When I first started writing for publication—and back when I
didn’t know that I didn’t’ know what I was doing—the leader of my newly formed Writing
Group, suggested that entering short-story contests might provide an
entrance into the writing world. Being a good little follower, I immediately
scoured the web and found three competitions. I immediately entered two with
mystery stories. Except for acknowledgement of entry-receipt, I never heard
anything from those contests.The third contest, however, was more specific and required some thought. Sad to say, for this monumental “first,” I can’t even remember the contest name. That particular website was running two contests—one for writing with a 2,000 word -imit, and one for art. Both had to relate to knights or knighthood.
Obviously, I had no complete story that met the criteria—I
was a modern mystery writer. But after a
month of agonizing I completed my story—okay, it was really only a week, there
was a deadline.
Wonder-of-wonders, two weeks later I received an email
saying I’d won first place that my story would be published in the next
addition of the online magazine. I was over-the-moons-of-Jupiter excited, all
79 of them! A few days later my prizes arrived—a writing journal and a check
for $25, which covered the $10 entry fee (if not the $30 for all three contests--sigh.
Then the waiting began. On the day the new edition should
have
been posted, I opened the page… Nothing. Maybe I was too early, after all it was 5:30 a.m. So I tried again at 6:00. And 7:00. And noon.
been posted, I opened the page… Nothing. Maybe I was too early, after all it was 5:30 a.m. So I tried again at 6:00. And 7:00. And noon.
Still nothing. Maybe the editor was a day behind. I repeated my excitable website-opening the
next day. And the next. After a week, my
excitement turned to anxiety. Those of you who know me won’t be surprised at
all to learn that after two weeks, a sign was posted on the link saying the
online magazine had “closed the site.”
Being a new writer, I was crushed. As a more experienced, if
not entirely wiser author, I understand rejection is part of the literary life,
thus I can now re-relish the initial joy of winning that contest. There are few things not
related to loved ones, that are better than seeing your name in print. Except
maybe the anticipation of seeing your name in print.
“re-relish a word?).
“re-relish a word?).
Happy anticipation!
Robin
P.S. I’ve posted the
story below. So now it's “in print.” :)
A KNIGHT RESURRECTED
By S. R. Weaver
“Yeow. Quit stalking me.” She massaged the top of her head, only
slightly mollified when he began to sputter.
“I…I’m not
stalking you. I just wanted to make sure
you got into the building safely.”
“Oh,
pleaaase.” Her southern twang emerged
with her anger. “It’s a secure parking
lot with a guard less than fifty feet away.
I think little ole me can manage without the help of the big dweeb
hero.”
The lights in the
parking lot revealed the pinkish glow creeping over Lance’s face, making Annie
regret her attack. The man annoyed her
simply by breathing, but she shouldn’t have called him a dweeb. He wasn’t that bad. Actually, he wasn’t bad at all if you liked
the intelligent, handsome type. Delete
the thought.
Annie tried to
focus on the negatives and ignore his body, ripped from regular workouts. Even in the semi-darkness, she envisioned his
amazing gray-green eyes and the way they twinkled when he smiled.
A fresh wave of
anger washed over Annie—anger at her own foolishness. She couldn’t get sucked in by a man’s charm
again. If she didn’t focus on Lance’s
pesky nature, she might drop her guard and admit he was better than not
bad. She couldn’t do that. Her life precluded having time, or use, for a
man, even one that seemed nice. All her
efforts centered around juggling two jobs, a degree yet to be earned, and a three
year-old angel who reminded Annie each day that men could not to be trusted.
Annie grabbed her
tote, slammed the trunk and scurried toward the building, hoping to escape both
Lance, and her thoughts. Believing she’d
ditched him, Annie set down her bundle so she could swipe her badge. A hand reached around her and grabbed her
canvas bag before it touched the ground.
“Here, let me carry that.”
She hid a smirk
when Lance stumbled at the bag’s unexpected weight. “You never stop, do you?”
she asked, shaking her head. “If you had
half a brain, you’d stay away from me.”
“I just wondered
if you wanted to go for a coffee during our break tonight.”
