author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

Notes from the author:

Sometimes the quote accompanying the Flash Fiction Chronicles daily string-of-ten writing prompt makes me grumpy. They're so glib, and attributed to such Heroes of Literature that you're not supposed to dare disagree with them.

Take this one, for example. "Time is the only critic without ambition." What exactly are we saying, Mr. Steinbeck? That literary critics are just jealous? Is this another way of dismissing all critics as failed artists taking their bitterness out on the successful ones? Look, artistry and critique are two separate but related skills. They don't always occur both in the same person. Lay off already!

Considering the words in that day's string-of-ten, I started thinking about how marriage counselors were sort of like art critics (since marriage, too, is an art), and, like other critics, I imagine they're probably less appreciated for their negative reviews than for their positive ones. No one wants to hear "Maybe your marriage can't be saved," and we do have a tendency to shoot the messenger.

So I wound up writing an absurdly idealistic scene in which the couple emphatically didn't shoot the messenger. It's not by any means prescriptive, and certainly not universally so. It's just what worked for these characters, you know?

A couple weeks later, I read this (scroll down to #5). Synchronicity, thy name is Captain Awkward.

It stood, tall and elegant, at the top of the little grassy hill: a white latticework arch supporting tendrils of ivy and honeysuckle. The minister stood in front of the arch, waiting.

The honeysuckle on the arch was still in bloom. Its scent wafted down and mingled with the attendees' varied conversations. There was muted laughter. There were cautious murmurings of hope. There were sotto voce hisses of disapproval.

Not everyone could be expected to understand. Some friends or family members could be guaranteed not to. But Alicia had argued Patrick around to inviting everyone who'd been there for the wedding. No exceptions. "Aunt Jessie'll be the worst. But if I didn't invite her, I'd never hear the end of it. If I'm going to catch hell either way, I might as well catch it on the high road." Patrick conceded. He didn't expect anyone from his half of the old guest list to react nearly as badly as Alicia's Aunt Jessie would.

So the invitations went out to one and all, and they said, "You were with us at the beginning of the journey. It would give us the greatest joy to have you with us at its end." And Aunt Jessie was certainly there, muttering darkly about how not a single marriage in their family had ever ended in divorce until now, and what if there'd been kids, of course there weren't, but what if there had?

Patrick and Alicia could hear her very clearly as, hand-in-hand, they slowly approached the minister. Their doubts kept pace with them: Did they really want to go through with it? It wasn't too late to turn back... Then the attendees noticed them, and a hush fell over the glade so heavily that the couple nearly fled for the hills. For any hill not topped with that festive arch.

But the minister smiled at them, opening her arms in welcome....

This has been an excerpt from the Friday Fictionette for March 10, 2015. The fictionette appears in its entirety (916 words) at Patreon and is available to all Patrons pledging at least $1/month.

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