This was a writing exercise for the Writers Group of Central Florida in which we were asked to incorporate at least five of eight items in a 500 word story. Those items are highlighted below.
TRUDY AND HERB
Since retiring, my husband kept the same
morning routine. Herb would amble from the bedroom around 8:30 a.m. wearing plaid
boxer shorts and a ten-year-old wife beater with sweat stains at the armpits
that defied detergent. He’d plop down at the table, greet me with a
where’s-my-breakfast glare, and thumb through the newspaper hunting the daily
crossword puzzle.
Frankly,
I missed the days when Herb jumped out of bed at five, left me undisturbed, and
grabbed a bagel on the way to work.
“Herb,
you never talk to me,” I whined.
Silence.
Without
looking up from his puzzle, Herb blurted out, “Recondite.”
“Excuse
me?”
“Seven
letters. Second one’s a B.”
“How
the hell am I supposed to know some obscure word?” I said.
“That’s
it,” he shouted. “Obscure!” I hadn’t seen him that excited since our wedding
night.
To
thank me, he shoved his empty coffee cup in my direction.
“We’re
out of coffee,” I informed him. “How ‘bout a Colt 45 malt liquor?”
His
eyes brightened until I said I was being facetious.
“I
put Coffee on that shopping list I handed you three days ago,” I chided him.
“If you’d done as I asked, there’d be plenty of coffee.”
He
merely shrugged.
Whenever
I confided to my sister, Joan would say, “Trudy, I advised you not to marry him
forty-five years ago.” How could I know Joan had the power of prophecy? She ended
our conversations with, “Pray about it.”
Oh
how I prayed.
Then
a few Sundays ago, Pastor Jeff gave a sermon based on 1 Corinthians, chapter
15, verse 55. O death, where is thy sting.
It gave me an idea. As I exited the church that morning I told Jeff, “I’ve been
praying for God’s help.”
Pastor
clasped me by the elbow and said, “God helps those who help themselves.” I
nodded. That’s exactly what I intended to do.
Herb
belched.
It
was time to call my sister and put my plan in motion.
After
a few minutes of small talk I told Joan, in a voice loud enough to draw Herb’s
attention, “I spotted a swarm of bees this morning in the snapdragons just
outside our kitchen window.”
Herb
glanced up from the crossword puzzle, a twinge of apprehension in his eyes.
“You’re
right, Joan. I hope they stay outside. You know how allergic Herb is. I added
an EpiPen to his shopping list, since we’re all out.” I neglected to mention that
I’d destroyed the only one we had. “Oh no!” I shrieked, “One’s buzzing around
Herb. I gotta go.” I ended the call.
Herb
bolted upright looking first left, then right.
That’s
when I jabbed him in the left shoulder with the syringe of bee serum. He
slapped his hand over the spot, rubbing it. Herb’s eyes widened like he’d just
seen a purple jackalope
lumbering through the kitchen. His body convulsed. It all happened so
fast.
According
to the coroner, death was from anaphylactic shock. I credited the power of
prayer.
