If Only, February 3, 2023

This Show Case features eight pieces submitted in response to our thirty-fifth Writing Prompt: If only. You can see responses to each prompt in the drop down menu for the Show Case page. Try an item. They are all delicious. We hope they stimulate your mind, spirit, and urge to write. Maybe they will motivate you to submit a piece for our next prompt, which you can find on the Show Case home page.

And please share this Show Case with your family, friends, and other writers.

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California Housing

by GD Deckard

Roy’s foray into oceanfront property development required investors with vision. He pointed grandly to his subdivision. “Sea Ville Subdivision is exactly, precisely, accurately and quite correctly named, Sea Ville!”

“It’s underwater.” Roy’s banker stood on the beach, looking like he couldn’t believe the obvious. “I thought you meant financially. Not -” he indicated the obvious.

“I told you. I’m a developer with vision. And Sea Ville is a no-brainer. All we need do is pump out some water and tidy up.”

“Tidy up?” The man jerked his head. “This is the Pacific Ocean!”

“Yes. Retaining walls will be an ongoing expense. But they won’t cost the owners as much as you might think. I know California home buyers. They will dive right into this subdivision. You’ll see.”

“I’m sorry. When you said oceanfront property…. If only I had known this.” The portly, well-dressed man paused and spoke slowly and clearly. “Roy, we will have to recall the loan.”

“I spent it.”

“Spent it? On what?” Looking around, the banker could see no sign of construction. Just beach and water. “You haven’t built anything. Not even,” he stepped back as a wave lapped his shoes. “Not even an entry road!”

“Advertising. And lawyers,” Roy added thoughtfully. “As you can see, these lots are not on the side of the water commonly associated with oceanfront property.”

His banker nodded numbly. “What advertising? I haven’t seen any advertising.”

“Oh. Here.” Roy held up a flyer. “I need to hold onto this. We don’t want any hardcopies floating around.” He read the headlines aloud. “Low Cost! Immersive Views! Easy Garbage Removal!” He folded the flyer back into his pocket. “Actually, I only advertise on cell phones. And only in California. These people already build houses at the edges of eroding cliffs, on the sides of muddy hills, over earthquake faults, inside tinder-dry forests, even at the bottom of flood plains. Californians love nature. They won’t blink twice at Sea Ville’s risks.”

The banker stroked his chin. “Prospective buyers will not see the lots before buying them?”

“Of course not. Only carefully selected views on their cell phones.”

“And the legal documents. They will be …safely drawn up?”

Roy had chosen his banker well. “Of course. And everything will self-delete from their phones once the money transfers.”

“And when these Californian buyers do see their lot?”

Roy grinned. “They’ll lobby state government to subsidize the retaining walls.”

“Hmmm….”

What followed was a classic business handshake. And more California houses.

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Soliloquy in Two Voices

by Mellow Curmudgeon

“Genius is one percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration.”

~Thomas Edison

If only I had known how badly Edison fudged the numbers in all versions of his quote, I could have lowered my sights and tried to find a career that did not demand more than I could give, even with years of quasimonastic dedication fueled by caffeine and adrenaline.  If only I had known to aim lower, I could have been happier.

Maybe, but the hypothetical happier me would not be the actual me, emergent from decades of choices and experiences, some good and some bad.  Those choices and experiences did not latch onto a separate soul as if they were remoras riding on a shark.  BTW, that different (and maybe happier) person would have his own “If only …” musings.

~  ~  ~  ~

https://quoteinvestigator.com/2012/12/14/genius-ratio/

~  ~  ~  ~

I liked the use of font changes (rather than quote marks and phrases like “said Fritz”) in a story told entirely with dialog in an earlier Show Case piece by John Correll.  Did not expect to use that trick myself, until I wanted to write an internal monolog that contrasted two aspects of the silent speaker’s thinking.  Thanks, John.

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If Only Books Were Wishes

by SL Randall

Artwork by SL Randall

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Great Minds Thinking Alike

by Mimi Speike

Barn Elms and Walsingham House in London were both large, imposing structures. The in-town address was an obvious hive of agent activity. Barn Elms pretended to be a country retreat, but the spy-work went on as relentlessly there, albeit more discreetly. 

