Jillian Chantal

Time for Tuesday Tales. This week, the writers are writing to the word prompt quick. I am working on my buried treasure story.

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“Good point. I’ll take a picture and use an app to see if I can find out anything.” I’d almost finished my cake and set my fork down to take the photo. I wasn’t expecting much but it was a great idea to try to figure out the time frame when it was made. “Do silver hallmarks usually have the date it was made?”

“I don’t think the United States has a year rule about hallmarks. I think it’s just the percentage of silver and the makers mark. I know some companies like Tiffany’s and Reed and Barton date theirs. Maybe Gorham as well. I don’t see a date on this though. Just the 925 and sterling is on this one. And the makers mark is hard to read as it appears the item has been smushed a bit. There’s a small dent making it difficult to decipher.”

“Maybe I can take it to a jewelry repair place and see if they can straighten it out or figure out who might have made it.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Why don’t you go out to the shed and get your grandfather’s small digger? It’s small enough that you wouldn’t damage anything else that might be there like you would with a full-size shovel.”

“You’re right.  I can’t wait to get back to digging, but I’ll make a quick trip to the workshop and get it. Any idea where it is?”

“Lord, no, honey, that man could’ve laid it anywhere. He’s gone to the bank but will be back soon. You could wait and ask him.” Grandma wiped her face with her apron.

“No way, Grams. I’m too impatient for that.” I laughed, wiped my mouth with my napkin and stood. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

Grandma grabbed my plate and fork to take to the sink before I could do it. This was par for the course. Leave a glass sitting at her house unattended and it would be scooped up and washed in nanosecond.

To my surprise, I found the trowel sitting right by the vise at the end of one of the counters in Granddad’s workshop and was soon back under the tree digging away.

The next thing I uncovered was a bit more of the broken wood. This part wasn’t elaborately carved. It might have been part of the bottom. It was in bad shape. Deteriorated and old. “I wish I could date this wood, but there’s no way to tell.”

“Who are you talking to while you sit in the dirt like you’re six again?”

I looked up to see Levi staring down at me with a huge grin on his face.

Today, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt silvery. This is my new story set in the southern USA. The one I started sharing last week.

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Using my fingers, I dug around and hit something hard and square. Or rectangular maybe?

I cleared a little more dirt to find a piece of wood. Pulling it out, I wiped the grime off it and flipped it over. It was a light color, smooth on one side and carved on the other. It didn’t look big enough really to do much with. Perhaps it wasn’t a complete piece of whatever it was.

As I inspected it, I realized one end was jagged so it must’ve been longer at one time.

“Let’s see if there’s anything else here.” I dug around a bit more and found another piece of the same kind of wood. The carving was interesting and ornate. How it got under the tree at my grandparents’ home was a mystery. I’d have to ask her what it was if she even knew. What if it had been there for years? It sure looked like it had been buried a while. But such a pretty thing to bury? How odd.

I found a few more pieces of the wood.  I couldn’t tell if it was broken when it was buried or if it was disintegrating in the soil. I used the stick to poke around some more. Something sparkled as one of the clouds overhead scudded away from the sun and some rays penetrated through the leaves. “What have we here?” I asked the world at large in the voice of a Bond villain.

I broke a nail trying to grab hold of the item. It was almost like it was suctioned to the earth around it. It’s a good thing I’m not one to go for a professional manicure or nail veneers. It was just a bend to the quick. I’d survive.

Eventually I was able to get a grip on the shiny object enough to pull it out of the soil. I scrubbed it across the thigh of my jeans before inspecting it.

A silvery colored charm of some sort. It reminded me of the lavalieres that some of the frat brothers used to give their girlfriends in college. It took me a minute to remember my Greek alphabet and recognize the letters. Sigma Alpha Epsilon. Something about that fraternity sounded familiar. Other than the fact I knew it existed. Like it had been on the news. For something not good.

“Wonder what else is down here?”

