The following was a quickly penned write up for a 500 word short story competition at MWC with the prompt of using the name, Jessie and probably two other words I no longer recall. It didn't win anything and the story could still use some work but for now, a quick read if you're so inclined. Enjoy.
The Day the Music Died
Two sisters couldn't be closer than me and Emma, two years my junior. Dad called us peas-in-a-pod to irk me. I hated peas. Emma loved them.
We harvested a garden every summer on our Kentucky farm. The payoff? Good eating. Better yet… the afternoons Dad let us take the quad-runner to the pasture, by the river.
A transistor radio, towels, and we were set to swim and sing. We knew the words to every song, words we changed to suit current dramas. Uncle Ty said he could hear our crooning plum up to his house, echoing off the mountains.
By 1981 we were boy crazy, teeny-boppers. An Australian singer became a heartthrob with his song, "Jessie's Girl." After that, every boy was Jessie and we were, of course, Jessie's Girl. Armed with hairbrush microphones, we drove Mom nuts singing that song.
Full-bloom by the following summer, I had my license and a steady boyfriend, James - inherently nicknamed, Jessie James.
My high school senior year flew. I earned a full ride to Stanford University. James joined the US Air Force.
Mom died that summer and Dad lost interest in living. Emma, nevertheless, needed two years of high school, so I settled for a nearby junior college. Responsibilities fell on me.
Emma graduated high school, and then Dad died in August, leaving us the farm. Emma and I sang together to chase the blues away. We sold chunks of acreage to pay for Emma's college, or partying, as it were. I finished my bachelor's degree and landed a managerial job with the telephone company where I racked up frequent flyer miles.
James returned from service, opened his own automotive repair shop, and then asked me to marry him. Emma, my maid of honor, decided to sing, "Jessie's Girl" instead of, "Annie's Song" during the ceremony. Guests loved it. I was perturbed.
Emma was fickle, bouncing from one man to another. She insisted on being escorted to our homemade Sunday suppers, for approval, I supposed. A tad bizarre, but, life was good.
One winter, the telephone company sent me to Minneapolis to investigate missing supplies. James was behind schedule with promised repairs so he dropped me off at the train station to hitch a ride to the airport, saving James a four hour drive.
In Louisville, I'm advised a blizzard, now headed our way, hit Minnesota, bringing air travel to a standstill. Thousands of flights cancelled, I wasn't getting out of Kentucky for three days. Determined I wouldn't spend that time at the airport, I took the first train out to beat the storm.
Four hours later, back at the station, it started snowing. Called home, no answer. Take a cab or risk being stranded?
Greeted by lipstick stained cigarette butts, two wine glasses, empty bottle, two wet bath towels, and sex paraphernalia… dark, I waited.
They entered kissing.
Without a word, I walked past gaping jaws, grasped my suitcase, never looking back at Emma and James.
I still hate peas.
Two sisters couldn't be closer than me and Emma, two years my junior. Dad called us peas-in-a-pod to irk me. I hated peas. Emma loved them.
We harvested a garden every summer on our Kentucky farm. The payoff? Good eating. Better yet… the afternoons Dad let us take the quad-runner to the pasture, by the river.
A transistor radio, towels, and we were set to swim and sing. We knew the words to every song, words we changed to suit current dramas. Uncle Ty said he could hear our crooning plum up to his house, echoing off the mountains.
By 1981 we were boy crazy, teeny-boppers. An Australian singer became a heartthrob with his song, "Jessie's Girl." After that, every boy was Jessie and we were, of course, Jessie's Girl. Armed with hairbrush microphones, we drove Mom nuts singing that song.
Full-bloom by the following summer, I had my license and a steady boyfriend, James - inherently nicknamed, Jessie James.
My high school senior year flew. I earned a full ride to Stanford University. James joined the US Air Force.
Mom died that summer and Dad lost interest in living. Emma, nevertheless, needed two years of high school, so I settled for a nearby junior college. Responsibilities fell on me.
Emma graduated high school, and then Dad died in August, leaving us the farm. Emma and I sang together to chase the blues away. We sold chunks of acreage to pay for Emma's college, or partying, as it were. I finished my bachelor's degree and landed a managerial job with the telephone company where I racked up frequent flyer miles.
James returned from service, opened his own automotive repair shop, and then asked me to marry him. Emma, my maid of honor, decided to sing, "Jessie's Girl" instead of, "Annie's Song" during the ceremony. Guests loved it. I was perturbed.
Emma was fickle, bouncing from one man to another. She insisted on being escorted to our homemade Sunday suppers, for approval, I supposed. A tad bizarre, but, life was good.
One winter, the telephone company sent me to Minneapolis to investigate missing supplies. James was behind schedule with promised repairs so he dropped me off at the train station to hitch a ride to the airport, saving James a four hour drive.
In Louisville, I'm advised a blizzard, now headed our way, hit Minnesota, bringing air travel to a standstill. Thousands of flights cancelled, I wasn't getting out of Kentucky for three days. Determined I wouldn't spend that time at the airport, I took the first train out to beat the storm.
Four hours later, back at the station, it started snowing. Called home, no answer. Take a cab or risk being stranded?
Greeted by lipstick stained cigarette butts, two wine glasses, empty bottle, two wet bath towels, and sex paraphernalia… dark, I waited.
They entered kissing.
Without a word, I walked past gaping jaws, grasped my suitcase, never looking back at Emma and James.
I still hate peas.
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