ONE PAGE LOVE STORY: SHARE THE LOVE
Copyright 2015 © by One Page Love Story
All rights reserved. This book cannot be reproduced or redistributed without the written permission of One Page Love Story.
The characters and events that lay within the red strung covers of this book are fictitious. The editor would like to suggest, however, that should certain situations seem familiar to you, like street performing for the affection of a local waitress, or simply admiring the wonders of winter through an icy window with a child, then perhaps it is further proof that red strings do exist, and that you, whom none of the writers in this volume have likely ever met, have indeed made an important link spanning both time and space. Which is pretty neat when you think about it—that you shared with a stranger an event so very specific, or an emotion so exactly meaningful. Let it be affirmation then. Be glad that you also loved. Marvel that what you felt was the same. In fact, it would make for an excellent sort of gateway into the collection that follows: With every story, imagine a writer desperate to pull a red string closer to you. Please, pull back if you will.
ISBN 978-0-9913762-2-3
Cover Design by Cunning Books
Cover Art, “The Red String,” by Amanda Fazzini
Design for Publication by 52 Novels
www.onepagelovestory.com
To each of the writers within—
Thank you
WITH LOVE
Deanna Roy
Adam Stanley
Dee Ernst
E.H. Schutz
Ashley Mackler-Paternostro
Gary Dale Burns
Diana Antholis
Gary Lime
Rachel Harvest
Samuel Peralta
Dori Lavelle
T. Joseph Lawrence
Betty Sullivan
Sarah Robinson
Daniel Wallock
Jamie Lake
Simone Moessinger
Rich Walls
About the Cover
The Red String
SHARE
Remember to. That’s how we were taught, though to a child it sounds more like, “Take all your happiness and hand it away.” With time, however, we grow to learn that the happiness is in giving—sharing what brings us joy so that others may partake in the same. Do it enough and you may even begin to wonder what you had been holding on to all this time, or even why. For you have much to share, and much which brings you joy.
So remember to. Remember to share your joy. Remember to share your happiness, your inspiration, and even that little bit of pain which strengthened you. We will still be here, in the corner beside the window, with another tall glass waiting, so very glad to share this moment with you.
Welcome to Year Two of One Page Love Story.
DEANNA ROY
Deanna Roy is the author of numerous romances and works of fiction for women, including the bestselling Forever Series. Her turbulent love life has long been fodder for her writing, which ranges from hilarious to harrowing.
THE TIP JAR
The chill of the concrete sidewalk seeped through the butt of Jacob’s jeans. His fingers were almost too cold to strum any longer, but a throaty hum kept his face and neck warm, and the beat-up Seagull guitar kept the blustery wind from penetrating his threadbare shirt in the gap between the two halves of his jacket’s broken zipper.
A man in a three-piece suit and trench coat strode purposefully down the walk, one hand reaching into his pocket. Jacob shifted from a random chord progression to the opening line of, “Love Me Two Times,” realizing too late that he’d misjudged the man’s age and a better choice would have been something from the 80s.
Still, the fingers came up with coins, and Jacob nodded in thanks as the silver discs clinked against the others already resting in the ratty lining of his case.
The man walked out of earshot, and Jacob checked the long sidewalk to be sure no one else might approach. He finished the verse out of respect for Morrison, then leaned over to assess his take on the day. Nine quarters, four dimes, and three nickels.
It was enough.
Jacob scraped together the coins, wishing for a paper dollar so he wouldn’t look quite as low, but seeing her was more important than pride. He laid the Seagull in the case and pocketed the money, checking as always that he chose the side without the hole. He couldn’t spare to lose a single one, not if he wanted her tip jar to rattle just a little.
The coffee shop was one block down, close enough that he knew she was there, far enough not to be obvious. She didn’t know him, or that he only sang for her. The thought of getting the money for one small coffee in her presence kept him strumming during the long days between nights at the shelter.
One day, he’d find another band, make good money, and then he’d talk to her. He’d walk up with the purpose of that suited man and say hello and offer to buy her dinner.
She stood behind the counter, one lock of hair tucked behind her ear, smiling as she handed a lady a mug. He jingled the change in his pocket. Next she would smile for him.
He was the richest man on earth.
LOVE IN THE TIME OF CYBERSPACE
I had no more pressed the virtual button for “make profile public” when I began to shake. The pictures, the paragraphs, the pithy questions. What are your interests? Are you religious? What do you want in a date?
I sat back on the bed, the edges of the laptop cold against my knees. I could stare at the white walls, cornering their way up to my slanted ceiling, wishing no one would find me, frightened someone would.
But all the while my love interests were whirring away in various forms of 0s and 1s, searching for me.
Ding.
FOREVER
I’d never seen Corabelle quite like this, knees wide on the toilet seat, parts of her as exposed as she’d ever let them be.
