Below you’ll find the responses to the Sage Challenge for October 2024.
Entries to the Challenges published previously are found in individual issues of the SouthWest Sage. Public access to the February 2023 to February 2024 issues of the newsletter are on the Sage News page. SWW Members have full access to the Newsletter Archives of issues published from 2004 to 2024.
Go to the Sage Challenge page for details about the current Challenge open to SWW members.
Challenge:
In a minimum of 250 and maximum of 1,000 words, write a toast delivered at a wedding, holiday gathering, or any other group celebration
— BUT make sure the toast includes at least one shocking, unexpected, or fascinating fact that relates to the celebration toast at hand.
A Wedding Toast
By Dita Dow
Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for just a moment. Tonight, we gather to celebrate a truly special occasion—the union of our stunning bride and… well, our groom.
Let’s start with the obvious: Stella, you are absolutely glowing tonight. You’ve made all of us question every life choice, from our fashion sense to our morning routines. You’re simply breathtaking.
And then, there’s Hank… You know, they say love is blind, and folks, after seeing these two together, I think love might also be a bit nearsighted! But really, let’s give it up for Hank—because pulling off this wedding? That’s the real magic trick.
Now, before we all think I’m just here to roast the groom, here’s a shocking fact for you: Did you know that statistically, people are more likely to get hit by lightning than to marry someone this far out of their league? True story. I mean, Hank, you beat the odds in every sense!
But, despite what we see on the outside, here’s what matters: what Hank lacks in traditional beauty, he more than makes up for with his loyalty, kindness, and the way he looks at Stella.
It’s clear he found his lightning bolt in her, and that kind of spark doesn’t come around every day.
So let’s raise a glass! Here’s to the gorgeous bride, to the groom, and to beating the odds in love. And for the rest of us still searching—may we all be lucky enough to find our own lightning bolt… hypothetically speaking!
Cheers!
The Price of Legacy
By Helen A. Jack
9:15 pm.
Argentinian tango wove like silk through the crowded banquet hall. Quivering guitar notes dipped alongside mellow accordion song, the two instruments weaving in and out in a seductive dance.
Franz Metzger’s gnarled hands tapped against his wheelchair’s mahogany armrests. For a moment, the ballroom vanished, and he was back in the days of his youth — floating across the ballroom as a blue-eyed Adonis, his arms wrapped around the lithe body of a black-haired siren.
“Sir, the lawyers are here,” Marcos said.
Franz sighed as the memory came to an end.
Memories tended to do that. When they didn’t end by the approach of brown-suited lawyers entering the banquet hall, they died crammed inside a plane’s fuselage dodging Soviet capture.
“Dr. Metzger. A pleasure, as always.” One of the lawyers tipped his hat. Not that the man should’ve been wearing a hat indoors, but there was a time and a place to point out such things.
The other man wasn’t so subtle. “We know this is hardly the time or place, Dr. Metzger, but in light of recent news, we implore you to finalize your wishes.”
Franz Metzger laughed. He studied the silver wolf’s head atop his cane, which laid across his bony knees. He noticed a smudge near the wolf’s snarling maw.
A trick of the light? No matter. He fished a polishing cloth from his front pocket for good measure.
“My wishes. Yes. There will be time to finalize my wishes after the party.” With the utmost care, Franz started to polish the wolf’s head. “The doctors gave me six months — hardly an excuse for disrupting an old man’s one-hundredth birthday celebration, would you agree?”
He fixed both lawyers in his unblinking gaze. He smelled their discomfort. Not as heady as that from the condemned prisoners at Buchenwald, but all the same, fear was fear.
The two men dropped their gazes. “Of course. Our apologies.”
“Mmm.”
“Sir?” Marcos, his butler, appeared. “Should we serve dinner?”
Eyeing the crowd in the ballroom, Franz noted each family member present. His sons, Ernest and Vincent, were obvious — both had easily put away several glasses of champagne and were getting louder by the second.
“Not yet. Alicia isn’t here.”
Ernest guffawed at some dreadful joke Franz was grateful not to have overheard.
If it were an ordinary family gathering, Franz would have kicked his sons out on their asses an hour ago — them and his insufferable daughters-in-law.
But tonight was no ordinary occasion. The white banner above his head, stretched across the stage and flanked in black and gold balloons, drove this point home like a stake to the heart: Happy 100th Birthday, Franz Metzger.
Let them get good and drunk, Franz thought while his children and grandchildren lived it up as though it were the last day of their lives. It’s as close to spending my money as they’ll ever get.
9:30 pm
“Sir, your blood sugar.”
“Screw my blood sugar.” Franz didn’t even bother looking up at Marcos as he spoke.
Though he’d be lying if he said his mouth didn’t water. Roast beef and filet mignon served as a rich foreground against sweeter notes of herbs and spices. It wouldn’t be long before the cancer rendered his digestive system unable to process such delights.
“Grandfather.”
Franz neatly folded the polishing cloth. Heinrich sauntered up the dais, a cocktail (a mint julep, no less) in hand and his too-long tie poking out from the hem of his blazer. Franz exhaled through his nose.
“Heinrich.” Franz raised his gaze. Heinrich smiled, showing all his teeth.
“Grandfather. I was wondering if I could have a word with you about school.” Heinrich rested his mint julep on the lacquered table.
Without a coaster.
“As my father has probably told you, I’ll graduate in the spring.” Heinrich dabbed at the stain on his lapel with his fingers. “But here’s the thing — he promised me an apartment in downtown Manhattan. But they need a deposit…”
Franz stifled a yawn and batted the glass from the table in a soundless arc. The glass exploded, each sticky green drop of liquid vaporizing against the candlelight like a spray of gemstones.
“Close your mouth, Heinrich. You’re catching flies.” Franz adjusted his cufflinks. When he looked up across the banquet hall, a figure in the doorway caught his eye. Coiffed blond hair and a red sequined dress that glittered with every movement.
Alicia.
No celebration was complete without his daughter.
“Marcos, it’s getting quite late,” Franz said. “I think it’s time we served dinner.”
9:45 pm
Franz sat back and chewed his filet mignon. As the flavor filled his senses, Franz savored every bite. Of all the things he was grateful to have invested in over the years, his teeth were at the top of the list.
10:00 pm.
It was time.
Franz watched with anticipation as the staff filled each crystal glass with the special wine: vintage 1945 zinfandel. Sealed the date he’d started his new life overseas.
How symbolic.
He raised his own glass. “A toast — to the Metzger legacy. While my time on this earth comes to a close, may you all be blessed with long life.”
But Franz didn’t drink. He brought the glass to his lips and inhaled the scent. A shame the poison dulled the flavor. As the first bodies fell, he felt a pang of sadness that none of his descendants would ever fully experience the zinfandel’s famed richness.
Their deaths took longer than expected. He’d forgotten how tedious death could be. Yet Franz patiently watched the clock, eyes flicking from the slumped bodies on the hardwood floor to the minute hand. The now-dead Heinrich had spilled the wine all over his white shirt. The swine.
When it was all done, Franz released a long sigh. Finally. He beckoned to his butler, who stood, open-mouthed, at the scene.
“Marcos, wheel me to the vault. And please, seal the door.”
