TUESDAY TALES - GLUED

 

Welcome! This week we have a less-charged episode of "The Painting". Thee word prompt is glued. Don't forget to hop on over and read the wonderful stories by the other Tuesday Tales authors. Find those stories HERE. 

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He pulled out his phone. “I can get the painting to you the week after,” Reid said.

“We’ll meet here again. Same bench? Next Thursday. Gotta be noon, though,” Sandy said.

“Noon works.” He made a notation in his calendar. “You can replicate the painting exactly?” 

“Yes.”

He pushed to his feet. "Next time I'll bring my dog. Do you want money upfront?”

“When it’s done.”

He moved toward the gate. Sandy stood and stretched.

A loud growl followed by a bark drew their attention. A small, white, fluffy little dog came tear-assing down the dog run toward Reid with a mammoth German Shepherd racing in hot pursuit.

The little pooch leaped into the air, right at Reid, who caught him and chested the small animal. He turned his back to the shepherd. The larger animal came around and lunged toward the little dog, but Reid turned again, keeping the little one out of reach. “Call off your dog!” he hollered as the little dog trembled in Reid's arms. During his next attempt by the shepherd to get at his prey, he nipped Reid, drawing blood. He raised his foot and shoved the dog in the chest. About that time a young man came running.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he grabbed the shepherd’s collar.

“He bit me!” Reid raised his arm to examine the slow ooze of blood from his wrist.

“My dog! Pookie!” A white-haired woman, out of breath, ran up. She snatched the dog from Reid’s grasp. “Baby, are you all right?”

After a quick examination of her pooch, she turned a scowl on the young man. “You better keep that monster under control or I’m gonna call the police.”

“I’m sorry. He likes to chase small dogs. He just got away from me. He wouldn’t have hurt him.”

Reid cocked an eyebrow. “He’d have eaten that dog if given half a chance.”

The woman clutched her dog to her considerable bosom and faced Reid. “Thank you so much, Mister. You saved my dog.”

“It’s nothing.”

Sandy reached into her purse and pulled out a frilly, white cotton handkerchief. “Here,” she said thrusting it into his hand. He wound it around his small cut. “It’s getting stained. I’ll replace it.”

“Don’t bother.”

Reid glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. A week from Thursday. Right here,” he said.

Sandy nodded. “Yes. Right here.”

“Goodbye.” Holding the cloth tightly to his wrist, Reid Carpenter Clark turned on his heel and strode out of the dog run, heading for Riverside Drive.

With eyes glued to his back, Sandy spoke aloud to herself. “Huh. Hates Jews, loves dogs. Go figure.” She shook her head, then ambled along the winding path toward downtown.  

That's it. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - BOIL

 

Welcome! We have a less controversial episode from "The Painting" today. I hope this story doesn't offend you. It's a complex story and much will be revealed later on. I may discontinue this story within a week or two because it does push the envelope regarding prejudice. 

When you finish this piece, hop on over and read the stories by the great Tuesday Tales authors. Find them HERE. 

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She arrived at the dog run with five minutes to spare. She didn’t see him, so she took a seat on a bench near the gate. 

“You’re early,” a masculine voice broke into her thoughts. She turned to see Reid Carpenter Clark.

“Where’s the painting?” She tilted her chin up to make eye contact.

“I told you I thought we ought to share it. Since I brought it home in first class, I thought I should get the first turn.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Not really. It cost me extra to bring it home without a scratch. I thought a month would do.”

“What?”

“I’ll keep it a month, then you can have it for a month.”

“This is crazy.”

He pulled out his wallet then sat his tall frame down next to her. He counted out ten one-hundred dollar bills. “Here you go. Your bounty.”  

She pushed his hand away. “I don’t want the money. I want the painting. I saw it first. I bought it first.”

“Perhaps. But I have it now. Technically, I could force you to take me to court. I’m sure a judge would think a profit of eight hundred dollars on what some would consider a mediocre piece of art should make you happy.”

“It’s not about the money. I’ll give you your hundred bucks back.”

“I don’t want the money.”

“Neither do I,” she said.

“Really?” He turned away from her.

“You think because I’m Jewish I’d take the money? Is that it?”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“Why you dirty son-of-a-bitch!” She shoved his shoulder. He almost fell off the bench. “You antisemitic piece of crap!” Her blood boiled. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled and moved away.

“That’s all you can say? I want that painting. It’s mine.”

He stood in silence.  

“I’ll keep it for a month. Then you can have it for a month.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you reproduce it?” he asked. “That way we can both have it.”

“What?”

