The Road Not Taken

A single note echoed through the hallways as she walked her nightly rounds making the house secure.  The piano player would play for the same two hours every night, ending with the same song. The song's final note would find her like a homing beacon, and she'd always wonder at the emotion behind it.




What happened to make him (for in her mind the pianist was a he) that sad? Everyday she made up stories as she fell asleep.  One night he was a heartbroken nobleman, his wife dead in childbirth.  The next he was a runaway orphan, the song the only one taught him by his mother. Tonight he was... she slapped the house key against her hand thinking a moment.  She couldn't think of tonight's story yet.  She closed the front door's inside lock with a click, and a decision: tonight she would ask the truth.  She let a smile spread across her features; the picture would come together.




She slipped the keys into her dress pocket as she climbed the stairs.  She could make out the flicker of light from the music room door; third on the right at the top of the stairs.  Her hand paused on the doorknob suddenly unsure.  Was she letting her curiosity get the better of her?






She turned the knob slowly opening the door a crack.  He was leaning against the mantle, back to her staring down at the flames; a lively fire jumping at him.  His face covered by the one arm.  His straight shoulder length black hair hanging straight.  By physique he was a soldier or a tradesman;
his muscular back tense.






"Forgive my intrusion.  I just wanted to see if you needed anything before I retired.  The back straightened the arms leaving the fireplace.  She took one step inside the room as he turned.  His looks were spoiled by a pinched scar running diagonal across his cheek. What held her rooted to the spot was his eyes.  Ice-blue; guarded but friendly, young but holding hard-won wisdom.






Cold, impersonal: "I'm fine Madame."






"You play very well sir.  May I ask the piece?






"It's Ned.  I wrote the music,"




A name deserved a name: "I'm Myra."




"Pretty name," he complimented.  Without realizing it she'd entered taking a seat by the fire.  His eyes watched her closely.  He wanted to tell her to get out, but felt he couldn't; it was her house.  He sighed:

"I was a soldier in the north, come here to find work as a labourer." 






"The song?" She asked.  He followed taking a spot on the couch opposite the chair.  He folded his hands on his lap, studying them as if they held the answer. 




Myra stood cringing; cheeks colouring with embarrassing. "Too personal.  It's a habit; I meet people, and talk too much.  Ask the wrong questions."




He interrupted her babbling: "Mourning for a road not taken.  I was a nobleman where I come from, betrothed to another man's daughter. She made it obvious she loved another, and a soldier's life was an easy choice. 


"They're no longer together"  She held his gaze a moment guessing what happened next: "Love is fickle."


"It is indeed.  What's your story?"


"Mine? Not much to tell. A nervous half-smile:


"An only child, my parents left me this place." She elaborated: "I was a disappointment; a girl when they would've preferred a boy.  Mom got over it, dad didn't.  Eventually she saw I was educated, and persuaded my father to make me his heir.  "He died shortly after." 






Myra played with the beads on her bracelet, counting them in her head.  She bit her lip forcing herself not to speak.  She'd told her story often enough to know the pity written on his face without looking.  The tsk tsking at society's shame, but the lack of willpower to do anything about it.






"Aren't we a pair," the dry, teasing tone drew her in.  She looked up at him noting the mischief glinting in his eyes.  She started laughing.  At first he watched in wonder; her face completely changed when she laughed; the cares melting away from her.






She stopped when the tears started falling placing a hand on her chest to check her breath.  Formality was restored: "I forget myself sometimes; it's another bad habit.  It's time I went off to bed.  Your breakfast as usual?"


"That would be lovely" A smile, eyes twinkling.  She shut the door behind her sighing.  A riddle solved, a friendship made.

Short Story Writing Workshop: The Results

A while ago I took a short-story writing class at the library.  One of our homework assignments was to write a 300 word story based around two sisters.  Here's what I came up with.

The Visit

Mary stared out the windshield at the barren winter landscape.   “While you were away on vacation Gary and I split up; we’re getting a divorce,” she blurted.  Patty opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again without saying a word.  All Patty talked about since she got in the car was her latest exotic trip. ‘Misery loves company,’ she childishly thought.

“He cheated on me.  Late nights, weekend business meetings the whole clichéd bit.  He’s Facebook friends with her; that’s how I found out... she tagged him in a status update when they were at some hotel,” Mary explained.

“The kids,” Patty asked. 

“They know dad’s away on a trip.  I haven’t told them he’s not coming back,” Mary answered.

“They’re not stupid,” Patty pointed out.

“I know that,” Mary snapped.  They were both quiet for a while lost in thought.  Patty counted the snow banks until they arrived at the house.

“Do you still love him?” Patty sought to understand her sister’s bitterness.

“Yes... No... I don’t know.  He’s the father of my children.  He was supposed to be my one great love.  But people grow apart you know.  Maybe that’s what happened with us?” Mary speculated.  Someday she might be able to buy that; after the bitterness and anger faded.

“That’s likely,” Patty suggested.  Mary parked the car, and started to open the door.  Patty put her hand on Mary’s back.  “For what it’s worth I think you’re making the right decision. 

Mary audibly sighed climbing out of the car: “Kids! Aunt Patty’s here.  She’s got presents,” Patty found herself hugged almost before she could stand up.   Another visit had begun.