In Love I Do Write

“Sorry, Ma’am. Nothing.”

Isabel nodded, dismissing the housekeeper. Tears accompanied her sullen soul.

In earlier times she and Alfred exchanged letters frequently. Physical distance between them, when he left for war, mattered not. Had the passion vanished?

Not for her. How could she forget their tireless walks in the countryside, their invigorating conversations, or his warm smiling eyes? He, the son of her parents’ friends.

The expected letter eventually arrived, as did others following.

Only after Isabel and Alfred had died was their love revealed to the world, in a manuscript—a collection of hundreds of letters penned between them.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

Novel

The house I bought was built in the early 1900s. When I renovated, I never expected to find a note hidden in the floor boards from a distinguished gentleman to his maid from the year 1907. It gave me great inspiration to write a romance novel. I submitted my finished manuscript to my agent, and she said it had potential. The next day she sent it to the publishing house.

Several months passed, and finally my agent called. When I answered the phone, my heart beat quickly, the anxiety rising throughout my body.

The publisher loved it.

My first novel.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

The PI

“You're a dick, right?”

“Come again?”

“A private investigator?”

Mel sat across from Doris Vandergrift in the living room of her mansion.

“I need to find Reginald.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes. As I mentioned, I have a letter.”

Mel scanned the pages.

“I keep seeing – ‘I need more money.’”

“My 87-year-old husband ran off with Rhonda, our massage therapist. She was always after him for money, as you see.”

“But it's not a letter.”

“What'd you mean?”

“It's more like a manuscript.”

“Does that matter?”

“A manuscript? Yeah...To run down the leads in a manuscript costs a lot more money.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

When Life Gives You Lemons

While Burt created a wedding cake, the radio crackled. “Evacuate, citizens!” a voice shouted. “An asteroid will hit us in ninety minutes and could flatten the town!”

“I’ve never let a bride down,” Burt muttered. “However, my notes are unclear on whether to do strawberry or lemon filling.”

The asteroid lowered itself through the clouds, blocking out the sun; its cratered face peered through the bakery’s window.

“Lemon,” it rumbled. “Bride not coming.”

“Okay,” Burt said.

When the cake was finished, it slipped through a sinkhole.

After the dust cleared, parts of the town were destroyed. The bakery remained standing.

From Guest Contributor Susmita Ramani

Safari

I couldn’t believe I was in Africa on a safari and that my dream came to fruition.

My guide points to the giraffes in the field; their long necks and legs were ominous to other smaller animals.

The elephants led their young and stayed nearby. It was astonishing seeing them up close, the males’ prominent ivory tusks digging the soil as their young squeaked.

The heat in Africa was unbearable, so I sipped my bottled water to stay hydrated in awe of my surroundings.

The tour ended and I was back at my hotel.

Tomorrow, my flight home to reality.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Permanent Manuscript

Sir Robert, during his quest for the Holy Grail, was struck by a spectacular vision. The images were so overwhelmingly realistic he felt compelled to document everything he had seen as a testament for all future generations. Stopping in the nearest cave, he began carving, with both words and pictographs, the amazing sights he had witnessed. Only by engraving the words deep into the stone, permanently recording his fantastic revelation, would he be certain that not a single letter of his screed could ever be altered. Thus it would forever remain.

Sir Robert liked to make his editor's job difficult.

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

The Spelling Bee

It was the Turnersville Third Grade Spelling Bee. Fran Blancowitz squared off against little Mel Fromberg. The auditorium was packed with students, staff, parents, and relatives.

“Mel, spell the word ‘Dog,’ please.”

He managed it slowly.

“Now, Fran, spell the word ‘Letter,’ if possible.”

No problem. 

Next Mel correctly spelled ‘Cat’, after Mr. Atkins, the principal and questioner, used it in a sentence – ‘The cat chased the dog.’

“Fine…Now, Fran, spell ‘Manuscript.’”

She did. But, from the audience, her parents and relatives objected – he was tougher on Susie. 

Mr. Atkins turned to Mel.

“Okay…Spell the name ‘Blancowitz,’ Mel."

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

Our First Writing Prompt

To celebrate the new website, and the arrival of summer, I thought we could start with a community writing prompt. And we're going to take our cue from the incomparable Fran Lebowitz, seen below in a visit to the Morgan Library and Museum.

The prompt is to write a story that revolves around a letter or a manuscript. Bonus points if you manage both items (but at one hundred words, maybe one is enough). I'm curious to see what you come up with. 

You will find the submission guidelines here. For the month of June I'll be bumping stories that follow the prompt to the front of the line. 

First Star Of The Night

According to the old superstitions, it was considered bad luck to see the first star of the night. Just one of many bits of unwelcome advice Sean's grandmother had plagued him with during adolescence.

He thought about her words whenever he was outside at twilight. It wasn't that he was willfully ignoring her, but he refused to let some old-fashioned view of how the world works to stop him from enjoying the sunset.

What Sean didn't realize, but his grandmother knew all too well, was the evening star stole the soul of the first person to see it every night.

Every Ending

Needle prick. Anesthesia kicks in. You’re floating, light as a feather, then you fall back into your body. But not in this dream. You won’t wake up again.

Harsh hospital lights. There’s no capacity to sustain you. To build homes in this scorched world. You couldn’t afford them, not even before the natural disasters. Instead, one-square-meter pods in space—compact and cheap—for your brain. For all human brains. Other body parts are redundant.

We need to shrink. Reduce our footprint. The resources have been exhausted.

Before your eyes, the scalpel blurs. Remember that every ending is a new beginning.

From Guest Contributor Bettina Laszlo