Assortment 7: Assortment, #7

By D. Reed Whittaker

This is the seventh collection of short stories. As with the other six, there is no theme, no shared genre, no fixed format. Most come from contest submittals. The nice thing about these contests is it gives the writer a chance to venture out of his/her comfort zone. Sometimes, you'll be asked to write all dialogue with no descriptions. Other times, it will be only dialogue without tag lines or beats (who said what, and what were they doing when they said it).

The stories can be short (less than 300 words) or long (up to 5000 words). They can have any theme or prompt – a poem, song lyric, a picture, a comic book cover, anything. The goal is to develop as many writing skills as possible. You never know when you'll need a new approach.

I hope you like these.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Intercede LLC
• Release date: Dec 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215541920

D. Reed Whittaker

Retired engineer creating worlds I'd like to live in and people I'd like to know. It's been fun meeting/creating MarieAnne, Steve, Bill, Maggie, Sylvia, Smitty, Linda, Billy, Suzy, Ken, Molly, Dad, John Henry, Melody, Sally, and George. I think you'll like meeting them, too. 

Book preview

Hung

Word count = 997

Harlot, whore, jezebel, chanted the passing line of townspeople. Witch, Devil’s daughter.

The last was more appropriate, with flaming red hair unique to the colony. No one else in her family had red hair. It fell to her waist when not tightly bound in her cap. Where did she get it? Where did she come from? She had a beautiful face, and a body which could not be disguised by a Puritan dress. She was a temptress, a temptation too great for some. Some of those were now in the parade of hatred, shouting and shaking fists at her. She never gave in to those, though she did give herself to one. That one’s father now read Proverbs 7:27 "Her house is the way to hell, descending to the chambers of death."

The charge was witchcraft. The sentence was death by hanging. The charge was brought by Enoch, Jonathan’s father. Jonathan was her neighbor, her friend, her lover. They grew up together. Now his father was her enemy, her executioner. Where was Jonathan? He should be here, it would help.

It was time. Enoch mounted the platform, bible in his hands, head bowed, mumbling. The very model of rectitude. The hooded executioner tried to ease her mind. He told her he would make sure it was quick, painless. His voice was reassuring, calming.

She didn’t fear death, she knew she had done no wrong. Nothing so wonderful as loving Jonathan could be wrong. She had done no wrong.

It was a coarse hemp rope. It smelled of age, of rot. She closed her eyes, then mounted the small platform. The slack was taken up. It was time.

May God have mercy on your soul.

The stool was kicked away. The rope tightened, then broke. The executioner threw her from the execution dock. Two horses were waiting. They were off before the colony knew what to do. There were shouts and some hurled stones and branches, but no one followed.

They were a mile from the village before the executioner took off his hood. She knew who it was when he talked to her on the dock. She knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t hurt her. They slowed to a walk; the horses were breathing heavily.

Should we rest? asked Jonathan.

She shook her head. No, let us get as far away as possible.

They rode in silence. So much to say and no way to say it.

I love you, she said, without looking at him.

He turned to look at her, smiling. You better, there’s no going back for either of us.

She scowled. That’s not what I wanted to hear.

He laughed. Oh, you mean something trite like I love you?

Yes, she said, turning in her saddle, something trite.

Well, my dear Sarah, what I feel for you is more than love, it is more than life itself. Life in this world or the next. You are my everything.

She smiled. Can we stop?

He shook his head. We best not.

I want to show you how much I love you, how much you mean to me. You are more than life, more than everything. You, too, are my everything.

He laughed. There will be plenty of time for that. We have our whole lives ahead of us.

Where will we go, what will we do? she asked, looking straight ahead.

Wherever it is, whatever we do, we will do together. God has been good to us. He won’t desert us now.

She rubbed her neck. He almost did.

Were you ever afraid?

She shook her head. Surprised, then angry, but never afraid. When you weren’t around, I thought they may have done something to you, killed you. Then I was afraid. She shook her head. Not afraid, ashamed. I thought I had killed you.

He reached across to take her hand. She reached out for his.

He shook his head. Any death would have been the old Jonathan. You gave the new Jonathan life. I went away to... to... to think. It may not have been fair, but I had to get away from my father’s watchful eye. I needed a plan.

She laughed. And a smelly old rope was your plan?