The stick bounced when her pee hit it. She pressed her lips together in concentration. The instructions said to hold it there for fifteen seconds. I was counting steadily, realizing for the first time that fifteen seconds might actually qualify for eternity.
When I fell silent, she handed the stick to me and I capped the yellow end. She got shy then, closing her legs, bracing her head on her hands. “How long?” she asked.
“Three minutes,” I said. “Then it has a result.”
“Turn around.”
I did as she asked without saying a thing about how it was kinda late now, until she flushed the toilet.
“Do you want me to look at it first, or you look first?” I asked.
“We’ll look together.”
I moved to the sink and set the test far enough away that neither of us could steal a glance. She stared out the blocked window as though she could see through it and out into our future.
“Got my SAT results,” she said.
“Really? You didn’t say anything.”
She shrugged. “This test is probably more important.”
“You’re on the shot. I’m sure it’s nothing.” I’d said this a thousand times.
“It’s probably time.” She turned back to me, her dark hair falling around her shoulders. “I think I want you to look first.”
The three steps back to the test felt like a mile. I could see the double line before I got there, my stomach suddenly a lead balloon. I picked it up.
“Well?” she asked.
My throat had closed up. I just held it out to her. She stared at it another eternal fifteen seconds.
“We’re going to be fine,” I got out. “We can do this.”
She took the stick and clutched it in her hand. “Yes, we’ll stay close. Let our parents help. It’s easier to ge
t scholarships at New Mexico State anyway. And cost of living is less.”
“I’ll work and just to go school part time. I can finish behind you.”
She stood up. “Mom will watch the baby.”
I pulled her in close. “We’re already figuring it out. It’s what we planned. Just sooner.”
She nodded against my shoulder. I loved her. I would carry her. If a moment ago, I understood eternity, then right now I was seeing my very first glimpse of forever.
CHARLES JOHN
He sat on the bed, the burnished wood of the guitar’s face reflecting onto his chin, concentrating as his fingers slid over the tight strings along the neck. The morning sun eased through the shuttered windows, making catch lights dance along the shiny surface where his other hand strummed the notes.
He began singing then, an edgy voice that leaned toward a strain. He seemed simultaneously comfortable and nervous, wanting to please her but still settling into the rhythm developed in solitude, the words and music tumbling out and away from his mouth and hands as if of their own volition, an inevitability rather than a choice.
She was unfamiliar with the tune, but recognized the melancholy. Pain, lost love, the internal closing in, like petals wilting before they dried up and fell away. She wondered how long he had been singing that song, if he would always sing it, or if he could only sing it with her.
VISITATION
Stella would be upset when she saw his bruise.
Dane followed the guard down the Two-Walk, through a series of gates, and across the upper yard to the administration building. The men who approached from other cell blocks were jovial, glad for a break in the prison schedule, happy to see their women or their kids.
His step was slow enough that the guard shot a glare back at him, a silent warning. Dane sped up and filed in behind the other inmates to be processed for visitation.
Every time he stepped into that room and saw her sitting there, blond hair falling down her back, hands clasped on the green plastic table top, it was a miracle. Two years in and she hadn’t faltered, even knowing there were ten to go. He didn’t deserve it, but knowing she was there made him a better man.
Stella saw the shadow on his jaw straight off and jumped from her chair. “Dane!”
He waved her back into her seat, eye on the guard who’d stiffened at her sudden movement. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?” she whispered.
“New guy. Hot head.”
“You tick him off?”
“He was pissed at the world. He’s been moved.” He ran his hand along his jaw, still remembering the blow. The punch itself hadn’t hurt a lick. The fear that he’d get more time, or worse, that Stella would give up on him, had been crippling.
“Did they cite you?” Concern creased her brow. She wore a pair of green spangly earrings he’d never seen. He wished he knew her every possession, each corner of her home, all the ways that she looked when watching television or wrapping her hair in a towel or taking a dish from the oven. He knew so little about her. They’d only known each other two weeks when he got arrested.
And yet she was here.
“No. Nothing came of it.”
She let out a sigh and reached across the table. “Eleven years, ten months, and twenty days to go.”
He lifted the back of her hand to his lips, the only affection he was allowed to show in the open room. “It’s long.”
She laughed in little puffs, the sound of petals falling on snow. “We probably won’t last two weeks once you’re out.”
“Only one way to know,” he said.
“That’s right.” Her dark eyes fixed on him, and his heart squeezed. He didn’t deserve her.
They spoke little, just holding tight to each other, until the buzzer sounded, and the inmates stood, walking away with resignation and regret, until another Sunday came along.
A GLIMPSE
The case worker held the folder against her chest as we followed her down the long hall.
“I’m not going to bring her out just now,” she said. “But we’re going to take a little look.”
