A Widow's Comfort Ch. 01 - Sex Stories

A Widow's Comfort Ch. 01

Author's Note: Well, Gentle Reader, this is a shameless appeal for help. Like any writer, I suppose I qualify as a "writer" although "author" would arrogate myself to the ranks of Stephen King or Robert Heinlein or Earnest Hemmingway and I certainly do NOT do that. I actually think of myself as a storyteller. And, as you can see, my mind often wanders into digressions.

Back to the point.

I need your help. It seems that every morning I wake, early at my age, and there's a new storyline just needing to come out. Unfortunately, since there are only so many hours in the day and I DO have other things I do, my Thursdays with a group of friends pretending I can play and sing the blues or my ongoing gig writing papers for lazy college students, some storylines get lost. I recently returned to Margie, for example, one of my favorites but she got knocked out of my mind by other projects. And some of my stories, see "Becoming Sharon" for example, while fascinating to me are WAY on the fringe and may not appeal to enough to continue.

So here's my ask. If you like a story or hate a story, if you want me to continue with the line or kill it, please take a few seconds and leave a comment. I read EVERY one of them, believe me.

A Widow's Comfort

Chapter One

I sat, composing my thoughts, wondering if I was doing the right thing, but knowing, on some deep level, that I was.

Don't get me wrong. There was no doubt that I loved my mother and missed my dad. If he hadn't ...

... managed to get himself killed I wouldn't be sitting here trying to figure out what to do. But he did, and I am.

So I thought, composing my thoughts and composing what I would write. I didn't think I could handle what I wanted to say in person, I tend to get tongue-tied and a little scatterbrained when I get nervous. So I wanted to get it right and that meant writing it down. I remembered a guy I worked with for a while on a project for my professor. "If you can't put your thoughts in writing," he told me, "they're still pretty muddy."

So I started typing. Well, I started thumbing. I'm one of those Gen Z kids you hear about. I've been texting and keyboarding since I was seven. I can read and write cursive but it's not something I do naturally. But on a keyboard or a cellphone, I can thumb almost as fast as I type and I'm a seriously good typist.

My actual birthday is January 3, 2000, and I missed by this much ((holds thumb and forefinger a carefully measured 1/64th of an inch apart)) being named Wyetookay for Y2K if I had been born on New Year's Day. My mother and father are THAT kind of people. Well, Mom is and Dadwas. They both said I should be proud to have been born that close to the first day of the new millennium. They stuck to that no matter how many times I explained that I was actually born close to the first day of thelast year of theold millennium, but I might as well have been talking to the wall. I got lucky, though, and hung on for three days before joining ...