Welcome to the Spot Writers. This
month’s prompt is to write about a chance encounter. Today’s post is written by
Phil Yeats. Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) has published two soft-boiled
police detective stories in his Barrettsport Mysteries series. They’re set
in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community with very quirky citizens. The
Amazon link for the more recent one is: https://www.amazon.com/Tilting-Windmills-Barrettsport-Mysteries-Book-ebook/dp/B07L5WR948/
Today’s submission is an alternative take on an earlier SW
submission. It might become the opening scene for a sequel to his current WiP –
The Road to Environmental Armageddon. He’s trying to invoke late Middle
Ages or Renaissance vibe, but story is actually set in a post-Apocalyptic
future.
The Panhandler (take
two)
by Phil Yeats
Benjamin trudged home in the waning sunlight after
delivering a parcel containing four flintlock pistols and a supply of gunpowder
to the southwestern gatehouse. He entered the town square from Southwest Road
and turned onto the busy Western Road, heading for Little West Lane. His home
was near the end of the lane, within sight of the town wall.
He hadn’t feared for
his safety as he strode along the busier thoroughfares. The purse of coins he’d
received in exchange for the pistols was tucked into a secure compartment
within his leather tunic. It suddenly felt heavier as he approached the narrow lane
with many nooks and crannies where thieves could lurk.
Thoughts of the weapons
at his disposal distracted him as he approached his corner. He barely noticed
the scruffy young panhandler sitting on the cobblestones suckling a fractious
infant. She was wearing rags, her hair was crudely shorn, and she looked like
she hadn’t washed in weeks—a perfect incubator for fleas and lice. When he
dropped a penny in her pot, the baby reached for his fingers. The
tiny hand and abandoned breast distracted him. He lingered for a moment too
long.
“Benji?” she
said as he tried to leave.
She handed him her baby
and paused before covering her breasts. He diverted his gaze as he took the
surprisingly clean tyke and tried to determine who she was. Was she from home,
the nearby village where he grew up? If not, she wouldn’t know the childish nickname
his mother dumped on him. No one but his friend Thaddaeus used it. Solving the
little puzzle wasn’t difficult. She was Leah, Thady’s little sister.
She would have been
twelve when he left home six years earlier to study at Caverns Technical
College. He crouched beside her, leaving a gap he hoped fleas couldn’t leap and
let her inquisitive tyke tug the wisps of hair representing his pathetic
efforts to grow a beard.
“Are you okay?” he
asked when she began gathering her meagre possessions. “Somewhere to go?
Someone looking out for you?”
She dumped the coins
from her pot into her hand, counted them, and slid them inside her smock. She
stood while pulling the drawstring closed and adjusting the shoulder straps of
her kirtle. After hoisting an ancient rucksack onto her shoulder, she reached
for her child. “Completely alone and nowhere to go. I’ll find a street vendor
willing to sell me a bowl of gruel, then…”
He stood without
relinquishing the tyke. “I have bread and makings for stew, enough for two.” He
paused glancing up the lane. “And a tub for a bath. You could get cleaned up
and…” He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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