I clutched my husband’s hand. Sixteen months we’d waited to adopt. Three chances at babies had fallen through, family swooping in to help, changing the mothers’ minds.
I admitted to guarding my heart. I almost wanted to tell the woman not to show us the girl, barely three years old, as I wasn’t sure a glimpse would help matters. I appreciated that I had never seen those babies designated to be ours. We had known when and where they were born, but not the curve of their cheeks or the color of their eyes. It seemed easier to let go of something you only knew as words on a page.
“It’s one way,” the woman said as we approached a window. “It looks like a mirror to her.”
I expected to see the view of a play room. But instead, the girl was at the window, making faces at herself, a wide-berthed woman laughing behind her.
She was inches away, fingers splayed on her puffed out cheeks, dark eyes wide, her tongue lolling out. Her black hair in a high ponytail had let loose several wild strands.
The woman in the room said something and the little girl laughed, pressing her forehead against the glass. I could not stop myself but touched my fingers to the chilly pane, so little separating her from me.
Anthony put his arm around me. “She’s got your fat cheeks.”
I laid my head on his shoulder. “She’s got your buggy eyes.”
She would be ours.
THE UNICORN
The waves pounded the cliffs as Elizabeth climbed the worn wood steps that led up to the gift shop. She felt a kinship with the smooth planks half buried in sand, trodden by so many boots. She tried to step lightly.
The shop specialized in small hand carvings from the driftwood that washed ashore. Elizabeth’s mantel was filled with intricate creations from the visits she’d once made with her husband. One she always kept with her, a unicorn that fit in her palm. She reached into her pocket to touch her fingers to the small body and prick the tiny horn.
The store changed little over the years, a menagerie of the carver’s favorite shapes, mostly fantastical creatures like dragons, fairies, elves, and winged horses. An elderly man sat in a chair behind a glass counter, lifting a friendly face when Elizabeth entered.
She had a specific piece in mind, a matching unicorn for the one in her pocket. She walked the store, peering onto shelves and inside little nooks, but unlike past years, the unicorns had vanished.
“Excuse me, sir?” she asked. “I was hoping to find another one of these.” She tugged the tiny carving from her pocket.
The man lifted a pair of spectacles from the counter and peered at the wood creature. “Ah, yes. Unicorns. My son Blane is the carver. He no longer makes them.” He sat back.
Her already despondent mood plummeted. “Oh, I had hoped—” What? What had she hoped? That finding a mate for the beloved unicorn would alleviate her solitude?
“Thank you,” she said, stepping backward, away from the counter, stopped short when she ran into something strong and stalwart. She turned to apologize, but her throat became too constricted to speak when she saw the man, solid, fair-haired, beautiful in the way she pictured the angel Gabriel.
“What do you have?” He asked.
She held up the unicorn with a tremulous hand.
He took it, his blue eyes scanning its shape with a tender sadness Elizabeth recognized in herself. “I made many of these.”
“Why did you stop?”
“They died with her.” His gaze met hers, and understanding flashed between them.
“My late husband gave this to me. I guess I hoped to finish the pair.” She flushed at the desperation in her voice.
He passed the tiny wooden creature back, and his fingers grazed her skin like the blue spark she sometimes saw when she fitted a plug into a socket, unexpected and startling. Instead of pulling back, like she surely might have any time before, Elizabeth reached for him and clasped
his hand against hers, the unicorn nestled in the cocoon of their embrace.
“Will you make just one more?”
His jaw tightened, but his eyes still held hers. “I will try.”
“Can I come back tomorrow?” She didn’t let go.
“All right. Tomorrow.”
She released him then, her skin cooling as it left his. He turned back to another door and disappeared. Elizabeth caught the stare of the elderly man, who watched with quiet hope.
She headed back to the entrance, still feeling the warmth of his talented hands.
WINTER
The snow whirls in flurries
without direction, without impact
I stretch out my arms and spin in circles,
a sting of cold on my lips
You watch me, amused
Feet crossed at ankle,
Black pants legs perfectly creased
Arms crossed at chest
Leather jacket crinkling at your elbows
My feet work in a pattern, propelling
my body in a spiral
crossing lines that mar
and mark
the parking lot
Tiny dots of short-lived snow
sprinkle me like lost stars
I stop for a second,
my hair swinging into my face,
the twirling skirt exposing my legs
You lean against your white truck,
eyes full of laughter and, I think, of love
I gaze at you
Short-lived stars in my lost eyes
DEEP FREEZE
When the tech turned around, Jace spat the purple pill into his palm. The note he’d pulled from his pocket, written in his own handwriting, was very clear:
Skip pill 2. Find freezer T35.
Paper was rare, handwriting even more so. He must have trusted no one when he stepped into the freezer at the end of his last shift decades ago. They had just passed Alpha Centauri, he remembered. He’d be briefed shortly about where the ship was now.
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