Sharon had to get a story plunked down, her regular posting was almost due. She’d had a whirlwind of words a couple months ago and wrote one after the other. All she had to do was pick one and post it for so long, she lost the habit. What?
She poured some of her homemade wine and looked back to the blank white page on the screen. What? Just then the dryer kicked off, so she went to fold clothes. On her return, the blank page accosted her once more. Then that insistent dream came at her again.
Three times now she’d dreamed the same marvelous scene. This morning she savored it so long, it made her late for work. Can’t have that anymore! She leaned back and sipped her wine, remembering. She’d been in the house doing some kind of chore when she heard a noise outside. She stepped out onto the screen porch and saw the bright sunshine making dappled shadows. The tree that made the dapples obscured the road, so she went across the porch to the screen door and stepped out into the yard.
The beautiful little birdie that flew into her outstretched had said, “He’s on the way!” Then it flew off into the bluest sky she’d ever seen. The dream held her thoughts. What could it mean? The blank page caught her eye. “I’ll write about that, yeah.”
The story wound about from the dream chores to her telling her friends about the bird to weathering their derision. Night visions, hooey! They laughed and she laughed with them although she still believed it meant something. “Okay, now what? The durned story needs a plot. I could make her start collecting birds. No. I could make her so depressed she … no, the dream was so warm and loving that having something dire happen would just be wrong.
The clock in the corner of the screen said 10:43. She had to rise early for work, so decided to leave the rest for tomorrow night. At least she’d got a start on it. She finished her wine and headed off for beddy-bye. She went to sleep with get up on time riveted into her brain.
Work seemed more onerous than usual; she wanted to get home and finish the story. Naturally, her project took longer than anticipated and everyone else had left by the time she hit ‘save’ for the last time. Gas, of course she had to stop for gas. From there, she considered Burger King but really did want to get right home and the sunshine wouldn’t be around much longer. Thank goodness for pot pies, she’d pop a couple in the microwave first thing.
No sooner had she lit her laptop up, there came a knock on the screen door. UPS with an order? No imminent shipment notification had arrived today. A package from early last week never arrived, so that might be it. No, the UPS guy wouldn’t knock, he’d leave it on the step. Girl Scouts with cookies. Maybe, and thin mints were still the best. If that’s who waited out there, knocking again.
Walking out the door, she saw somebody much taller than a kid. Daylight had faded, yet she discerned he did not wear a brown uniform. At the screen door, she flicked on the outside light and said, “Hello sir. Whatever you’re selling, I can’t afford it. Have a good day.” She turned back.
“Wait a wee minute, I’ve naught to sell.”
His Scotty accent drew her back. “Okay, how can I help you?”
He hoisted a box up into the light’s yellow glow for her to see. “I moved into the house yonder today and found this by the door. It states it belongs to Sharon Turnbull at this address.”
She opened the screen and accepted the box, then stepped outside and let the screen door slam. Gosh the fellow wore handsome tip to toe. “Thanks so much, I’d turned this in as lost.”
“Aye, well, it’s been forlorn o’er there awaiting rescue.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Michael Dunnaway.”
She adjusted the box to rest on her hip and took his warm hand gladly. “I’m Sharrie and am happy to meet you.” She withdrew her hand sheepishly. “I’m looking forward to meeting your wife. Do you have kids?”
He shook his shaggy head, “Ach, ’tis only me.”
How Would You Do It? 