Father and son-in-law both had wide circles of acquaintances: Operational and social connections. Large, intermarried families. A stream of couriers came and went. (A family of three had stable space for seventy horses.) Dinner was always a well-attended affair. Who often wasn’t there? Phillip. Sir Francis trusted his son-in-law completely and sent him on sensitive assignments at home and abroad. 

Penelope Rich despised her husband, spent as little time in his presence as she could get away with, and took lovers openly and shamelessly. She and Bunny might have been the original ‘Sense and Sensibility’. Penelope was impetuous and demanding. Her flamboyant way of going at life had a powerful appeal for a man who weighed every decision with an eye to his professional advancement. Frances Walsingham had been taught to contain her emotions and keep her own counsel. Wife and former mistress could hardly have been more unlike. He’d broken off with Lady Rich when he married, but she’d made it clear she yearned to resume the association. 

* * *

Bunny doesn’t want to mingle. She refuses to be accosted by those nasty Beale girls again. She, all her life, has been a model of decorum, a poised young lady who never says anything that ought not to be said. But everyone has a breaking point.

“We’re headed upstairs,” she tells Gigi. “I’ll plead a raging headache. Phillip would not approve, but he’s not here, is he?” 

“Nor would I.” Bunny’s been overheard. “And I am here. You’re your husband’s hostess, m’ darling. You are to circulate gracefully, as always.” Ursula Walsingham calls to one some paces behind her. “Here she is. I told you we’d find her. Doctor Dee,” she tells her daughter, “is ready to delight us with his superb musicianship. He asks that you accompany him. Don’t you dare disappoint your Uncle Dee.” Dee’s known Bunny all her life. He’s closer to her than her genuine uncles.

Dee steps through the door. Sensing an argument at hand, he intervenes. “I’ll take over, Ursula. You go about your business. Bunny and I are good friends.¹ I’m sure we can work this out.” He’s wide a-smile, until he spots the cat. Bending low, as if to scratch under Sly’s chin, he jerks it upward, so to look the animal straight in the eye. He hisses, “I believe I told you to wait in the coach. What are you up to here?” He yanks Sly’s ruff.

Bunny brightens. “This is your sweetheart? I might have guessed it. You’ve put a spell on him. I swear he understands every word I say.” It’s as good an explanation as any. She believes (or pretends to) John Dee capable of anything. He’s entertained her with silly tricks since she was a toddler.

“My dear,” he says. “I’ve taught this critter to play  —  after a fashion — the kit viol. I intend for him to accompany me tonight. Won’t that be fun? I would love you to join us, on your harp.” 

Bunny grimaces.

“Tell your Uncle Dee what the problem is.”

“What’s this,” she cries, “what’s this I was just told? It’s too much to bear!”

“What were you told, child?”

“John, in the Marshalsea!² Can it be true?” Her Beale cousins had been delighted to share the information with her. 

Dee sighs. It was bound to come out. “My dear, it was a cruel but necessary move. Look at you! You’re wife to one foremost in Her Majesty’s esteem. Good things are in store for him, and for you. It’s worked out for the best, I’d say.”

Bunny bursts into tears.

Dee frowns. “Georgina, help Lady Sidney to her rooms. Sit with her until she recovers herself. A snifter of brandy ought to fix her up. As for me, I believe I’ll enjoy this lovely breeze. I’ll stroll in the garden. We’ll stroll.” He glares at the cat.

He hasn’t spied Delly. Delly’s been hiding behind Georgina’s skirts. Sly posts himself beside her. His arm is draped around her neck. Her face is buried in his fur. She yearns to be back in her hen house, locked in, safe for the night.

* * *

Dee is seated on a stone bench in the moonlight. He’s muttering, “What a mess. What a damn-blasted mess!” Ten minutes go by of, Fool! Pair of fools. Damn the both of them — and worse. This is said, not of Sly and poor Delly, he’s castigating Francis Walsingham and Robert Dudley.

