…while you were waiting for the miracle, the miracle to come.” L. Cohen
Ahhhh! Here I am again. Come, oh ye faithful Literati, and read another finalist entry into our First Annual Peggy Dobbs Write-of-Passage Contest.
After this, I will post another this evening, and then two tomorrow night, and will announce the winner on Sunday.
I am posting without giving the author’s name, so that the story will be judged on its merit and not based on the fan club of any particular writer. Whoda thunk I could be so fair and impartial?
Remember, each story must be under 250 words and must include the line”…but by then, it was too late.”
by Contestant # 4
The man returned to his wife after seven months. He’d left to find himself and locate the love he’d lost for her, but by then, it was too late.
The wife had taken her two boys, one on her back, one by the hand, and returned to her father’s country. There she ate potatoes and shellfish by the sea. Her aunts and uncles fed her legacies and legends, infused her and made her whole again with tales of her ancestors.
When the man returned to their empty home, he covered the walls in letters of apology, words that told of his regrets and promised her a life of comfort, the dream of a model husband who’d learned his lesson.
But the wife had shorn the hair from her head and forgotten her husband’s touch. The wife bled every month and made herself tea. Wife became Woman, and gathered her children onto her lap and sung them the songs of her father, told them how once her people spoke the language of both beasts and angels alike.
The husband sought out his wife to make a home of her like before. But upon finding her, she offered him the only gift she had left for him: a jar filled with the sand where she’d slept alongside her sons during his absence.
When the man opened the jar, pain escaped. He found himself in those grains, those miniscule but terrifying little worlds.