MR. GLAMOUR BY RICHARD GODWIN

Richard Godwin stopped by to give us a tantalizing peek at his latest novel, Mr. Glamour.  Hope you're hungry--the feast begins now!

Designer goods, beautiful women, wealthy men, a lifestyle preyed on by a serial killer.  A killer who is watching everyone, including the police.  Latest headlines?

No, an outline of my second novel, Mr. Glamour.

My debut novel Apostle Rising was published in paperback by Black Jackal Books last year.  It was about a serial killer crucifying politicians, and sold extremely well, received excellent reviews, and sold foreign rights to the largest publisher in Hungary.

Now Black Jackal Books have published Mr. Glamour, and I'd like to tell you a bit about it.  The settings are exotic, and the pages drip with wealth.  The story's told in my usual style, and my readers will know what that means.  I have been told I write with a blend of lyricism and graphic description.  I like to explore what motivates people and I certainly do so with the leading characters in Mr. Glamour.

The two central cops, DCI Jackson Flare and Inspector Steele, are unusual and strong in their own ways, as reviewers are already picking up.  At the beginning of the novel Steele hates working with Flare for personal reasons.  She doesn't by the end, and the investigation takes them both on a journey which changes them and their opinions of one another.

Let me give you the setting if you are tempted to read Mr. Glamour.

Something dark is preying on the glitz of the glamour set.  There is a lot about designer goods and lifestyles in Mr. Glamour.  The killer knows all about design, he knows what brands mean to his victims.  He is branding their skins.  And he has the police stumped.  As Flare and Steele investigate the killings they enter an exclusive world with its own rules and quickly realise the man they are looking for is playing a game with them, a game they cannot interpret.  The killer is targeting an exclusive group of people he seems to know a lot about.

The police investigation isn't helped by the fact that Flare and Steele have troubled lives.  Harlan White, a pimp who got on the wrong side of Flare, is planning to have him killed.  And Steele has secrets.  She leads a double life.  She is an interesting woman who pushes her sexual boundaries in private.  She travels a journey into her own past and rescues herself.  And in a strange way she is helped by the killer she is looking for.  And Flare has some revelations in store.

As they try to catch a predator who has climbed inside their heads, they find themselves up against a wall of secrecy.  The investigation drives Flare and Steele to acts of darkness.  And the killer is watching everyone.

Then there is the sub plot.

Contrasting this lifestyle is the suburban existence of Gertrude Miller, who acts out strange rituals, trapped in a sterile marriage to husband Ben.  She cleans compulsively and seems to be hiding something from him, obsessed that she is being followed.  As she slips into a psychosis, characters from the glamorous set stray into Gertrude's world, so the two plots dovetail neatly with one another.

And when Flare and Steele make an arrest they discover there is far more to this glamorous world than they realised.  There is a series of shocks at the end of the novel as a set of fireworks go off.  Watch out for the highly dramatic ending.

It is already picking up some great reviews.

Advance praise for Mr. Glamour:

"Richard Godwin knows how his characters dress, what they drink and what they drive.  He knows how they live---and how they die.  Here's hoping no one recognized themselves in Godwin's cold canvas.  Combines the fun of a good story with the joy of witty, vivid writing." -- Heywood Gould, author of The Serial Killer's Daughter.

"Smart, scary, suspenseful enough for me to keep the light on until 3AM on a Sunday night, Richard Godwin once more proves to fans of crime fiction the world over with Mr. Glamour, that he is not only one of the best contemporary writers of the procedural cop thriller around today, he is a master storyteller." -- Vincent Zandri, author of Scream Catcher.

"Richard Godwin's top-of-the-line psychological police procedural driven by its heady pace, steely dialogue, and unsparing vision transfixes the reader from page one." -- Ed Lynskey, author of Skin In The Game.

"Mr. Glamour is a striking effort from one of the most daring crime writers in the business.  It is the noirest of noir...and hellishly addictive." -- Mike Stafford, BookGeeks Magazine.

"This first rate detective thriller will have you gripped from the start.  Richard Godwin is an author not to be missed." -- Sheila Quigley Author of Thorn In My Side.

