Two true, VERY short, short stories

[DATo]

Back in 2012 there were no "Short Story" or "Poem" forums at this website for original works. If anyone wished to post their own work they would post it in the general "Writing Discussion" forum. I emailed Scott and asked if we couldn't have a special forum for creative works by B&R members since it was difficult for patrons to pick through all the posts in the "Writing Discussion" thread to find original works. I told him that I enjoyed reading the works of our members as well as having the opportunity to offer any contributions of my own for comment or criticism. To my delight Scott thought it was a good idea too as it also offered a way to share the stories submitted by the "Short Story Contest" contributors.

As a result we now have specific forums for these topics. I am posting below two VERY short stories which I had originally posted back in 2012 since I feel that this is a more appropriate venue for them, and I encourage anyone who posted poems or stories long ago to do the same thing so more people will have access to them.

Both of the stories below are true stories. I would be particularly interested in reading YOUR true stories.

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THE KISS

by

DATo

Long ago I spent a lot of time traveling between the homes of my father, an uncle, and an old maid aunt. All of them lived alone and I would make it a point to stop in on each of them from time to time to give them some company. Young people tend not to realize how much it means to older people to be in the company of young people. Young people make them feel young too. Sadly, most young people tend to be put off by older people. They find them boring I suppose and don't seem to want to be around them much.

So maybe you will understand why one night while eating alone in a restaurant I took special notice of a beautiful young woman about 20 years of age seated with an older woman who I would estimate to be in her mid 70's. The young lady was engaged in an animated conversation with the older woman and I found it difficult to keep from looking at the beautiful smile which never seemed to leave the younger woman's face. The older woman wore a corsage and I could only assume it was her birthday or some other memorable occasion which was being celebrated that evening, but just by the two of them. There was no one else in their company. The young lady truly seemed to be enjoying the evening with the older woman who also appeared to be in very happy spirits.

I continued to eat my dinner but caught the eye of the waitress and signaled her to come to me. I told her I would like to pay for the dinners of the two women at the other table but that she was not to tell them who their benefactor was. When they were about to leave and the younger woman called for the check I watched the waitress come over to their table and say something to her which I couldn't hear and then made sure to avert my eyes for the natural impulse would be for her to scan the room to see who was watching and thus determine that it was I who paid the check. I stole glances at them as they made their way to the doorway of the room we were in. They walked slowly to accommodate the older woman who's arm was being held by the younger woman in support. Just before they walked through the doorway the younger woman, wearing her most beautiful smile of the evening paused, turned, and then blew a kiss to the room in general.

That was many years ago, but I still treasure that kiss.

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CROSSROADS

by

DATo

I have worked for a university for many years, and as some of you may know, campuses tend to be hectic places during a school day, but in the very early morning the campus paths are devoid of the teeming masses which later appear and despoil the mystical serenity of early-morning light and shadow. The cacophony of midday noise has not yet swelled. Birdsong trills unadulterated, celebrating the dawn of another day with an avian paean of 'Ode To Joy', heard by only the granite block walls of ancient, wizened buildings as they sit silently in their ivy covered robes ... and me.

It had become my habit to walk the campus paths every morning in the early dawn to betake what had become for me an almost religious experience of quiet solitude wreathed in the gothic beauty that only an old campus can afford. One day I decided to embark upon my daily constitutional earlier and during my walk, in the very center of the campus where two paths crossed, I saw an older man walking in the same direction along the diagonal path to my left. It was obvious that our paths would cross. He walked a bit ahead of me and he reached the junction some little time before I did. We looked at each other, smiled, and exchanged unspoken nods of good-morning. I mildly resented the intrusion of this bipedal infestation to my otherwise paradisiacal routine which heretofore I had only shared with the occasional rabbit or squirrel. Then it occurred to me that perhaps it was I who was the interloper since I had now begun my walks earlier than before.

He was of a bulky, rugged frame and one could envision him in earlier days as a football lineman or a traffic cop. His grizzled grey hair was worn in a flat top style standing straight up and looking all the world like an ashen colored lawn in serious need of mowing. He wore faded, well-worn, light blue denim jeans and coat and I thought it strangely coincidental that I wore denims as well - mine newer and dark blue by contrast befitting, I mused, our difference in years. He had a jaunty step and it was apparent from the look on his face that he shared my love of this time of day, as well as the peace, beauty and solitude of the campus in early morning. The next day I began my walk at the exact same time as I tend to be fixed in my habits and was surprised to find the same man at precisely the same place on the path relative to mine as the day before. Once again we exchanged nods of greeting and this routine was to follow for many years. Sometimes the nod would be returned with a salute and sometimes with a wave but words were never exchanged. I assumed he was a maintenance worker for no professor I knew or ever heard of would be up at that time of day walking the university paths for no reason; also, his consistently worn denim attire suggested manual labor.

There comes a moment in the life of every writer when the pen stands motionless and the ink falls drop by drop upon the page: the writer sits, frustrated to describe the heart’s pain of a small boy whose dog has just died; when there can be found no words to describe the treachery of a dear friend; when there are no words in the lexicon to describe the feeling of holding his newborn child for the first time. The ineffable fascinates the perceptions, the senses and the philosophies of men. The ineffable is the genii muse which inspires, cajoles, tempts and ultimatly frustrates, for there exist no words to describe the deepest feelings of the heart. Perhaps this is why we never spoke. A knowing smile conveyed an unspoken understanding between us - the knowledge that we both were inspired by the same genii muse.

After awhile he became a part of my morning experience - a comrade who, it was apparent, shared my appreciation of the inexpressible preciousness of these early morning sojourns. It became a sad day when I did not encounter my old traveling companion, and I wondered if he felt the same about not seeing me on days when I was either early or late. As time passed I saw less and less of him during my walks, and after awhile I saw him no more.

One day I picked up the local newspaper and the first thing that caught my eye was a picture of this very man. It seemed he had died and the article was about his life and accomplishments. So simple and routine was his life, so lacking in ostentatious public display that I had never known what this campus icon looked like.

I continue my morning walks, and at a sleepy crossroad each morning I smile and nod to an old friend - Howard Nemerov, Poet Laureate of the United States.

[gali]

It was your idea? Well done!

Beautifully written! Thank you for sharing.

[Vallelinz]

Your color full and descriptive language made me forget I was in my living room. I was at a table next to you, watching all of the events unfold and take place... Your vocabulary was well chosen and never repeated. I can hear the truth and intellect behind your lines. Well written, I would to read more.

[WilliamsQ]

Great short short stories. I wonder if there are any anthologies of such. Would make for good mini-reading sessions during work breaks, or some such.

[rssllue]

Agreed!

[stanley]

The blown kiss in the first story was such a nifty ending, and the beauty of it was that it really happened. The young woman was indeed special not only for her compassion but her remarkable presence of mind in an expression of gratitude both clever and spontaneous. Your are as guilty as I am, it appears, of hopefully discreet observation of others in public places, maybe even a little eaves dropping. Hey, it's material, grist for the mill. One always hopes to encounter a better story than one could invent.
The second story had also an interesting impact in that it suggested how various are the ways that we are connected to one another. Maybe fiction, weak instrument that it usually is, is all about that. Maybe that's why we write it.