2 Stories of 100 words each, without titles
Emily’s late husband had insisted on order and routine. In his entire life he’d never done anything unexpected—except go West. He’d been an upright man, and she’d done her best to love him.
When she thought of Josiah he was immobile, colored sepia, like a tintype photograph.
But Johnny! Johnny was spontaneity personified. He clapped his hands, slapped his thigh, fidgeted with anything within reach. He touched people - throwing his arm across a shoulder, backhanding a belly, poking an arm with his finger. His quickness and athleticism left her feeling breathless and clumsy.
Johnny was color in motion.
Emily was easy to be around, and when he wasn’t around her, his thoughts wandered back her way of their own accord.
But was he ready to be tied down to just one girl? Heck, he wondered if he was ready to be tied down to just one place. He loved the land, and his family, but he couldn’t help feeling boxed in sometimes.
There’s something to be said for calling your own shots—or tune, he thought wryly. Madrid called the shots. Murdoch calls the tune. Emily would enjoy that wordplay...
And he was right back where he started.