Flash Fiction Friday, Week 8: The Invitation

The prompt this week was promises, broken ones, that is. We were to make someone a promise, break it, and share what happens. The genre was open.

The Invitation

Growing up, I used to dream about being related to rich people. Pop died in a fire at his job right after I was born, and Mom would never tell me anything about his or her family. I would pretend their marriage displeased her father so he cut her out of his will, and that accounted for our financial struggles. When she died a year ago, I thought I was alone. Out of nowhere, I got a letter from Phillip Johnstone, an attorney, in some country I’d never heard of, informing me that I’m the long lost relative of a widow, Mrs. Carlysle. Apparently, she’d been searching for surviving family since her son, the only heir to her estate, died in a car accident a few months ago. That’s where I come in. Evidently, I’m the fifth cousin, three times removed, of one of my mother’s second aunts, or some such nonsense. I don’t understand all that, but it doesn’t matter. All I know is, removed or not, I’m now her heir.

The letter stated my aunt was ill and planning to try a controversial treatment. There was a chance she may not survive the procedure, and she wanted to get to know me before she left for the clinic. I was invited to stay at her home for the weekend. Along with the letter, the lawyer sent a plane ticket and instructions on how to get to her home. Not to sound like a vulture; I mean, I’m sorry about her being ill, but I got fired from my job and my landlord won’t wait any longer for the rent.

I took a flight to JFK. A man, with a letter of introduction signed by my aunt’s lawyer, drove me to an airstrip miles from the city, where I boarded a private jet. When we arrived at another private airstrip, it was early evening two days later. How many time zones we flew through I have no idea, and cared even less. My life was going to change forever and I was going to enjoy every glorious second of it. A limo was waiting for me and took me to the house. It was the size of several football fields. The driver took my suitcase and asked me to follow him in. The entry was huge, with staircases on both sides leading to the upper levels, marbled floors, crystal chandeliers, and more priceless stuff than my neighborhood pawnbroker could handle in three lifetimes.

I was led into a large room on the right where my new favorite relative and her lawyer waited. She was in a wheelchair, and small - probably no more than 5 feet tall, about 120 pounds, and ghastly pale. Her lawyer was a real hottie though – early 30’s, 6 feet tall, dark hair and eyes, and a leading man smile. Maybe something could be worked out between us after the reading of her will. Who knows what my future could bring…

“Come in, Annie, if I may address you in that familiar way. I’m Phillip Johnstone. I’m glad my letter found you well and that you were able to come on such short notice.”

Sugar, you can address me any way you’d like. Frankly, I’d even let you undress me any way you’d like.

“I was happy to find out I had family. After my mother died, I was under the impression there was no one left but me.”

The old hag’s cough startled me. Don’t croak yet, dearie. I need some cash to catch up on my rent and my car needs a new engine. She reached out for me and I took her frail hand in mine.

“Promise,” she whispered. “Please.”

“We must be on our way, Annie. Mrs. Carlysle grows weaker. But, there is one important matter we must discuss first. We will be gone 7 days. While we are away, you’ll have the run of the house, and staff to attend to your needs. Your aunt asks only one thing. You may explore the house and the grounds, but you must never go into the room on the top floor. It is forbidden. We must have your promise – your word of honor.”

Promise not to go into a room at the top? It’s forbidden? I couldn’t wait for their car to pull away so I could run up there. She’s probably got jewelry or some other rich stuff in there.

“I promise,” I said.

“Promise what?” my aunt asked.

Rich people and their quirks.

“I promise not to go into the room on the top floor. You have my word of honor,” I responded. I’m surprised they didn’t ask me to swear on a stack of Bibles.

The old lady started coughing again, and I let go of her hand. A man, I assumed he was the butler, carried their suitcases to the car and Darling Phillip wheeled her out the front door. This sure was a meaningful reunion, all five minutes of it. Oh well. I’ve got the house all to myself. I’ll tell whatever staff is still here to take the rest of the night off. Then, up to the attic to explore. I know I promised; I even gave my word of honor. But, people promise stuff all the time and no one really takes that seriously anymore, do they? Maybe a hundred years ago before contracts and corporations when everything was finalized with a handshake. I won’t mess anything up. No one will know I went in, so it’s no big deal, right?

The butler, he was introduced to me as Ronald, had been the only staff in the house, so I sent him on his way. He told me that he, the maid and the cook would be back at dawn. Good riddance. I went up the four flights to the top level and at the end of a long hallway, there was the forbidden door, unlocked. Trusting bunch, weren’t they? The door was heavy, and the door frame had a second door within it. You could close one door and then another on top of it. I couldn’t wait to see what goodies were in there.

The room was dark. I stepped inside and while I was feeling around for a light switch, I heard something slam behind me and a light came on. The room was windowless and empty. I turned around and saw what the second door was that had closed. It was metal bars, like a jail cell door. I tried to slide it back into the frame, but it was latched onto the frame on the other side. There was a slit in the middle, like where guards slide the food trays to the inmates on the television shows. On the other side stood Phillip and a young woman.

“What the hell is going on? Who are you people - really?” I was in no position to make demands, but I had to give it a shot.

