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Re: Kabu
LOL... Thank you!
posted by
BigV
on October 7, 2025 at 1:28 PM
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I intend to read it all after you are finished and then let you know how wonderful it is!
posted by
Kabu
on October 7, 2025 at 11:08 AM
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Re: TAPS and Pat
Thank you. I have mentioned you two and several others by name in my stories in the "Special thanks to...." segment. I don't do that because I'm looking for attention... I sincerely mean that I am thankful to you, several others, and this site. I've been here since 2002, and I can't bring myself to walk away from it... I love this place.
I sometimes have to check myself to slow down, but I am still in one of those ultra-rare situations where my mind and my fingers are on fire... so I write.
Respectfully,
V
posted by
BigV
on October 7, 2025 at 10:22 AM
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If posting here works for you, do it. If feedback helps, that's a plus. If you're making money selling your work, then I say wonderful! Back in the day when I was submitting, I collected rejection slips (1993-1998) and had forgotten all about them. Found the folder a couple days ago at the back of an abandoned file drawer. They're in File 13 now. Gone as well as forgotten.
posted by
Pat_B
on October 7, 2025 at 8:01 AM
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BigV.....
You know, at my age it is much more pleasant to encase myself in a soft easy chair with pillows and proper lighting for long reading of a good book rather than to spend hours at the computer. So I can't seem to get around to everyone that posts on the computer. But You are a very interesting writer and I check in every now and then.
posted by
TAPS.
on October 7, 2025 at 7:36 AM
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Final Episode of "Where The River Bends"
Finale of "Where the River Bends."
As Natural As Breathing
The days that followed didn’t come with fireworks or big declarations. No sweeping music or candlelit speeches. Just life. Steady, warm, and quieter than the kind that turns heads—but richer than either of them had expected.
Lainey woke up one morning and realized she hadn’t slept in her own bed alone in over a week. Wyatt’s toothbrush now lived in the little glass next to hers. His jacket was draped over the back of her dining chair. His reading glasses ended up on her nightstand more often than his.
She smiled about it … and didn’t mention it.
Because it all felt so normal.
They fell into a rhythm. Sunday morning grocery runs. Shared chores, like folding laundry while bickering over how he never paired socks and she always did. Dinner every night—sometimes leftovers, sometimes takeout, sometimes a two-person dance in the kitchen while they made spaghetti and bumped hips with every pass.
He fixed the creaky porch step without her asking. She ironed the collar of his best shirt before his cousin’s retirement party.
And one night, while stretched out in bed—Lainey reading a dog-eared romance novel and Wyatt nodding off beside her—she reached over and ran her fingers through his hair.
“You feel like home now,” she whispered, so quietly he might not have heard, but he did.
He turned, eyes soft. “Right back at you.”
Questions and Answers
At Lori’s house, one of the grandkids had asked, “Is Mr. Wyatt your husband now?”
Lainey blinked. Then laughed. “No, sweetheart. Not officially.” But she couldn’t shake how natural the question had sounded.
Even Pam had softened. “You know,” she’d said over coffee, “I was mistaken about him. He’s good for you. He even helped hang my storm door without being asked. Didn’t even charge me.”
Lainey smiled into her cup. “That’s Wyatt.”
And when he held her hand in the grocery store line, or kissed her shoulder while brushing past her in the kitchen, or poured her coffee without asking how she took it—
It felt like breathing. Unnoticed, unforced, but necessary.
The Ticking Teapot
The house smelled like roasted garlic, melting butter, and just a hint of nervous energy. Lainey had invited Lori, the kids, and Wyatt’s longtime friend, Henry, over for Sunday dinner. Nothing fancy—just a home-cooked meal, some laughs, and maybe a story or two at the table. Something to make everyone feel like family.
The table was set. Lainey had even used the good tablecloth and those thrift store candlesticks she’d been saving. The casserole was bubbling in the oven, a fresh pie rested on the counter, and Wyatt was in the living room helping the kids build a pillow fort with suspicious enthusiasm.
It felt good. Whole, but under it all … There was a ticking.
It started with the casserole.
Lainey had gotten pulled into the living room by a sudden skinned knee and a juice box emergency. By the time she remembered the oven, the smell was already shifting—from golden brown to slightly scorched.
She yanked the dish out with a sharp hiss, holding her breath.
“Is that… crispy?” Wyatt called from the other room.
Lainey winced. “Just a little extra done.”
She poked at the top layer with a fork. Too far gone.
She set it down with a clatter and reached for the pie knife.
Wyatt strolled in behind her, hands in his pockets, grinning. “Need a rescue?”
“Nope,” she said tightly. “I’ve got it.”
He peeked at the dish, then gave her a playful nudge. “Told you we should’ve let me cook tonight.”
She stiffened.
