Evelyn's Blog of Wed., July 25, 2018 - MORE ABOUT GEORGIA STEKKER

 
This is a cautionary tale about a woman driven to swindling fortune hunters.

This is a cautionary tale about a woman driven to swindling fortune hunters.

 
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CONCERNING GEORGIA STEKKER is the starred novel for the upcoming book club Zoom session with Desert Senior Moments (55-75 at time of joining) taking place on August 13. I have an apple computer and Zoom, rather than Skype, is better adapted for Apple. I initiate the call from my computer and it is free to any book club. The book club can ask me anything and everything.

As you know, my novels treat aspects of male/female relationships, bringing the romantics into the real world.

When Desert Senior Moments reacted so positively to this novel, I realized that I should be alerting like-minded book clubs, i.e., those made up of mature readers.

So if you belong to a book club, you may want to have this kind of fun. Let me know.

NEW SUBJECT:

Two famous writers divulged writing advice:

Toss out sacred cows if they are not necessary.
— William Faulkner
 

 
Introduce characters and let them talk.  If they cannot talk, toss them out.
— Elmore Leonard (of "Get Shorty" fame)
 

 

I heed their advice as I play with my flash fiction teaser of 468 words (less than 2 pages), “The Man on the Porch”. This teaser appears at the beginning of my new short story collection AFTER TWENTY YEARS. I wonder if this teaser can lead into a longer short story or even a novella. So I am playing with it.

Do you think I should play with it? Read below...

 

 
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“The Man on the Porch”

            “He lived by himself in that big house for over twenty years.” This is how the mailman started talking to the mourners huddled at the reception table. “He was the richest man in town, maybe in the entire state, but he never left that house. Lived like a hermit. He sat out on the front porch and with his cane shoo’d everyone away. ‘Shoo. Shoo.’ I was the only person who could talk to him. One day I asked him, ‘Henry, you’ve been sitting on this porch for twenty years. Why don’t you take a trip around the world? You’ve got the money.’” 

             ‘Nope. I’m waiting.’ 

             ‘Waiting for what?’

            ‘For her.’ 

            “Henry didn’t say anything else. He closed up. But after that, whenever I saw him out on his front porch, I’d say kiddingly, ‘Has she come?’” 

            ‘Not yet,’ he’d answer. ‘But she’s coming.’ 

            “He was crazy about her; she was younger, beautiful, a real eyeful. He took photographs of her all the time—she loved being in front of the camera. Maybe that’s what did it. The girl wanted to be in the movies. Henry made the mistake of humoring her. ‘Give it a shot. Go to Hollywood.’ 

            “She did. She took off.”

            “Henry knew she’d never get anywhere because she didn’t have an ounce of talent. He figured she’d do her little number out there, and come running back to him. In the meantime, he put her photographs up all over his walls—even had a few blown up like movie posters—so that when she came back disillusioned she’d know how much he adored and loved her. But she never did come back. Well, that’s not quite true. She became a movie actress all right, one of those young ingénue types, but then there were  twenty years of hard living in Hollywood, of partying and drinking, of dyed hair and too much sun on her skin. She was no beauty when she did come back and drove straight to his house. I was delivering mail on that street and I saw her. She was dressed up like the girl she’d been at the time she left: with her big straw hat, filmy dress, dainty high heels, and lots of jewelry and perfume. She walked up the steps, her heels clicking along, and there Henry sat, out on his wide porch waiting for her, just as he had all those years.

            “Before she could say anything, he took one look at her and barked, “I’m not buying, lady. Go away.” He raised his cane. ‘Shoo, shoo.’ She turned around and fled down the steps.” 

            “He didn’t recognize her?” someone around the reception table asked. 

            The mailman screwed up one eye, “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

The End

 

 

Again, do you think I should play with it? Or are you satisfied? Let me know!


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