About The Author
D. R. Prescott has written a novel, a collection of short stories, a nonfiction book, a collection of essays, planetarium show/display scripts, two family histories, technical articles and business plans as well as written for and edited several newsletters.
Awards and published work include Writers' Journal, Long Story Short, Taj Mahal Review literary journal, The Orange County Register, Writer's Digest, and Writing.com and four books among other challenges.
As a former aerospace executive and planetarium program director, Prescott currently writes and explores life in Orange, California.
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"Sentience can be annoying."-DRP Abt. 1990
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Since 2008, Prescott has been a regular contributor of
essays and short stories to
The Taj Mahal Review Literary Journal
Get your copies now at: http://tajmahalreview.com/
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O R D E R   T O D A Y !
Windwoods Meadow
by D. R. Prescott

         “Room 242, Bed A, please.” Josie requested. She stood in Woodwinds Meadow’s ankle-high grass on the east side of Harrison’s Pond, waiting to be connected to her grandfather’s room.

          “Hello.” A weak, raspy voice answered.

          “Grandpa? You don’t sound good.”

          “Josie, are you there?”

          “Yes, but there’s nothing here. I’m in the meadow.”

          “On the south side of the pond?”

          “No, on the east.”

          “Child, I told you. You’ve got to be on the south side to see it.”

          “I’m going there now. What’s this all about? See what? Why am I here?”
Josie asked as she trudged through the dew-laden grass.

          “It’s important. I want you to see it. It’s the only thing I’ve got to give you when I’m gone, besides my clarinet. Over twenty years ago, six clarinets, partially buried in the ground, appeared there. I saw it. Hundreds saw it too. Then, it disappeared, never again to be seen again… until last year. Twenty years later, it began again. That’s when Artie passed. Hurry, youngin’, hurry! Not much time.”

          “Grandpa, don’t talk that way. You’re going to be on your feet before you know it.”

          “Child, hurry!”

          “I’m running Grandpa.” Josie was startled by the force of his voice. She had never heard him like that. He was always soft spoken, never demanding, always her grandpa. When he put his clarinet to his lips, magic happened. She had spent fifteen years trying to be that good and, in her opinion, always fell short. Recently, Grandpa didn’t agree.

          “Are you there yet?”

         Josie put her phone on speaker. “Yes, I’m… oh my god!” As she looked south, she saw it. Seven instruments towering out of the meadow, casting westward shadows and brilliant reflections on the mirror-like pond appeared. A red row boat drifted on the crystal blue water. She couldn’t make out who was in it. Funny, she hadn’t seen it a few minutes ago. Where did it come from? How did it get there without her seeing it arrive? Then, she heard the pleasing sounds of a soprano clarinet, deftly played. She recognized the piece. Her grandfather wrote it years ago. She had played it dozens and dozens of times for him.

          “You see it, child?”

         Breathlessly, she stammered. “Yes… Yes, I see it... hear it, too. There are seven of them now, not six! He’s playing your song!”

          “Good. Artie made it too. I heard Benny twenty years ago. I feel better now.”

          “Grandpa, it’s amazing. Wait, something’s happening! Another one! Another clarinet!” She squealed as an eighth clarinet appeared in the meadow. He didn’t answer. “Grandpa? … Grandpa!”

         After a moment, a feminine voice asked, “Hello, who’s this?”

          “Josie, his granddaughter. Is he okay?” Josie shivered anticipating her answer.

          “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

         Josie dropped the phone and stared at the man in the row boat as he played Grandpa’s song. Her skin prickled. Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Grandpa… I love you.”

© Copyright 2006 D. R. Prescott (donprescott at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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' Copyright 2008 D. R. Prescott (UN: donprescott at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. D. R. Prescott has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. Questions or Comments? E-mail to prescottdc@sbcglobal.net
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