Nicholas Warack's Blog
December 13, 2024
Reedsy Prompt #280: Talk That Talk
Below is my submission for the Reedsy Prompt #280: Talk That Talk contest.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
The objective of this particular challenge I selected was to "Write a story that solely consists of dialogue. (No dialogue tags, actions, or descriptions. Just pure dialogue!)." So, I rely on you to author the scene, characters, and actions in your mind without my words.
My inspiration for this came from the song "La hija de Juan Simón", particularly from the Rosalía version. Click the link embedded in the title of the work below.
"The Daughter of Juan Simón"
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
The objective of this particular challenge I selected was to "Write a story that solely consists of dialogue. (No dialogue tags, actions, or descriptions. Just pure dialogue!)." So, I rely on you to author the scene, characters, and actions in your mind without my words.
My inspiration for this came from the song "La hija de Juan Simón", particularly from the Rosalía version. Click the link embedded in the title of the work below.
"The Daughter of Juan Simón"
December 9, 2024
Reedsy Prompt #279: Embrace the Unknown with IndieReader
Below is my submission for the Reedsy Prompt #279: Embrace the Unknown with IndieReader contest.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
"Man to Monster"
The bitemark upon my shin shined red with a purple hue outlining the teeth' indentations.
"No! No! George, please, no!" wailed my wife.
Her knees buckled, slamming against the wooden floor of the abandoned, looted home we had found short reprieve in God-knows-where, Michigan. My children, Meryl and Leo, stood behind their distraught mother. By the looks on their faces, they had not yet comprehended the severity of my situation.
It had been a week and a half since the outbreak—a lab test that had gone awry. The U.S. military thought they had created a superhuman drug, one that overrode the humanistic qualities of pain, reservations, fear, and the consequence of reckless abandonment. Simultaneously, this drug also heightened testosterone and adrenaline levels beyond their standard yield. The intent was, upon inoculation of the said drug, the soldier, Marine, fighter pilot, policeman, fireman, and any other form of military and first-responder personnel necessary for the safety and protection of the populace would become fearless machines that could enter any burning building, gunfight, and combat zone with the sole intention of completing their objective. Without the inhibitions of the typical human, one would think this was the beginning of creating the most fearless corps of men and women the world had ever seen.
From my understanding, the testing transpired in a northern Californian military installation. Volunteers of the U.S. armed forces participated in the experimentation with the promise of hefty compensation. At first, it seemed a success. News reports stated that the "super soldier" had been produced, stoking courage in our countrymen and fear in our enemies. Footage circulating the interwebs showed army men stepping through thick, boarded walls, swarming and cutting down artificial targets with precision and lethality, scaling walls at lightning-fast speed, and performing deftly feats on land, air, and sea. The Pentagon was still patting itself on the back when one of the test subjects had ravaged and gored his wife, child, and housepet. Not only that, another was at a house party and had cut, bit, and shredded some of the other partygoers with their bare hands. Worse, those affected by these sudden acts of acute violence had taken on the monstrous nature as well. The captured affected, now infected, were held against their will by scientists of the highest order. These experts revealed the drug's design had gone rogue. What best could be described as a feedback loop, the effects that made the drug successful had become indefatigable. The bodies of those with the drug in their bloodstream were unable to shake its domineering effects. It seemed to feed itself, making the subjects more fearless and tolerant of pain.
Moreover, its psychosis-altering capabilities had reached levels of deadly proportions. A ravenous desire to bite, claw, and eat raw flesh had become the deity of their souls and singular desire. They had become what we had called in sci-fi, fiction lore, and literary horror, now a reality, zombies.
When our little suburban outpost in Lansing had become overrun by these zombies, we, like millions of others across the country, made a break for safety. As to where that was, we did not know, but we knew to pack our things and take off in the minivan. However, that did not last long, as traffic and the onslaught of the infected stagnated vehicular mobility. We took on foot, crossing medians, abandoned interstates, through woods and fields, and anywhere where the screams of victims and wretched cries of monsters had subsided. Government proclamations were useless; assuring us to stay in our houses until protection arrived was akin to waiting in a burning house until rain clouds arrived. To top it all off, there was not even a whisper of a cure. We were at the mercy of this infernal contagion.
The zombies finally forced us out of a vacant barn we had stayed in for a few days. I hotwired an old pickup truck in a nearby garage and drove on some backroads until we encountered an abandoned neighborhood. With a machete I had collected in my hand, I had cut down all opposition in our way. A fully infected zombie, which still had the rigors of a merciless beast, also had severely debilitated coordination and reaction. My machete swiped and sliced through the susceptible flesh of the infected; a mere sidestep and a high school-level trained baseball swing proved sufficient. All seemed manageable, that is, until I passed a half-chewed corpse, severed by what appeared to be the teeth marks of a chainsaw. As I motioned for my family to hurry over an HVAC unit and through a busted-out living room window, the halved corpse snatched me by the ankle. With its clammy, gray hand, it yanked itself towards my leg and clamped its maw around my shin. I stifled my cry and hacked it away until it fell still. My wife, Erin, noticing the struggle, immediately turned her eyes toward the wound as I entered the abode, leading us to our current predicament.
She groaned and cried, knowing what was in store for me, for us. I could not help but try to comfort her. I bent down to collect her.
"No!" she shrieked, slapping my hand away. A sudden life beheld her, for she scuttled to our children and held them in her arms—a darkened complexion formed on her face. She snatched the machete and extended its edge toward me.
My initial reaction was to reprimand her for the hurt, but, conceding doom was at my door, it gave me hope. For even if the slightest bit of my bodily fluids entered her bloodstream, our children could fall too, devoured by filicidal mania. If my wife were willing to reject her husband, one she had been lovingly married to for nearly a decade, with such sharp rebuke, she must certainly have the perseverance to lead two of our four surviving children. My children, Meryl and Leo, had not fully understood the dystopian future before them. At the formative ages of eight and six, respectively, they knew something was unnatural about this new reign of terror. They had seen their elder brother and sister ripped to pieces, protecting them from the infected pursuants. When I found time to weep for my eviscerated firstborns, I did so liberally, but not in front of them. I will join them shortly, but I must put my mortal family in order first.
"Honey, Meryl, Leo," I said, kneeling to meet their eye level.
"Yes, Daddy?" uttered Meryl. She had her chin against her chest, and it quivered.
"That's a good girl," I said. "I want you to—"
A sudden pang shot through me. The side of my neck tightened, and my lower jaw protruded out, baring my lower row of teeth. The children gasped. My wife pulled them close to her and backed away from me.
"Back!" I shouted. "Get back!"
I was not sure how the transition would consume me, but I had certainly felt it. A raging swell of power spread within me. It was like a high, unlike anything I had experienced before. My strength seemed to surge; the forces of gravity were effectless. A ludicrous idea came over me that I could easily lift a car or thrust my knee through the wall. Subsequently, a craving for flesh had come. My mind started to obsess over the notion of sinking my teeth into a sumptuous piece of raw chicken. I thought about how my teeth would break the surface, diving into its tender structure and tearing it and consuming it, slaking my hunger. I slid my tongue between my molars to replicate the sensation. Then, my senses returned.
I must have fallen into a fit, for my family gaped at me with fretful eyes. I was on my side in a pool of sweat. I didn't move. If I could lie still and slow my heart rate, perhaps the effects of the bite would curb, leaving my family more time to flee so they could remember me before I succumbed.
"Sweetheart," I grunted. A pain was forming deep within the pit of my stomach. "I want you to—I want you to get to my parents."
My wife, clutching our children, replied with a tear-filled cry, "How? How, why, how?"
"Their cabin in Barryton. They have guns, land, it's isolated, it's ... Arrgh!"
The pain had reached an unruly state. My back arched, my limbs tightened, and I began to writhe and twist upon the ground violently. I froze, paralyzed by the locking measures of my muscles. I saw my son's leg—supple and bare—peek out from behind his mother. It was then that a sudden predatory inhabitant inside me overpowered my sensibilities. My fingers dug into the floor; I let out a roar, drool trailing from my jowls, and scampered toward my terrified family, ready to tear the flesh from their hides.
"Run, kids! Run!" my wife cried.
As my family started to flee, the fear of loss, my human quality, supplanted the monster that had hijacked my mind. My body eased, and I slumped again.
"Erin!" I shouted. She and my children were near the end of the hall. They turned around. I was dizzy, exhausted, and on the brink of fainting, for my body could not handle the sudden rise of the drug's power.
"What—what is it?" she shouted through sobs.
