Celebrating National Tell a Story Day

It's National Tell a Story Day so I'm here to tell you a story. I wrote this one recently though the idea took root a while back with a writing prompt - "write a story in which a pack of baseball cards is pivotal." It's not a finished draft by any means and I will probably never touch it again, but, for your enjoyment (I hope!) here is the beginning and the rest is available on Wattpad.

It's in the Cards

Smith climbed out of the car, stretched his too-long limbs, and considered the Greco-Roman façade of the funeral parlor. Taylor-Strauss, the only mortuary in town, marked the entrance to the only cemetery in town. Not by coincidence.

The town of Whitehall prided itself on efficiency above all else. When the town had been mapped out in the mid-1800s, the planners had used foresight beyond their time and subsequent generations held true to the strict guidelines laid out by Taylor, Strauss, Blevins, Hall, and White. There were few cornerstones in Whitehall that didn’t bear the name of one or more of the founding families.

Smith strode across the cobblestone path, past the animal-shaped topiaries, up to the smooth, marble steps, all of it too grand for his tastes. He, like his father, disapproved of such extravagance detracting from the clean lines of the building beyond. The mortuary had been Smith’s father’s greatest contribution to Whitehall, a sprawling, modern building with clean lines and walls of windows that would have allowed mourners to look out over the river to the east, foothills to the west, and the cemetery to the north. It would have been beautiful, a perfect juxtaposition to the building’s purpose. 

The citizens of Whitehall hadn’t seen it that way. They hadn’t understood. Another architect had been hired to fix what was perceived as wrong. The columns went up. The topiaries and gates and fountains and marble steps followed.

Jonathan Taylor, Sr. met Smith in the lobby, sweaty-browed and glassy-eyed from the booze he liked to sneak before handling such affairs. Smith knew about the booze because of his relationship with Taylor’s son. Jonathan Junior, or more commonly, just Junior, was the jelly to Smith’s peanut butter. The pair had been inseparable since the first day of preschool when Smith defended Junior against a far bigger boy over a box of crayons. Junior may have started out a runt, but he took after his father and ended up defending Smith more often than not. Smith wished Junior were standing with him now. He could use some of that strength.   

“Hey, Smith. How are you holding up, son?” Jonathan Senior engulfed Smith’s hand in both of his, thought better of it and then pulled him into a suffocating bear hug. “I’m so sorry about your dad.” Jonathan Senior choked the words out, his breath heavy with bourbon and emotions Smith was sick to death of.