"Mr. Glamour is, in every sense of the word, the real McCoy:  genuine hard boiled detective fiction.  Lean, gritty, and tough, it's a journey into the heart of darkness...you won't soon forget.  Connoisseurs of Nouveau Noir will have to add Richard Godwin to the list of writers to watch!" -- C E Lawrence, author of Silent Kills.

"Involving and compellingly sinister, Richard Godwin's Mr. Glamour portrays cops and criminals, the mad and the driven in a novel of psychological noir.  Read it while snuggling with your stuffed teddy bear for comfort." -- Gary Phillips, author of Treacherous: Grifters, Ruffians and Killers

"This is one outstanding novel written by one amazing author." -- Fran Lewis Review.

I think Mr. Glamour will appeal to mystery and crime afficionados, to readers interested in psychological profiling and designer lifestyles, to thriller and noir fans, and to anyone who enjoys a fast paced narrative with strong characters.

Mr. Glamour can be bought now at:

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

at all good retailers online and in stores in April.  If you Google it you should see a range of options come up.

And you can find out more about me at my website

and my stories here

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

I can't wait for my copy of Mr. Glamour to arrive.  If you haven't read Richard's novel Apostle Rising yet, what are you waiting for?  Here's a couple of links for you to use to get it right now.  You don't even have to leave your seat.

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Also, here's a link to my review of Apostle Rising.

Richard's stories are fascinating, terrifying, mysterious, and will surround you with a palpable darkness that will have you peeking over your shoulder as you turn every page.  What more could you possibly ask for!

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 72: LADY IN WAITING

The challenge this week was to use this photo for one scene in our story, and the story must have at least two scenes.  The genre was open, and the word limit was 900.

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP…

Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist.  Children already know that dragons exist.  Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.   
- G. K. Chesterton


I only had a few patients to see this morning, and I was looking forward to spending the rest of the day working in my garden.  I always took Old Creek Highway into town, even though it added an extra ten minutes to my journey.  The fields on both sides of the road, abundant with wildflowers in all colors of the rainbow and inviting shade trees looming protectively over waif-like brooks make the trip almost dream-like.  That is, until I see her.

Serena Josler.  Fifteen.  Standing at the guardrail, staring into the wooded area.  Again.  I could set my watch by this child.  Every day, she stands there and gazes longingly into the brush.  That portion of the highway is more along the lines of a nightmare.  Drivers taking that route to the interstate always stopped at that exact spot to dump their ashtrays, toss out their fast food wrappers, and empty their bladders.  The rail’s bent from when our previous sheriff engaged in a high-speed chase with some boys from the middle school who had taken one of their daddy’s pickups for a joyride.  Sheriff Minson survived; none of the boys made it though.  He was subsequently ‘permitted’ to resign.  That senile old psychotic should have been jailed, if you ask me.  Unfortunately, nobody did.

Several times I considered asking her why she was there.  It couldn’t have been to retrieve something she had lost since she never crossed the rail into the woods.  I doubted she would wait there for someone, standing right next to the highway like that.  I couldn’t figure it out.  I never did pull over though and approach her.  She was a lost soul; the whole town knew.  After her mother ran off, being raised by her alcoholic, registered sex-offender daddy couldn’t possibly do much for her self-esteem.

As I passed her this morning, I wondered if the black eyes she had a few days ago were fading.  Whenever I saw the bruises, cuts and overall malaise, I wanted to contact family services and confront the son-of-a-bitch who sired her.  Being familiar with the staff over at the county offices, I knew that would have been a losing proposition.  Nothing was ever treated as confidential, and fingers would have been shaken at Burt Josler and he would have been told ‘no, no’, and that would have ended their involvement in her case.  It wouldn’t have ended there for Serena however.  She may not have survived that kind of intervention.