My head rolled to its side. I took in the sight of the beautiful family I had. The woman I had vowed to, the son and daughter I had watched grow and play, the family I carried in my heart.
"Take care. I love you."
Her chin quivered. "I love you, too," she said.
I breathed a sigh of release. "Go!" I shouted. "Get out of here!"
My wife nodded and sped around the corner. When the patters of their feet were out of earshot, I was at peace. The mental guards laid down their defenses, and the disease scaled the ramparts, displacing the man I was and becoming the monster I had feared. I let out a horrid, blood-fueled screech as I rose from the floor, tearing my clothes from my body. It was rage, it was fury, it was the lust to kill and taste the living. A waft of the odors left by my family slithered up my nostrils. I inhaled their flavor, turned towards the hall, and sped after them. The hunt was on.
"Aarrraagghhhh!"
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
"Man to Monster"
The bitemark upon my shin shined red with a purple hue outlining the teeth' indentations.
"No! No! George, please, no!" wailed my wife.
Her knees buckled, slamming against the wooden floor of the abandoned, looted home we had found short reprieve in God-knows-where, Michigan. My children, Meryl and Leo, stood behind their distraught mother. By the looks on their faces, they had not yet comprehended the severity of my situation.
It had been a week and a half since the outbreak—a lab test that had gone awry. The U.S. military thought they had created a superhuman drug, one that overrode the humanistic qualities of pain, reservations, fear, and the consequence of reckless abandonment. Simultaneously, this drug also heightened testosterone and adrenaline levels beyond their standard yield. The intent was, upon inoculation of the said drug, the soldier, Marine, fighter pilot, policeman, fireman, and any other form of military and first-responder personnel necessary for the safety and protection of the populace would become fearless machines that could enter any burning building, gunfight, and combat zone with the sole intention of completing their objective. Without the inhibitions of the typical human, one would think this was the beginning of creating the most fearless corps of men and women the world had ever seen.
From my understanding, the testing transpired in a northern Californian military installation. Volunteers of the U.S. armed forces participated in the experimentation with the promise of hefty compensation. At first, it seemed a success. News reports stated that the "super soldier" had been produced, stoking courage in our countrymen and fear in our enemies. Footage circulating the interwebs showed army men stepping through thick, boarded walls, swarming and cutting down artificial targets with precision and lethality, scaling walls at lightning-fast speed, and performing deftly feats on land, air, and sea. The Pentagon was still patting itself on the back when one of the test subjects had ravaged and gored his wife, child, and housepet. Not only that, another was at a house party and had cut, bit, and shredded some of the other partygoers with their bare hands. Worse, those affected by these sudden acts of acute violence had taken on the monstrous nature as well. The captured affected, now infected, were held against their will by scientists of the highest order. These experts revealed the drug's design had gone rogue. What best could be described as a feedback loop, the effects that made the drug successful had become indefatigable. The bodies of those with the drug in their bloodstream were unable to shake its domineering effects. It seemed to feed itself, making the subjects more fearless and tolerant of pain.
Moreover, its psychosis-altering capabilities had reached levels of deadly proportions. A ravenous desire to bite, claw, and eat raw flesh had become the deity of their souls and singular desire. They had become what we had called in sci-fi, fiction lore, and literary horror, now a reality, zombies.
When our little suburban outpost in Lansing had become overrun by these zombies, we, like millions of others across the country, made a break for safety. As to where that was, we did not know, but we knew to pack our things and take off in the minivan. However, that did not last long, as traffic and the onslaught of the infected stagnated vehicular mobility. We took on foot, crossing medians, abandoned interstates, through woods and fields, and anywhere where the screams of victims and wretched cries of monsters had subsided. Government proclamations were useless; assuring us to stay in our houses until protection arrived was akin to waiting in a burning house until rain clouds arrived. To top it all off, there was not even a whisper of a cure. We were at the mercy of this infernal contagion.
The zombies finally forced us out of a vacant barn we had stayed in for a few days. I hotwired an old pickup truck in a nearby garage and drove on some backroads until we encountered an abandoned neighborhood. With a machete I had collected in my hand, I had cut down all opposition in our way. A fully infected zombie, which still had the rigors of a merciless beast, also had severely debilitated coordination and reaction. My machete swiped and sliced through the susceptible flesh of the infected; a mere sidestep and a high school-level trained baseball swing proved sufficient. All seemed manageable, that is, until I passed a half-chewed corpse, severed by what appeared to be the teeth marks of a chainsaw. As I motioned for my family to hurry over an HVAC unit and through a busted-out living room window, the halved corpse snatched me by the ankle. With its clammy, gray hand, it yanked itself towards my leg and clamped its maw around my shin. I stifled my cry and hacked it away until it fell still. My wife, Erin, noticing the struggle, immediately turned her eyes toward the wound as I entered the abode, leading us to our current predicament.
She groaned and cried, knowing what was in store for me, for us. I could not help but try to comfort her. I bent down to collect her.
"No!" she shrieked, slapping my hand away. A sudden life beheld her, for she scuttled to our children and held them in her arms—a darkened complexion formed on her face. She snatched the machete and extended its edge toward me.
My initial reaction was to reprimand her for the hurt, but, conceding doom was at my door, it gave me hope. For even if the slightest bit of my bodily fluids entered her bloodstream, our children could fall too, devoured by filicidal mania. If my wife were willing to reject her husband, one she had been lovingly married to for nearly a decade, with such sharp rebuke, she must certainly have the perseverance to lead two of our four surviving children. My children, Meryl and Leo, had not fully understood the dystopian future before them. At the formative ages of eight and six, respectively, they knew something was unnatural about this new reign of terror. They had seen their elder brother and sister ripped to pieces, protecting them from the infected pursuants. When I found time to weep for my eviscerated firstborns, I did so liberally, but not in front of them. I will join them shortly, but I must put my mortal family in order first.
"Honey, Meryl, Leo," I said, kneeling to meet their eye level.
"Yes, Daddy?" uttered Meryl. She had her chin against her chest, and it quivered.
"That's a good girl," I said. "I want you to—"
A sudden pang shot through me. The side of my neck tightened, and my lower jaw protruded out, baring my lower row of teeth. The children gasped. My wife pulled them close to her and backed away from me.
"Back!" I shouted. "Get back!"
I was not sure how the transition would consume me, but I had certainly felt it. A raging swell of power spread within me. It was like a high, unlike anything I had experienced before. My strength seemed to surge; the forces of gravity were effectless. A ludicrous idea came over me that I could easily lift a car or thrust my knee through the wall. Subsequently, a craving for flesh had come. My mind started to obsess over the notion of sinking my teeth into a sumptuous piece of raw chicken. I thought about how my teeth would break the surface, diving into its tender structure and tearing it and consuming it, slaking my hunger. I slid my tongue between my molars to replicate the sensation. Then, my senses returned.
I must have fallen into a fit, for my family gaped at me with fretful eyes. I was on my side in a pool of sweat. I didn't move. If I could lie still and slow my heart rate, perhaps the effects of the bite would curb, leaving my family more time to flee so they could remember me before I succumbed.
"Sweetheart," I grunted. A pain was forming deep within the pit of my stomach. "I want you to—I want you to get to my parents."
My wife, clutching our children, replied with a tear-filled cry, "How? How, why, how?"
"Their cabin in Barryton. They have guns, land, it's isolated, it's ... Arrgh!"
The pain had reached an unruly state. My back arched, my limbs tightened, and I began to writhe and twist upon the ground violently. I froze, paralyzed by the locking measures of my muscles. I saw my son's leg—supple and bare—peek out from behind his mother. It was then that a sudden predatory inhabitant inside me overpowered my sensibilities. My fingers dug into the floor; I let out a roar, drool trailing from my jowls, and scampered toward my terrified family, ready to tear the flesh from their hides.
"Run, kids! Run!" my wife cried.
As my family started to flee, the fear of loss, my human quality, supplanted the monster that had hijacked my mind. My body eased, and I slumped again.
"Erin!" I shouted. She and my children were near the end of the hall. They turned around. I was dizzy, exhausted, and on the brink of fainting, for my body could not handle the sudden rise of the drug's power.
"What—what is it?" she shouted through sobs.
My head rolled to its side. I took in the sight of the beautiful family I had. The woman I had vowed to, the son and daughter I had watched grow and play, the family I carried in my heart.
"Take care. I love you."
Her chin quivered. "I love you, too," she said.
I breathed a sigh of release. "Go!" I shouted. "Get out of here!"