Finally, Sly confronts him. “Sir! Have you spoken with Mr. Secretary?”

“I have not.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. He’s busy with his guests. I do understand. When do you mean to approach him?”

“I don’t intend to approach him.” 

“You don’t! What do you intend?”

“I’d be glad to tell you, if only I knew. We’ll play this by ear.”

“My own approach exactly, always. Hey! Are we a pair, or are we a pair? You ’n me, working together, we’ll be on top of this situation in no time.” 

* * *

Sly has always been quick-witted, sharp as a tack. He has the ego to think he might inspire Dee to rediscover the intellectual rigor that had characterized his earlier activities. These seances of his are a sad come-down from former fascinations. He has a few proposals to present to the man, but Dudley must be dealt with, then they may explore possibilities that have been buzzing around his brain for a good while. John Dee, his reputation as a Magus well-established, would be the perfect collaborator on one venture in particular.³

* * *

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” spits Dee, “Mr. Secretary’s loyalty is to the state, not to Elizabeth herself. To maintain the security of the realm is his ultimate goal. He and Leicester are political allies. As of last November, they are family as well. If Dudley commits a treason, there goes Phillip’s inheritance. That may warp his judgement, we can’t rule it out. I’ve struck a deal with Señor Del Gado. He has a chance to distinguish himself with good service to Crown and Country. I told him, name your price.

“I ask myself, would Sir Francis, learning of the plot, move against his relative? I cannot give myself a firm no on that. He is cut-throat in respect to what he feels is necessary to be done. His treatment of John Wickerson has brought this home to me. He supports Elizabeth because she is the bedrock of a stable nation, but his loyalty is to the Protestant state, not to the office-holder. Mary signed her abdication under duress; Catholic fanatics will contest it. If Mary is helped to the throne, she will take a Spanish bridegroom; her reign will be backed by the might of Spain. 

“Lord Robert sees a path to the power he’s lusted after, his father’s same failing, it’s in the bloodline. He may honestly believe it his patriotic duty to marry the Scot and keep her nasty impulses in check, lest we be saddled with a second Bloody Mary. Additionally, he’s recently lost his son, his hope for the continuation of his line. I have to believe he’s suffering a mental collapse. The infamy is too outrageous an idea for anyone in his right mind to contemplate.”

“He’s already married!”

“I have two words for you. Amy Robsart.”⁴ 

“You’re kidding, right? You gotta be kidding.”

“I don’t put it past him. In his impaired state, there’s no telling what he’d do. Shush. Here comes Closette. Closette! Has our girl downed her glass of brandy?” 

Closette laughs. “She’s downed two.”

“Is she …”

“She’s nodded off. Let’s let her be. I’ll poke her awake in half an hour.” 

“Perfect. I’ve time for a snort myself. Not the stuff served those free-loaders in there. Fetch me out the bottle in the cabinet in the library.” Dee sighs. “No, wait. Bad idea. I’d be tempted to over-do, and I have a performance to give. Bring me a pitcher of ale. And a little something to chew on. Bring a selection of cheeses, and a bowl of the grapes, if they are yet to be had.” Sir Francis has served a variety of soft cheeses paired with fig jam, his own sugar pears, and the first grapes of the season, as the cap-off to the meal, in the French fashion.

* * *

1. Bunny will stand godmother to Dee’s daughter Madima.
2. The Marshalsea was a notorious prison in London.
3. Nostradamus is making a killing in France, off his pamphlets. Dee (with Sly’s help, natch) could do as well, or better.
4. Amy Robsart was Robert Dudley’s first wife, who died in a fall down cellar stairs. Dudley, suspected of being behind the death, was cleared by a closed coroner’s jury. That, of course, only added to the speculation.

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Broken

by John Correll

If only this stops. 

So many promises, and yet the bottle returns after a month, a week, day after day. Splintered shards of emptiness spill anger, hostility, slurred speech, and dazed blinking eyes. A blinded vision waiting for the morning of more regret. Or more anger? And I lavish sorries when I’m unsure of my faults and madness. Where does wrong linger when your love, an equally dazed satellite, dances around your world? Tethered tightly.

