Saying good bye to Pop Pop

Ginny sat perfectly straight and still, her little hands neatly folded in her lap. Eyes never leaving the hypnotic pendulum of the antique grandfather clock in the corner, she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Only if you looked closely could you see a smidgen of emotion with the slightest tremble of her lower lip.

Celia stole a glance at her daughter, and in retrospect realized that this was no place to bring a seven year old. But Ginny had thrown a tantrum, insisted she was a big girl, and demanded to see her beloved Pop Pop one more time.

Getting ready this evening, Ginny had played the part of child mature beyond her years: choosing what to wear herself (a navy dress, appliquéd with pink flowers and matching ribbon for her long blonde hair), telling funny stories from her day at school that made them both erupt into nervous  giggles, and even consoling Celia as they walked hand in hand to the front door of the funeral home. But the strange smells, hysterical crying, piped-in somber hymns and intonations melted her bravado.

“Oh you poor dear,” a stooped, white-haired and heavily wrinkled woman said, patting Ginny on the head with her bony fingers.  “He was so fond and proud of you. Do you know you look just like your mama?”

Celia crossed the linoleum-floored room in three steps and swooped Ginny into her arms.

“It’s time to go honey,” Celia said. “Are you sure you don’t want to say goodbye now?”

“No,” Ginny said, her eyes downcast and shaking her head slowly from side-to-side. “No, I don’t think so.”

Celia turned slightly and nodded once.  Holding Ginny’s head against her chest, she covered Ginny’s  exposed ear with her hand as tightly as she could as the coffin lid thudded shut.









 

Creative Copy Challenge - How Fun!

Great new writing challenge from www.CreativeCopyChallenge.com. Use the 10 words they give you to write a short story ... here's my first attempt.Required words are in bold.  Enjoy!

The first bedroom had an ethereal quality about it.  Wispy, gauzy curtains fluttered in the summer breeze and everywhere you looked you saw a unicorn.  On coffee mugs, as stuffed animals, appliquéd on the bedspread and on the headboard which teetered between grotesque and ornate.

“Let me show you the rest of the house,” Sam the androgynous real estate agent said. Was Sam a first name or short for Samantha? Who could tell? He/she had a morose quality about him/her that gave me the willies.

Wily, my rambunctious Chihuahua, must have had the same unsettling instinct. He suddenly leapt out of my arms and ran to the front door. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I called after him as I followed him into the foyer.

He barked twice at me.  “Are you sure?” I asked him.

“Woof.”

“I’m sorry Sam, the one loophole I failed to mention is that if Wily doesn’t like it, it’s a deal breaker.”

“What a namby-pamby excuse,” he/she said.  Get out.”