My wife nodded and sped around the corner. When the patters of their feet were out of earshot, I was at peace. The mental guards laid down their defenses, and the disease scaled the ramparts, displacing the man I was and becoming the monster I had feared. I let out a horrid, blood-fueled screech as I rose from the floor, tearing my clothes from my body. It was rage, it was fury, it was the lust to kill and taste the living. A waft of the odors left by my family slithered up my nostrils. I inhaled their flavor, turned towards the hall, and sped after them. The hunt was on.
"Aarrraagghhhh!"
Reedsy Prompt #278: All Apologies
Below is my submission for the Reedsy Prompt #278: All Apologies contest.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
"Dreams Never Been"
Homestead Estates was a well-to-do neighborhood: gated, pristine, snaked with fairways, and inhabited by retired, blue-blooded Americans. On a crisp spring morning, Gerald Stevens's slippers scratched the driveway as he shuffled down in his Columbia University Law bathrobe. It was a long walk; all the Homestead Estate driveways were at least fifty yards long. He arrived at the mailbox and pulled open the latch. A short stack of mail sat within. Gerald slid them into his pocket and made the trek back to the house. As he ascended his front porch stairs, the door swung open. Brittany Stevens, Gerald's third wife and twenty years his younger, stepped out. The neon-pink Lululemon leggings showed a figure weathering the descent of a once taut shape from her college days a decade ago. She was still stunning, to say the least, but her eyes, hidden behind a set of Ray-Ban's, looked indifferently at her husband.
"Oh hey," she said in a mannerless way. Gerald opened his mouth to respond, but she continued. "I'm off to the gym."
"Oh, it's Saturday," he said. "Why don't you stay in, or we can go to that new cafe downtown that we always pass."
Brittany, keys dangling and fashionably pink water bottle in hand, remained at the top of the steps.
"A latte is the last thing I need," she said. "John is having me do an intense yoga session that he learned during his pilgrimage in East India. He only does these classes on weekends, and the girls at the country club said they should really take off these love handles I'm starting to get. I'll be back sometime after lunch."
Gerald nodded and scratched his pepper-colored whiskers. "Perhaps we can meet up for brunch by the gym, then," he said.
"I can't. He has the sessions in his backyard because the gym doesn't allow him to have his classes on the weekends, and his place is like really far."
Gerald furrowed his brow. "He has them in his backyard?"
"Ugh, I know. Isn't that annoying? But like, it's good to be in nature and all that for this, and he has like all of the authentic yoga paraphernalia that he got from meeting with yogis and gurus and like those kinds of people. He's super dedicated to the art, right?"
"I suppose. When will you be back then?"
"Sometime after lunch. I don't know."
Gerald continued to nod. "OK. I'll be here when you get back."
"Thanks! Love ya!" Brittany announced. She leaned over, kissed his wizened cheek, and climbed into her Range Rover. Gerald waved at her as the car sped down the driveway and disappeared around the gate. He entered the foyer of his stately home. The bottom floor had marble and oak throughout the rooms and vaulted ceilings with scaling windows. Most of the upstairs was empty, save for the master bedroom and bathroom. The remaining rooms remained hollow or functioned as storage for unpacked moving boxes and bags. Gerald entered the kitchen and sat at the end of the trestle table nearest the backyard window. He preferred it since he could see the golfers teeing off the twelfth hole past the pool and gazebo.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Stevens?" asked his maid.
"No, thank you, Juana."
"Perhaps a cup of coffee. I'll make it strong."
"That'll be fine. Thank you."
"Of course, Mr. Stevens."
Juana pressed a few buttons on the MagiCoffee Maker 3000, and a whirring sound of grinding, sloshing, and brewing started. Gerald sat his leg across his knee, placed his specs lowly upon his nose, and sifted through the mail. He stopped at the last one as he tossed the usual promotions and bills across the table. It was a handwritten letter labeled with a return address he had not seen since his twenties. It was his childhood home's address. A house that had been willed to him after his parents died in a car crash on the night of his prom. They were coming to pick him up from his high school when a couple of drunk classmates plowed through his parents' station wagon—splitting the car and his parents in two. After graduating from the Univerisity of Nebraska with a degree in journalism, Gerald sold the house. He used the proceeds to pay off his student loans and set some aside to travel across Europe for three months. When he returned to the States, he started to apply to law school.
The buyer's name was Jim Wallace. At the time, he was thirty, had two little girls and a wife, and used to work for Gerald's father's heating and cooling company before his death. Gerald kept in touch with him for several years but later lost contact with him. It would seem to Gerald that Mr. Wallace was still living there, for his name sat atop the return address on the letter. Gerald took a moment to recollect his association with Mr. Wallace and consider the reason for this unexpected letter. He concluded there was none. Gerald ripped the seal apart and withdrew its contents. A piece of paper with Jim's handwriting came out, wrapped around a frayed, shabby, unopened envelope. Gerald held the two paper items in each hand and looked between the two. He looked to the letter first:
Dear Gerald,
I hope this letter finds you well (if it finds you at all). First, before we get into the reason for this letter, I wanted to give you a little update on things here. Mary and I are doing well and still living happily in the home you most generously sold us all those years ago. We have made so many memories here. Jessica and her husband often bring the grandkids over; Molly just graduated from nursing school and will move an hour away to Omaha. Your dad's company is still going strong. We have a fleet of service trucks and thirty technicians on hand. I would like to think he would be proud of what he started when it was just him, me, and four other guys running this place out of the garage—you were barely up to my knee at the time. It's been a trip, but I'm glad to report to you that everything is going well here!
You may be curious about why you've received a letter from me, considering we haven't spoken for many years now. Just this past week, I received a letter in the mail addressed to you. Checking by the postmark date, it was sent around the time when you were in college. Also, it looks like it came from Europe. I'm unsure why or how it is arriving thirty years later, but I felt it was such a unique circumstance that I just had to get it to you. I managed to find your address online and figured I would give it a shot.
It would be wonderful to hear from you and to let me know how you're doing. Perhaps you can come back to your hometown sometime. I know your big-city lawyer career takes up much of your time (I think you're still practicing), but if you ever find yourself back here, do drop by the old house.
Sincerely,
Jim Wallace
Gerald read the letter over again, then turned towards the unopened envelope and froze when he read the name Lea Bauer at the top of the letter. A swell of forgotten emotions and feelings spilled into Gerald's being. A tingling shiver swept down his back, and his hand, still holding the envelope, started to shake. Lea Bauer, he read again. He recognized her penmanship upon the letter. During his European trip, Gerald found himself in the quaint city of Salzburg, Austria. Salzburg was a town from a storybook, with its old stone castles, churches, and narrow stone streets lined by folksy little shops, taverns, and dwellings. It was there that he met Lea. Lea was an aspiring photographer with a little studio above a pub. It was at this pub that Gerald laid eyes upon her. She had lacey blonde hair and fluttering brown eyes that seemed to shine unwittingly. She sported earth-tone cardigans and half-beaten jeans and only went somewhere with her camera case slung over her shoulder. Gerald changed from one side of the bar to the other in the seat next to her and asked her what she was drinking. That spring, they were inseparable. They bounced through the Austrian countryside from every hamlet, mountain village, and hostel. She introduced Gerald to her parents, dairy cow farmers in Tyrol. It was a whirlwind of emotions that have all but lied dormant until today.
The crippled fibers split as Gerald parted the envelope's edge. He unfolded the two pieces of notebook paper. In faded penciled letters, Gerald read the letter:
July 18, 1989
Mein Süß,
The city is much more lively now. The summer warmth seems to have invited more Salzburgers into its streets. Everyone is much more welcoming and friendlier at this time of the year, but I feel so lonely without you. These past three weeks feel like months have passed. My heart aches for your kisses and spirit, and my mind dwells upon you constantly. I've been taking my bike farther out, looking for newer places to shoot to keep my mind preoccupied.
I know you asked me to come back with you to Nebraska. You make it sound like such a dreary place, but I love how you describe it. It reminds me of that film, “The Wizard of Oz.” I imagine living on a farm with you with nothing but fields upon fields out our backdoor; I would come to you with freshly baked strudel as you lean over your typewriter, writing your reports and stories for the local newspaper. I love your words. I know you tell me that you would perhaps like to be a lawyer and "make millions," as you say, but I know your heart: It would not make you happy. You need an adventure, not a courtroom; you need words, not case studies. Do not deaden that tender heart of yours that has lost so much in the pursuit of wealth. The peace you seek is in your mind and, from there, in your words, which is why I wish to join you.