Come to think about it, there was something different about her today.  Now, what could it…  Oh, now I realize what it was.  She was dressed warmly, but still carrying a jacket, and had that big purple bag of hers over her shoulder, and it looked filled to overflowing.  She didn’t have her thumb out to pick up a ride, and no buses ran through this area of the county.  She was just staring--as always--but, at what?  Somehow I knew I’d never get the chance to ask her.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

It’s been a week and a half now since I last saw Serena.  Lots of folks around town thought it odd that her daddy never spoke of her anymore.  Not me, though, because I knew him for the monster he was.  And besides, after pulling over by the rail where she stood, when I looked over, I had found the half-buried shoe box.  I’m no Dr. ‘G’ from the television, but I did graduate from medical school.  I know a dead fetus when I see one.  My guess would be around ten weeks--give or take a lifetime.  The brand new teddy bear in the box told me Serena had planned to keep it.  As if a little one stood a chance in Hell of making it in that household…

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Burt drank himself to death awhile back.  Henry from Dunnings Funeral Home put on a nice service, although no one from town showed up.  I stopped in for a minute for some coffee and a sweet roll and to sign the register.  Mine was the only signature.  Interesting how some people leave no empty space when they pass on.  Even though I believed his existence was the good Lord’s only mistake, I attended the service since the sweet rolls were fresh from the bakery that morning and Dunnings got their coffee from Lara’s Diner.  Lara’s coffee packed just the punch I needed to get me through the day.

It’s funny how, as time passes, it’s almost as if those who have gone away never existed.  I still think about her though, every time I pass her spot on the highway.  I picture her older, perhaps married with a couple of kids, living in a tidy split-level, with an in-ground pool and a vegetable garden in the backyard.  In my heart, I know my vision’s just a fantasy, but still I hope there’s a tiny little corner of this world where Serena found a moment’s peace.  And a chance.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 71: A BIT O' THE BLARNEY

In honor of the upcoming holiday, we were to write a story that takes place on St. Patrick’s day--any time, anywhere, and includes the following words: Ireland, beer, Warwick Davis, leprechaun, shillelagh, Lucky Charms, and UFO. Oh the possibilities and the fun! Please enjoy.

THE ONE THING

Gerald O’Reilly couldn’t believe his eyes. His mother, who had been born in Ireland, grew up with tales of the ‘little people’ and shared the legends with him often. Mom had never believed leprechauns existed outside the imagination, but here was one, green coat, hat and all, right in Gerald’s backyard. He was trapped inside a large jar, which had rolled against a large rock next to the shed. Gerald knelt and leaned in close, wondering if communication was possible. After all, he had no knowledge of the old dialects.

“Excuse me, but, you are one of them, aren’t you? I mean, today is St. Patrick’s Day and that’s when you come out, right? By the way, if you keep jabbing that rock with your little stick, it’s going to break.”

“LITTLE STICK?” The small man’s voice boomed. “It’s called a shillelagh, dumbass, and as soon as I get out of here, I’ll jab you right in the…”

Gerald was horrified. This was no leprechaun--couldn’t be. This was some kind of experiment gone wrong, deposited here by a UFO. But why here? Why HIS yard?

“GERALD FRANCIS O’REILLY. AREN’T YOU FINISHED WEEDING YET?” His wife’s voice echoed throughout the neighborhood. I’m in the backyard, he thought, not in the next county…

“Still working, dear,” he responded. “ Lots of tough ones this time.” Hopefully, that will keep her quiet for another five minutes.

“Wait just a sec,” Gerald said quietly, looking behind him to make sure none of his neighbors were out to see him chatting with a jar. “Shillelagh? Yeah. Right. Why are you pretending to be a fairy? The little green men are supposed to be maybe 3 feet tall, and you’re what? Around 6 inches? I‘m sure you‘ve never heard of Warwick Davis, but he‘s in the movies and he plays one of you and he‘s not 6 inches tall.”

The small man’s face was turning as bright a red as Gerald had ever seen. He knew who Warwick Davis was, and enjoyed his performances. What does this boob think--I live in a cave or something?

“Fairy? Who you calling a fairy, bub? I am a leprechaun, and if you knew anything at all, you’d know I can’t lie when I’m…, I mean, in a situation where I’m…, oh, fuck it. Why I‘m a bit smaller than the industry standard is none of your business, but let me just say, it‘s the result of what I prefer to call a minor indiscretion. Let‘s leave it at that.

How I ended up in here is quite the amusing story though. The thuglet in the second grade that lives down the block put some Lucky Charms in a jar for his class’ Catch-A-Leprechaun Project. I am forced to admit I can’t just walk away from those. Everything was fine until this damn jar started to roll and got wedged up against a rock. To make matters worse, when the little punk saw me, he ran screaming home to mama and no one ever came to get me out of here. How about you? How’s about you give me one more roll and we’ll call it a day?”

