This is writing exercise I did from a book that our daughter Nichole Smith gave to me, and is a very-very rough draft. As such it is filled with way too many Pronoun Verb beginnings to sentences. I eventually submitted the polished story to several magazines-So we shall see...
The exercise was to write the beginning of a story/book just based on a letter, the envelope really, with no return address.I've found I have a precious gift of being able to write a story from nearly anything. I've never had a shortage of ideas for stories. All I need to do is look around at the amazing world we live in.
Tricia held the letter like a fragile but dangerous butterfly, it had come without return address, the only clue a postmark, Everett, WA. She had spent twenty-one years and some months past fighting to block out what had happened near there one winter month. Tricia thought she had wrested free from those claws of good memories turned sour, but like the letter, they snuck back up in a movie or as she walked down the street. Once, thinking she had sighted him boarding a city bus, she went so far as to follow it for two hours. As he stepped out through the doors the mystery man instantly felt her red hot gaze, and turned his terrified gaze towards Tricia. That look immediately eliminated him, he never would have been so timid.
"How could you come in three hours late without so much as a call to let us know? I've had to shuttle your work between Myra and Ben," her boss said angrily when she showed up at work. She earned a write-up. It wasn't her first.
The letter cooked up a familiar stew of emotions, anger, lust, and revenge as she recalled that snowy winter day. She ran the envelope slowly under her nose, as if she could discern its contents by scent. She told herself she was just being silly, probably a company wants to sell me a new HVAC unit. But wait.
"Was that a hint of men's cologne? Could it be?"
The faint aroma took her back to the crude cabin in the woods. She pressed her face in a pillow drawing in his scent. It filled her with a warm gumbo of pleasant emotions. She felt secure knowing he would return soon. He had taken the snowmobile and said,
"I'm just going to town for a few things. Need anything?"
His muscled arms wrapped her up in a long loving squeeze which told her,
"I'll always be here. I'll always protect you."
Well he wasn't and he didn't. He never came back, but the other man did. From his hiding hole in the woods he must have seen Mark leave. Perhaps he was just a random hunter who took the opportunity when he saw it, or a seasoned criminal on the lookout for his next mark.
Tricia had nothing of value to steal but her virtue and her sanity, and both were stolen that day and into the night. She never saw his face and once wondered whether it was good looking or monstrous, a thought which she condemned herself for daily.
Did Mark plan to run out on her, or did he come back and find the goods spoiled? She never knew, but if Tricia got to pick she would rather it was the former.
Now that she held a letter from roughly the same part of the country, the details of that day played back in minute detail. The horrid whiskey and cigarette smell of the man came back afresh as if he were still hotly breathing down on her.
Maybe Mark had simply come upon the man and been killed and buried, but after the Sheriffs' extensive search, dozens of volunteers and a cadre of bloodhounds, they turned up nothing. They had looked, or not, at her with fear, pity, disgust. Maybe all three. They averted their eyes when they encountered her, and even if they had kind words, it was hard to look her in the eye.
Jilted and assaulted all in one day. She must be the most unfortunate girl in the world. So now the letter. The clock ticked off long seconds as she juggled it in her long thin fingers tipped by perfect nails, not some stick on crap, but her own.
She held the murderous looking, oversized hunting knife in her other hand, turning and caressing it. Her Dad had taught her how to keep a shavers edge on a blade, and she deftly used it to slit the envelope.
Dear Tricia,
I know its been too many years, but your delicious aroma still fills my head at every thought of you. I miss you deeply. Can we meet?
Your Lover,
PS: I know speaking right now might be hard so I would understand if you would be hesitant. My email address is enchantedOne@gmail.com
Tricia screamed and tore the letter, but stopped before throwing it in the fire. A sinister grin spread across her blemish free, but not scarless face. She slowly traced the thick scar with the point tip of the big knife. as she came up with a plan.
She went to her computer and with a new emotion now coursing through her she typed-
Enchanted One,
I would be delighted to meet with you, lets get together soon.
Tricia
The sun rose to glint off the Natchez SK-5 Bowie as it lay unsheathed by her keyboard. She picked it up and tapped time lightly to imaginary music as she read the return email. What had been stolen twenty-one years and some months ago would soon be returning.
Her future was now so bright, she would need shades.
