Story Time

“How to be perfect all the time” the scribbled message stated in Deford Dunes’ notebook that reminded him about the personal assignment sheet he placed as an obligation to take care of at this moment.

With the afternoon darkness on the horizon signifying the end to the day the workaholic hungry for anything was now resting despite his deadline life being over years ago. With the engine gear secured and the French café staring him down pitching the fact there was a developing issue needing his attention.

“Not that you are a success,” he thought to himself reflecting upon all the time spent at the keyboard pounding away at ink style letters or the electronic variety, “but there are always other characters to explore in the life setting he called home.”

Deford found himself craving a snack and dialogue as two individuals with long cigarettes in hand acted like servants opening the door to a known individual who wrote in such an unbelievable style. Tipping his hat not his wallet both were appreciative as everyone went in separate ways.

Approaching the area where orders were taking in an establishment creating thought provoking sweets that had a following all over town. Ignoring the dinner hour Deford decided to indulge in the creative pastries lining the show promotional display.

“How do you get that sinful treat so perfect?”

“Practice, Practice and Wha Laa,” the cashier explained, “and if it doesn’t work, well do it again, since it will be beautiful tomorrow.”

Noticing a young lady sitting quietly coming to closure with her recent past Deford ventured into the room with a view where patrons could watch the cars parked waiting for kids returning from ballet class. It was then he recognized the image behind the mug.

“I do not do that anymore instead I use other techniques to get a message across,” he told the maturing talent who was sitting in the shaded dining area.

“What happened sir?” She inquired showing an innocent image that the writer felt was sincere before taking another step towards a path into a conversation engagement.

“Truth be told the story started to get old,” the writer placed the knapsack down containing the console that unleashed ammunition after a every finger stroke.

Putting the ceramic cup down Melanie continued to feel powerful as she responded, “Sir, they told me I was a Goat at first, I am not some farm animal that you can take out whenever you want and grade me grazing, I did what I was told and succeeded in the task requested.”

Looking at the athletic muse fashionable attire the innovative raconteur listened, and the answer perplexed him in a certain way that showed he did not understand. “Goat?”

“Oh, sorry Sir, a goat is this reporters’ notation label, meaning ‘greatest of all time’” she took a sip, “I have only been around for not even two decades.”

Turning on the computer the observant note taker watched the white screen glow revealing a communication portal,

“You can be,” Deford looked up,

“What? I need permission to be?”

“You no longer are playing a role, you are no longer the sugar plumb fairy toddler, you are no longer some talented auditioner needing to win an award to be important, you are,” Deford stopped,

“Melanie,” she replied to finish the sentence.

“Exactly and I am Deford, no longer on deadline instead just a writer of fiction, making up characters and story telling.”

Coming over to the empty chair the teenage adult confronted the problem that was soulfully haunting, “am I just a character to some dreamer or a person that actually exists doing something ‘newsworthy?”

Pondering the interesting question from the informative source wanting to spin a tale Deford decided to take the youthful challenge yearning direction,

“You are right I need permission to tell your version, but truth be told since these features are getting rebooted and rehashed like campfire marshmallows feeling the heat,” Deford explained, “so, I make up people in my fantasies and I can do what I want.”

“I wish I could do that,” Melanie interjected, “but I have rules that need to be followed.”

“Perhaps they wanted something,” Melanie sitting once again in the same chair a week ago wondering who that stranger was with a laptop and if he was going to return. Suddenly, a driver hopped out of their car and threw newspapers bundled together on the ground.

Since the headline could be viewed from her seat like craps dice rolling sevens the truth glared, “Success Continues For Local Family!”

When the proprietor to the French café stepped outside, he broke the ties that bind the periodicals, “do you want a copy?” He raised his voice and Melanie answered, “sure, I would love one of those.”

When he delivered it to her, she returned to the happy hour coffee pick me up and saw her legacy being presented respectfully and entertaining. “Is this all true?” She giggled, “I am the great great-granddaughter of one of the town’s original theatrical troupes.”

“That is right Melanie,” the proprietor confirmed, “you are the great great granddaughter to an artistic legend who brought joy to this community.”

“Is that the reason I was chosen to compete this summer? Playing interpretive games that have a score?”

Smiling presenting his soothing French grin the owner replied, “probably and you showed them, what we have here, ‘a stage thespian success who is a good sport’ too.”