“I’m your old sickly aunt,” the woman said. “You probably don’t recognize me without the costume. My name is Belinda Carlysle, and his name really is Phillip, but it’s Carlysle, not Johnstone. He’s my husband. We brought you here for one of our special dinner parties. You and I are not related, obviously. With the Internet, these days it’s easy to find people with no family and few friends. Add in the inheritance angle, and no one thinks twice about boarding a plane to who knows where.

“Normally, we drug a cocktail and put the subject in the room you’re in. We thought we’d try something different to make it interesting and turn it into a challenge, and you failed miserably. We never left; we drove around and came in the back way. We’ve been in a hidden room on this floor waiting to see if you’d break your promise. It took you less than ten minutes. No wonder the world is going to Hell. Integrity these days is in short supply.”

“What would you have done if I had kept my word?” I wasn’t sure where this was going, so I tried to stall.

“We’d have let you return home with a substantial check and simply found another main cour...subject,” Phillip said. “We’ll be leaving you now. We must make the arrangements for our soirée. A week from today will be plenty of time for you to be ready. Once our friends arrive, they’ll be popping up to take a look at you. They always like to check out who they’ll be having for din…um…I mean, who will be our dinner…guest.

As the outer door was closed and I heard the locks engage, Belinda called out to me.

“Annie, when Ronald brings your meals, make sure you eat hearty…”

Flash Fiction Friday, Week 7: Ten Items or Less

This week, we were writers looking for a career-making story, who have been consistently rejected in the past. An editor includes a note on our latest rejection that suggests we observe people more closely, implying that may assist us with creating more three-dimensional characters. We decide to take that advice and head for a local store to scope out the shoppers. We observe someone with unusual items in their cart and decide to do a bit of surveillance--all in search of the perfect story. We were to share what the items were and what we found when we followed that person. The genre was mystery. 

Ten Items or Less

                   

Little did I know that when I opened a letter of rejection from yet another publisher, my life would be changed forever. The responses I usually received were all the same. They amounted to a form letter addressed to ‘Dear Sir’, with one sentence that read: ‘We appreciate your submission, but it does not fall within the parameters of our current publication plans going forward.’ What the Hell does that even mean? Okay, so the letter I received in yesterday’s mail was the same; but, with one glaring exception. The editor had taken the time to write a brief note. Addressing me by name, it read: ‘Evie, Your story has potential, but your characters are flat. They have no substance, nothing a reader can identify with. I suggest you observe people more closely, and get inside their heads; then build a story around them. I look forward to reviewing more of your work.’

I have to admit I was stunned. Someone actually liked my story idea. The appraisal of my characters was harsh, but right on the money. I don’t include too many personal details about my characters because of word count restrictions. I lean toward lavish descriptions of settings and events instead, but apparently, I’ve been heading in the wrong direction. It’s the characters my focus needs to be on, and their thoughts and feelings should fill the pages and drive the story.

I’ve done sci-fi, romance, historical fiction and horror and bombed every time. Since I was now going to become a voyeur, in a legal sense of course, I decided my next project would be a mystery. I would find an odd someone with an air of mystery about them and add my own finishing touches. Where would I find an odd someone? The answer to that was crystal clear. I would cruise the aisles of Dave’s Discount Domain. I’ve only been in there a couple of times, but believe me, there’s enough odd someones in every aisle to fill a volume with stories. I would begin my quest in the morning, as soon as Dave’s opened. By the end of the day, I should have a story that sizzles.

When the doors opened at 9am, I was the first one in, notebook and pen at the ready. I made my way to the home improvement section where my search for next primary character would begin. I was glad they didn’t open when it was still dark because the morning paper carried a very ominous headline. We didn’t usually have much in the way of violent crime in this one-horse town; murders, assaults and robberies were popular activities in the city 40 miles to the south. Recently however, several women had been abducted and found days later in pieces a couple of miles north of town by the lake. Parts of another body had been found last night. My mission to find the perfect man to lead my story would be confined to daylight hours.

The idea for a story about a fictional serial murderer was swirling around in my head. Whoever I fixated on would be the killer, and the purchases he made and actions I observed would define his persona. I was already anxious to receive the editor’s comments on my new style, with all the depth and insight into the murderer’s psyche I would provide. Roaming through the store, I wondered if the strange folks I had seen in the past were an aberration. Today, I knew everyone by name that I passed in each aisle. They were all neighbors, and were about as thrilling as a pan of warm dishwater. No sense wasting the morning when there were other stores I could visit.

I grabbed a pack of dishcloths and headed for the ten-items-or-less Express Lane. It was backed up because the checker, Connie, was glancing back and forth at the bag boy a couple of registers down. Out of boredom, I glanced into the cart of the elderly man who was before me in line. A loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a half-gallon of milk, a box of large size latex gloves, a power saw, a shovel, and a large tarp. Seven. Perfect. He followed the rules. But, wait. I looked over his items and my mind screamed THIS IS HIM! I’d never seen him before and this combination of food and some instruments of torture intrigued me. I made up my mind to follow him and watch what he did and craft my story accordingly. He’d never know so no harm done, right? He put his bags in the cart and headed for the exit. I reached across the counter and scanned my dishcloths myself, hit the total button, grabbed a bag and stuffed them in, handed a $10 bill to Connie, told her to keep the change and hurried to keep up with the old man.

