 7 combined don't have a thing on you, dawlin'! My nose is doing that thing that the kids laugh about when I see something that scares me!
ReplyDeleteI'm not much of one for scary reading, but how marvelous that your talent has such a broad range in both content and length. The short story is a challenge I have yet to conquer.
ReplyDelete