GERALD FRANCIS O’REILLY. I DON’T FEEL LIKE MAKING LUNCH TODAY. WHY DON’T YOU GET ME SOME BURGERS AND FRIES.” Gerald was certain none of his neighbors would come out now. Whenever Emeraldine was sharing their lives at full volume, they all retreated behind closed doors.

“Okay, dear, I’ll go in just a bit. Almost done out here.”

Gerald still had some concerns about his little visitor.

“Explain something to me first before we talk deal. How come you talk like you do? Why haven’t I heard any ‘ye’s’ and ‘yon’s’, and why haven’t you called me ‘laddie’ even once?”

The little man knew if he was going to talk this clown into freeing him, he needed to start ‘making nice’. These humans were all the same. They all believed in the Tooth Fairy and that dude in the red suit with the reindeer. But all of it had to fit a stereotype. Magic was in the air and it made them feel all cozy and warm. It would be necessary for him to make this man feel all cozy and warm without technically lying. Oh crap.

“Look fella, what’s your name anyway? Mine’s O’Halloran, but you can call me Hal. I realize I‘ve been a bit…, well…, tense? But you can certainly see why, can‘t you? You ever spend any time in a fucking pickle jar?”

Hal could feel himself getting pissed again. A deep breath was in order.

“Anyway, I speak all languages and dialects, and since I doubt that you are familiar with the old tongue, I’m trying to speak in such a way that makes conversation between us easier. See?”

That made perfect sense to Gerald. He now knew this was all really happening. This was so much cooler than some old parade downtown.

“GERALD FRANCIS O’REILLY. MY FEET HURT. COME IN AND RUB SOME OF THAT OINTMENT ON MY HEELS.” Terrific. Follow up touching those feet of hers with some lunch. Can’t wait…

“Happy to, dear, let me get all my tools put away.”

He pretended to salute the man in the jar.

“I’m Gerald, Hal. Pleased to meet you.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, chump. Let’s move it along. It’s stuffy in here.

“Do you think you could possibly assist me, Ger, and roll me away from the rock?”

Gerald wasn’t sure how to approach the pot of gold thing, but it was now or never.

“If I do set you free, you’ll lead me to your pot of gold?”

Oh brother. Here we go. Gimme, gimme, gimme…

“Gerald, my man, what would you do with a pot of gold? Wouldn’t you rather have a nice portfolio loaded with high-interest CD’s, some bonds and investments in some European start-ups?”

That certainly was not the response Gerald had anticipated. He was under the impression that Hal’s pot of gold would be automatically his. Maybe mom had gotten it wrong…

“Well then, what about three wishes? If I set you free, would you give me three wishes?”

Enough was enough.

“What are you nuts? Do I look like a fucking genie? Three wishes? Look, you sorry excuse for whatever you are. You get me out of here and I’ll do one thing for you. My pot’s out of the question. I mean, I’ve got an image to maintain. But I’ll give you one. Deal?”

“GERALD FRANCIS O’REILLY. I’M THIRSTY. BRING ME A COLD BEER FROM THE FRIDGE AND MAKE SURE YOU ICE DOWN THE GLASS.”

* * * * * * * *

Gerald was going to miss the little guy. Meeting him had been such a unique and satisfying experience. Hal was so much more interesting than his buddies from the factory. He decided he’d shower and put on his new jeans and St. Pat’s tee and head downtown to catch the parade. Lots of ladies come out to see the parade. There were also all the booths set up with food and beverages. The perfect setting to make new friends…

First however, he’d have to stash the jar where it would be safe. He located a lid that was just the right size. Gerald knew he couldn’t bury it outside. What if a dog dug it up and alerted its owner. Be tough explaining that. He decided on one of the shelves in the basement. It could be covered with an old tablecloth that would be easily removed should he decide to visit, although he didn’t anticipate that coming up very often. Hal said no care would be required, and Gerald knew that had to be truth. But still, ever considerate, Gerald tossed Emeraldine’s foot ointment right into that jar with her.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 70, LOST IN TIME: THE PROMISE

Haven’t you ever wanted to go back and time to fix something? Or maybe you’d like to relive something, knowing what you know now. Perhaps you’re a visionary and want a peek at the future to see how hover cars will change society or to find out just when the hell are we going to get our jet packs already.

