30 Days: As Plain As the Nose on Your Face

By Julie Daines

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning split the sky, and the sound of a dog barking up the wrong tree woke Rodney from his troubled sleep. Now he was wide-awake and chomping at the bit.

His bedroom door creaked opened. “Wake up and smell the coffee, sir,” voiced Jeeves apologetically. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but there’s a girl at the front door.”

Who in tarnation would be out on a night like this? It was raining cats and dogs. Young Rodney’s parents had both kicked the bucket years ago. Their approach to child rearing had never been spare the rod and spoil the child, but Rodney missed his old man like a duck misses the water.

“We can’t leave her hanging. Shall I let her in?” inquired Jeeves quizzically.

Rodney raked his hands through his hair and bit his lip to keep from screaming. He didn’t want to beat around the bush because he knew beggars can’t be choosers. Plus the butler was old as the hills and Rodney was a glutton for punishment.

Rodney ignored the chip on his shoulder. “I’ll get the door,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Then we’ll see which way the wind blows.”

Quicker than a New York minute, Rodney reached the large oak front door. It was now or never. After all, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

Even though he was dog-tired, he took the bull by the horns, grasping the doorknob with a white-knuckle grip. It wouldn’t open. He buckled down and pulled. Still nothing, so he made a last ditch effort. Third times the charm, he thought in his mind to himself. He put his back into it, and that was the ticket. The door flew open.

Rodney’s eyes popped out of his head. There stood a real looker, cute as a button and wet behind the ears. She smiled, flashing a set of perfectly white teeth.

Rodney’s heart skipped a beat and butterflies filled his stomach. Suddenly, a cold chill ran down his spine. Could she be a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Too late now, you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube. After all, lightening never strikes the same place twice.

The girl at the door looked daggers at him. “Take a picture, it will last longer.” Her voice was smooth as silk.

She was only a stones throw away, and Rodney couldn’t trust her, not for all the tea in China. But why should he be afraid of his own shadow? There was no point in closing the barn door after the horse had bolted. It was just like his mom used to say, All roads lead to Rome.

“Come in,” he invited nervously while waves of fear crashed over him. No bones about it, she looked like someone back from the dead—a blast from the past. True, you can’t fit a square peg in a round hole, but you also can’t judge a book by its cover.

He waved the white flag and tried to break the ice. He was the man of the house now, and he called the shots. “You must be frozen solid.”

“I’m not here to chew the fat,” she declared assertively. “I have a bone to pick with you. You’ve spent your whole life swimming with the sharks, and where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I’m your long lost sister!” she finally proclaimed.

Rodney opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He looked like a fish out of water.

“Wow,” the girl exclaimed. “I knew you weren’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but you’re slower than cold molasses in January.”

It seemed his hands were tied. After all, blood is thicker than water. He would have liked to sweep this under the rug, but a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

“What am I, chopped liver?” he questioned inquiringly. “You’re wearing your heart on your sleeve. No need to sugar coat it, I can see you’re in a world of hurt.”

She ran forward and threw her arms around him. “I don’t mean to rub salt in your wounds, but here’s the whole ball of wax: someone murdered our parents.”

“No!” Rodney moaned sorrowfully. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

“Who died and left you in charge?” she demanded angrily. “I’m at the end of my rope, and the only person who can help me is not just whistling Dixie.”

This girl was wound tighter than a spring. She should've known better than anyone that it's not over till the fat lady sings.

“When all is said and done,” Rodney uttered defensively, “actions speak louder than words.”

“Does that mean you’ll help?” she queried hopefully.

Rodney already had one paw on the chicken coop. It was time to look at the glass half full. “I may be grasping at straws, but yeah, I’m in—hook, line, and sinker.”

She tossed him a grateful smile, then pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her back pocket and gave him a taste of his own medicine.

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” she started to begin saying. “I found this smoking gun. A picture of the snake in the grass who killed our parents.”

Dead men tell no tales, and Rodney doubted that what you see is what you get. Still, he gave the photo the once-over.

It was a picture of a man who had as many chins as a Chinese phonebook.

That took the wind out of his sails. He hated being caught with his pants down. Now that he was wedged between a rock and a hard place, he could finally see the writing on the wall.

He didn’t have to compare apples to oranges to know who was in the picture. And just because curiosity killed the cat, didn’t mean he couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag.

“Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” he professed. “The butler did it.”

The cliches in this piece are many layered--plus I added a few gems of bad writing free of charge. I hope you enjoyed them all. What made you LOL?

30 Days: "Tattered Photo Album"

-->

He hadn’t been back here since his wife died. He didn’t like the memories that returned when he entered the cool room lined with glass cases--showing the part of his life he’d like to forget. But his children and grandchildren begged to hear his stories.

A new display caught his eye. Every piece of history was identifiable to him and yet held no interest: mess kit, German helmet, footlocker, tattered photo album.

He wiped the sweat that beaded on his forehead despite the air conditioner’s constant blast. He almost turned around and left when he saw the showcase with a blood-splattered uniform; his uniform, her blood.

If only he’d found her sooner. There was so much blood. He’d panicked when he picked up her limp body. Finding a medic, he was persuaded to let go of his precious bundle. He was sent to the front before he knew if she had survived.

 “Hello, Mr. Wilson,” the curator said as she stepped into the room. She drew near to him and shook his hand. “You out to see our newest exhibit? It arrived yesterday.”

He nodded and smiled, hoping she would leave. He wanted a few moments alone with the past. He shuffled his feet toward the case until his nose almost touched the glass.

She pointed to something inside. “My grandmother donated most of it. She had my brother clean out the attic and he found the old footlocker with all sorts of treasures, like her pictures from the war. She kept an old shoe box full of letters but asked that I bring the rest in.”

A tremor rolled up Mr. Wilson’s legs. He placed an unsteady hand on the glass. “May I peek inside the photo album?”

She gave him a long look before producing a ring of keys and opening the lock. “Would you like to sit at my desk?” she asked.

The woman carefully placed the book in front of him once he sat down. “You’re welcome to take as long as you need.”

He relaxed into the chair when she left. Finally, he was alone. He opened the book and sucked in a lungful of air. There she was. With a shaky finger he touched the face he’d seen so many times in his dreams. For the next hour he hunted for every picture of her, a chronicle of the life of a nurse in the war.

Slowly he shut the album, pain in his chest. She was gone. While lost in memories he didn’t hear the door open until a woman asked about the open case.

“Hi Grandma. Mr. Wilson asked to see the pictures.”

“Mr. Wilson?” The soft voice faltered.

He tried to stand but his legs betrayed him.

“Are you okay?” the curator asked as she rushed to him, followed by the beautiful angel from his dreams.

“Fred?”

“Janice?”