Short Story Wednesday

The Rewrite, Part 3

Hello again, dear readers. Here’s the end of another short story. This is the tenth one since I started the series on Substack. I’ve discovered that I can write under the pressure of a deadline, but I still get nervous because self-doubt is ever-present—Can I write the ending in time? Well, I do have an ending for this one, and it’s on time, so go away, Self-Doubt.

If you missed the previous installments, in Part 1, a ghost is playing havoc in Hazel’s library, and she’s determined to stop him. In Part 2, he lurks in the non-fiction section, pulling out books with titles like How to Craft A Short Story, and then he tears pages from a short story anthology. She grabs that book from his grasp, and…

Now…

The Rewrite, Part 3 & The End

The ghost stood as still as a vapor can and stared at her. “That was rude.” While the voice was all about mist and particles, it was a strong man’s voice. He had opinions. Of that, Hazel was sure.

“Not as rude as you. You can’t tear pages from a library book!” She held out her hand. “Give me those.”

He shook his head. “These are mine.”

“Not likely. They belong to Angels Camp Public Library.”

“See here, young lady, I wrote this.” The ghost waved the loose pages in the air.

Hazel glanced at the book in her hand. The Collected Works of Mark Twain. She shifted her eyes back to him. “Who are you anyway?”

He pointed at the image on the cover. “That is me. Or who I used to be before this terrible and permanent affliction befell me.” He waved a hand over his transparent chest. It was unnerving to be able to see the back wall of the library while staring at a man’s shirt.

She opened the book to where several pages were missing. “So what is it you’re here to do? This is unacceptable!” A book with missing pages upset her terribly.

“It has come to my attention that my prose is out of date. I have a Pass to visit for a sufficient time to make modern at least one story.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” Hazel said. “Sort of like changing history.”

“Perhaps, but I intend rewriting this one about the jumping frog.”

“I can’t see the reason—”

“Listen to this.” He cleared his throat, then began to read. “‘In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result.’” He looked up at her. “Well?”

“Hmm. Kind of high and mighty sounding,” Hazel said.

The ghost agreed with a grunt. “No one’s likely to read it written the way it is. Not in this century. The year was 1865 when I wrote that. Things have changed a bit in storytelling. I’m here to set this right, but I don’t have much time left on my Pass.”

Hazel considered the problem. Rita Baum would toss her and her mops right out the door if she found this book shredded. But that writer's ghost wasn’t about to budge. He was one stubborn haunt. She could tell by the way he held tight to those pages.

“Look here. How about I get you some paper and a pencil, so as you can do your rewriting, but you give me what you tore out. I’ll lose my job if you don’t.”

He hesitated, then handed what he held to Hazel. “I can’t be causing a loss of a paying position, but I’d appreciate it mightily if you’d give me that paper and pencil.”

He wrote for over an hour, then he gave her what he’d written. She tucked the new version into the book with the original pages she’d carefully taped back into place, then reshelved the book in exactly the right spot.

“I thank you kindly, “ the ghost said and, with a grand flourish, vanished.

Once she was alone, she opened The Collected Works of Mark Twain and took out the papers tucked inside. Curious, she sat and read the slanted strokes of the handwritten lines.

“‘A friend of mine wrote me from the East and asked me to visit old Simon Wheeler. My friend wanted to know what ever happened to a guy named Leonidas W. Smiley. When I found Wheeler, he had quite a tale to tell.’”

She turned her face to the ceiling, thinking Mr. Twain might hear her more clearly that way. “Not so highfalutin’ now. But I kind of enjoyed the old one.”

The End

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One reviewer says: The narrative is gripping and holds your attention until the very end. The characters are endearing, relatable, and skillfully developed.
From the very first page, the story picks up pace, and the finale stays with you long after it's over. Available on AMAZON