“You’re an artist, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“Looked you up on Google.”

“So?” She shifted on the bench, moving over to let him sit down again.

“Sorry about the comment. My upbringing,” he said, easing down next to her.

“Yeah, well that's an excuse when you’re nine-years-old. But not at this age.?”

“I’ll give you the painting if you produce a copy for me.”

“You want me to copy the painting?”

“Do whatever you artists call it.” He crossed his legs.

“But I get paid for painting.”

“Pay you?”

“You want me to put aside paying business to reproduce that painting.”

“Okay, then how about the thousand dollars?”

“How about three?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Three thousand dollars for a painting that cost two hundred originally?”

“Yep. That’s my price.”

“Shylock,” he muttered, reaching into his back pocket.

She slapped him across the face. Reid bolted from the bench.

“Don’t you ever call me that again. I get paid a lot of money for my artwork.”

He rubbed his jaw. “That’s assault.”

“Yeah? Call the cops. I’ll tell them you stole my painting.”

 “Good luck with that.” He continued to rub his jaw.

“I didn’t hit you that hard.”

He approached the bench slowly. “So do we have a deal?”

That's all for today. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - FLOWER

 

Welcome! This week our word prompt is "flower". I have more from my quirky story,  tentatively titled "The Painting." When you're done, hop on over to read the excellent stories by the other authors. Find them HERE. 

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You’ll never see that painting,” her mother said.

“And I doubt you’ll see a grand for your share, either,” her father added.

“Aren’t you two cheery optimists,” Sandy said.

“We’re realists,” Florence said. “He’s not going to give that up to a Jew.”

“Your mother’s right. He’ll accuse you of holding him up for money. Of being a money-grubbing shylock. Then he’ll keep the painting and stiff you.”

“You don’t know that,” Sandy said, shifting slightly in her seat.

“Mark my words,” Ed said, nodding.

“Any man with three names – can’t be good.”

The pilot came on the loudspeaker and family conversation ceased. Her parents’ words echoed in her head. What if they were right?

“As long as I get the painting, I don’t care what he thinks of Jews.”

“That’s what they said in Nazi Germany,” Florence mumbled.

“Ma!”

“Same idea.”

Sandy pulled a book up on her phone, but her mind kept going back to that morning at the art show. Mr. Reid Carpenter Clark reeked of money. Sandy knew expensive clothes when she saw them. After all, her family had been in the “rag” or garment business for two generations.

And the way he tossed around a thousand bucks, like it was nothing, meant either he was a phony or had money. She suspected the latter. His hair was perfectly cut, his nails trimmed. The only thing missing was a flower in his lapel. If he hadn’t glared at her, she might have considered him handsome.

A man with three names who smelled of money, probably old money, hinted strongly, of antisemitism. By age thirty-seven, she’d developed a sixth sense about these things. As a single woman, she had to evaluate guys quickly. Get where they were coming from.  

Sandy wanted to get married, but to a Jew. Not that she’d admit that to her mother. Marrying a Christian would kill her parents. She smiled to herself.

“Cause of death? Daughter marrying out of the faith. Sandy Katz, you’re under arrest.”

  She’d valiantly pursued finding a nice Jewish man but failed. Now thirty-seven, she hadn’t given up, but a bit of skepticism had crept in.

So the question about probably antisemitic Mr. Reid Carpenter Clark wasn’t if he was an eligible bachelor, but would he turn the painting over to her? She chewed her lip. A text from said Christian art lover interrupted her thoughts. 

   Returning to NYC tomorrow. Let’s discuss sharing the painting. Unless you want the thousand.

She replied.

Don’t want the money. Where do you want to meet and when?

He replied.

Thursday. Dog run. Riverside Park at 72^nd. 1pm sharp.

She said,

Fine.

Share the painting? How do you share a painting? She raised her eyebrows. Mr. Reid Carpenter Clark couldn’t be all bad if he owned a dog, could he? At least he didn’t disappear. 

That's all for today. Thanks for stopping by.  

Tuesday Tales - Mouth

 

Howdy do! Welcome to Tuesday Tales. This week we have the beginning of the story from last week. I shared a snippet of context. This week, I share a snippet of the beginning. The story is tentatively titled, "The Painting." I hope you enjoy it. When you're done, bop on over to read the wonderful pieces by the other Tuesday Tales authors. You'll find them HERE. 

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 “Hi! It’s me! I’ve come back for the painting. The one titled “The Front Porch”. Remember?”

The man with his back to her turned to face her. He had a pleasant face. One could almost call him handsome. His brow was furrowed. He frowned. “Who are you?”