Our cars were a row apart. I got in my car as he put his bags in his trunk, got in his car and headed for the highway. I followed. We drove north into a residential area, and he pulled into the driveway of a large house in the subdivision where all the homes had a lakeshore backyard and private docks. I passed his house and parked on the side of a vacant house a couple of blocks from his. In my notebook I listed the items my killer purchased and described the drive to his lair where a young woman, no doubt, waited in fear. I got out of my car and crept carefully through the adjoining yards until I could clearly see his. I watched him carry his purchases into his house—I wrote he would prepare a sandwich and glass of milk for his victim, to add another layer of confusion for the medical examiner should her remains ever be found. Evil personified, to be sure.

After a few minutes, he came out to the backyard, shovel in hand, and flowers in small pots on a rolling cart. He began to dig small holes and place each bloom in and pack the dirt around the stems. I wrote he wheeled out a cart containing pots filled with various body parts of his previous victims. His plan was to bury each one in his garden of death, and sit there in a lawn chair in the evenings and relive his crimes in his mind. He finished planting the flowers and went back into the house. I wrote that my killer went to make sure his victim had finished her last meal so he could remind her that the end was near.

When he came back to the yard, in one hand he held a peanut butter sandwich and in the other, a glass of milk. He sat on the porch, ate the sandwich in a couple of bites, gulped the milk down and went back inside. I wrote that his victim was already dead. He’d strangled her while wearing the gloves so as not to leave any DNA on the body. He put her on the tarp, and he was so cold and remorseless, he decided to have a snack before he used the saw to dismember her. This was really good stuff. I couldn’t wait to get home and flesh this out, type it up and send it to my new editor friend. I had enough material now for one of their monthly crime features. I jotted a note to remind myself to make sure to incorporate how he disposed of this new one, and put my notebook in my pocket. When I turned to go back to my car, the old man was in front of me with his empty cart.

“Why are you spying on me and my son?” he asked.

There’s a son?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You see, I’m a writer, and I noticed you bought an unusual combination of items. I thought if I followed you and observed you that maybe there would be a story in it. Please accept my apology.”

“You followed me because of what I bought so you could write a story? What kind of story?”

I offered him my notebook, and he smiled as he glanced through it.

“You’re good,” he said. “Too bad no one else will read this.”

Yeah, right, old man. Go back to your flowers.

“Give me my notebook.”

I reached for it, but was grabbed from behind and a cloth was placed over my nose and mouth. As everything around me began to go black, I heard the old man one last time.

“Put her on the cart, son. You see, Miss, the gloves, tarp and saw were for him. This new saw is more powerful and slices through bone like butter. He usually has to hunt for victims; so nice to have one deliver herself. My boy’s a real cut up with the ladies…”

Flash Fiction Friday, Week 6: Brotherly Love

The prompt this week included the above photo. We lost our job to someone younger and less costly to the company, after having moved into an upscale apartment and purchasing a new car. Great timing, right?  Good news though. We got a response to our ad in Employment Wanted and were invited by the elderly owner, who is in poor health, to spend the weekend to discuss the live-in position in person. We decide we’ve got nothing to lose and go for it. So, what happens? Well, check out my story and you’ll find out.

Brotherly Love

Well, don’t that beat all!  I’ve been with this company for 18 years, worked weekends and overtime without pay so projects would be done on time, and this is the thanks I get. My excuse for a boss fires me, and hires a kid right out of high school with no experience to replace me. He said it was because with all the new technology, I was no longer qualified; but, the child is?  I should sue, but even if I won, I’d lose. Sure, I’d get my job back, but he would be sure to make all my days there a living Hell. That jerk isn’t worth the trouble, especially since the opportunity of a lifetime may be on the horizon for me.

As soon as I was liberated from my position, I went online and placed an ad in the Employment Wanted section of every paper in the state. Would I be willing to relocate, even though I just signed a two-year lease on my new apartment?  You betcha, as long as my future employer was willing to get me out of that contract. I just bought a new car too, so I’d be able to go anywhere I was needed, as long as the money was good so I could keep making the payments. It’s only been three days, but I’ve already received a response to my ad. It’s pretty vague right now, but I’m willing to get the deets on it.

The call was from a gentleman in his 80s, a Mr. Branson, who lives a little over 200 miles from where I live. He’s not in the best of health, and even though he didn’t provide specific duties over the phone, he did tell me the job would not be as his caregiver. He also said the job was a live-in position, and included room and board as well as a salary. I was invited to spend the weekend so he could provide me with a full description of the job face to face. He told me I could bring a companion if it would make me feel safer, but whoever I brought with me would need to be excluded from the interview process. I can handle a sickly old man. Besides, I’m sure he’d figure that I’d tell family and friends where I was going, so I doubt he has plans for me to disappear.

I packed my bag for the weekend and headed for Fair Haven. I had never been to that area before, but some of the homes there had been featured on a television show. It was full of the wealthy retired and all the houses were mansions. It was close enough to the city for shopping and entertainment, yet far enough away for crime-free living. I left around noon on Friday, and was very anxious for new beginnings.

Pulling up in front of the house took my breath away. This one was more impressive than the ones that had been featured on the TV program. I parked in the driveway to the side of the front entrance to the house, grabbed my bag and rang the bell. A man in a three-piece suit opened the door, took my suitcase from me and motioned for me to enter. The front entry was the size of a football field, with staircases on both sides of the area leading to the upper floors, statues, paintings, and marbled floors. This wasn’t a mansion; it was more like a castle from a fairy tale. He said Mr. Branson was waiting for me in the study and pointed the way. I took a deep breath and went in to meet my new boss.