“I mean,” he added, chuckling, “I’ve got that casserole recipe down by heart. You were due for a hiccup.”
Lainey turned slowly. “Excuse me?”
Wyatt blinked. “What? I was kidding.”
“Well, maybe I don’t,” she said, setting the knife down harder than necessary. “You know what, Wyatt? Maybe next time I won’t play the little housewife trying to impress your friends.”
His smile faded. “Hey, it’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” she shot back. “Because every time I try to do something nice, you’ve got a comment ready.”
He stepped forward, voice lower now. “Lainey, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know you didn’t. That’s the problem. It just slips out because you think I’m the one holding this all together.”
The kids’ laughter in the next room muffled the silence that followed.
Wyatt exhaled slowly. “Maybe we should take a breath before we say something we regret.”
“Too late,” she said, brushing past him toward the hallway.
Dinner was served. The casserole went untouched. The pie got compliments. But the warmth that usually danced between them sat stiff and awkward at the table.
That night, the house was quiet again. Too quiet.
Wyatt stood by the sink, rinsing plates, while Lainey dried them without speaking.
Finally, she sighed. “That was dumb.”
“Yep,” he said, handing her a dripping spoon. “We good?”
Lainey looked at him for a long moment. “We’re tired. We burned dinner. And we took it out on each other.”
He nodded. “Classic married-couple move.”
She smirked. “And yet … no ring.”
“You sure about that?” he teased.
“Don’t push your luck, casserole boy.”
Later, as they climbed into bed, Lainey curled into his side.
“Still mad?” she whispered.
“Nope,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Just bruised in the ego a little.”
She smiled, trailing her hand across his chest. “And what do we do when we have a little spat?” she asked softly.
He turned toward her. “We forgive. We laugh. And we remind each other that love’s louder than one burnt dinner.”
“And after that?”
He leaned in close, brushing her lips with his. “We turn the heat down in the kitchen…”
“…and up in the bedroom,” she finished, pulling him closer.
And the teapot in the kitchen whistled softly, as if on cue.
Signs and Seasons
The last golden weeks of summer stretched long and warm, each day a quiet rhythm of everyday life that felt anything but ordinary when spent side by side.
Wyatt had picked up a habit of bringing Lainey small things from his morning walks — a smooth stone, a wildflower, once even an old fishing lure he claimed had “good river luck.” She kept them in a little dish on the kitchen windowsill, like tiny keepsakes from a life in bloom.
On Saturday, they packed a lunch and drove out past the old mill road, where a small river bent through the trees like it had always been there, waiting.
“I used to come here when the world got too loud,” Lainey said, settling onto the worn quilt Wyatt spread under the oak.
Wyatt opened the picnic basket. “A good spot to think?”
She smiled. “A good spot to remember who I was before I started putting everyone else first.”
They ate in easy silence—cold fried chicken, slices of peach, the last of the summer tomatoes—and watched the water roll past like time itself didn’t mind slowing down.
A kingfisher dove near the far bank, wings slicing the sky, and Lainey pointed toward it. “You ever notice how still things have to be before you can see the beauty in them?”
Wyatt followed her gaze. “That’s us, isn’t it?”
She turned to him, head tilted slightly. “What do you mean?”
He set his drink aside. “We had to fight through all the noise—grief, kids, fear, casseroles gone wrong—before we figured out what mattered.”
Lainey smiled at that. “And what matters, Wyatt?”
“You.” His voice didn’t waver. “You do. And this. Sitting beside you with grass stains on my jeans and ants stealing the last of the chicken.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re a romantic when you’re not trying to be.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a pause. “About us. About... what comes next?”
Lainey’s eyes searched his. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“Not yet,” Wyatt said, reaching for her hand. “But I’m saying … this is where I’d do it. Right here. By this water. With you in that blue sweater. Maybe a preacher. Maybe just a promise.”
Her throat tightened. “You’d marry me by the river?”
“In a heartbeat.”
She nodded slowly, looking around. “It’s funny … I always pictured a big, noisy gathering. But this? This feels like home.”
Wyatt leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Then we’ll come back when the leaves change. When the air smells like wood-smoke, and I’ll ask you then, for real.”
Lainey’s voice was a whisper. “And I’ll say yes.”
Tying Ribbons to Branches
It was a Sunday in early October when Lainey stood by the river again, this time with a bundle of ribbon in her hand and a child tugging at her sleeve.
“Can I be the flower boss, Grandma?” whispered little Caroline, peering up with a hopeful grin and a crown of leaves she’d made herself.
Lainey knelt beside her. “Flower boss, huh? Not just a girl with a basket?”
“Nope. Boss,” Caroline said firmly. “I’ll tell people where to sit and throw flowers and maybe even wear sparkly shoes.”