Ignoring his remark, Sandy stopped in front of the woman. “Do you remember? I paid for it yesterday.”

The woman’s face colored. “Oh my gosh, yes. I do remember. There’s a little problem, though. It seems my husband also sold the painting.”

“What?” Sandy didn’t understand.

“It’s my fault, really. I didn’t mark it sold before I went to the ladies’ room. I mean, who knew someone else would come along that quick and want it.“

“He sold it to me. I paid cash. So the painting is mine,” the tall man said.

“Who the hell are you?” Sandy asked the man with he big mouth.

“Reid Carpenter Clark.” He nodded, but did not extend his hand.

“Sandy Katz.” She frowned. “The painting is mine.”

“Actually, she did pay for it first,” the artist said.

“But I paid cash. Credit card?” he asked, looking at Sandy.

“Yes. So?”

“It won’t clear until Monday. Therefore the legitimate payment is my cash. And the painting is mine.”

“That’s a whole lot of double-talk, Mr. Clark. I’m not buying it.”

“Where do you both live?” Burt asked.

“Manhattan,” they said in unison.

Burt raised his eyebrows. “Good. Makes this easy.” He walked behind the tent for a moment, returning with two bills in his hand. He handed it to Sandy. “Here you go. A hundred bucks.” Then he turned and slipped the other in Reid’s hand. “There. Now you’ve each paid a hundred for the painting and you both own it. Now you two can fight it out or whatever. We’ve got to finish setting up Sweetheart, give them the painting,” Burt said.

She handed it to Sandy. Reid put his hand on it, too.

“Let go. It’s mine. I bought it first,” Sandy said.  

“No.”

“Would you two please take that over there? We don’t want to chase customers away.”

“You’re the ones who got us into this mess,” Reid said.

“Look, I don’t want to call security. You look like a rich man. Offer her a grand for her share and take the painting home.”

“What makes you think I’d sell my share for any amount of money?”

That's it. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - APRIL 16 - BUTTON

 

Welcome! Today I'm trying something different. I'm taking a small break to throw out something I've been working on for a new book. I'm anxious to get your feedback. What do you think? Does this character intrigue you? Is he real? Interesting? Would you want to read his story? 

The setting is her art studio where she's using him as a model for a book cover. He's 45 years old, just the right age to portray the hero of the book. This is what's going through his mind as he's posing for her. 

He's an old money Christian and she's a second-generation American Jewish woman. They are not dating and have had a contentious friendship tenuously drawn together over the love of a particular painting they saw at an art show. 

The snippet is a little longer than usual and I apologize for that. Please let me know what you think. And be honest! 

PS. I know it's a lot of telling and not much showing. I will editing in the showing after I nail down the scene. 

When you're done, hop on over to the other authors. Find them HERE. 

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 He watched her gaze travel across his shoulders and down the open front of his shirt. She adjusted the opening to be just so, not exposing too much of his chest, but just enough for the picture. When she drew her lower lip between her teeth his eyes were drawn to her mouth. Then he noticed a slight pink creep into her cheeks as her gaze rested on his chest.

He didn’t want to notice those things about her. He’d been perfectly content for 45 years not noticing much of anything that didn’t pertain directly to his life. He’d ignored most of the world, especially the little nuances of women. He'd kept his focus on his life and the things he needed to button up to get through his day. And that’s all.

But not now. Now he noticed. He noticed her, everything about her. How she styled her hair and what clothes she wore. He noticed how tight her blouse was, emphasizing her tempting but forbidden breasts. He noticed that her eyes shone in a different way. Was that desire? Was it lust? He had no clue because he’d never noticed it in a woman before.

Oh he wasn’t a virgin. Quite the contrary. But sex had always been kind of a bargain, a reward for treating an attractive woman to an expensive meal or a night at the theater. Kind of bought and paid for in a subtle way totally acceptable to society. But not with her. He’d never ask her to dinner or the theater, and even if he broke every rule of his and his family’s, she wouldn’t go with him anyway.

No. Sex had never been about a willing look on a woman’s face. It had always been about him making a subtle pass and either getting the green light or getting turned down. That was it. Quite cut and dried. But not with her. With her nothing was cut and dried. She threatened his sense of the world. With her it was about emotion, raw emotion. He saw it in her art. The way she sometimes followed the rules and other times took liberties. He burned with jealousy that she could be comfortable taking liberties while he never dared to step out of the box that had become his life. Why should he? He’d been content with his situation. He lived an extremely comfortable life, one that everyone else on the planet would envy. But not her.

