Welcome to Tuesday Tales, powered by a small group of authors, where word prompts inspire passages in the books we’re writing. I’m working on a cozy mystery, Pumpkin Patch Murder. Our word of the day is write. When you finish the passage, make sure to visit all the talented authors of Tuesday Tales.
My eyes widened at the thought of Warren as an entrepreneur. “Seriously? Why did you guys break up? You never told me.”
Her face crinkled. “He’s not a one-woman man.”
“Drat. I guess we’re in the same boat, unlucky in love.”
“Don’t say that! Nix!” Robin’s forefinger lifted to write an indecipherable air symbol, evidently to ward off my negative pronouncement. As if to accompany her, the cheating song that was playing picked up an annoying discordant riff. I was reminded of something I had once read about coincidence, that three instances meant enemy action. Were we setting the stage, or was the universe playing footsie with us?
The front door swung open, revealing Skip’s skyscraper frame, backlit by the red neon of the Roadhouse sign. A gust of wind slammed the door against the wall. A stack of napkins on the bar fluttered into disarray. I drew in a quick, startled breath and nudged Robin to settle down and prepare for company.
Skip closed the door and tottered in, looking as if he had just woke up from a deep sleep or had been shoveling dirt for twenty-four hours straight. His clothes seemed an afterthought. His stubble had long outgrown the cool stage. His befuddled gaze caught mine. Did he not remember me? He blinked repeatedly and looked at Robin, recognition altering his expression by a millimeter.
“Skip!” she piped, as he headed toward his favorite barstool. Cheer and goodwill permeated her tone. “Come sit with us.”
He halted and pivoted. A Bulldog sweatshirt hung loose around a body that appeared to have shrunk. Had he not been eating?
“You remember Peri Nash from Tea Thyme.”
He blinked, nodded infinitesimally, and flicked a hand toward his barstool. “That’s my usual seat.”
“Oh, please.” Robin beamed. “Yours is the only friendly face we’ve seen.”
Stumbling slightly, he lowered himself into a chair at our table. “I’m not fit company lately.”
“You’re still in shock over Vonna, of course. Such a horrible thing.” She briefly touched his hand.
His eyes closed while he drew in a breath. When they opened, he signaled to the bartender for service.
Warren was at our table within seconds. “’Bout time you made it back, man. You keeping okay?”
“Well enough. I’ll have a draft and,” he wiggled a finger, “refills for the ladies.”
Warren departed to fill the requests.
I said, “It’s good to see you, Skip.”
Thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoyed the piece inspired by the word write. If you haven’t done so already, check out the other excerpts at Tuesday Tales.
Cheers & Happy Reading!
Flossie Benton Rogers, Conjuring the Magic with Spirited Stories
All rights reserved, copyright @ 2025 Flossie Benton Rogers
Skip has taken her death hard. I wonder why. Good scene. Keeps us guessing.
Is this grief that’s affecting Skip this way or something more? I wouldn’t put it past you to be springing a new twist on us!! So I wait with baited breath to find out what’s going on with Skip. Does he know who killed Vonna?? Great story and superb characterizations.