My answer is yes, Gerald Stevens. Yes, I will marry you. Whether it's in Nebraska, Austria, Cairo, Sydney, or the North Pole, I will be by your side. With your words and my photographs, we can make beautiful stories to tell our children (I know you want five of them, but we can negotiate that).
I am in tears writing this, knowing that we will never be apart again. When you get this, let me know where to meet. I'll sell my things here, get the plane ticket, and fall into your arms again. Ich liebe dich, Gerald Stevens. I feel something beautiful saying it aloud. I am yours, mein Süß, forever and always.
I wait for your word.
With love,
Lea
Gerald's hand slid off the table, knocking over his coffee mug. It shattered, and the coffee splashed across the tile.
"Mr. Stevens!" cried Juana. She scuttled over to Gerald and bent down to look into his eyes. They had sunk a bit and looked past Juana as if she was not there. His lip shook, and he tucked it in to steady it. "Mr. Stevens, are you alright?"
Gerald placed a feeble hand on Juana's shoulder. "I'm fine. I'm fine," he said. The timbre in his voice had gone.
"Are you sure, Mr. Stevens? Shall I call you a doctor?"
"No, no. That won't be necessary. Thank you."
"Do you want me to call Mrs. Stevens?"
"No. Don't call her. I'll be fine."
Juana looked him over a few times more before ensuring herself he was in no need of serious attention.
"I will clean this up," she said. "Would you like me to make you another?"
"No," he replied. "I think I'll pass, thank you."
Juana stepped aside and started to mop up the spill. Gerald's blank stare held, and his mind fell into the thousands of thoughts and dreams that had never been and never came.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
"Dreams Never Been"
Homestead Estates was a well-to-do neighborhood: gated, pristine, snaked with fairways, and inhabited by retired, blue-blooded Americans. On a crisp spring morning, Gerald Stevens's slippers scratched the driveway as he shuffled down in his Columbia University Law bathrobe. It was a long walk; all the Homestead Estate driveways were at least fifty yards long. He arrived at the mailbox and pulled open the latch. A short stack of mail sat within. Gerald slid them into his pocket and made the trek back to the house. As he ascended his front porch stairs, the door swung open. Brittany Stevens, Gerald's third wife and twenty years his younger, stepped out. The neon-pink Lululemon leggings showed a figure weathering the descent of a once taut shape from her college days a decade ago. She was still stunning, to say the least, but her eyes, hidden behind a set of Ray-Ban's, looked indifferently at her husband.
"Oh hey," she said in a mannerless way. Gerald opened his mouth to respond, but she continued. "I'm off to the gym."
"Oh, it's Saturday," he said. "Why don't you stay in, or we can go to that new cafe downtown that we always pass."
Brittany, keys dangling and fashionably pink water bottle in hand, remained at the top of the steps.
"A latte is the last thing I need," she said. "John is having me do an intense yoga session that he learned during his pilgrimage in East India. He only does these classes on weekends, and the girls at the country club said they should really take off these love handles I'm starting to get. I'll be back sometime after lunch."
Gerald nodded and scratched his pepper-colored whiskers. "Perhaps we can meet up for brunch by the gym, then," he said.
"I can't. He has the sessions in his backyard because the gym doesn't allow him to have his classes on the weekends, and his place is like really far."
Gerald furrowed his brow. "He has them in his backyard?"
"Ugh, I know. Isn't that annoying? But like, it's good to be in nature and all that for this, and he has like all of the authentic yoga paraphernalia that he got from meeting with yogis and gurus and like those kinds of people. He's super dedicated to the art, right?"
"I suppose. When will you be back then?"
"Sometime after lunch. I don't know."
Gerald continued to nod. "OK. I'll be here when you get back."
"Thanks! Love ya!" Brittany announced. She leaned over, kissed his wizened cheek, and climbed into her Range Rover. Gerald waved at her as the car sped down the driveway and disappeared around the gate. He entered the foyer of his stately home. The bottom floor had marble and oak throughout the rooms and vaulted ceilings with scaling windows. Most of the upstairs was empty, save for the master bedroom and bathroom. The remaining rooms remained hollow or functioned as storage for unpacked moving boxes and bags. Gerald entered the kitchen and sat at the end of the trestle table nearest the backyard window. He preferred it since he could see the golfers teeing off the twelfth hole past the pool and gazebo.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Stevens?" asked his maid.
"No, thank you, Juana."
"Perhaps a cup of coffee. I'll make it strong."
"That'll be fine. Thank you."
"Of course, Mr. Stevens."
Juana pressed a few buttons on the MagiCoffee Maker 3000, and a whirring sound of grinding, sloshing, and brewing started. Gerald sat his leg across his knee, placed his specs lowly upon his nose, and sifted through the mail. He stopped at the last one as he tossed the usual promotions and bills across the table. It was a handwritten letter labeled with a return address he had not seen since his twenties. It was his childhood home's address. A house that had been willed to him after his parents died in a car crash on the night of his prom. They were coming to pick him up from his high school when a couple of drunk classmates plowed through his parents' station wagon—splitting the car and his parents in two. After graduating from the Univerisity of Nebraska with a degree in journalism, Gerald sold the house. He used the proceeds to pay off his student loans and set some aside to travel across Europe for three months. When he returned to the States, he started to apply to law school.
The buyer's name was Jim Wallace. At the time, he was thirty, had two little girls and a wife, and used to work for Gerald's father's heating and cooling company before his death. Gerald kept in touch with him for several years but later lost contact with him. It would seem to Gerald that Mr. Wallace was still living there, for his name sat atop the return address on the letter. Gerald took a moment to recollect his association with Mr. Wallace and consider the reason for this unexpected letter. He concluded there was none. Gerald ripped the seal apart and withdrew its contents. A piece of paper with Jim's handwriting came out, wrapped around a frayed, shabby, unopened envelope. Gerald held the two paper items in each hand and looked between the two. He looked to the letter first:
Dear Gerald,
I hope this letter finds you well (if it finds you at all). First, before we get into the reason for this letter, I wanted to give you a little update on things here. Mary and I are doing well and still living happily in the home you most generously sold us all those years ago. We have made so many memories here. Jessica and her husband often bring the grandkids over; Molly just graduated from nursing school and will move an hour away to Omaha. Your dad's company is still going strong. We have a fleet of service trucks and thirty technicians on hand. I would like to think he would be proud of what he started when it was just him, me, and four other guys running this place out of the garage—you were barely up to my knee at the time. It's been a trip, but I'm glad to report to you that everything is going well here!
You may be curious about why you've received a letter from me, considering we haven't spoken for many years now. Just this past week, I received a letter in the mail addressed to you. Checking by the postmark date, it was sent around the time when you were in college. Also, it looks like it came from Europe. I'm unsure why or how it is arriving thirty years later, but I felt it was such a unique circumstance that I just had to get it to you. I managed to find your address online and figured I would give it a shot.
It would be wonderful to hear from you and to let me know how you're doing. Perhaps you can come back to your hometown sometime. I know your big-city lawyer career takes up much of your time (I think you're still practicing), but if you ever find yourself back here, do drop by the old house.
Sincerely,
Jim Wallace
Gerald read the letter over again, then turned towards the unopened envelope and froze when he read the name Lea Bauer at the top of the letter. A swell of forgotten emotions and feelings spilled into Gerald's being. A tingling shiver swept down his back, and his hand, still holding the envelope, started to shake. Lea Bauer, he read again. He recognized her penmanship upon the letter. During his European trip, Gerald found himself in the quaint city of Salzburg, Austria. Salzburg was a town from a storybook, with its old stone castles, churches, and narrow stone streets lined by folksy little shops, taverns, and dwellings. It was there that he met Lea. Lea was an aspiring photographer with a little studio above a pub. It was at this pub that Gerald laid eyes upon her. She had lacey blonde hair and fluttering brown eyes that seemed to shine unwittingly. She sported earth-tone cardigans and half-beaten jeans and only went somewhere with her camera case slung over her shoulder. Gerald changed from one side of the bar to the other in the seat next to her and asked her what she was drinking. That spring, they were inseparable. They bounced through the Austrian countryside from every hamlet, mountain village, and hostel. She introduced Gerald to her parents, dairy cow farmers in Tyrol. It was a whirlwind of emotions that have all but lied dormant until today.
