Jillian Chantal

This week’s word prompt for the writers of Tuesday Tales is pillow. I’m working on a series of short stories to be released in the fall of 2023. This story is about a brother and sister pop duo who have been estranged and broken up for several years. They are cutting a record together but separately in her home studio.

check out the other tales here.

Mickey slapped his hands on his thighs. “No time like the present.”

Startled, she gulped too fast and scalded her throat with the hot liquid. “What?” 

“He’s downstairs.”

“You brought him in my house while I was gone? Before asking me?” Rage threatened to boil over. 

He held his hands up in surrender. “He wanted to come do the track. I let him, knowing you were out. He’d just finished when we heard you opening the gates. No nefarious plan. If you don’t want to do it now, you can head upstairs and I’ll walk him out.”

Nervous but a bit glad she didn’t have to dread the meeting for several days, Noel  shrugged. “Might as well get it over with.”

“What kind of attitude is that?” 

“The one I have, Mickey. You sideswiped me and you’re questioning my attitude?”

He had the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry. Sorry.”

She knew he’d been her biggest supporter as she’d navigated life without her twin, but she wasn’t happy with him in this moment. “Let’s do this.” She punched one of the bland white throw pillows on the bland white couch on her way past. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you I’m redecorating.” 

Mickey glanced over his shoulder at her. “Finally tired of the sterile look?”

“Yeah. It’s past time to put my own mark on this house.”

I am finished with my NaNoWriMo story and have started on a short story for an anthology. This is close to the beginning of the story. Since we’re writing to a picture prompt, we’re limited to 300 words.

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Patting the dashboard, Otto said, “Look there, old boy. A tree full of pears, ripe and ready to pick.” He shook his head. “Shame whoever owns it is letting them fall to the ground and rot. Let’s see if they’ll let me have a few.”

He knew he had a suitable box stowed in the bed. As a chef who liked to cook with fresh fruits and vegetables in season, he was always alert to opportunities to score some goodies for the hotel where he served as executive chef. “Poached pears, pear chutney, pear tarte Tatin, cobbler or even my famous braided raspberry and pear bread. It’s hard to choose which to do but I have to get permission to pick them first.”

Otto was sure people would think he was crazy talking to his truck, but since he’d lost his wife and child in an accident several years prior, he hadn’t found anyone to share his life and being silent all the time when he wasn’t at work had begun to wear on him.

He pulled into the dirt driveway of the old farmhouse and approached the door, dodging the chickens who seemed to be determined to trip him and make him fall on his face.

Before he could knock, an elderly lady, in an old house dress like his grandmother used to wear, stepped onto the porch. Hands on hips with the door open wide behind her, she glared at him. “Whatever you’re selling, I either already have, don’t need or just plain don’t want.”

“Actually, ma’am, I’m looking to buy—”

“Car’s not for sale. Yes, it’s an antique. Yes, I bought it new and yes, I know it’s a collectible. Still ain’t gonna sell it to you.”

This week, the authors of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt, stingy. I am in my story where the heroine can speak to the dead. She and Andrew Jackson are watching an interrogation and talking to each other.

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Stephen’s response made her sure of the reason. “My friends—if you really think you have my friends in custody—aren’t saying a thing. This is a cop tactic. I’ve seen Law and Order.  My mom likes that show. You guys lie about that stuff all the time. You got nothing on me.” He raised his arms slightly, rattling the cuffs. “You’ll soon be letting me go.”

“I do have something on you. I have witnesses who’ve seen you and your friends together.”

Stephen leaned forward. “What witnesses? And why am I not in a lineup already then?”

At the look on Malcolm’s face—that Lu knew was because his witnesses were long dead priests and General de Galvez—Stephen sat back again. “Thought so. No witnesses.” He barked a laugh. “See, Ma, Law and Order cop lies again.”

Lu didn’t know how to help Malcolm. After all, he was the trained professional. He knew how to interrogate suspects. But this guy was obnoxious and she wanted to see him go down. And hard.

Jackson paced the room. “The little miscreant needs to be sent to the Army. Make a man out of him instead of a sniveling pup.”

Lu tended to agree with him. The Army did sometimes make a change for the good in a person, but she’d also seen it break some people down entirely. But this guy, all he needed was a dose of the reality boot camp would give him. They wouldn’t be stingy in making sure he was brought down to earth with running laps or doing sit ups until he was too exhausted to mouth off.

The thought made her laugh. “I doubt this guy would make it through the six weeks of basic training with his attitude. He appears strong enough to handle it, but the drill sergeant would eat him for breakfast the second day.”

“Ahh, your training camps now must be as tough as the ones in my day.”

“I imagine they might be somewhat worse since people were hardier in your day. We’re soft. Indoor plumbing, air conditioning, electricity and indoor kitchens where we can zap a meal without having to find a cow, kill it, cure the meat, and all that stuff.”

“Not a delightful way to spend a life, I must admit. You have a lot of nice places to dine as well. Too many, really, from what I can tell.” Jackson shook his head. “Sometimes I wish I could still eat. I can recall so many nice meals, it would be nice to try them again. Alas, one of the things one misses when dead.”