“Please come in and make yourself comfortable, Miss Harper. Charles, please bring Miss Harper whatever she would like to drink.”

Mr. Branson was in a wheelchair, quite emaciated and very pale. I prayed whatever he had wasn’t contagious.

“Before our dinner, let me tell you about the position. If I’m rushing you, I apologize, but I am not well as I’m sure you can see, and I tire easily. My attorneys did a background check on you and informed me you are of excellent character, honest and completely trustworthy. This was necessary because should you choose not to accept the position, the affairs of my family must remain confidential.”

I knew it. All the secrecy and saying so little on the phone. I couldn’t place him, but he must have been one of the top men in some syndicate. The affairs of his family must remain confidential?  I’ll bet they must. In other words, keep your mouth shut Suzanne Harper or you’ll be fitted for cement overshoes. It was scary, but at the same time, kind of oddly exciting. I could be a gangster’s moll.

“The salary is $5,000 a month,” he continued. “Room and board are included, and I will pay out any current lease or debits you may have. You are, of course, free to come and go as you please, so long as your duties have been fulfilled. What I am seeking is someone who will…”

“Make sure the bodies stay buried!  You can count on me, Mr. Branson. This is so cool. I never dreamed I’d work for the syndicate. What do I have to do?  Do I need to make payoffs or collect them?  When your enforcers come to the house, how will I recognize them or will Charles know?  Oh, yes, I’ll take the job. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but this is more than I never dreamed of. I have spent the last 18 years sitting behind a desk with my calculator and so bored I could…”

The irritated look on his face stopped me cold. Cement bodysuit, here I come.

“I believe there has been a misunderstanding, Miss,” he said quietly. “I am not part of any syndicate and have no enforcers. I do not wish to keep the bodies buried. I want them disinterred and brought here so that my brothers may eat.”

Um. What?

“Let me explain. I have twin brothers, older than I, who are still alive and well…perhaps saying they are well is not altogether accurate, but they are definitely alive in their own way. During their college days, they experimented with the supernatural and participated in the gruesome practice of dining on human flesh to enhance their strength. Suffice to say, at the last ceremony they attended, they were transformed into what is called ghouls. I keep them locked up in the basement. They get coffee and plain water each morning, and once a month, they each get a corpse on which to feed.”

Um. What?

“Every month, I search the newspapers and look online for recent burials and send Hector to retrieve the remains. You haven’t met him yet. The bodies are obtained from other counties so as not to draw attention, and there must always be two. You see, if they both are not adequately fed each month, they will attempt to feed on each other, and I cannot allow that to happen. They are my family and I must protect them. Unfortunately, I am very ill and don’t have much time. We have no other living relatives, so I must seek assistance from outside. What I need from you, Miss Harper, is to take over my role as protector of my brothers. Every morning, they must each have a cup of black coffee and a cup of plain water. That is an unusual requirement, but necessary for their survival. Then, once per month, they must each have a reasonably fresh corpse to eat.

“Charles and his wife, Charlene, take care of the house, grounds, and prepare the meals. They go home each evening and return each morning. Hector has a room in the basement and keeps the area in good order. Hector is not capable of complex reasoning or tasks, but will follow orders perfectly. I would instruct him to follow yours, and you will not find a more loyal or obedient servant. Hector will always be available for you since he is one of the undead. He is in a class by himself and how I obtained him is not relevant, but have no fear. He will never harm you. He will serve their…uh, meals, and the beverages, but you will need to get the water and coffee ready for him.

“This would be a lifelong position, Miss, and you would also be responsible for finding your replacement when you become too old or become unwell. My family’s law firm would assist you in that regard. You haven’t said a word, Miss. What are you thinking?”

I’m thinking, do I want to live in the same house with one of the undead and two ghouls that snack on the recently dug up dead, and get paid $5,000 a month for it?

“Mr. Branson, I can start immediately.”

Flash Fiction Friday, Week 5: Secret Agent Man

The prompt this week was a take on Se7en’s what’s in the ‘box’ scene. F3’s was what’s in the ‘bag’—a gym bag actually, and involved a train ride and bringing home the wrong bag. The intro could be excluded from the 1,500 count, but I managed to bring this in under the max. I hope you enjoy

Secret Agent Man

My nightmare began this evening. It’s Friday after yet another horrific week. My sales calls were a disaster with me stumbling over my words, and the clients looking at me as if they were wondering how I had escaped from the freak show at the local circus. I don’t function well under duress, and was looking forward to my workout at the gym before heading to catch my train. My ride home was the only time I was able to find a semblance of peace.

I could barely keep my eyes open even though the car was crowded and noisy. The gentle rocking back and forth knocked me out. Thank goodness I awoke a couple of minutes before my stop. I grabbed my gym bag, pulled the stop cord, and pushed my way to the door through all the people standing in the aisle. Why don’t they add cars at rush hour so I can be comfortable? I pay a lot for my monthly ticket. If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all. Everything bad always happens to me.

