Remains of the Show [A work of fiction to honor Greg Rawls' birthday.]

Greg Rawls with father Lucian and Audrey II. Photo by Janice Moir Fulp.

The mood in the theatre’s scenic storage room was somber, funereal. The director and set designer grimly began dismantling Audrey II.

“It’s a shame.”

“Worse. A loss of revenue.”

But, with no room, they couldn’t preserve it for future rentals.

“Perhaps the infrastructure will reappear as Alice’s rabbit hole or in a furniture costume for Beauty.”

“We’ll always have the photos and the memories.”

Slowly, the creation, reduced to its parts, was more discarded than kept. As they started to leave, the designer asked, “Did you hear something?”

“No.”

The door closed.

In the darkness, a voice said, “Feed me.”

[Please note this original 100-word story, or Drabble, is a work of fiction, written as a tribute to wish my friend Greg Rawls a very Happy Birthday and to honor his set designs for the USCB Center for the Arts, particularly his creation of Audrey II that is still intact!]

People Who Live In Gingerbread Houses Shouldn’t Lick the Icing

[An Original 100-Word Story, or Drabble, by Paula Gail Benson]

As the reporter admired the gingerbread village, Chef Fitch ignored his assistants, Hans and Gerda, who labored at a side table.

“I wish the oven were bigger,” Hans whispered.

“Unnecessary, if you have the proper ingredients,” replied Gerda.

“Can eating a gingerbread house pose a health hazard?”

The chef laughed at the reporter’s question. “Only from spoiled eggs or reaction to a nut allergy.” He gathered a finger-full of icing from a rooftop, plopped it in his mouth, then grimaced. “Too gritty.”

Gerda smiled. “I could have ground the walnuts more firmly.”

“Or, maybe the spoiled eggs congealed,” Hans suggested.

Ever Here

The flood washed everything away, including me. At the kids’ urging, Con stayed. So, among the tangled roots that emerged from the drained lake bed, my spirit lingered. First, Con rebuilt the dock, certain of the water’s return. The construction lulled me to sleep beneath green foliage blanketing the bank. Then, I awakened among brown leaves, hearing metal clanking above. I peered around the planks and saw a lighted framework tree. We’d had one each Christmas, now for thirty-seven years. Eyes glistening as he viewed it, Con said softly, “Not evergreen, but ever here.” I stretched, yawned, and nestled deeper.

***

This 100 word story is offered as an entry for the annual Advent Ghosts event hosted by Loren Eaton at I Saw Lightning Fall. See the other entries there. Thanks, Loren, for the opportunity!

Photo from Walmart Online Catalog

Sam Morton

Hank Phillippi Ryan and Sam Morton

Sam Morton, a wonderful writer, father, husband, and friend, passed away on April 1, 2016. A Citadel graduate, he wrote essays, thrillers, and YA novels; worked as a potato chip slicer, professional wrestler, deputy sheriff, and media consultant; belonged to the Inkplots writing group and Palmetto Chapter of Sisters in Crime; and gave hilarious speeches, one time stripping down to his wrestling tights (worn under his clothes) when he talked to the Lowcountry Romance Writers. In February, Sam and I escorted Hank Phillippi Ryan on a private SC Statehouse tour. Sam’s words and gregarious personality remain a powerful, enduring force.