Saturday, 16 November 2013

Snippet Story.

Okay, a few weeks ago, I had an inspiration and wrote what I call a snippet story. My inspiration was this: (I think I either heard something like it or read something like it before, but I couldn't be sure.) For Sale: A ring never worn.

Now, after I wrote my snippet story, Anne-girl read it for me and told me a story like it, which I probably had heard of and just didn't remember. Hope you're following me, if not, sorry. :D She told me of how the writer Ernest Hemingway was challenged to write a story in a certain amount of words. He said, "For Sale: One pair of baby shoes-- never been worn."

That just kind of stunned me. There is so much story in those ten words. And I guess, since I think I had heard that story or something like tat before, that was what I had based my story after.

Anyway, I hope ya'll haven't gone crazy yet, and here is my snippet story, which is sort of like Ernest Hemingway's story.


Back it up, go forward, back it up, go forward. I grip the wheel tightly as I inch into my parallel parking space. I can never be too careful about this kind of parking. 

There! I'm in! I park the car and turn it off, pausing to look longingly at the deserted-for-the-holidays construction site that will turn into a parking lot for the Early Morning. I can't wait for it to be finished. Just think! No more parallel parking!

I hop out of my car and breathe in the crisp, biting air. It bites at my nose, but, in direct disobedience to the song, doesn't sting my toes, which are warmly encased in my new boots.

These same boots march boldly up the street and onto the sidewalk. They make a firm, crunching sound on the hard-packed snow, which has been first shoveled aside by the busy snowplows and then has been trampled into a white walkway of crystals by people hurrying by to do last minute Christmas shopping. Why anyone ever wants to do last minute Christmas shopping is beyond me; I always have my shopping done before Thanksgiving to save time. But I guess some people like to hurry and worry.

A light snowfall starts to come down and I hurry towards the big glass doors of the Chicago Early Morning. The crisp day is tantalizing, but the warmth of indoors combined with the call of work pulls me into the office.

Swinging open the door, I smile as a wave of warm air engulfs me. I step over the threshold into the lobby and sigh with delight. My earrings, like tiny crystals of ice, dance back and forth as I shake myself, trying to get rid of the dusting of snow that has collected on my head and shoulders.

Wiping my boots, I head over to my oval-shaped desk in the back of the lobby and sit down. After arranging my things-- coffee cup on my Mickey Mouse coaster, purse on the floor at my feet, coat on the back of my chair-- I stretch my fingers and poise them over my keyboard.

My job at the Early Morning is to take note of all the Classified Ads people bring to contribute and send the people to the correct office. I also serve as a receptionist.

As I sit down, several people sitting around on the cushy couches around the lobby spring to their feet and come over to my desk. I smile and direct my attention to the first person-- a skinny man with hair down to his shoulders and a goatee that looks like it's been dipped in grease. Early Morning has officially opened for the day.


About half-way through the morning, I take the advantage of a lull to review the morning's work. The ads and notices have been mostly the usual: a lost kitten for the Lost-and-Found section, an ad for babysitting-- there are always plenty of those-- a pair of glittery, high-heeled shoes for sale. This last ad I wrinkle my nose at. High-heels I like, red, glittery ones, no.

I hear the door open and shut softly and look up from over the edge of my now cold cup of coffee. My heart sinks and the cup falters at my lips at what I see. I know as soon as he comes in the door what this young man has come in for. The dejected face, the slumped shoulders, the slow, plodding walk all point to one thing. Rejection.

The young man walks slowly toward my desk, a small bag in his hand. This he sets on the top of my desk and leans his elbows on either side of it.

"Good morning, how may I help you?" I ask automatically, though I know only too well what he wants.

"I--" he swallows hard and pull a small, blue velvet box out of the bag. "Um, where do I go to sell th-- this?" He opens the box to reveal a gorgeous engagement ring, a small blue stone sparkling in the center of a band of interlaced silver.

I self-consciously slide my left hand under my desk out of sight, so the gold wedding band and my diamond engagement ring won't show. My heart aching for him, I quickly type in a few words on my computer about the ring and direct him where to go. Still, he lingers, not seeming to know what to say.

"Do you want my to send up a message to Laura, the lady you'll need to go to, telling her what you're coming about?" I ask.

He nods. "That would be nice, thanks."

I wiggle my fingers over the keys, "What do you want my to say?"

"David Petrie. Engagement ring to sell. N-- never been worn." His voices falters on the last few words and he closes the box with a snap. "Thank you very much. God morning."

He leaves hurriedly and I sigh. Poor guy. It must be so hard. My eyes sting a little and a toss my coffee cup into my trash can to distract myself. These kinds of ads come in every other month or so. But is hits me the same way every time. He had thought she had loved him, but she hadn't. This would be one more ring never worn.

The End.


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