Geriatric Magic: Geriatric Magic: A New York Collection Short Story

By Stephanie Writt

Geriatric Magic (Short Story):  Absorbed by frustration at the failings of his body, Harold struggles to find the joys of life he valued before they shook, shook away. His hands, his damn hands vibrate out of control. A simple cup of coffee must be degraded by a drinking straw to keep him from creating a mess. But one afternoon, at one coffee shop, one Lady will give Harold a gift that could inspire him to find that joy once again.

“Geriatric Magic” is part of the Geriatric Magic universe and can also be found in “The New York Collection: Five Stories of Magic & Life,” with foreword written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch. The New York Collection’s complete short story list is:
• Geriatric Magic
• A Touch of Jade
• Subway Drummer
• Streets of Light
• A Little Park Wind

The Geriatric Magic Short Story Series:  A hawk-face woman in a red dress walks city streets on a mission of magic. To find those with the indomitable spirit to live, though their bodies will shortly fail them. To each she finds she gives a gift. A gift of magic. And from the least expected of benefactors: Death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Writt
• Release date: Mar 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540137531

Book preview

Geriatric Magic

Geriatric Magic

A New York Collection Short Story

Stephanie Writt

Wayne Press

Contents

Geriatric Magic

Read and be happy!

Want to read more in this series?

Free Story: 1st in Storyteller’s : Volume 1

Rebellion of the Princess of Argon

Want to read more in this collection?

Free Story: 1st in Tony & Gage’s: The Junior Year Collection

Free Story: The Day Tony Earned Detention

Want to read more in this series?

Preview: Love & Jinx

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Love & Jinx: Want to finish reading?

Also by Stephanie Writt

About the Author

Geriatric Magic

Central Park

New York City, NY

To drink coffee from a straw meant the first step in a downward spiral of social self-degradation. To treat a well brewed, quality beverage in such a way, well, blasphemy. Insulting. As the consumer, embarrassment to the very core. Of course, if my damn hands would stop shaking long enough to take a sip without giving myself, my table, and the entire outdoor café a dark roast shower, then I would not have to lower myself in such a way.

Praised be that spring had returned to my city. The winter compounded my already growing list of aches and hurts. Sunlight, golden liquid relief, shone down between our city towers, past window and ledge, past worker and homemaker, between tree branch and budding leaf, down to set my white table cloth to glow and my body pains to ease.

Table size square pools of white light edged the sidewalk, fenced in with a knee high border of rod iron and tasteful potted plants to protect the café patrons from the riff-raff that wondered aimless through the park. Anyone entering the cafe located in Central Park, New York City in our grand country of the United States, must first pass through the gatekeeper. A pleasant hostess to redirect those who did not belong back into the world. Standards, everyone should have them. Standards kept the world from falling into chaos.

So, when the pretty hostess (Jacqueline, even the names are of higher quality here) led me to my usual table, edged closest to the park side on the outside pavilion, to see my table rose had lost petals, thin velvet wafers the color of fresh blood, well…to say disappointment would be an understatement. A wilted flower allowed to remain on one of their tables? A lowering of standards. Quite devastating.

Of course, they did allow me to drink my coffee through a straw, so I did not immediately seek out a new venue. Near ten years of patronage in my retirement years alone. If anything, I felt a desire to assist. However, once I had decided to lend my said assistance, the morning rustle-bustle had poor Jacqueline hopping, and, by my usual request, I had been left alone once coffee (violated by straw) had been delivered.

The wilted flower looked at me. Like me. Once beautiful in its prime, now a withered remnant, a stain on the world to be swept away once the chance arose. Melancholy and morose a picture, yes, but I call a stone a stone. An old man an old man. And a wilted flower…well, sad.

My finger shook violently as I reached out to touch the last few petals that clung to a stem that drooped in a tired curve. All expectation lent to the final petals scattering on the table by my destructive shake. I hoped I would not knock the thin clear vase over, spilling water on the pristine white tablecloth. But I wanted to feel the soft pure velvet of a petal, the last vestige of its youth and life. The fallen petals lay too close to the base of the vase to grasp without surely knocking the vase over.

A steadiless reach, and I touched the petals. Which moved. I thought by my touch, which tingled with a pull sensation I had never felt before. But the petals moved up toward the sun, not down. The tingle grew as I willed the petals to continue up, their reach to the sun, a blooming in the morning light. And it did. Bloomed fresh and bright as if it was its first, a new bud. New petals grew and peeled back to reveal a blood red heart that kissed the air with a gentle fragrance. The scent of garden strolls, four star dinning, and sensual interludes.

I pulled my hand back and away. Shocked and amazed at what I saw. Had done? Maybe. But three wilted petals, brown edged and curling, lay below the towering beauty of the new rose. A testament to the change. What had happened.

What had happened?

Magic, Harold.

A hawk-faced woman with hard clear blue eyes lowered herself into the chair across from me, her tone sharp and full of power. The tan sleeve of her thin beige overcoat pulled back over a long thin arm as she hailed Jacqueline with a single wave of her fingers. Her back to the woman, Jacqueline still turned immediately at the summons, politely excused herself from the table she had been attending to, and wove her way to my table.

Hot chocolate, extra hot. As in I-could-sue-you-but-I-won’t hot. The hawk woman winked at Jacqueline, though her face remained severe. Jacqueline still giggled. "Whip cream. Shot