So many promises with huge hopes for every innocent babe. Hopes crying for miracles of steadfastness, resilience, or unbreakable resolve, knowing all too well the scarred record skipping back — over, over, and over. 

Alone, I plan, but pledges anchor my sunken voyage to nowhere. Behind me, crumbled maps litter my quiet eddies, and ahead, my compass spins on the edge. No return, no forward, no change. 

Yet, this must stop.

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My Three Dogs, Come, Sit, and Stay

by John Correll

My three dogs, Come, Sit, and Stay; if only they would listen.

“Come, Stay, and Sit, come. Come here you stupid mutts.

“Stay, sit. Sit, come. Come stay. Stop fighting. 

“Roll over, Sit, Stay, and Come. What the hell.

“Come, stop doing that to Stay. Bad dog. 

“Sit, Sit. What did I say! Come, Come. Watch it! Stay, Stay. Hey! Look at me. Finally, good dogs. I’ve got wonderful news. Tomorrow we’re babysitting my girlfriend’s three puppies, Paw, Roloaver, and Lydown. She says they’re way better behaved than you.

“So when they come I want you to be your best. Let’s practice, Sit, paw.

“Good.

“Come, roll over. Stay, lie down. 

“Excellent. You’ll be perfect with the pups.”

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Darren and Dunia Camping

by SL Randall

Artwork by SL Randall

The fire crackled merrily. Flames licked at the spit, while Darren slowly rotated it. The skinned glabelhammies browned nicely as the fat dripped into the fire. Dunia approached, her steps stealthy and light. He barely heard her over the crackle of spitted meat.

“Those smell fabulous,” she murmured as she warmed her hands near the flames.

“Did you stake the kayaks?”

“Yes. How long till those are ready?”

“A little while longer, can you make some tea?”

Dunia grunted her assent.

As she poured tea, Darren removed the glabelhammies from the spit.

“Such weird creatures,” noted Dunia, as she handed him a cup of tea.

“I always think it’s what you would get if you crossed a hamster with a beetle.”

Dunia chuckled, “I can see where you would think that. I studied them in my zoology class a couple semesters ago. They’re quite fascinating as well as unique.” She peeled a piece of meat off the crispy carcass on her plate, “If only they weren’t so greasy!”

Darren bit directly into the bulbous midsection. Meaty juice ran into his beard. Nothing beat a spit grilled glabelhammie. 

Dunia went on, “Like the rest of earth’s creatures, the G-hammie crawled out of the oceans. Unlike other mammals, it kept it’s segmented body, so if you examine it’s skeletal structure, it has an odd barrel shaped midsection. As you can tell those legs appear to be vestigial, yet for years scientists assumed they once had wings. That’s been debunked. They now know the G-hammie used those legs for climbing.”

“Seriously? Climbing?” he chuckled. “Considering this particular chubber I’m chewing on now, he’s wandered far from his genetic origins!”

“You can’t say that.” corrected Dunia.

“Say what?”

“Chubber. It’s not socially acceptable.”

Darren looked around, “Right, because we’re sitting in the middle of society right now.” He shook his head, “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Dunia frowned, “I don’t joke. The point is, whether or not you are surrounded by people, you should always do the right thing.”

Darren rolled his eyes. “I don’t get you. Most of the time you are the coolest badass I’ve ever met but at times, like right now, you turn into an uptight pious nerd!”

Dunia reached for the spit.

“Leave the pointy stick alone,” he said. “You have to know by now I have only the highest regard for you.”

Dunia went back to eating her glabelhammie. After a few minutes, she said, “You’re a jackass.”

Darren grinned. He knew he was forgiven. “Tomorrow, I intend to catch some nice fat and juicy land squids for dinner.” He wasn’t surprised when the skeletal remains of her glabelhammie bounced off his head.

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Turn Up the Sound

by S.T. Ranscht

Image by Alina Nichepurenko on Unsplash

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