The crippled fibers split as Gerald parted the envelope's edge. He unfolded the two pieces of notebook paper. In faded penciled letters, Gerald read the letter:
July 18, 1989
Mein Süß,
The city is much more lively now. The summer warmth seems to have invited more Salzburgers into its streets. Everyone is much more welcoming and friendlier at this time of the year, but I feel so lonely without you. These past three weeks feel like months have passed. My heart aches for your kisses and spirit, and my mind dwells upon you constantly. I've been taking my bike farther out, looking for newer places to shoot to keep my mind preoccupied.
I know you asked me to come back with you to Nebraska. You make it sound like such a dreary place, but I love how you describe it. It reminds me of that film, “The Wizard of Oz.” I imagine living on a farm with you with nothing but fields upon fields out our backdoor; I would come to you with freshly baked strudel as you lean over your typewriter, writing your reports and stories for the local newspaper. I love your words. I know you tell me that you would perhaps like to be a lawyer and "make millions," as you say, but I know your heart: It would not make you happy. You need an adventure, not a courtroom; you need words, not case studies. Do not deaden that tender heart of yours that has lost so much in the pursuit of wealth. The peace you seek is in your mind and, from there, in your words, which is why I wish to join you.
My answer is yes, Gerald Stevens. Yes, I will marry you. Whether it's in Nebraska, Austria, Cairo, Sydney, or the North Pole, I will be by your side. With your words and my photographs, we can make beautiful stories to tell our children (I know you want five of them, but we can negotiate that).
I am in tears writing this, knowing that we will never be apart again. When you get this, let me know where to meet. I'll sell my things here, get the plane ticket, and fall into your arms again. Ich liebe dich, Gerald Stevens. I feel something beautiful saying it aloud. I am yours, mein Süß, forever and always.
I wait for your word.
With love,
Lea
Gerald's hand slid off the table, knocking over his coffee mug. It shattered, and the coffee splashed across the tile.
"Mr. Stevens!" cried Juana. She scuttled over to Gerald and bent down to look into his eyes. They had sunk a bit and looked past Juana as if she was not there. His lip shook, and he tucked it in to steady it. "Mr. Stevens, are you alright?"
Gerald placed a feeble hand on Juana's shoulder. "I'm fine. I'm fine," he said. The timbre in his voice had gone.
"Are you sure, Mr. Stevens? Shall I call you a doctor?"
"No, no. That won't be necessary. Thank you."
"Do you want me to call Mrs. Stevens?"
"No. Don't call her. I'll be fine."
Juana looked him over a few times more before ensuring herself he was in no need of serious attention.
"I will clean this up," she said. "Would you like me to make you another?"
"No," he replied. "I think I'll pass, thank you."
Juana stepped aside and started to mop up the spill. Gerald's blank stare held, and his mind fell into the thousands of thoughts and dreams that had never been and never came.
August 21, 2024
Reedsy Prompt #264: Save the Date
Below is my submission for the Reedsy Prompt #264: Save the Date contest.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
I think I will try to do these more often when I have time away from noveling.
"My Big Out"
Today, I will end a marriage before it starts. I've envisioned this moment since I decided upon the invitation from my girlfriend. Truth be told, it is something one only hears in dramatic tales or seen in a Hallmark film; however, with my dramatic disposition, regretful conscience, and in accordance with my horoscope, I have already submitted to destiny. The witness bearers filed into the foldable wooden chairs, unaware of the preordained bombshell I intended to release.
My girlfriend Angie is the younger sibling to Logan, a bridesmaid and a good friend of the bride, Kylie Fischer, who is primed to wed her longtime beau, Joshua Breton. This beachside spectacle, woven with a white floral aisle, petals bestrewn upon its powdery sand, headed by an archway laced with lilies and roses, endeared with sweet whispers of a violin and flute trailing from the quartet, laid before the backdrop of a sleepy California sun. The power of a graceful zephyr assailing the crowd from the exhales of the yonder shore eased their fizzing sensibilities.
"Are you with the bride?" asked a gleeful middle-aged man beside me. We sat within the matrices of seats congruent with such, so I assumed this was a forced attempt at small talk.
"My girlfriend's sister is a friend of the bride," I replied. "I'm a plus-one. So, I guess I'm with the bride." My hand quivered as I took out my pocket handkerchief and dabbed my brow.
"She's my niece," he said. "Did your girlfriend's sister go to Yale?"
Angie, who was half-listening while the other half was enthralled with rapid Instagram scrolling, perked up.
"Yes. Logan met Kylie during her clerkship at med school."
The man nodded with an approving grin. "I met my wife during mine—Class of '82. We even got married at St. Mary's down the street."
"Oh!" Angie exclaimed. "I'm graduating next spring from Yale Law!"
"Well, congratulations," he said, extending his hand. "Dr. Breton, Dr. Mark T. Breton."
"Angie, or Angela, Soon-To-Be Esquire," she giggled, receiving it.
"Your family must be very proud of you both."
"My father graduated from Yale in '87 and has, like, his own practice up in Springfield where I'll work for the time, but I guess, like, my sister wanted to go into medicine. So Yale is like a big deal in our family, but like, we aren't one of those families that basically tell everyone that, like, we all went to Yale."
"Certainly, certainly. I know what you mean."
Dr. Mark T. Breton gazed upon Angie with a wry grin of approval. I could have swallowed my tongue and been all right with choking on it if it meant this greasy conversation would end. From my casual investigation into the wedding party on the "#BretonOnAPrayer" wedding website, the inescapable amount of photos in college bars and stone-laden quads with subjects dawning navy blue Bulldogs apparel ensured these insufferable conversations guised with pertinent humility would ensue.
"And you," pursued Dr. Mark T. Breton to me, "Are you also one of our tribe?"
My mouth was slow to open.
"No. Unfortunately, Todd is a Fighting Owl," Angie said with a playful grimace.
"Ah!" he replied. It was the kind of interjection that wanted to express interest, but its note fell flat and resounded with pity. "What did you study at So Conn?"
"Nursing," I replied.
"Ah," again, off-key. "How did you meet your better half?"
"We met at Gryphon's," said Angie.
"Hey!" A perfect chord. "That's where I met my wife, too!"
"Oh my God, that's, like, so great!"
"Do I also hear wedding bells?" he asked. His sight passed between Angie and me.
"We'll see, we'll see!" she said.
Poor Angie, I thought to myself. Besides my ultimate plot to tear this wedding asunder, we had grown distant. If not for the two months left in our rent and shared parental obligations to our Brussels Griffon rescue, Beasty, this dissipating relationship would have ended months ago. No matter, today's antics will truncate the time to an inevitable breakup. I will be happy for her, I know that. Nonetheless, I must speak my piece.
The quartet changed their tune to a soft and splendid melody cover of a modish pop song. On cue, the crowd turned towards the center aisle and looked back. Descending from the hotel's boardwalk over the dunes stood a line of the bride and groom's family. I joined with the gawking as the procession neared our stations. First, a flabby pastor in a gray two-piece suit strode alongside Joshua. Joshua's brown quiff bounced smoothly as he entered between the chairs, his dimple chin protruded past his confident lips, and his focus on the altar seemed immutable. Next were the grandparents. Joshua's paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother lost their spouses; thus, the surviving escorted each other, causing the onlookers to express warm admiration. Behind them shuffled both pairs of Kylie's grandparents; her leading grandfather moved with a walker, extending their planned arrival to the front row seats. Then came Joshua's parents, Mr. & Mrs. Breton; Mr. Breton was a proud man, rigid in the back with a similar chin to that of his son's, and his sightly wife modeled a midnight blue dress with a golden linked necklace and earrings to boot. Next came Kylie's brother, accompanying her mother. She wore a deep violet satin dress with feathery blonde locks on the shoulders. The wedding party came forth with snickers and sheepish grins alike, which—primarily the boys—bore evidence of modern young people's predisposition to gallant pageantry. As Logan passed our row, Angie showed both rows of jestful smiling teeth at her sister. Logan returned it in kind. Behind the wedding party came two cherub-faced children: a wide-eyed boy fixed in a small pale-blue suit and pink tie, carrying a pillow with the wedding rings laced upon it; close behind was a shy little girl dressed in a flouncy floral dress, wicker basket in hand, devoting her entirety to the littering of white petals. She must have been instructed to shower them, particularly where earlier footsteps had displaced original petals, for she stopped several times to ensure no two flowers were more than a few feet apart. The crowd melted and chuckled as the boy proceeded forward, looking back in confusion to his devoted counterpart.