Annie made a
production of her sigh. “Giving you
credit for having half a brain was fifty percent over-inflated. The answer is no.”
She passed through
the revolving gate, leaving Lance to manage her oversized shoulder tote while
trying to swipe his own credentials. She
hurried, needing to put some distance between them, but Lance’s long legs enabled
him to catch her at the elevator, even lugging her bag and his own backpack.
“Is it my breath?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
She bit her lip to stifle a
laugh when Lance ran his tongue over his teeth.
Annie jerked her bag from his hand. “It isn’t your breath, it’s the body
odor.”
He sniffed at his
armpits. “Body odor?”
“I’m kidding, Walker!” His downcast face caused her tone to
soften. “I’ve told you. I have to study on my breaks. Besides, I can't afford fancy coffee.”
“Come on. It’s my treat.”
“Knock it off,
will you? I’m not going out with
you. Period, the end.” Annie groaned as they approached the entrance
to the New Games Division. She had
worked with Lance on second-shift for almost three months. He headed the team that was developing
Interactive Action’s latest game, Galahad’s Ghost, and she recorded
voice segments. The company paid well, but between tuition,
daycare and rent, she still needed to waitress on Sundays to cover
expenses. Five bucks for a latte didn’t
fit into her budget and she didn’t want a man paying for anything.
He raced for the
door, grabbing it just in time to smack her in the shin. “Ouch!”
She pierced him with a nasty look while she rubbed her leg. “You don’t take rejection well, do you?”
“I’m
sorry. I was just trying to open the
door for you.”
Annie ignored the concern
etched on his features. Red whelp or
not, his eyes stared at her calf and partially exposed thigh. She jerked her skirt down and glared at him. “Don’t.”
Lance blinked. “Annie, I wasn’t…ah, forget it.” He lifted his head and looked at the ceiling,
but continued to hold the door open.
She’d probably misjudged
him. Again. Bob from the accounting department would use
the accident as an excuse to stroke her knee and Lance’s buddy, Arnie, would
look up her skirt but Lance wasn’t like the other bozos who harassed her.
She hadn’t been so
‘anti-men’ during her first month at Interactive Action, but as Romeo wannabes
grew bolder and the pick-up lines grew more ridiculous, she wrapped herself in
protective iciness. She cursed her
looks, knowing nothing had changed in the eight years since high school. Guys wanted to score because she had a pretty
face, but if she allowed a man to seduce her, she’d become a statistic. That lesson had been learned the hard way,
courtesy of Natalie’s dad.
Lance might be
different, but she could not, would not, take the chance. “I’m perfectly capable of opening the door
myself.”
His eyes met hers. “Give me a break. How can I be chivalrous if you won’t even
let me get the door? Besides, you
couldn’t open the door carrying that bag. I’m surprised you can even
walk. What have you got in there
anyway?”
Her hands clutched the bag
protectively. She’d been flustered when
he approached her in the parking lot and had grabbed the wrong tote. There’s no way she’d tell him the bag held
Natalie’s things: roller skates,
clothes, and dumbbells, because Natalie wanted to lift weights like mommy.
To distract his attention,
she snapped, “Chivalrous? Is this
your idea of chivalry?” She pointed at
her shin, the bump already making the transition from red to blue. “In the Middle Ages, men opened doors for
women because the doors were heavy—I think I can handle this one. Chivalry wasn’t just a grand gesture, it had
a purpose.”
“Really? That would mean chivalry is dead. There’s nothing I can do for you that you
can’t do for yourself.” A boyish smile
erased the dejection on his face. “Except,
maybe, buy you a fancy coffee?”
A burst of anger rippled
through her. Men thought spending a
little cash could solve anything. She
wanted to kick his shin with her uninjured limb. “You’re missing the point, Walker. Chivalry isn’t completely dead. I’m sure if you tried, you could come up with
something more original than holding a door open, especially if you must break
my leg in the process.”
“I could say ‘thank you’ when you let me buy
you a fancy coffee!”
“Nice try, but that’s just
courtesy.”
“Ah ha! You said courtesy.” He grinned a Cheshire Cat grin. “The
dictionary defines chivalry as ‘bravery, courtesy, honor, and gallantry toward
women.’”