Lainey laughed and hugged her. “Then you’ve got the job.”
Behind them, Wyatt was helping Henry and Lori’s husband stake out folding chairs — nothing fancy, just white wooden ones they’d borrowed from the church’s fellowship hall. The air was crisp; the trees had just begun to flare with gold, and a kind of reverent hush filled the breeze.
Pam arrived carrying a coffee can full of wildflowers and a flannel blanket she claimed was just in case. She didn’t say much—just gave Wyatt a quick side hug, then draped the blanket over the quilt Lainey had laid out.
Later, she would whisper to Lainey when no one else could hear, “I used to think nobody could hold a candle to your first love. I think maybe this one doesn’t need to. He holds you. That’s enough.”
Wyatt found Lainey just before dusk, tying the last of the ribbons to a low-hanging branch. They fluttered gently in the breeze like quiet prayers.
He slipped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. “You sure about this?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Sure as I’ve ever been.”
He looked out over the water. “Still thinking about not making a big deal out of it?”
“I don’t need a big deal,” she said softly. “I need you. The river. These kids. A few ribbons. That’s enough for me.”
Wyatt kissed her cheek. “Then let’s tie one more ribbon for the life we’re starting.”
She handed him the last strand — a soft cream color with little blue flowers stitched along one side. “This one’s from Lisa,” she said. “She found it in a drawer and thought it looked like something special.”
Wyatt smiled as he looped it around the branch. “It is.”
As the light dipped low and the water reflected a thousand tiny sunsets, they stood hand in hand beneath the trees. No aisle. No altar. Just the world as it was … perfectly enough.
And somewhere in the distance, a kingfisher flew again, cutting across the water like it knew something sacred was about to begin.
When the Vows Are Soft
The river whispered and giggled as it always had. Leaves tumbled across the clearing like they’d been invited, catching in the folds of blankets and the curls of a little girl’s hair. The chairs were filled with just enough people — family, friends, neighbors who’d watched the story unfold from porch rails and produce aisles.
Wyatt stood under the low arch of a ribbon-tied branch, his hands folded in front of him, breath shallow but steady. His shirt was pressed. His boots were polished, and his eyes never left the bend in the trees where Lainey would walk in.
Henry stood behind him, grinning like a man who’d seen it all but still believed in love.
The music was a simple instrumental track, playing from Lori’s phone in a mason jar to give it some homemade amplification. No choir. No swelling crescendo. Just heartbeats and leaves.
Lainey stepped through the trees with Pam on one side and Caroline clutching a flower basket with both hands on the other. She wore a long-sleeved ivory dress, soft and flowing, and in her hair was the smallest clip of blue.
When Wyatt saw her, he forgot about the cold. About the chairs and about the way his knees suddenly felt like they might give out. He only saw her.
She reached him, and they turned to face Dan, Wyatt’s old friend and Lainey’s new one — a retired teacher-turned-minister who had a smile that could part storm clouds.
Dan opened his book, then closed it again.
“I’ve got words prepared,” he said, “but I’ve known Wyatt too long to waste time pretending any of you came here for me.”
That got a laugh.
He smiled at them both. “You’ve walked the long way around to get here. And now, you’ve arrived not with fire and spark, but with the kind of quiet love that sticks. That’s the love that lasts.”
Wyatt cleared his throat. “I didn’t write mine down,” he admitted.
Lainey gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Me neither.”
“Then say what’s true,” Dan said.
Wyatt turned toward her, voice low and steady.
“I didn’t know I had this much heart left in me until you touched it. I didn’t know I could laugh this much … or sleep this well… or love this deeply again. I will hold your hand through the rest of our days — on the porch, in the dark, and through every little ordinary moment we can make sacred.”
Lainey blinked fast, then smiled through it.
“I thought I was done,” she said, voice shaking slightly. “I thought love like this only came once. But you taught me there’s no limit on new beginnings. You never tried to fix me. You just stood still until I could catch my breath beside you. And now, I don’t want to walk another step without you.”
Dan nodded once, quietly.
“By the water,” he said, “beneath these trees and the sky that saw it all… I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Wyatt kissed her with both hands on her face, gently but sure.
And just as predicted, Caroline blurted out from the front row, “Ewwwwwwww!”
Laughter rolled through the crowd.
And as they turned to walk back through the trees together, Lainey leaned into Wyatt’s side and whispered, “Well, mister … I guess you’re stuck with me now.”
Wyatt chuckled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
They stepped into the sunlight. They were married not by the calendar, not by the paperwork … but by the seasons that had carried them to this place. And by the river that kept on flowing.
The Next Morning
The sun slipped in gently through the sheer curtains, brushing warm light across Lainey’s bare shoulder.
