This was the last one on her hit list. Abigail put the note away and knocked on the door. It was a lovely day in Turn-of-the-Century England, she thought with particular relish. She listened to the birds’ conversations in the trees and listened to the cars bumping down the road combined with the clopping of horses’ hooves. The door opened.
“I’m so sorry,” a woman said. Her hair was horse-dung brown with streaks of gray. “I was in the garden and didn’t hear the bell. Do come in,” she stepped out of the way to let her visitor into the parlor at which point Abigail noticed with disdain the clashing, sun faded floral smock the woman had on. She didn’t seem to notice and bustled off to the kitchen. “Do you mind if we talk outside? It’s such a wonderful day.”
Abigail said that she didn’t and followed her next victim outside. The porch was surrounded by sunflowers reaching far above the top of the railing in golden petals. A mesh net surrounded the area to keep out the bees, which didn’t seem to mind in the least and were busily gathering pollen from the large flowers.
“I was busy getting inspiration from my tea when you rang. Do you do that often?”
Abigail stuttered and looked at the cup of steaming tea in front of the woman. “Uh, no I do not.”
“Hmm,” the woman said from inside the kitchen and came out with another cup, “perhaps that’s your problem. Well you came to me for writing tips, I half expected you to bring some of your work.”
Abigail flinched and mentally slapped her hand. You idiot she thought, but smiled. “I don’t have much finished, really.”
“Well that’s alright,” the woman sat down in front of the first cup of tea and stared into it, not saying another word.
“I was hoping,” Abigail said after some time, “that you could tell me how to start.”
“First, I think you should call me by my real name. Megan O’Sander. Mackenzie is only my pen name. You should know that it’s hard getting something published if you’re a woman. Pity. Second, I think you just need to be observant. What color are those sunflowers?”
Abigail glanced at Megan. “Yellow.”
“Yellow,” Megan rolled the word off her tongue like a prima donna performing her solo on stage. “Then what color is the sun?”
“Yellow.”
“And your hair?”
“Yellow.”
“Ah,” Megan said leaning back in her chair. “But are they the same yellow?”
Abigail took a sip of tea thoughtfully. “No, I suppose not.”
“Then what color are those sun flowers?”
Abigail frowned looking hard into a petal of a sunflower, ignoring the bees flitting to and fro and the gun weighing down on her leg. “What do you call such a color?” she mused.
She didn’t think she said anything out loud, so she was surprised when Megan answered: “You tell me.”
She glanced again at the petals, the color etched in her brain. “Gold, I suppose.”
“You suppose? Is that the same color as our coins?”
“Well, no.”
“Perhaps I can help. Painters call it ‘orange-yellow.’ I personally prefer something that rolls of the tongue more such as deep yellow. You as a writer, have to discover the words yourself. What about the sun?”
“Silver yellow.”
Megan nodded approvingly and smiled. “And your hair?”
Abigail looked up at her long locks. “Straw yellow. No, straw brown. If we suggest that yellow is more vibrant, then my hair is brown.”
Megan smiled. “More importantly is what are you going to do now? I’m sure they gave you the money in advance, so you could walk away. I suggest we stop now, before things get further in.”
Abigail frowned in confusion. “What?”
“Excuse me, dear,” Megan said reaching over and pulling the gun out of Abigail’s pocket. “I can venture a very educated guess that John Foster sent you here. He’s been after my work for years and can’t stand a woman in the competition. So, are you going to shoot me, or not?”
Abigail grabbed the gun instinctively, but cradled it in her arms, torn. She put the gun away and looked Megan in the eyes. “I told you I was here for a lesson on writing, and if you don’t mind, I am going to receive the rest of my lesson on writing.”
Although Megan did not seem tense during their conversation, she visibly relaxed and became the carefree crazy person who looked into their teacup for inspiration. “Well then we must continue.”
Step two is always experiment. Find what’s in your heart and write it down. If you want to write about a young girls stolen kiss behind the barn, then do so and follow that girl all the way through her emotions. If you feel like writing about a war, let the turmoil go. Try things that you’ve never found in your heart before and don’t be afraid to research for help. Discovery is what it’s all about.
Abigail stopped writing on her typewriter and stood up. She pinned up her sandy-gray hair and closed the door.
“Mommy, Mommy,” a little boy yelled up the stairs, scampering up. “Tell me about Annie Oakley and the rodeo.”
“Wait a minute, Jack. Which one was that?”
“I don’t know, just make it up.”
She smiled. It’s what she did every time. “In the wild west of America when there was still the wild unknown, a woman who dared called herself the best sharp shooter in the west searched for excitement beyond local tavern brawls. So she rode her horse off into the sunset in search of challenge…”
Filed under: Realistic Fiction by Bri
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