She laughed at his rigidity, his conservative values and ideas. Laughed, like he was some kind of clown or something. And she’d questioned him, relentlessly until he felt unsure, unsure of his own ideas and of what was right and proper. She was never proper and she didn’t care. And it made him mad.

He raised his gaze to hers and saw something flit through – was that desire? No, he was delusional. He was the enemy, the Nazi waiting to throw her in a prison camp. No, she’d never desire him. At that moment, though, he could swear she did. Then he felt heat come to his own cheeks because he desired her. Wanted her in a way he’d never wanted a woman before. All hot and sweaty, earthy, and primal. The feeling shook him so that he suddenly felt unsteady.

“Are you all right? It’s hot in here. I'll open the window,” she’d said.

Hell, what was wrong with him wouldn’t be fixed by opening a window. Nope. He’d done it. Crossed over the line. He wanted her with every fiber of his being. The forbidden fruit. What the hell was he going to do now?

TUESDAY TALES - WORD PROMPT "PLUG"

Howdy Doodles! 

   This week the word prompt is "plug", and it's the last week with excerpts from "Too Late for Goodbye." The book releases today, so if you want to find out what happens between Jen and Marty, you can buy the book on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Apple Books. 

When you've finished with my story, hop on over to the wonderful authors of Tuesday Tales and read their excellent stories. Find them HERE. 

Thank you for reading my stories. Have a great day!

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“Baseball is all Ethan can talk about since we got home from Pine Grove. He’s begging me to take him to a game.”

“Really?” Marty said.

“You had quite an impact on him.”

“We have a local minor league team. The Jefferson Jaguars. If you want to go to a game, I’ll scout up tickets.”

“That would be fantastic,” she said.

“Consider it done. Just give me a couple of dates,” he said. “I’ll text you.”

Marty lost track of time. Playing ball with Ethan, helping set the table, and cleaning up afterward ate up his afternoon. By nine o’clock, he was on the bus. His phone rang.

“I’ve texted you twenty times. Called you five. Where the fuck have you been?”

“Oh, Flint. Sorry. I had my phone in my briefcase.”

“Wonderful. I was ready to call the FBI! Listen, you dick, don’t ever do this to me again.”

“You’re right. I should have called. I’m on the bus now.”

“I hope the sex was good. Tell me at least the sex was good.”

“There was no sex. I played ball with Ethan, laughed at Sophie’s jokes, explained printing, and ate homemade soup and stew. Oh, and a brownie and a glass of milk.”

“Jesus! A glass of milk? No sex?”

“You heard me.”

“Sounds like you had a great time.”

“And I brought in some business. I think she’s going to use us.”

“You didn’t give her a quote yet, did you?”

“Nope, but whatever you figure, we’re going lower.”

“Oh really?”

“Even if I have to plug up the difference myself.”

He heard laughter. “From my tight-fisted brother, that’s love.”

Marty chuckled. “Can’t talk. I’m on the bus. Pulling in at eleven.”

“I’ll be there.”

TUESDAY TALES - WORD PROMPT - DIE

 

Welcome! This we we're writing to the word prompt "die." I have more of Marty and Jen's story in an excerpt of "Too Late for Goodbye." When you're finished, hop on over to the wonderful works by the other authors. Find them HERE. 

Thanks for stopping by. 

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“Guys, you remember Mr. McKay from Pine Grove, don’t you?”

“Please call me Marty.”

“Is Marty coming home with us?” Ethan asked.

“He is. And staying for dinner. We’re having stew.”

“Oh boy, stew!” Sophie clapped her hands together.

“Will you pitch to me when we get home?” Ethan asked.

“Sure. You trying out for Little League?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you need to practice.” When they arrived back at the house, Marty stepped back and let the others enter first. The kids ran ahead to the kitchen. The plate of brownies to die for awaited. 

Jen went to the refrigerator. “Milk?” She met his gaze with her pretty blues.

“Sure.”

“Goes great with brownies.” Ethan took down glasses and Jen poured.

Marty couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk a glass of milk. What the hell was he doing? Staying at her house after their meeting? Accepting an invitation to dinner?

He could hear his brother’s words already.

“What the hell are you doing, Marty? She’s got two kids. Somebody else’s kids. I get you want to sleep with her but do it and leave.”

However, Marty didn’t want to leave. He liked brownies and milk. Sure, she’s as hot as beach sand at high noon, but she’s simply so goddamn nice as well. Nice wears well, it lives well. You could still love nice a hundred years from now.

Stop getting ahead of yourself. Have a good time and don’t overthink it, like you usually do. He vowed to listen to his inner self this time.