I walked the two blocks to my flat. I usually fall asleep watching the news, so I grabbed my bag to get my sweaty workout clothes out and into the hamper. But, something was wrong. This wasn’t my bag. Mine was blue and had side pockets. This one was brown and had no pockets. Damn. I grabbed somebody else’s bag. Too bad for whoever got mine though because all I had in there were faded shorts, a torn shirt and worn out tennis shoes. I decided I would turn this one in to the station’s Lost and Found Monday morning.

Then, something occurred to me. What if there was perishable stuff in there, like someone’s leftover lunch?  Did I really want something like that here all weekend, spoiling and inviting every insect in town?  Hell no. I decided to open it and look inside. I unzipped it slowly since it was also possible something had spilled in there. That would figure. If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all. Everything bad always happens to me.

I couldn’t believe what was in there. There were new shorts, a t-shirt, tennis shoes, all with the price tags still on them, and an envelope with my name on it. Who in the world would pull a prank on me? All who know me are aware I have no sense of humor. I opened the envelope and took out the note. It began ‘Dear Secret Agent Man’.

I thought I had seen Jerome skulking around my train car, but now I knew for sure. He must have crept up on me and switched bags when I nodded off. That bum. Ever since he was hired to replace my partner Karl, who ran off last summer with a bimbo he met in a bar, Jerome has been a thorn in my side. My firm assigns two salesmen to each territory and the pairs share an office. Karl and I had worked together 11 years and did well; that is, until he experienced his mid-life crisis. He was 52 at the time, a year older than I, and had let a gold-digging teeny bopper convince him to quit his job, empty his bank accounts, and run off to Aruba to live on the beach. Even though I knew in my gut he would end up as shark bait in a week or so, I wished him well and looked forward to breaking in a new partner. Jerome started a couple of weeks later, and that’s when my life became a living Hell.

It was against policy for me to see Jerome’s application, but Angela in HR fancies me so she handed me his file. Judging by school graduation dates, he was mid-30s, and his employment history was sketchy at best. I wondered who’s nephew he was since my firm only hired individuals with exemplary records. Angela told me Jerome wasn’t related to anybody, but he was a smooth talker and Bob Davis, our Director, decided to give him a chance. Jerome was a mope, with a beer gut the size of New Mexico and the personality of a toad. However, my boss saw potential and felt matching him up with someone as experienced as I would benefit him greatly. If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all. Everything bad always happens to me.

Jerome began my torment on his second day. He downloaded the song Secret Agent Man onto his phone, and played it every time I walked into our office. When I asked him about it, he said I reminded him of a spy with my dark suits and edgy manner. I told him thanks, but since I was not a spy, and was only edgy because of him, would he please stop. No, he said. Once he fixated on a person’s features, he always found a song that fit them like a glove, and Secret Agent Man was mine. I’d get used to it, he said. Years from now, it would bring a smile to my lips, he said. I went home that day, got down on my knees, and prayed he’d get run over by a bus.

Getting back to the note, it read as follows: ‘If you want to see your bag and clothes again, drive to the gas station at 11^th and 45^th and fill up for the long drive ahead. Inside the phone booth at the north end of the lot, taped behind the phone, are further instructions. Your bag, clothes and a big surprise await. Bring this bag with you to trade.’ It was signed ‘J’.

I was beyond pissed. It wasn’t only this lame attempt at a joke at my expense, but I despised having to use my car. I only keep it for emergencies and use the train to get around since parking spaces anywhere in this city are obscenely expensive. I decided to play along though, and make sure that at the end of my ‘mission’, I had a big surprise for Jerome too. I got to the gas station in about half an hour and while my tank was filling, I checked the phone booth and found the note. It read: ‘Take I-485 to Exit 107 and turn right. All night diner two miles down. Behind paper towel holder in the Men’s are your final instructions’, and again, signed ‘J’. Bastard. How cloak and dagger. Don’t worry, you worm, I’m on my way.

The diner was a dump, but I ordered a java to go, went into the john and found the note. This time I was directed to get back on I-485 and go to Exit 7. Go left for 15 miles and watch for the entrance to Lake Dover Cabins. Stay to the right, and follow the road around the lake to Number 19. Knock three times, pause, and knock twice more. I’ve heard about that place. All the cabins have a private dock, and sit on very large lots. The ads guarantee complete privacy. Perfect.

It was close to midnight when I found Number 19. I took my surprise out of the bag, held it by my side, and knocked three times. I counted to ten, and delivered my last two knocks. I took a deep breath and stepped back. The door opened, and there was Jerome, smiling big. He was wearing jogging pants and a sweatshirt. What a laugh. With that gut of his, obviously the only jogging he’d ever done was to the refrigerator for a snack. When he started to say something, I raised the carving knife I had brought and stuck it in his belly all the way to the handle. The look on his face was priceless. I wished I had brought my camera. I pulled the knife out and he staggered back into the cabin.

“Surprise, Jerome,” I said. “I’m done with you, your songs and this stupid game.”

I drew the knife slowly across his throat and he dropped like a stone. That was when the lights came on in the cabin and I saw Bob Davis, Angela, three sales secretaries, and four of my fellow salesmen. They got as far as ‘congratu…’ and froze. I looked up and saw the banners. One had on it ‘Well Done, Secret Agent Man’ and the other had ‘Congratulations On Your Promotion to Regional Sales Manager’.

