Words of Redemption

It’s time for the results!

On monday, I posted the photo for the first Write What You See challenge, with instructions to write a piece of flash- or micro-fiction¹, post the story on your blogs and return here on Friday to throw them into the mix.

Here’s the photo again:

I know that you’ve all written wonderful stories and are now queuing up to let us know about them. That part is simple, enter your name and the URL to the post for your story in the form below.

I’ve already gotten a couple of entries in the comment section of Monday’s post and will enter them into Mister Linky so that you can be sure to read them. Thanks LL and Lauren for turning in your work early.

And if you can’t get something up today, feel free to post it this weekend or next week. We take ‘em all here.

Once again, if you have a story, but are not a blogger, you are welcome to post the story below or email me (bsatrom AT Gmail DOT COM) and I’ll post it for you.

Did you think I’d start up this challenge and not throw in myself? My humble entry–to go along with the picture above–is below. If you do nothing else today, kindly leave me a comment and let me know what you think.

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The Many Uses of a Sunday Paper

“That’s him?”

“That’s him.”

I must have moaned or retched because Richard looked over at me.

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, love.”

“Or lack of cover.”

“Indeed.”

Richard lifted the camera from our cafe table and began to take pictures of the scene across the courtyard.

“Is that really necessary?”

“Just doing my job, Annie-girl.”

“I’d say your job is about done, Dick.” He cringed. Englishmen named Richard hate to be called Dick. “Do you really need photos?”

“Don’t you want to know his name, Miss Layton?” He continued to take photos without discretion. The men across the yard remained ignorant subjects of his documentary.

“I’ve come this far, haven’t I?”

“His name is Rhinaldo Vance. And he’s a cretin.”

“Save me the commentary, Richard. I’m not paying you for moral judgements.”

“Suit yourself, but I think you’ll find I’m right. In any case, he is the ringleader of this little crowd of bikini-clad Italian exhibitionists.”

There were six of them—all in bathing suits—and Rhinaldo was standing at the front. A few of the men were sitting on a semi-circle concrete bench that bordered the small beach. A few others were chatting animatedly and preparing for a swim. Rhinaldo—the man whom Richard had tracked down for me—was standing alone, reading the paper. The way he’d positioned the paper made it impossible for me to tell if he was even wearing a swimsuit. For my own sake, I hoped he was.

“What’s he into?”

Richard lowered his camera and looked at me over his sunglasses.

“In to? My dear, not all Italian men are La Cosa nostra, as you Americans are so fond of thinking. He’s just a normal middle-aged Italian male. He runs a local bar, has a wife, attends Mass every Sunday…”

“Wearing more than a newspaper, I hope.”

“I should think so.” The English can be so humorless sometimes. “He also likes to spend his Sunday afternoons at the beach with friends.”

“That I can see. That’s all you know? Nothing criminal, then?”

“Nothing at all.”

I sighed. Criminal activity was my out. I’d practically prayed for it, but no such luck. Instead, here stood a normal man with a penchant for near-nudity. But I’d have to do what I came for anyway.

“Nice work Richard.” I handed him a thick envelope. “The other half.”

Richard took the envelope without delay and scanned its contents.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Layton.” He finished his espresso and left without another word.

I looked at Rhinaldo Vance—the reason I’d come thousands of miles—and took a deep breath. I wanted nothing more to turn back and go home. Mother had told me I’d regret this, and I was beginning to agree.

I stood up and walked across the courtyard.

Rhinaldo saw me coming, folded up his paper and tucked it under one arm.

I smiled and extended my right hand. We shook, and that’s when I knew.

Even though he’d never had a chance to do so when I was young, this man—my father—would waste no time embarrassing his daughter now we’d met.

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1. basically a short, short story [↩]

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