He nodded. I have no idea how long it had been in our barn, and I never noticed it. It was waiting for me, for you, for us. I tested it. I knew it would work.

She cocked her head. And the executioner?

He laughed, bowing his head. I knew he was coming from Corinth and there was an inn about a day’s ride from Corinth. I thought he might stop. He did, and I got him drunk. He laughed again. I got him very drunk. He may still be drunk. Anyway, I thought his cloak and hood were adequate recompense for all the ale he drank.

She turned to look at him, still holding his hand. I knew it was you when you talked to me. I may have sensed you when I climbed the ladder to the platform. I felt at ease, at peace. She dropped his hand. You always do that to me...

Do what? he asked, turning in the saddle to her.

She scowled, then grinned. Make me feel safe. She nodded. Yes, make me feel safe. With you near, I know no harm can come to me. I have always felt that. I felt that when we were children. A walk with you in the forest, day or night, was never scary, never frightening. She held out her arm.

He took her hand.

Scared now? he asked.

She laughed. Of what, life? How can I be afraid? It is life which should be afraid of us. She dropped his hand and spurred her horse. The horse leapt forward.

Witch! shouted Jonathan as he galloped after her.

There is a small town in southwestern Massachusetts with more than its share of redheads. It’s called Witchaven.

Purgatory

Who are you? asked the scribe, standing and looking down at me. You’re not a soul.

No, sir. Clarence, sir. Reporting for duty. I’m a muse.

Sir? Reporting for duty? What duty? Why are you here? He sat down. When he did, Clarence grew.

What’s a muse? Do you have a soul? he asked.

A soul, sir? asked Clarence, coming to attention and saluting.

Stop that, said the scribe. What’s a muse? And why are you here?

My writer died, sir. I’m here for reassignment.

What reassignment? Who sent you here?

Clarence shrugged. I don’t know, sir. This is just where I ended up. I assume it’s for reassignment. This is my first reassignment.

The scribe shook his head. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you know where you are?

Clarence shook his head. No, sir. Clarence looked around. It’s not at all like the time I was given my author, my writer. He turned to look behind him, then back to the scribe. It’s darker, not at all like the time I remember. He cocked his head. Where am I?

You’re in Purgatory.

Purgatory? Clarence took a sniff. It smells.

The scribe nodded, wrinkling his nose. Yes, sulfur. We get a whiff now and then. It’s where souls either get cleansed or annihilated.

Annihilated?

The scribe nodded. Annihilated. He bunched his fingers together, then quickly spread them apart. Poof, vaporized, disintegrated, made to disappear, gone, never to be seen or heard of again. Annihilated.

And cleansed?

We rehabilitate damaged souls. We make them whole again.

Clarence cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. Why would I be here? Do I have a soul?

The scribe shrugged. I don’t know, we’ve never had a muse before. You look like you could have a soul. What do muses do?

We help writers, composers, some painters, even song writers. Clarence shook his head. We never help copy writers; never help political writers. Never help...

Help them do what?

Clarence shrugged. We help them write. We give them ideas, we help them... well, we help them write.

How do you do that? Why do writers need help writing?

Clarence shrugged. Some are lazy. Some are not very bright; some have no imagination. Others have too many ideas, we help them focus.

We?

Clarence nodded. Yes, there are several of us. Some have only one writer, others have several.

Which are you?

Clarence hung his head, looking at his clasped hands. I only had one writer, he died.

Was he a good writer?

Clarence bobble headed. Oh yes, a very good writer. Clarence hung his head, then shook it. He should’ve never died. Why did he die?

What’s his name?

Whittaker, D. Reed Whittaker.

The scribe tapped a circular file which began turning, then spinning. The file stopped. He shook his head. No, there’s no Whittaker on my list. Was he old, sick, jealous husband? asked the scribe, smiling.

No, sir. Not that I knew, and I knew everything. I knew his thoughts.

Quite so, said the scribe, rubbing his chin.

Tell me about your writer, was he important, popular? Would anyone be jealous?

Clarence shook his head, then let his chin drop. No, sir. Not popular. He looked up. But he would’ve been. Popular and important. He, we had important things to say. He hung his head. He could say them, but I would give him ideas, important ideas.

The scribe turned to look away. Yes, I’m sure. He turned back to Clarence. So, why are you here? Did your writer do something bad? Did he split an infinitive or something? Scribe chuckled behind his hand.

"No, he