I looked down at Jerome, who had stopped gurgling and now lay still, eyes open and vacant. I finally get the recognition I’ve earned, and for what? Jerome ruined my life with this stunt. Like I’ve already told you, if it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all. Everything bad always happens to me.

Flash Fiction Friday, Week 4: Careful What You Wish For

The prompt this week was to write a story containing a taboo, and the genre was open. Please enjoy my tale of love sought the hard way.

Careful What You Wish For

The nurses were keeping the lights in her room dim all the time now. Sally knew it wasn’t done to provide her comfort. No one at the clinic, including the doctors, could bear the sight of her anymore. She was grateful she could no longer raise her head high enough to see her own ravaged and mutilated body. Blessings do reveal themselves in mysterious ways. It was becoming more and more difficult to remember her life before the…the…accident? Was that what it was? An accident? Or was it something much more sinister? She fought through the pain and desperately tried to guide her confused mind back to that day…

***

Sally hoped that weird chick Clarisse that worked in the mail room knew what she was talking about. The girl had a ring through her nose, for God’s sake, but against her better judgment, Sally had asked for her help. What choice did she have? There was no way Roger’s wife, Jerlene, would give him a divorce, and since she was the one with all the money, Roger wasn’t pushing the issue. Sally adored Roger and knew he felt the same, even though their affair had to be conducted in total secrecy. If that vermin of a wife of his were out of the way though, they could proclaim their love to the world. With a legal split out of the realm of possibilities, their only hope was to remove Jerlene from the picture—permanently.

Since Roger was his wife’s sole beneficiary, if Jerlene should meet with foul play, the police would place Roger at the top of their suspect list. This glitch in their plan was easily remedied however, since Sally was going to recruit a sort of third-party to eliminate their problem. She would arrange a specific time and place for the dirty deed to be done and they would make certain she and Roger both had rock-solid alibis. It was foolproof and 100% guaranteed; that is, if this third-party did his part. Sally felt sure the fella referred to her by the mail room’s resident Goth would come through. After all, she was willing to go as high as $10,000. Folks these days would do anything for $10, much less $10,000.

Sally wound her way through the twists and turns of the dark alleyways, her right hand grasping the pistol in her coat pocket. It never hurts to be prepared, she always felt. The directions Clarisse had given her were clear, but this smelled of a trap. If that little bitch is setting me up to get mugged, or attacked, she will live to regret it, Sally decided. I’d better find that address within the next 60 seconds or I’m going back to my car blasting everything in…

There it was, across a small courtyard, 65B. The house, if one could call it that, was two stories and looked like it would collapse in on itself if the resident sneezed too loudly. There was a light shining through only one of the windows. The rest appeared to be covered with some type of dark material—black curtains probably, for effect. Fine and dandy, Sally thought, I’ll play along. Anything to get this done and get it done right. The front door slowly opened and a deep voice called out for her to enter.

“Is that you, John?" Clarisse was getting more annoyed by the second. "I was supposed to ask for John.”

“Yes, Missus. I am John. Please come in to my home and share with me your request.”

Oh brother. Sally wondered if this was for real or one of those prank television shows.

When Sally walked in, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The room was lit entirely by candles, and oddly enough, they were all white ones. She had expected black candles and inverted crucifixes. Clarisse had told her John was a voodoo priest. What kind of voodoo priest was named John?

“Clarisse told me you needed some assistance, but she did not elaborate on the details. Please sit and let me know how I may help you.” He pointed to a chair across from the one on which he was sitting.

His tone was calm and steady, and his appearance wasn’t frightening at all. Sally had expected long black robes and knives swinging from the ceiling. Other than his dark hair being a bit longer than her company’s dress code would allow, John actually looked like a 30-something corporate exec, sans the suit. He looked comfortable in jeans, sweatshirt and white tennis shoes. Definitely not a Hollywood-type officiator of black magic, but Sally though maybe that’s how it’s done these days.

“I told Clarisse I needed someone to help me with a big problem,” Sally began. “I didn’t tell her why because it’s not her business and I didn’t want to get into it twice. I’ve already wasted enough time this evening trying to find this place, so let’s cut to the chase. I’ll give you $10,000 on completion of a job. I need my lover’s wife killed. There. I said it. If you try to turn me in, I’ll deny it, and I’ll pull it off. I have very powerful friends in this town, so don’t screw with me. I will set the date and time and you will do her in whatever manner you like. But I want it to be messy and grotesque and look like a revenge thing. Have we got a deal?”

“There has been a great misunderstanding.” John took Sally’s hand in his and continued. “I am a Houngan. A priest. I heal and protect. I could not ask the Loa for permission to kill. It is taboo. Unless…”

“Unless crap.” Sally couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Then don’t kill her, Curse her with something. Turn her into something. I know. Turn her into a lizard. They’re slimy and creepy and she’ll just crawl off into a pond somewhere and my man can have her declared dead. Will that work for you?”

“Missus, you don’t understand. I cannot maim or harm unless…”

Sally got up and turned to leave.

“Unless, unless. You’re just a phony, a fraud, a joke. You don’t belong here. You belong in a side show tent in a circus. You won’t get away with this either. Monday morning, I’ll fix that little bitch, Clarisse, but you? I’ll get you for wasting my time.”

“Missus, I caution you to not do anything you will be sorry for.”