At last came the bride, and, my, she looked marvelous. Kylie's father had her delicate hand tucked in the crook of his arm. He bore a charming smile beneath a freshly trimmed, peppery mustache and moved awkwardly from a dysfunctional left knee. Kylie kept in step with him, bearing her beguiling pert complexion of rosey, luscious lips, high cheekbones, and sultry eyes. She had trailing blonde hair beneath an extended veil dotted with flowery motifs cascading down its edges. Her ivory crepe dress accented her tan, supple shoulders.
She was as beautiful as the day I met her. Logan introduced us at a mixer two years ago. She had been with Josh for eight months by then but seemed at odds with no one or unmoved by flirtatious advances by those watchful when Josh was nowhere in sight. That's why I think we got along better than the rest, for my bearing with her was unassuming and tactful. On frequent occasions, we crossed paths. Whether at a bar in New Haven or some function, it always seemed inevitable that we would indeed see each other and find ourselves chatting for hours. Neither of us liked the bouncing and verve of parties, but we certainly, and I do mean so, enjoyed the mingling. Josh liked it; I know the feeling of having to spare attention for your escort, especially in the company of Yalies. With all the pomp and circumstance, a bit of propriety and due diligence is necessary when encountering some dynasty family's son or a future success story annotated thusly by nepotism. Josh, although well within both categories, never carried himself as such. He was calm, garrulous, and maintained himself as one imagines a refined stalwart Ivy League student—a gentleman if I ever saw one.
I started seeing Kylie outside the usual places a little over a year ago. I knew her class schedule, her favorite coffee shop, the hairdresser and nail salons she patronized, and the shows she and Josh watched together. She really was someone you could lose yourself in conversation with, and I understood why Josh didn't mind living happily ever after with her in interlocutor bliss. Nonetheless, my actions since are now an unavoidable reality that I can no longer bear. I've sinned in the way no man should, and certainly not one who is already promised to another. It is this weight, this conscious bearing weight, that I am here to break my silence before the handsome couple speeds off into post-nuptial ignorance of my deceit.
"Dearly beloved," started the pastor, "we have come together before God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony." He stood at a rostrum between Kylie and Josh, with bridesmaids and groomsmen standing respectively behind them on the three-step makeshift stage. My time had come. I listened intently to the pastor prattle through the introductory prayer. I reached into my pocket once more and gripped my handkerchief, scraping the beads of sweat off my brow with it.
"Todd, are you alright?" Angie whispered. "Your hands are all clammy."
"I'm fine," I said. "And I'm sorry."
Angie winced at me with her mouth agape.
The pastor continued. "Into this union, Kylie Fisher and Joshua Breton now come to be joined. If any of you can show just cause why they may not be lawfully wed, speak now, or else forever hold your peace."
I raised from my seat, lifted my hand, and said, "I can!"
The pastor looked up from his specs to see who had scuttled the script. There was a collective state of bewilderment and murmurs with what felt like thousands of eyes upon me, particularly those of Mark T. Breton. Angie had taken to violently tugging my blazer.
"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed.
I had not thought this part through and wondered if I should continue or if the pastor had the wherewithal to follow unwritten protocol in the unlikely event a wedding had such an interruption. Kylie's face looked at me with vexing confusion. Seeing such beauty dispirited on a day that belonged to her gave rise to a thought within me to retreat back into my seat had I not looked at Josh. His face had darkened and seemed aloof to my outburst. I considered this an insult; his lack of consternation had reinvigorated my predetermination. Considering what we had done and shared, the assassination of my all but spotless character warranted some level of regard from him.
"Umm ..." uttered the pastor. That was my cue, I figured.
"Hi, yes, hi. I'm Todd." Angie tugged even harder. "And, I'm, uh. Well, I've—I've been sleeping with the groom."
A rain of gasps and shrieks followed. The bridesmaids' chins fell between their heels, and the groomsmen darted looks at one another with the last one in the queue squealing, "I knew it! I frickin' knew it!" Someone was crying, and I no longer felt the pull of Angie yanking. Kylie looked at me, then to Josh, then back to me in a rapid succession. Josh glared at me. His face grew pale.
You can view my story submission page here: Nicholas Warack's Reedsy Stories
I think I will try to do these more often when I have time away from noveling.
"My Big Out"
Today, I will end a marriage before it starts. I've envisioned this moment since I decided upon the invitation from my girlfriend. Truth be told, it is something one only hears in dramatic tales or seen in a Hallmark film; however, with my dramatic disposition, regretful conscience, and in accordance with my horoscope, I have already submitted to destiny. The witness bearers filed into the foldable wooden chairs, unaware of the preordained bombshell I intended to release.
My girlfriend Angie is the younger sibling to Logan, a bridesmaid and a good friend of the bride, Kylie Fischer, who is primed to wed her longtime beau, Joshua Breton. This beachside spectacle, woven with a white floral aisle, petals bestrewn upon its powdery sand, headed by an archway laced with lilies and roses, endeared with sweet whispers of a violin and flute trailing from the quartet, laid before the backdrop of a sleepy California sun. The power of a graceful zephyr assailing the crowd from the exhales of the yonder shore eased their fizzing sensibilities.
"Are you with the bride?" asked a gleeful middle-aged man beside me. We sat within the matrices of seats congruent with such, so I assumed this was a forced attempt at small talk.
"My girlfriend's sister is a friend of the bride," I replied. "I'm a plus-one. So, I guess I'm with the bride." My hand quivered as I took out my pocket handkerchief and dabbed my brow.
"She's my niece," he said. "Did your girlfriend's sister go to Yale?"
Angie, who was half-listening while the other half was enthralled with rapid Instagram scrolling, perked up.
"Yes. Logan met Kylie during her clerkship at med school."
The man nodded with an approving grin. "I met my wife during mine—Class of '82. We even got married at St. Mary's down the street."
"Oh!" Angie exclaimed. "I'm graduating next spring from Yale Law!"
"Well, congratulations," he said, extending his hand. "Dr. Breton, Dr. Mark T. Breton."
"Angie, or Angela, Soon-To-Be Esquire," she giggled, receiving it.
"Your family must be very proud of you both."
"My father graduated from Yale in '87 and has, like, his own practice up in Springfield where I'll work for the time, but I guess, like, my sister wanted to go into medicine. So Yale is like a big deal in our family, but like, we aren't one of those families that basically tell everyone that, like, we all went to Yale."
"Certainly, certainly. I know what you mean."
Dr. Mark T. Breton gazed upon Angie with a wry grin of approval. I could have swallowed my tongue and been all right with choking on it if it meant this greasy conversation would end. From my casual investigation into the wedding party on the "#BretonOnAPrayer" wedding website, the inescapable amount of photos in college bars and stone-laden quads with subjects dawning navy blue Bulldogs apparel ensured these insufferable conversations guised with pertinent humility would ensue.
"And you," pursued Dr. Mark T. Breton to me, "Are you also one of our tribe?"
My mouth was slow to open.
"No. Unfortunately, Todd is a Fighting Owl," Angie said with a playful grimace.
"Ah!" he replied. It was the kind of interjection that wanted to express interest, but its note fell flat and resounded with pity. "What did you study at So Conn?"
"Nursing," I replied.
"Ah," again, off-key. "How did you meet your better half?"
"We met at Gryphon's," said Angie.
"Hey!" A perfect chord. "That's where I met my wife, too!"
"Oh my God, that's, like, so great!"
"Do I also hear wedding bells?" he asked. His sight passed between Angie and me.
"We'll see, we'll see!" she said.
Poor Angie, I thought to myself. Besides my ultimate plot to tear this wedding asunder, we had grown distant. If not for the two months left in our rent and shared parental obligations to our Brussels Griffon rescue, Beasty, this dissipating relationship would have ended months ago. No matter, today's antics will truncate the time to an inevitable breakup. I will be happy for her, I know that. Nonetheless, I must speak my piece.
