Home | Contest | Write A Book | Write Ebooks For Cash | Be A Travel Writer | Write Children's Books Write For Newspapers | Write An Ezine | Write A Blog | Writing Skills & Tips | Novel Writing Software Please take a moment to bookmark this site and join our free hot tips list. Read & Rate Our Writing Contest Entries! See what other people have written, and rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. This is an opportunity to view a wide variety of short stories and see what kind of original material is being submitted to us on a daily basis. After you rate an entry, you will be randomly redirected to another entry to rate. You may read and rate as many entries as you wish! The user-rating system is simply a fun way for writers to receive a public opinion of their work, and does not affect the judging for the cash prizes. If you wish to enter the contest, you may enter for free here. Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Eva Bell ROSEMARIE. For many years, I used to take my evening constitutional in Twickenham cemetery during summer. The colorful flowers peeping between marble tombstones, the porcelain angels standing sentinel over graves, the quiet ambience provided just the right atmosphere for meditation and introspection. Sometimes, an epitaph would conjure up pictures of the ‘dear departed,’ someone’s young spouse, a little baby, or an old woman who had lived long and loved well! From where I often rested, I could see a patch of vibrant color, like an intricately woven Persian carpet. It was only a bed of flowers with no tombstone, but a crooked wooden cross that said “Rosemarie.” A middle-aged man of African descent came here each day after work. As he lovingly tended the patch, I could hear him tell her his news of the day. “Good news my dear. The boss says he’ll recommend me for a promotion,” or “I know you’re up there looking at these flowers. The roses you love are in bloom. I wonder if you can smell their fragrance.” Sometimes, in his deep bass voice he’d sing, “Rosemarie I love you……I’m always dreaming of you….” I had to make his acquaintance. “Good evening. Was she wife, mother, sister or lover?” I asked. “She was all these and more.” “You must have loved her very much.” He leaned on his shovel, and a tear gleamed in his eye. “Never loved anyone better. Part of me died with her.” He knew I was anxious to hear his story. “I don’t think you’ll believe a word I say.” “Try me.” Many years ago, when Abel was a young man, an English woman turned up on his doorstep asking for shelter. It was a dark winter’s night, and the woman was shivering in her overcoat. There were bruises all over her body, and her face was swollen and plum-colored. “Why me?” he asked, frightened by the sight of her. “I could get into serious trouble if I shelter you.” “No one’s going to find me here,” she begged, “ This is the last place where he’ll come looking for me.” “Who?” Abel asked, getting more nervous by the minute. “My husband – He’s been battering me ever since we were married. But now he’s turned murderous. And the worst part is that no one believes me. He’s a paragon of virtue to the rest of the world.” Abel took her into his hut, and nursed her back to health. She never left. For years, they lived together – a middle-aged white woman and a younger black man, mutually and unconditionally loving and supporting each other. “Then one day, she was gone as quietly as she had come. All I know about her is the life we lived together. She never talked about her past and I never asked. Now I’m all alone.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a wonderful human being Abel. I feel privileged to know you.” I was away from Twickenham for three years. Back at the cemetery, the patch of flowers looked just as colorful. I waited for Abel but he didn’t come. Instead I saw the custodian tending it with just as much care. “Isn’t Abel coming?” “Oh no! He’s gone to join his Rosemarie. One evening, I found him lying across her grave in the bed of flowers he had so carefully tended.” The crooked cross now read, “Rosemarie and Abel – reunited forever.” “What a beautiful love story!” I said, “Abel must have died of a broken heart.” “Indeed he must have,” the custodian mused, “Who ever said that hearts don’t break! But there’s comfort in the thought that they’ll always be together up there.” Warning: fopen(/home/writingc/public_html/entries/b3_rating/b3r_data/.txt) [function.fopen]: failed to open stream: No such file or directory in /home/writingc/public_html/entries/b3_rating/b3_rating.php on line 69 Warning: fopen(/home/writingc/public_html/entries/b3_rating/b3r_data/.txt) [function.fopen]: failed to open stream: No such file or directory in /home/writingc/public_html/entries/b3_rating/b3_rating.php on line 69 Warning: fopen(/home/writingc/public_html/entries/b3_rating/b3r_data/.txt) [function.fopen]: failed to open stream: No such file or directory in /home/writingc/public_html/entries/b3_rating/b3_rating.php on line 69 Warning: fopen(/home/writingc/public_html/entries/b3_rating/b3r_data/.txt) [function.fopen]: failed to open stream: No such file or directory in /home/writingc/public_html/entries/b3_rating/b3_rating.php on line 69 |
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