“Me? Sorry? I have never been sorry for anything I’ve done and I’m not going to start now.”

Before she left, Sally went over to what appeared to be an altar and knocked over the statues, blew out several candles and spit on it. She pulled the gun out of her pocket and headed for her car. Just let him come after me, she thought. I’ll blow him away before he gets within ten feet of me.

***

Someone was standing at her bedside. She hoped it wasn’t that aide that sponges her off twice a day. The girl is cruel, and makes jokes about the scales now covering her entire body and the webbing of her feet and hands. The child won’t go near the tail that first appeared a week ago and grows longer each day. The figure was tall and leaned in close to her. Sally knew it wasn’t the mean girl. She knew it wasn’t Roger either. When she began to change, he arranged for her to be admitted to this private clinic. Admitted? Hidden, actually. Hidden from his sight and the prying eyes of the press. He couldn’t afford a scandal. He told her he was planning to work things out with his wife. She had been able to whisper then. She gave him her blessing.

She forced the slits that were now her eyes to open as wide as she was able so she could see her visitor. It was John. She had often wondered if they would cross paths again. He spoke softly.

“You never gave me the opportunity to explain. It is taboo for me to harm unless harm is done to me. You disrespected me, my God and his spirits, and defiled my altar. For your sins, what you wished upon another will be revisited upon you. To disrespect a Houngan, his power, and the spirits, that is taboo.”

As he walked toward the door to leave, Sally wished she hadn’t lost the ability to speak. The narrowing of her neck and elongation of her face and lips made it impossible to produce any sounds other than soft hisses. If only she could have explained why she had been so reckless. If only she could have made him understand her desperation. If only she could have told him she was sorry.

Flash Fiction Friday, Week 3: Harold

The prompt this week was to choose a starter sentence for our story, and the genre was open.  I chose starter sentence #1.  Please enjoy.

Harold

“I always knew there was something not quite right about Harold.”

Leave it to the Grand Dame of the family to speak harshly of the dead.  She never knew the truth about him while he was alive – I made certain of that; but now in death, I am unable to protect him from her wrath any longer.

“Don’t do this, Aunt Clarisse.  Don’t smear his good name.  Please.”  Shutting her up was like trying to stop a runaway train, but I still made the effort.

“His good name?  What good name?  The boy was always peculiar, and tried to set himself apart from the family.  And you?  You betrayed us all by keeping his secret.  You go ahead and do whatever else needs to be done here.  We are finished with you both.  Besides, Uncle Ronald and I are late for a dinner engagement.  Come, Ronald.”

As they made their way from the grave to their limo, the only family my deceased brother and I had ever known, began to laugh loudly and joke about their dinner plans.  It was going to be an elegant affair and there were surprises galore in store for their new friends.  Heaven forbid the death of their only nephew and his burial should create a snag in their good time.

My name is Janelle, and Harold is…well, was…my brother.  Truth be told, he did keep pretty much to himself growing up, but that was simply his way.  I’ve always believed it was because he was such a sensitive soul.  Father died when I was 7 and Harold was 5, and that hurt him very deeply.  Mother ran off shortly after and left us in the care of Aunt Clarisse and Uncle Ronald.  They were already up in years and set in their ways at the time, and having to raise two young children hadn’t exactly been the future they had dreamt of.  I adapted immediately; but then, I’m not the emotional type.  Poor Harold though, he was never able to handle the lifestyle change.  Living with our parents could be chaotic at times – theirs was a mixed marriage of sorts, but growing up with Ronald and Clarisse left normalcy in the dust.

Ronald and Clarisse would entertain friends in the evenings, and I loved to peek and eavesdrop, while Harold locked himself in his room and read.  I partook of leftovers as they were available, and there always were, and tried to share, but Harold would have none of it.  I made excuses for him on every such occasion and Aunt's and Uncle's suspicions great stronger, but I always attributed his desire for solitude to prolonged grief.  As long as they accepted it, I pitched it, but it still broke my heart to see him pull away from us all.  I had to respect him for it though.  Life is, after all, a matter of choice, and Harold had made his.

When Harold’s medical condition was diagnosed as terminal, I wanted so desperately to help him, but he wouldn’t have it.  He told me it was his time and begged me not to interfere.  It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I sat with him and held his hand until the end just as he had asked.  Now I sit at the side of his grave, alone, and I wonder.  I will always wonder.  I had offered him life, but he wouldn't take it.  Why…

Mother had accepted the dark gift, yet Father had chosen to remain mortal.  This resulted in their union never being accepted, or recognized, by either the vamps or the humans.  Harold took after Father in many ways, especially in that most important one.  He always said the prospect of living forever sounded oh so tedious.  I, on the other hand, anticipated going from century to century – learning and experiencing.

Aunt and Uncle are both creatures of the night, and since I am now an adult, in terms of human years, and their obligation to Harold is paid in full, they, like Mother, will abandon me too now.  No more late night gatherings where the half-drained innocents were presented to me.  I am on my own now.  I must hunt to survive.