The quartet changed their tune to a soft and splendid melody cover of a modish pop song. On cue, the crowd turned towards the center aisle and looked back. Descending from the hotel's boardwalk over the dunes stood a line of the bride and groom's family. I joined with the gawking as the procession neared our stations. First, a flabby pastor in a gray two-piece suit strode alongside Joshua. Joshua's brown quiff bounced smoothly as he entered between the chairs, his dimple chin protruded past his confident lips, and his focus on the altar seemed immutable. Next were the grandparents. Joshua's paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother lost their spouses; thus, the surviving escorted each other, causing the onlookers to express warm admiration. Behind them shuffled both pairs of Kylie's grandparents; her leading grandfather moved with a walker, extending their planned arrival to the front row seats. Then came Joshua's parents, Mr. & Mrs. Breton; Mr. Breton was a proud man, rigid in the back with a similar chin to that of his son's, and his sightly wife modeled a midnight blue dress with a golden linked necklace and earrings to boot. Next came Kylie's brother, accompanying her mother. She wore a deep violet satin dress with feathery blonde locks on the shoulders. The wedding party came forth with snickers and sheepish grins alike, which—primarily the boys—bore evidence of modern young people's predisposition to gallant pageantry. As Logan passed our row, Angie showed both rows of jestful smiling teeth at her sister. Logan returned it in kind. Behind the wedding party came two cherub-faced children: a wide-eyed boy fixed in a small pale-blue suit and pink tie, carrying a pillow with the wedding rings laced upon it; close behind was a shy little girl dressed in a flouncy floral dress, wicker basket in hand, devoting her entirety to the littering of white petals. She must have been instructed to shower them, particularly where earlier footsteps had displaced original petals, for she stopped several times to ensure no two flowers were more than a few feet apart. The crowd melted and chuckled as the boy proceeded forward, looking back in confusion to his devoted counterpart.
At last came the bride, and, my, she looked marvelous. Kylie's father had her delicate hand tucked in the crook of his arm. He bore a charming smile beneath a freshly trimmed, peppery mustache and moved awkwardly from a dysfunctional left knee. Kylie kept in step with him, bearing her beguiling pert complexion of rosey, luscious lips, high cheekbones, and sultry eyes. She had trailing blonde hair beneath an extended veil dotted with flowery motifs cascading down its edges. Her ivory crepe dress accented her tan, supple shoulders.
She was as beautiful as the day I met her. Logan introduced us at a mixer two years ago. She had been with Josh for eight months by then but seemed at odds with no one or unmoved by flirtatious advances by those watchful when Josh was nowhere in sight. That's why I think we got along better than the rest, for my bearing with her was unassuming and tactful. On frequent occasions, we crossed paths. Whether at a bar in New Haven or some function, it always seemed inevitable that we would indeed see each other and find ourselves chatting for hours. Neither of us liked the bouncing and verve of parties, but we certainly, and I do mean so, enjoyed the mingling. Josh liked it; I know the feeling of having to spare attention for your escort, especially in the company of Yalies. With all the pomp and circumstance, a bit of propriety and due diligence is necessary when encountering some dynasty family's son or a future success story annotated thusly by nepotism. Josh, although well within both categories, never carried himself as such. He was calm, garrulous, and maintained himself as one imagines a refined stalwart Ivy League student—a gentleman if I ever saw one.
I started seeing Kylie outside the usual places a little over a year ago. I knew her class schedule, her favorite coffee shop, the hairdresser and nail salons she patronized, and the shows she and Josh watched together. She really was someone you could lose yourself in conversation with, and I understood why Josh didn't mind living happily ever after with her in interlocutor bliss. Nonetheless, my actions since are now an unavoidable reality that I can no longer bear. I've sinned in the way no man should, and certainly not one who is already promised to another. It is this weight, this conscious bearing weight, that I am here to break my silence before the handsome couple speeds off into post-nuptial ignorance of my deceit.
"Dearly beloved," started the pastor, "we have come together before God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony." He stood at a rostrum between Kylie and Josh, with bridesmaids and groomsmen standing respectively behind them on the three-step makeshift stage. My time had come. I listened intently to the pastor prattle through the introductory prayer. I reached into my pocket once more and gripped my handkerchief, scraping the beads of sweat off my brow with it.
"Todd, are you alright?" Angie whispered. "Your hands are all clammy."
"I'm fine," I said. "And I'm sorry."
Angie winced at me with her mouth agape.
The pastor continued. "Into this union, Kylie Fisher and Joshua Breton now come to be joined. If any of you can show just cause why they may not be lawfully wed, speak now, or else forever hold your peace."
I raised from my seat, lifted my hand, and said, "I can!"
The pastor looked up from his specs to see who had scuttled the script. There was a collective state of bewilderment and murmurs with what felt like thousands of eyes upon me, particularly those of Mark T. Breton. Angie had taken to violently tugging my blazer.
"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed.
I had not thought this part through and wondered if I should continue or if the pastor had the wherewithal to follow unwritten protocol in the unlikely event a wedding had such an interruption. Kylie's face looked at me with vexing confusion. Seeing such beauty dispirited on a day that belonged to her gave rise to a thought within me to retreat back into my seat had I not looked at Josh. His face had darkened and seemed aloof to my outburst. I considered this an insult; his lack of consternation had reinvigorated my predetermination. Considering what we had done and shared, the assassination of my all but spotless character warranted some level of regard from him.
"Umm ..." uttered the pastor. That was my cue, I figured.
"Hi, yes, hi. I'm Todd." Angie tugged even harder. "And, I'm, uh. Well, I've—I've been sleeping with the groom."
A rain of gasps and shrieks followed. The bridesmaids' chins fell between their heels, and the groomsmen darted looks at one another with the last one in the queue squealing, "I knew it! I frickin' knew it!" Someone was crying, and I no longer felt the pull of Angie yanking. Kylie looked at me, then to Josh, then back to me in a rapid succession. Josh glared at me. His face grew pale.
July 9, 2024
Feliz Día de la Independencia de la República Argentina!
Hey,
Happy Argentina Independence Day! I last updated this a while ago, but I am excited to see the giveaway end, and some winners take home the book. This is an excellent excuse to increase my readership. Excuse isn't the correct word; it's more like a grand occasion to spread the word about The Sailor & The Porteña. Hop in the getaway while there is still time!
In other news, I'm working on the next project day and night, so I'd like to have a first complete draft done before the end of September. We will see. I'm excited for this one. Something to look forward to, and I hope to those following me.
Happy Argentina Independence Day! I last updated this a while ago, but I am excited to see the giveaway end, and some winners take home the book. This is an excellent excuse to increase my readership. Excuse isn't the correct word; it's more like a grand occasion to spread the word about The Sailor & The Porteña. Hop in the getaway while there is still time!
In other news, I'm working on the next project day and night, so I'd like to have a first complete draft done before the end of September. We will see. I'm excited for this one. Something to look forward to, and I hope to those following me.
June 4, 2024
Facebook Post Update
Below, is what I posted on my Facebook Page:
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“The Sailor & The Porteña” is the first novella I have published and put forth. It takes place in bygone Buenos Aires and follows Andrew, the American sailor who unexpectedly meets a local heroine of sorts named Renata. They become entangled with an infamous band of traffickers called “the ruffians.” Thus, the pair must work together and overcome their cultural and linguistic shortcomings to survive. Time is short, and hearts are on the line in this historically riveting and romantic tale that I am confident will not disappoint you.
I want to thank those who have supported me in this endeavor. For a time, it did not seem that I would put something out there, but after much self-deliberation, time, and aid, I’ve managed to conjure something for public consumption.
I pray you will find a copy for yourself. It is currently available on Amazon.com for hardcover, paperback, and Amazon Kindle. As an author, it would be an honor to hear your thoughts on my work. Furthermore, if you have it to share a kind word, please do so on Amazon and Goodreads, as it will assist in furthering its readership, which is my true aim regarding publishing.
The release of this book has been a long journey, but I’m pleased to have arrived at this point. I’ve other projects on the horizon, which I hope to make accessible to you shortly. You can follow my writer's account, @nicholaswarack, on Instagram for those updates.
So, to those who have helped me, guided me, and have taken the time to read “The Sailor & The Porteña,” I thank you.
[image error]
“The Sailor & The Porteña” is the first novella I have published and put forth. It takes place in bygone Buenos Aires and follows Andrew, the American sailor who unexpectedly meets a local heroine of sorts named Renata. They become entangled with an infamous band of traffickers called “the ruffians.” Thus, the pair must work together and overcome their cultural and linguistic shortcomings to survive. Time is short, and hearts are on the line in this historically riveting and romantic tale that I am confident will not disappoint you.
I want to thank those who have supported me in this endeavor. For a time, it did not seem that I would put something out there, but after much self-deliberation, time, and aid, I’ve managed to conjure something for public consumption.
I pray you will find a copy for yourself. It is currently available on Amazon.com for hardcover, paperback, and Amazon Kindle. As an author, it would be an honor to hear your thoughts on my work. Furthermore, if you have it to share a kind word, please do so on Amazon and Goodreads, as it will assist in furthering its readership, which is my true aim regarding publishing.
The release of this book has been a long journey, but I’m pleased to have arrived at this point. I’ve other projects on the horizon, which I hope to make accessible to you shortly. You can follow my writer's account, @nicholaswarack, on Instagram for those updates.