Dust off your flux capacitors and let’s get this baby up to 88 miles per hour! Maybe you’re a spy with new technology and you’re trying to prevent war. Maybe you’re a professor who wants to go native with the ancient Romans. Whenever you decide, use a time machine to get us there.

Prompt: Write a story with a time machine and use these words: Bend, Frequency, Interplex, Spectrum, Phase
Word Count: 1300 or less

Terrific prompt!  I offer you,

THE PROMISE

“I don‘t know where to go first. I mean, I have so much to offer kings and queens and…”

“Shut up, Phil. You’ve been at it for two hours. Can’t you see Ronald is going through something painful? We’re all supposed to be friends, remember? Can’t you stop thinking about yourself for just five minutes? Tim, help me out here, will ya?”

“Harry, Phil’s a lost cause and always will be. He couldn’t recognize someone else’s problem if it wore headlights and sang the National Anthem.”

“Fine. I’ll stop, and we’ll help Ronald. But you have to admit, this is something to get excited about. We’re the only people in the world who have the equipment that can transport us to any point in history, knowing what we know today, and back again--across the full spectrum of time and space. I’m sorry if I’m the only one that realizes how big that is. Cash bought us Interplex’s technology. Why can’t cash buy Ronald some therapy?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Harry and Tim shouted at the same time. Phil shook his head in frustration, but said nothing further. He decided it was time for a drink and headed toward the living room bar. Ronald’s obviously gone around the bend about something, but at least the bar was fully stocked. Phil turned and saw Ronald coming down the stairs, holding a piece of paper. At least he’s finally out of his room, he thought. I won the draw and get to go first tomorrow morning. Ronald better not flake out on this because of some personal crap.

“Ronald, good to see you up and about. What’s that you’ve got?”

Harry knew exactly what Ronald was holding. The newspaper article about his childhood sweetheart. Ronald kept it out of sight, but every so often, he’d come across it and depression would set in again.

“Is that about Jeanine, Ronald?”

Ronald nodded.

“I found this as I was going through some old trunks looking for items to take with me on my time travels. I really need to get rid of this after all these years, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know about getting rid of it, Ronald,” Harry began. “But, if you do decide to keep it, stop trying to suppress your memories of her. Reading that again just opens up old wounds. Stop punishing yourself, man. None of what happened is your fault.”

“What happened, and who is Jeanine?” Tim had only recently become part of the close-knit group.

“You’re right, Harry, “ Ronald had to agree that being open about what happened might bring him some type of closure. “Tim, I’m from a small town and from first grade through high school, I was in love with a girl named Jeanine. We were inseparable, and decided after graduation we would be married. It’s crazy, but as the wedding drew nearer, I began to feel trapped. I felt as if I would never amount to, or experience, anything.

On our wedding day, June 6, 1985, at 1 p.m., yes, I still remember, I knew I couldn’t go through with it, but I didn’t know how to stop it. We were ready to take our vows, and when the minister asked if anyone objected to the marriage, I panicked. I said that I objected, turned to Jeanine, said I was sorry, and promised to come back for her. I walked out of the church, got in my car, headed toward New York and never looked back.

I subsequently made my fortune, and moved forward with my life. A few years later, I received this clipping from an unknown party that reported Jeanine had died. Apparently, after I left town, she developed some debilitating disease and took to her bed, never to recover.”

“Ronald,” Tim said quietly. “Harry’s right. Her illness, her death, they weren’t your fault. Evidently, you weren’t ready for that kind of commitment, and you know as well as I do how time can get away from you. You run corporations, you travel, you lecture… It’s hard to believe memories of a person could fade, but they do, my friend, and you’ve got to stop punishing yourself.”

Phil brought his drink into the den and joined the others. This was a topic he definitely had an opinion on.