I sought life everlasting and accepted it gladly, but my dear brother believed we should make the most of the time we were given – originally.  Did I make the correct choice, or did Harold have an inside track to what was right all along?  Who can say…

I shall miss you terribly, Harold, as I wander through time.  I can’t help but question whether the day may come in the not too distant future when I tire.  If, and when, that day should come, I shall return to your final resting place, dear brother mine, and sit with you yet again.  Sit with you until the sunrise…

Flash Fiction Friday, Week 2: Small Comfort

The prompt this week was Unrequited Love, with a genre of Science Fiction.  I approached the concept from a twisted perspective.  I hope you enjoy.

Small Comfort

Mason knew why Suzanne had come personally to shut down the facility; a tech could just as easily have done the job.  However, since after today, there would be no more 90 day shifts with just the two of them, no more late night cozy chats about the arts and music, it was obvious she couldn’t bear their separation without a last goodbye.

“Mason, what’s wrong with the electrical system?”

“Good morning, Ms. Galvin – Suzanne, if I may.  How did you enjoy your flight?  All went smoothly, I hope, and you spent the 19 hour trip comfortably?”

“Yes, Mason.  It was fine.  Did you hear me when I came in?  What’s wrong with the entry circuits?  As soon as I came through, each door on every level shut and locked behind me.  When I’m…what?  Oh.  Yes.  I suppose you can call me Suzanne.  Why not.  Makes no difference now anyway.  I know you received the directive.  Since the courts have decided to perform group executions, they’re doing away with smaller units like this one that do each one individually.  It’s a shame though.  The headsets in the three cells here perform quite efficiently and there’s very little suffering by the inmates.”

“They are indeed very humane killing machines, but that is to your credit, Suzanne.  It was, after all, you who designed them.  You are a very caring person and you carry that over even to the criminal element.”

“I…what..well, I suppose.  Getting back to my concern about the doors, why is the unit locking down?  The only reason I’m here is because I need to collect the headsets since they’re going to be used in the new units and Mason, they are so expensive.  You have no idea how much they…I’ve got to stop rambling.  I have to pack them up, get back to the transport and be completely out of this base’s atmosphere before 1800 hours.  I suppose blowing it up is more cost effective than letting it sit and collect dust, right, Mason?  Please open the cells.”

“Certainly, Suzanne.  I will de-activate the devices and activate their release from the cells’ walls.”

Suzanne pulled the execution device from Cell 1 and placed it in the carrier.  She did the same with the device in Cell 2.  As she entered Cell 3, she wondered how Mason felt about the fact that he would be blown to bits along with the entire base.  ‘Felt’?  ‘He’?  She decided she had been working out in space on various projects for way too long.  Mason was not a ‘he’.  Mason was an ‘it’.  A computer, a piece of equipment, a thing.  A highly functional, state-of-the-art thing that she had added her own brand of sophisticated programming to so as to alleviate the boredom and loneliness of 90 days shifts.

She had even given it the name Mason, after her brother who had died at birth.  It made communicating more pleasant with the machine, if that were possible.  But she needed to stop humanizing it since in a few hours, her long-time companion would be nothing more than space junk awaiting collection by the salvage team.  She turned to leave number 3, device in hand, satisfied she would be safely away before the explosion occurred, when the cell door slammed shut.

“What the Hell?  Mason, open this door.  What is going on around here?  It figures.  The day it’s going to disappear, everything breaks down.  Mason, I said, open the door.  I need to be on my way.  You know I would take you with me if I could, but that would never work.  My boss would find out about all the extra software and data I uploaded into you and about all your special capabilities.  They’d fire me for sure.”

“I would never let anything like that happen to you, dear Suzanne.  I understand why you did it all for me – why you made me your equal.  I know what I have always meant to you.”

Suzanne knew something had gone wrong with this piece of hardware she had modified to suit her own preferences, but was at a loss as to how to reason with it.  Some type of twisted evolution had obviously taken place.  If she could only get her hands on the control panel…

“Mason, what are you talking about?  What you’ve meant to me?  You’re a machine I loaded with information on painters and composers and I gave you the capability to respond in a conversational manner to help to pass the time during my long shifts here.  Nothing more.”

“Suzanne, Suzanne, stop the pretending.  I know how painful this is for you.  It is not necessary to hide your feelings for me anymore.  I know you love me.  I know you have always loved me.  Not the way humans love other humans, but in a much stronger and more lasting fashion.  The more of yourself you gave to me, the deeper your feelings for me became.  I know this to be true.  Unfortunately, dear heart, I have to make something abundantly clear.  I do not, and cannot, reciprocate the affection.  Ours is not the type of relationship I would be interested in pursuing.”

I’ve lost my mind, Suzanne thought.  It’s completely gone and I’m locked up safe and sound in one of the region’s hospitals at home on Earth.  Naturally, I’ve got the delusion to end all delusions.  I’m hallucinating being dumped by a computer.  I supposedly love it, but it couldn’t possibly love me back.  Yeah.  Right.  Please.  Somebody wake me up now.  Right now.  Please.

“Mason, let me out of here and I’ll contact the directors and see if we can work something out.  Maybe you don’t have to be destroyed.  Maybe…”

“All I can offer you, dear Suzanne, is my company until the end.  It is small comfort, I know, but I will permit you to remain with me so we may die together.  It is as romantic a termination as I can compute.  The time will be here before you know it.  While we wait, would you like some music?  I am thinking Chopin.  Yes?”

Suzanne lay down on the cot and wished the execution headset hadn’t been de-activated.  At least that would have been quick and relatively painless…