So, to those who have helped me, guided me, and have taken the time to read “The Sailor & The Porteña,” I thank you.
May 28, 2024
Release Day!
The Sailor & The Porteña
is now on Amazon.com for Kindle, paperback, and hardcover.
I'm pleased to finally have something of mine out there for public consumption. It's been a long time coming, and I feel like an old anxiety has been shaken off—replaced by a new one. I will celebrate with a cigar that I've kept tucked away in the humidor until this day. I had not intended to celebrate this book, but I will take it nonetheless.
Today, I will monitor and promote the book on my different accounts and platforms. I am using all of my know-how to sling this book into the minds and hands of readers without breaking the bank. I pray I'm successful in this endeavor.
Regardless, it's delightful to see something of mine take its place in the world, with all its imperfections and laudable qualities.
I pray you will find yourself a copy. I personally will say it is a fun read and a joy ride. I can also speak for any writer who has turned their work loose: It has a great impact to know, see, or hear that a reader has taken in your work in full. I hope those who desire to share their thoughts and feelings will do so.
What more can be said? Go now! Find The Sailor & The Porteña and add it to your bookshelf! Tell your friends, your family, the dog! Spread the word far and wide as to what you have uncovered! Also, with the deepest sincerity, thank you!
I'm pleased to finally have something of mine out there for public consumption. It's been a long time coming, and I feel like an old anxiety has been shaken off—replaced by a new one. I will celebrate with a cigar that I've kept tucked away in the humidor until this day. I had not intended to celebrate this book, but I will take it nonetheless.
Today, I will monitor and promote the book on my different accounts and platforms. I am using all of my know-how to sling this book into the minds and hands of readers without breaking the bank. I pray I'm successful in this endeavor.
Regardless, it's delightful to see something of mine take its place in the world, with all its imperfections and laudable qualities.
I pray you will find yourself a copy. I personally will say it is a fun read and a joy ride. I can also speak for any writer who has turned their work loose: It has a great impact to know, see, or hear that a reader has taken in your work in full. I hope those who desire to share their thoughts and feelings will do so.
What more can be said? Go now! Find The Sailor & The Porteña and add it to your bookshelf! Tell your friends, your family, the dog! Spread the word far and wide as to what you have uncovered! Also, with the deepest sincerity, thank you!
May 21, 2024
The Woes of Self-Publishing
With less than seven more days before the release of
The Sailor & The Porteña
on Amazon in Kindle, paperback, and, now, hardcover formats, I'm bustling to ensure I approach this self-publishing business with a standard of contentment. As you may know or can imagine, self-publishing has many moving parts.
Although the cover and pages remain sedentary until the reader moves them, the marketing and distribution appear ceaseless. I have objectives in mind: expanding visibility and accessibility to potential readers and piquing their interest in the book. The writer must displace their invested self from the book and step into the shoes of the uninvested reader; they don't know if this story is worth a scrap of coin—I think it is. If I didn't, I wouldn't publish! However, suppose I am to enter this business of hawking my work. In that case, I cannot, nay, I must refuse to allow my attachments for my story to obscure the aforementioned end goals of self-publishing. It seems self-evident, but in practice, it's tricky. I think, "Oh, they won't set it down after this chapter," or "It's such an easy-read, I can't imagine them not giving a few dollars for the salt." Yet, I know that is not how this works; I know this isn't a sure thing.
There is still much I'm learning about writing and crafting stories. It's enjoyable, but I think of it like cooking. We know how to heat, cool, toast, fry, etc., but the writer's kitchen is limited to aspects they understand. Mine may have lettuce, chocolate chips, garbanzo beans, saltines, and grape juice. I must conjure what I can from these ingredients. I may have a jar of coconut (I dislike coconut) in the back of the pantry, but do I have the motivation to look? After toying with these strange ingredients, I realized the coconut is necessary to complete the flavor. So, do I even want to cook now, knowing I must use such an element? I am prattling unto the far reaches of my point, but you can get the picture. In the end, one must put in what they know ofwriting cooking with what they have accessible to them. It is up to them to continue expanding their capacity, including increasing their pantry, utensils, ingredients, etc.
Since I've cooked something up, I need to sell it. Thankfully, Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) provides one of the world's highest-grossing commercial platforms and a relatively user-friendly experience. I've had a bit of experience with advertising on Meta platforms in the past, so I will utilize my amateur expertise there. In other words, I have a plan. The execution of it isn't my concern, but rather the delivery and reception. Beyond that, this book will outlast me; stories outlast us. I must continue finding means and methods to promote and advance this story in perpetuity, or if I decide, some other publishing house can do a better job, assuming it would be in their interest.
It's a story within itself, which I'll keep you posted. I'm all ears if you have any solid advice or experience to share on these matters.
Although the cover and pages remain sedentary until the reader moves them, the marketing and distribution appear ceaseless. I have objectives in mind: expanding visibility and accessibility to potential readers and piquing their interest in the book. The writer must displace their invested self from the book and step into the shoes of the uninvested reader; they don't know if this story is worth a scrap of coin—I think it is. If I didn't, I wouldn't publish! However, suppose I am to enter this business of hawking my work. In that case, I cannot, nay, I must refuse to allow my attachments for my story to obscure the aforementioned end goals of self-publishing. It seems self-evident, but in practice, it's tricky. I think, "Oh, they won't set it down after this chapter," or "It's such an easy-read, I can't imagine them not giving a few dollars for the salt." Yet, I know that is not how this works; I know this isn't a sure thing.
There is still much I'm learning about writing and crafting stories. It's enjoyable, but I think of it like cooking. We know how to heat, cool, toast, fry, etc., but the writer's kitchen is limited to aspects they understand. Mine may have lettuce, chocolate chips, garbanzo beans, saltines, and grape juice. I must conjure what I can from these ingredients. I may have a jar of coconut (I dislike coconut) in the back of the pantry, but do I have the motivation to look? After toying with these strange ingredients, I realized the coconut is necessary to complete the flavor. So, do I even want to cook now, knowing I must use such an element? I am prattling unto the far reaches of my point, but you can get the picture. In the end, one must put in what they know of
Since I've cooked something up, I need to sell it. Thankfully, Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) provides one of the world's highest-grossing commercial platforms and a relatively user-friendly experience. I've had a bit of experience with advertising on Meta platforms in the past, so I will utilize my amateur expertise there. In other words, I have a plan. The execution of it isn't my concern, but rather the delivery and reception. Beyond that, this book will outlast me; stories outlast us. I must continue finding means and methods to promote and advance this story in perpetuity, or if I decide, some other publishing house can do a better job, assuming it would be in their interest.
It's a story within itself, which I'll keep you posted. I'm all ears if you have any solid advice or experience to share on these matters.
May 17, 2024
My New Book and New Literary Journey
Hello, my name is Nicholas Warack, and I'm excited to share the beginning of my literary journey with
The Sailor & The Porteña
.
It's a story with a personal touch of mine. I suppose most writers construct their work with that, but this, in particular, comes from the heart. My fiancee (but per the Commonwealth of Virginia, my wife) Rocío has inspired this tale much.
"Write what you know," as many an expert would say. In this regard, I can say that much of this comes from my experience with her, her family, and her country of Argentina.
This personal touch makes this story all the more special to me, and I hope you can enjoy it as well.
The Sailor & The Porteña will be available May 28, 2024, on Amazon for Kindle, paperback, and I'm toying with adding a hardcover version as well but Kindle and paperback for sure.
Please give it a read and, hopefully, some kind words on here or the purchasing platform.
Otherwise, I'll keep everyone posted about new things coming from my side, and hopefully, you'll find some joy or entertainment from it.
Thanks,
Nicholas Warack
It's a story with a personal touch of mine. I suppose most writers construct their work with that, but this, in particular, comes from the heart. My fiancee (but per the Commonwealth of Virginia, my wife) Rocío has inspired this tale much.
"Write what you know," as many an expert would say. In this regard, I can say that much of this comes from my experience with her, her family, and her country of Argentina.
This personal touch makes this story all the more special to me, and I hope you can enjoy it as well.
The Sailor & The Porteña will be available May 28, 2024, on Amazon for Kindle, paperback, and I'm toying with adding a hardcover version as well but Kindle and paperback for sure.
Please give it a read and, hopefully, some kind words on here or the purchasing platform.
Otherwise, I'll keep everyone posted about new things coming from my side, and hopefully, you'll find some joy or entertainment from it.
Thanks,
Nicholas Warack