She stirred, blinking slowly, then smiled before her eyes even opened. There was no fog of uncertainty, no need to remember where she was — just the scent of Wyatt’s pillow and the comfort of his hand already laced with hers beneath the covers.
“Mm,” she murmured, shifting closer. “You awake?”
Wyatt’s voice came back quietly and gravelly from beside her. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
They lay there for a while, neither speaking nor moving, only breathing and listening to the soft hush of morning. Somewhere outside, a bird warbled half a tune, gave up, and tried again.
Lainey turned on her side and studied him.
“You know,” she said, brushing her fingers along his jaw, “I never imagined waking up after a wedding would feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this. Like just another morning. But better.”
Wyatt opened one eye. “I was hoping you’d say something romantic, like ‘like every cell in my body is dancing,’ or ‘I’ve never felt so luminous.’”
She laughed. “You’re getting eggs and toast. That’s your romance.”
“I’ll take it,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “You and toast. That’s all I need.”
In the kitchen, Lainey wore the same flannel shirt from years before — the one she always said felt like him.
She was halfway through scrambling eggs when the landline rang.
She wiped her hands and picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mom,” came Pam’s voice. “I’m bringing the kids by later, if that’s okay. Caroline wants to show Mr. Wyatt her new dance routine. And she keeps calling you ‘Mrs. Wyatt’s now.”
Lainey smiled. “She can call me anything she wants.”
“Everyone said it was the most beautiful wedding they’d ever been to,” Pam whispered. “I’ve never seen you look so happy.”
“I am,” Lainey said. “I really, really am.”
Later that day, Wyatt sat out on the porch, sipping coffee and flipping through a photo album Henry had dropped off. The ribbon from their wedding tree was folded neatly between two pages, and a pressed leaf marked the moment Lainey had said, “You feel like home.”
She came out with a second mug and set it beside him, then lowered herself into the chair next to his. For a while, they didn’t speak. They just sat there, their knees touching, watching the trees sway.
Finally, Wyatt spoke. “So … what’s next, Mrs. Wallace?”
Lainey reached over and took his hand. “More of this. More mornings. More quiet.”
He squeezed her fingers. “And when the days stop being new?”
“They’ll still be ours.”
The Last River
The leaves had turned again. Not in the vibrant, fiery way of years past—but softer now. Faded golds, whispering browns, a few stubborn reds clinging to the branches like they weren’t quite ready to let go.
Wyatt helped Lainey down the worn path, one hand steady on her elbow, the other carrying the old picnic basket they’d used for over twenty years. It squeaked when he walked, but he refused to replace it.
“It’s got memories,” he’d said once. “That creak? That’s history singing.”
They reached the clearing by the river just as the light began to slant low. The ribbon-tied branch still arched over the water, older now, its bark worn smooth from time and weather.
Wyatt spread the quilt on the grass like always. They sat down slowly, knees stiffer, breaths heavier—but still smiling.
“Remember our wedding?” Lainey asked, her voice wind-soft.
Wyatt chuckled. “Course I do. You made me cry in front of everyone. Took me a week to live it down.”
“You loved it,” she said.
“I did,” he admitted, reaching for her hand. “I still do.”
They watched the water move, slow and sure. A kingfisher darted across the far side, just like it always had. Lainey sighed. “We’ve had a good run, haven’t we?”
“The best,” Wyatt said, pulling her close. “Better than I ever deserved.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. “You were the calm I never knew I needed.”
“And you were the fire that kept me from going cold.”
They ate a little. Talked a little. Watched the clouds stretch into long evening streaks like threads in a well-worn quilt. And when the sun dipped below the trees, Wyatt packed the basket. Lainey folded the blanket. They walked the path back slower than they’d come, not from weakness, but from wanting to make it last.
That night, they lay side by side, just like every night before. Wyatt turned toward her, hand finding hers beneath the covers. “Hey,” he whispered.
Lainey’s eyes opened, still soft with sleep. “Mm?”
“I still do,” he said.
She smiled. “Me too.”
They whispered old vows again. Not because they had to — but because they wanted to. Because some words never lose their weight.
“I’ll love you as long as the river runs,” he said.
“I’ll love you as long as your hand finds mine,” she answered.
And it did.
The house was quiet.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees gently, like a lullaby only old lovers could hear. The photo album still sat open on the porch table. A ribbon fluttered once … then settled.
In the hush of early morning, long before the world stirred, their hearts slowed.
First one. Then the other.
Peaceful. Painless. Together.
They slipped into sleep holding hands—and never let go.
Epilogue–Where the River Bends
Some folks say love dies with time, but sometimes … it doesn’t die at all.
Sometimes it settles like mist on the water. Sometimes it flows on forever.
And sometimes, if you’re quiet enough, you can still hear the two of them laughing down by the river.
posted by
BigV
on October 7, 2025 at 6:16 AM
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