Calling Home

Today's muse:

I sought some advice from fellow writers at Six Sentences. I read some of my earlier work and cringed at how many rules I broke (I know Strunk and White are thrashing about right now), not to mention that I kept editing in my head as I read. I asked my fellow writers if I should just leave my work as it stands or if it's appropriate to edit it.

Everyone agreed that it's my work and I should do as I will. In particular, it was noted that my blog should be about my writing and not the evolution thereof. So, I am going to edit some earlier work, because I hate to think that someone will read it and think Pfft! She calls herself a writer?!

As I edit stale work on this blog, I'll post them on Twitter for any newbies that may be following ... in case you want to Tweet along with me.

I'm also going to edit a few pieces I wrote on another more whimsical blog (before I created this writing blog) and post them here. The first one is ...


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Calling Home

Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, Gregg walked halfway down the secluded stairwell, away from the rest of the crew. He glanced at his watch. It was just before eight. She’d be ready for bed now. But he knew she was waiting for his call. It had become somewhat of a ritual.

He punched the familiar numbers into his phone, pressed it to his ear. She answered on the third ring, breathless, as though she’d run to answer the call.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Sarah’s voice floated through the telephone and the ache in his back melted away. Gregg forgot about the delays that had the supervisor cussing him out every night, set aside the stale humidity that made him feel like he was living in a furnace. Even the steady hammering behind his eyes subsided.

It was just him and Sarah.

He asked her about her day at kindergarten and listened while she chattered about the new puppy’s antics. He could see her sitting at the kitchen table, clad in her Dora the Explorer nightgown, tiny feet swinging well above the floor. When they hung up, she’d climb into bed with her entourage of stuffed bears, say a prayer and kiss her mother goodnight.

As soon as this job was done, he’d kiss her goodnight himself, instead of calling her on the phone. Though he had to admit, the evening routine was something he looked forward to. It was something only they shared. Father and daughter.

But the ritual was never complete until—

“Daddy, will you sing with me?”

He grinned into the darkness.

“Of course I will, honey.”

He glanced around, to be sure no one could hear, and began singing in a soft, off-key voice.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star ...”

Her tiny voice joined in with his until the end.

Giggling, she whispered, “Goodnight, Daddy. I Love you!”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you too.”

Pocketing his phone, he turned to climb back up the stairs and was met with several senior crew members, all grinning at him. He shook his head, his face reddening. As he walked through the group of men, they clapped his back and catcalled.

“Hey Gregg, will you sing Old McDonald with me?”

“How about Mary had a little lamb? That’s my favourite!”

He grinned back at them, knowing each one, at some point, had done the exact same thing. Their teasing was nothing more than an initiation; their way of saying welcome to the club.