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God!
You actually looked the word up?
You need to get away from Galahad for a few days. You're becoming a terminal nerd.”
The pun hadn’t been
intentional but they both laughed.
Annie’s bad humor subsided. She
was majoring in medieval history. The
propeller-head had probably memorized the definition of chivalry to impress
her.
Warning bells blasted in
her head. She couldn’t let him impress
her with his desire to impress.
“Fine,” she scoffed. “Courtesy is important, but a single quality
does not constitute chivalry. True
chivalry is a combination of all the things in your definition, but it should
be extended to anyone who needs a little help, not just women. The twenty-first century knight must be
gallant without being sexist.”
“Then give me an
example of modern chivalry.”
“Naturally, you can’t think
of one yourself.”
“Tell you what,” Lance responded. “I’ll come up with an example of modern
chivalry by Saturday, but you have to let me explain my idea over dinner.”
“Why would I do that?” She narrowed her eyes.
“Because if I can’t come up
with a suitable gesture, I won't bother you again. Ever.”
The idea had merit. Annie also remembered that Natalie was
spending the weekend with her grandparents and she would be alone on Saturday
night. Again. She didn’t want to be excited about a night
out, but she’d spent to many Saturday nights playing Chutes and Ladders “If it
will get rid of you once and for all, I’ll do it.”
There was no way he would
impress her and she would finally be free of his unwanted attention. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
His voice intruded into her
self-argument. “It’s a bet. If I win, we go on a second date.”
“No way. If you win, we’ll go for that fancy coffee,
but…it has to cost you if…eh…when you lose.
If you fail to demonstrate true chivalry, you have to sponsor me in the
'Race for the Cure.' And,” she amended
quickly, “you have to stop bugging me.”
“You’re on. It’s a date.”
“It is so not a
date.”
***
Annie could feel Lance’s
eyes follow her as the hostess showed them to a booth. The restaurant was a surprise—it was
perfect. She’d expected it to be trendy
and slick, but instead, candles and soft music created a romantic atmosphere.
Half-round tables forced patrons to sit side-by-side while a delicious aroma
stimulated anticipation. He had good
taste, but it would take more than haute cuisine and fancy wine to impress
her.
“Excellent choice,” she
said, looking around. “But this isn’t
chivalry; it’s just expensive.”
He laughed.
“Nah. This is just good
food. The chivalry comes later.”
After they were seated,
Lance asked, “I bet you think I was a geek during my formative years?”
“You weren’t?” Annie didn’t quite manage a straight face.
“Nope. If I show you my anti-geek shot records, can
I meet your daughter?”
Annie choked, knocking her
water goblet. “You know about Natalie?”
Lance rescued the glass
before it spilled. “Of course. I’ve seen your screen saver. Got any recent photos?”
“You want to see pictures
of my kid? That is chivalrous.”
“Nope, that’s not my
gesture. I just like munchkins.”
Maybe the evening wouldn’t
be so bad after all. Annie dug in her
purse for photos of her princess. While
Lance ooh’ed and ahh’ed, Annie did something she hadn’t done in a long
time. She let down her guard. After that, conversation flowed smoothly.
Only one bite of crème
brulee was left on the plate when Lance raised his wineglass. “To chivalry, whatever form it takes.” He reached in his jacket pocket and retrieved
a small box, beautifully wrapped with a glimmering silver bow.
Annie folded her arms
across her chest. The amity that had
developed during the meal evaporated. “I
can’t be bought with gifts.”
“This isn't a gift. Let’s just say I’m into packaging.”
Her brain rejected
the gesture, but her hands wouldn’t comply. Her fingers itched to know what
trinket was inside the box. After
removing the lid, Annie took out a plastic card and a check. An awed expression covered her face when she
scrutinized the objects.
"Alas,” she whispered,
“chivalry does indeed live."
Lance Walker had
managed to melt her ice and restored her faith in the male species. Perhaps he could be trusted. Annie raised her lips to kiss his cheek. In her hands, she held a check made out to
the Breast Cancer Foundation and Lance’s recently renewed driver’s
license. The words on the card, Organ
Donor, shone like armor.
