Historical – The Word Worker

This flash fiction was inspired by a photo prompt that I unfortunately don’t have the right to share. You the reader get to imagine the scene for yourself this week! Enjoy! *********************************************

Gramps kept the old black and white postcard in his wallet, folded up neatly to fit in a card slot. Sometimes he would take it out and gently unfold it, smooth it with a caress of his fingertips the way he touched Gram’s hair. I asked him once what was so important about a gray picture of a boat and trees. He gave me a long look and then handed me the creased and worn card.

“My brother was eighteen that summer,” he said. “I was ten. Wasn’t much we did together anymore, but we did like fishing.” Gramps put his hand on my head and ruffled my hair, staring into the distance with a half smile. “That summer he told me to pack my camping gear, we were headed upriver for a week. We threw sleeping bags, fishing poles, and a frying pan in an old boat he’d scrounged up and caulked and set off for a boy’s heaven.”

“Did you catch lots of fish?” I wondered.

“Enough to fry every day,” he chuckled, “but mostly we swam, chased each other up and down the bank, and slept in the sun. It’s a wonder the snakes didn’t carry us off; mosquitoes sure tried. Once, the boat sprung a leak. Not a bad one, but we were taking on water. Jack showed me how to stuff moss in the crack and caulk it with mud.”

“Did it work?”

“Well… not too well,” Gramps admitted. “But we were having too much fun to care. I’d never spent so much time with Jack, just the two of us.”

He sighed. “He enlisted the next day, headed to the Pacific. We were dirt poor and there were no photos, but I found this in a drugstore a week after Pearl Harbor. It may look like a boat to you, but to me that’ll always be Jack.”

FB_IMG_1591483602188 He walked the streets in the dusk, the invisible bringer of light. Dawn and twilight, his two-headed staff tapping the cobblestones with each step. For forty years now he had walked the streets and alleyways, the stones of the old wall familiar friends now.

Fifteen steps from lamp to lamp, his feet knew on their own every start and stop. The tiny hiss as each wick flamed marked a beat in an old song. The almost imperceptible heat of each tiny flame staved the cold growing in his bones.

Ah, there was the ivy trellis across from Mistress Burnley’s shop. Fripperies didn’t sell until the well-born young girls left their late breakfasts with nothing to do but spend their fathers’ money. Nevertheless, Mistress Burnley’s second floor window held warmth at the snuffing hour each morning and comforted him each evening. Yes, there she was, as always, a fixture same as he.

Ten more steps to the old stairs, five – no six – to the top. Imagine forgetting that after all these years! Turn left to follow the wall, but only after lighting the corner lamp. Tonight music wafted from the open windows of Master Hollywell’s townhouse just across the way. Seemed Mistress Burnley’s wares would be displayed handsomely tonight. The Hollywell dances marked the height of the season, no doubt. The merry singing of the strings and the sound of feet tapping in rhythm called out to him, keeping time with his staff.

Fifteen more steps, another welcoming hiss. On he went, marking the time unheeded, forever caught between the light and the dark.