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt kick. I am now done with the paranormal story and in the midst of editing it. I decided to share a little short story with the word prompt.

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The People Watcher

A young man with a blade runner leg on his right side, a pretty girl with vivid blue hair and a pair of red kicks passed by the bench where I sat in the middle of the town square. There’s also another girl strolling with them. She wears tight short-shorts and is slightly heavier than the blue-haired one. I’m a people watcher and most days, I take refuge under the big oak tree that gives the best shade.

I like to imagine the lives of those who pass by. These three I see as a boyfriend and girlfriend with the heavier girl as the best friend of the blue-haired girlfriend of Blade Man. I have memories of being the pretty girl with the best friend who always seemed to fade into the background and I’m ashamed now to recall how I never realized how the third-wheel girl felt.

Imagine always being number two. I know how that feels now. Having gained some years and also weight, I see what I didn’t see when I was the toast of the town. Older, heavier people aren’t treated kindly by our society. This is why I’ve become a recluse who lives her life vicariously by watching others. Being ignored in stores and on the street is demoralizing.

For a moment, I’m tempted to take Third Wheel aside and advise her to get out of the shadow of Blue Hair while she’s still young enough to impact the world herself. But then I think about how she might react to my words. Probably ignore me or give me a sneer like I don’t have a clue what I’m talking about.

The moment passes, they move on and I direct my attention to the group of four people on the grass lolling around as if they’re an art installation. The guy with the long dreads is on his stomach, a girl with a plaid shirt and not much else on is on her side with one knee up and another girl lying on her back has a book in her hand she’s just holding up in the air. The last young man has his body draped around the vignette like a capital C. They intrigue me.

Before I can come up with their “story,” an unexpected shower arises. Rain pours on the grass, quickly making mud puddles. The art installation moment is ruined as the four characters flee for the awning of one of the stores across from the square.

As for me? I’ll keep sitting here with my face raised to capture the cool drops from heaven. Getting soaked is no big deal. It makes me feel alive. Which is something new for me. 

this week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt, icy. I am still sharing from my paranormal story.

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Instead of going back to bed, Lu paced her bedroom. Livid and ready to punch something. The nerve. The actual nerve of the man. Lord.

Even though she was tired and still drowsy, she decided to dress and walk down to the Barkley house and look across the bay to see if she could spy that pirate ship again. She didn’t want to be home if Malcolm decided to come visit in person to berate her some more. What an awful way to start the day. Mad and stunned at his behavior, her hands shook as she tugged on some jeans and a thick Irish sweater. 

She hooked Aneto to his leash and grabbed her cross-body bag and shoved some money and her ID in it so she could grab breakfast while she was out.

When she opened the back door, a gust of icy wind hit her in the face. “The temperature dropped, Aneto. I guess it’ll keep us both alert.”

Glad for the warmth of her sweater, she walked briskly toward the end of the street, scouring the area for signs of the ship or even George Barkley. If he was out and about, maybe some of the fear in the spirit world had dissipated. After all, there hadn’t been any new crimes that mimicked old deaths in the last day or so. The General would’ve told her even if Malcolm wouldn’t have.

Shoving an errant tear off her cheek, she deliberately pushed away any thought of Malcolm and that phone call.

No sign of George as she passed his house. No sign of the pirate ship either. Maybe I just imagined it. Or it was some weird sun shimmer off the water.

“Come on, Aneto, let’s take a walk down Main Street and see if there’s a place at the Ruby Slipper for breakfast. It’s early and I’m thinking the outside tables won’t be occupied since it’s so cold—if they’re even set up, that is. If not, we’ll get something at the Bodacious Cafe and eat it on the run.”

The wind was piercing and no one was out except her and her dog. They moved quickly and were soon close to the Pensacola Little Theater. Lu glanced up as she always did to see if she could see their resident spirit. Nope. Not there.

She found she was missing seeing the town filled with both the living and dead. How did I get so used to seeing spirits as fast as I did that I now miss them?