Short Story of the Day: As Fate Would Have It
The woods teem with the glory of summer. Whistling loudly, I skip past the quaint cottage at the end of the dirt road, white skirts dancing around my legs. Grass threads tickle my naked toes and my laughter rises up on the playful breeze, ruffling an open window's curtains. A woman comes to the window, called forth by my expressions of merriment. There are dishes to do, clothes to mend, meals to cook. . . But that can wait. Summer beckons too enticingly; she cannot resist. I duck gleefully behind a tree trunk and watch as the woman hastens to the door and bursts out. Bending down, she breathes in the vibrant scent of life gushing from the fragile blooms carpeting her front garden. Her attention still solely tunneled on the flowers, I scurry away down the furry green bank toward the gargling brook flowing near her cottage. I hop about the creek-bed, allowing my toes to kiss the surface of the cool water every so often as I meander along, seeking the smoothest pebble. A ways down the brook, a strongly built man with a lively looking face naps lightly beside long extinguished remnants of a campfire. Scattered haphazardly about him are various provisions of a hunter: rifle, canteen, canvas sack. Near him a hunting dog— a normally fierce creature now pleasantly drowsy, drugged from the smells of summertime— lays, with a coil of rope binding him to a thick tree trunk. Tiptoeing, I reach the hound, give him a cordial pat on the head, and release him from bondage. The dog rises lackadaisically, regarding me with an insouciant affectation. I whisper in the dog's ear and after taking one more moment to study me, he trots down the bank in the direction I came from. Concealing myself with a tree trunk, I fling my smooth pebble like a cannonball into the brook where it sinks with a satisfying PLOP! The hunter awakens with a start. Spotting his trusty hound traveling down the creek-bed, the hunter springs forward, calling, "Rusty!". I am sprite-ly and travel faster than the man, who does not see me darting between trees. Passing the hound, I make it back to the cottage; the woman is turning back toward the door. I leap recklessly into the brook, splashing noisily in the water: it flies up and licks my face deliciously with coolness. I exit the water and slip behind a tree once more. The woman peers over curiously and moves forward to investigate. The hound comes up and sniffs her half-interestedly, and at that moment, the gaze of man and woman meet.
"John!"
"Mary!"
They rush into each other's arms.
"I can't believe it. . . After all these years. . . And to find you here! Who can explain it?"
I giggle; the sound floats like whispers on the wind.
"It must be Fate!" the woman exclaims, laughing.
I smile. They know my name.