BY CINDY PIERCE
cpierce@Ioridaweekly.com
Originally published May 25, 2022

On her LinkedIn profile, Patti M. Walsh describes herself as “a thrill-seeker since her first runaway and a storyteller since her first fib.” It was only after she and her husband retired to Fort Myers two years ago, however, that she launched her “encore career” as a creative story writer.

“Like a lot of writers,” Ms. Walsh says, “I had been writing my whole life.” But most of her life’s writing had been non-fiction — grant proposals, newsletters, documentation of various kinds — as part of a long career in corporate and nonprofit communications in Connecticut and Virginia. She also worked for a federally-funded program that assisted young, academically at-risk students in Louisiana.

Before all that, she taught junior high and high school in Connecticut, and worked as a typesetter in Colorado back in the late 1970s, when newspapers still had such positions.

“Mine is a crazy quilt work history,” she says, adding that she still does contract work for some of her previous employers. She’s also been taking classes about publishing and marketing books.

It was while in Virginia, her last stop before retirement, that Ms. Walsh joined her first writers’ group, sharing with her peers a middle-grade book she had been working on for 20 years. She’s happy to report that the book, a coming of-age tale titled
“Ghost Girl” and based on Celtic mythology, will become available on Amazon in July.

She still belongs to the Virginia writers’ group, meeting once a month by Zoom. And she belongs to the Pelican Pens group for writers that meets weekly in Fort Myers. A couple of years ago, a fellow Pelican Pens member drew the group’s attention to the Florida Weekly Writing Challenge, and Ms. Walsh started watching for the photo
prompts.

She entered two stories in the 2020 contest and two more last year. Our editors ranked “Burned” as their No. 10 favorite from among more than 600 entries received in 2021.

“I studied the photo prompt and ruminated,” she says about the picture of two men splayed on the beach. “I thought sunburned. And then I thought simply burned: What would cause a guy to be burned?”

“I really can’t explain where the rest of the story came from,” she says about her 742-word entry. “I just let my imagination go.”

She estimates she spent about 20 hours over several days crafting her first version of “Burned.” She sent it out to the Pelican Pens group and also asked her husband, a retired attorney and her “main proofreader and editor,” to give it a read. A few more tweaks followed before she was ready to send it off to the Writing Challenge.

We hope Ms. Walsh returns for the 2022 Writing Challenge. The 11th annual contest kicks off in our June 1-2 editions and runs through Sept. 28-29. Each of nine rounds will present three photo prompts and challenge writers to choose one as the starting point for a story.

Burned

“Karma’s a bitch, my friend.”

With that assessment of his plight, Larry flexed his biceps, cracked his knuckles, and plopped onto a beach chair in front of the mansion he had called home. Although the former quarterback had worked both sides of the karmic equation, he calculated that in the end, he would have deposited more in the good column than in the “bite-you-in-the-ass” one. His charity work alone had to be worth something.

But now, he wasn’t so sure. Karma had kicked his butt.

Arne nodded agreement as he popped open a couple of Funky Buddha lagers. Raising a thick forearm, he winked at Larry.

“Here’s to a long life and a merry one.” This was Arne’s traditional toast. Larry rolled his eyes and waved him off as if he were a fly. But Arne was undeterred as he continued his recitation.

“To a cold beer—and another one. And…” He paused. Usually he would conclude with, “To a pretty girl and an honest one.” But given what had transpired in the last 24 hours, he cleared his throat, twisted his large jaw toward the ocean estate, and substituted, “And, to a pretty girl, and a tolerant one.”

In appreciation of the tweaked tribute, Larry flashed the smile that had won—and broken—many a pretty girl’s heart.

Although Arne didn’t share Larry’s superstar status—linemen rarely do—he did enjoy his own notoriety. With chiseled good looks and a brute strength measured in height and heft, he had courted many beautiful women. Yet he was always tied to Larry—now as his wingman, but originally as the Hall-of-Famer’s favorite right guard.

They had devised a play in college that followed them to the pros. They called it the quarterfront sneak. Although their playing days were over, one or the other would often flash a hand signal, prompting a mimicked play where Larry would squeeze through an imaginary seam that Arne had opened. It could be at the beach, a children’s hospital, or a tuxedoed charity event—especially a tuxedoed event.

“Just dogging your crack,” Larry would smirk.

“You said crack,” Arne would cackle, playing Butthead to Larry’s Beavis. It was like they had never grown up. But then again, old football players never do, the old joke goes. They just pass away.

Since the retired jocks had no curfews, weigh-ins, or mandatory reps, a new rhythm blessed them each with extra pounds and slower reactions. Sure, they worked out—that’s what athletes do. Whether at the gym or on video posts, they would amuse their fans with feats of strength. Arne would slam a 400-pound truck tire with a sledgehammer, while Larry sprinted, cut, and shuffled. Still buff, they were the ultimate chick magnets.

Arne smirked as he recalled a toned young woman sidling up to Larry at a charity auction.

“Are you a football player?” she asked, “Or are you just built like one?” Larry promptly asked her out.

As right guard, it was Arne’s job to protect the quarterback. He did it well—so well, in fact, that he retired with a multimillion-dollar nest egg. Not as substantial as Larry’s, but he didn’t have Larry’s extravagant taste, along with its corresponding price tags.

Arne scored bonuses off the field for his friend. “Running interference,” they called his side job.

Because he towered over any scene, Arne could spot trouble before she arrived. Despite his size, he was quite graceful. During his pro days, he kept nimble with ballet. After a career-ending injury, he took up ballroom dancing. Nothing flatters—or runs interference—like a well-executed swing bounce. And a Super Bowl–ringed hand, which he would extend with a gallant bow before Larry’s incoming date could catch him focused, of course, on a different shiny bauble.

“May I?”

A spin on the dance floor would draw everyone’s attention—including Larry’s. The maneuver gave him a few minutes to ditch his secondary attraction. Then he would cut in on Arne.

In appreciation, Larry bought his guard a fully loaded Jeep Wagoneer.

“For paving rocky roads,” he said, referring to the sticky situations he created and Arne cleared. For it was Larry’s dogma to play women off each other. It suited him well.

Until Karma arrived.

The woman was willowy. Dark. Mysterious. And drop-dead gorgeous. Her fashion line, dHarma Rta, was the antithesis of the Hindi definition of dharma, the one that referred to the virtuous cosmic law of right behavior and social order. There was nothing virtuous in Karma’s translucent saris, jamas, and kurtas. Instead, they epitomized the Buddhist interpretation of dharma, the one that meant phenomena. Her slinky lines made her phenomenally wealthy, raking in more than Larry was worth.

The one-named fashion icon knocked the sports icon off his game, and to everyone’s astonishment, they married. The ceremony, with the bride adorned in dHarma Rta style, surpassed phenomenality. As did their charmed life, with time split between an Aspen chalet, a Manhattan condo, and a Vanderbilt Beach mansion.

Larry, however, slipped one night when Karma arrived at a gala and Arne missed a block. Slower reaction times, you know. She broke through the line and sacked the quarterback. The play ended in divorce.

Evicted, Larry called his wingman. Arne showed up with beach chairs and Funky Buddhas. They crashed in front of the waterfront mansion.

“What are you gonna do, man?” Arne handed Larry a lager, then leaned back to catch some rays.

“Don’t know. Karma’s a bitch. And her dharma just ran over my dogma.” He sank his head into his right palm. “Toss me the sunblock, will you, man? I’m burned.”