Tuesday Tales 2025-6-24 Quaint

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 quaint. When you finish the passage, make sure to visit all the talented authors of Tuesday Tales.

I followed a pleasantly winding road for three quarters of a mile, keeping an eye on street signs for Oleander Terrace. There it was, and I turned in and wound around a long loop to 13342, easing onto a long, curving driveway composed of pastel pavers laid out in a stunning design. I don’t know what I had expected, but Portia’s home was large and imposing, ultra-modern in style, cascaded up toward a pristine, purple blue sky, and was situated among perfectly groomed landscaping like a fat, plucked stewing hen in a sea of parsley.

The only thing that sang out Portia to me, or the Portia I thought I knew, was a circle of quaint, decorative gnomes standing guard around a bronze-colored birdbath.

I breathed in, anchoring myself with the notion that I had come here with good intentions. I moved toward the house, its entryway flanked by two twisting white columns. I straightened my clothes and ran my fingers through my hair before ringing the bell.

One side of the double doors opened. “Come in, dear,” the older woman trilled. Her tightly knit white curls framed a soft, fleshy face like a starchy linen nightcap. She ushered me through the foyer and into a curtained room whose decorations matched the gnomes outside, and my idea of Portia, more than it did the contemporary house itself. Antique furniture of different periods formed various small seating areas. Porcelain figurines and other types of collections were arranged on tables, racks, sideboards, hutches, and curio stands.

“Sit here, dear,” she instructed, indicating a chair. “I’ll get the tea. Won’t be a minute.” I offered a polite smile as she bustled off, presumably toward the kitchen, humming sweetly.

Instead of sitting, I gazed around at her various collections. My attention drifted to a dark, heavy cabinet whose masculine appearance seemed incongruous in the room. The items within it were those that a man might collect over the years—pearlized pocketknives, small swords, even replicas of firearms. With a start, I realized that these must have been George’s. She must keep the display in homage to her late husband. A lacquered box tucked among the array of miniature pistols and decorative daggers piqued my interest.

 Thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoyed the piece inspired by the word quaint.

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Cheers & Happy Reading!

Flossie Benton Rogers, Conjuring the Magic with Spirited Stories

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