“Ronald,” Phil was already slurring his words. He had been doubling the shots trying to prepare himself for his incredible journey at daybreak. “If you’d have married that woman and she ended up flat on her back for years, you really would have been fucked for life. Stuck in some podunk town, going nowhere, and ending up being buried right next to her. You were smart enough to bail, and look how you ended up. Millions of dollars, properties, and now, the chance to go anywhere to any time and make a few changes and end up with even more when you get back. I mean, it’s not like you killed her, and you did say you were sorry. No harm, no foul. Right?”

Harry and Tim looked at each other and could barely contain their anger. How did we ever get mixed up with this sorry excuse for a human being anyway?

“You’re a real prince, Phil,” Harry finally said. “A real prince.”

Phil shrugged his shoulders, drained his glass, and bid his friends goodnight.

“I’ll be back at 7 a.m. Wasn’t that the time we decided would be best? Frequency alignments or some such nonsense. Ronald, I hope you work through this phase of yours. See you all in the a.m.”

When the front door closed, they all agreed on two things. One, they needed to go home and rest before tomorrow’s life-changing experience, and two, if they knew Phil’s where and when in advance, they’d all go first and warn everyone of his impending arrival. ’Jerk’ didn’t even scratch the surface.

Harry, Tim and Phil wondered why Ronald didn’t answer the door. They found it unlocked and went in, calling out to him, but received no response. They heard a low humming coming from the den, and when they entered, they saw the time transmitter was in full operation.

“Damn him all to Hell,” Phil shouted. “He knew I was supposed to be first and he took my turn. Well, now I get two turns in a row. I…”

Harry’s and Tim’s voices blended again. “Shut the fuck up!”

Harry and Tim went to look at the settings, but they both already knew the destination: St. Mark’s Church, Oakdale, Nebraska, June 6, 1985, 12:55 p.m. They also knew Ronald had erased his return coordinates.

“I swear,” Phil was still at it. “When he gets back, I’m going to…”

Tim interrupted. “Ronald won’t be back, Phil. I know you couldn’t possibly understand, but he’s going to be just fine. Wait a sec. Why put it off? Phil, let us know where you want to go and we’ll transmit you now.” Tim winked at Harry, who cracked a smile.

“Now you’re talking. Send me to 49 BC, to Cleopatra’s Court. Wait till she sees what I’ve got to offer! I just stand on the platform, right? You’ll take care of everything?”

“Absolutely, Phil,” Tim said. “Just close your eyes.”

Tim began typing in commands and pushing buttons. In an instant, Phil disappeared. Harry, who had been looking over his shoulder, began to laugh.

“Tim, you should brush up on your typing. Instead of ‘49 BC, Cleopatra’s Court’, you entered ‘command back 66 million years, Cretaceous Period’.”

Tim flexed his fingers. “Ooops…”

The two friends decided to go out for breakfast. They knew the transmitter should be destroyed. They realized they were already right where they needed to be. And Ronald and Phil? Right where they both needed to be. Too.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 69: MEPHISTO EDITION

This week we are going to make a deal with ‘ol Scratch himself. Tales of bargaining with the dark one are as old as written history and he is a slippery cuss to deal with. So this week write a tale under 900 words where you make a deal with the devil.

I had so much fun with this one. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

What is time, after all? Well, live and learn…

TIME

He was admiring all the expensive appliances in his newly remodeled kitchen. That’s what it was all about, he thought, the flash. If stuff didn’t shine, sparkle, or glow in the dark, how could one be expected to impress the hell out of all the ordinary chumps in the world. Not that just anybody would be permitted entry to his apartment anyway. He decided he would make a list of those he deemed worthy of a chance to possibly earn that privilege, and how it might be accomplished. The wisps of smoke wafting in from the living room made his knees buckle.

“What the hell‘s burning? These detectors are supposed to go off before I even get a whiff.”

He ran into the living room and saw a figure sitting on the couch, with flames surrounding its face and hands, if you could call them that. There were two horns on either side of the head and the hands looked like claws.

“Who are you and how did you get in here? Wait until I get my hands on those jokers that call themselves security. But, right now, I’m calling the police and my attorney because you are going to get locked up and sued for destroying my property. I’ve got a fire extinguisher here somewhere.”

“No need, Mr. Danninger. I’ll just change over.”

The figure closed its eyes and transformed into a middle-aged man with a full head of gray hair, bright blue eyes and dressed in a stylish three-piece suit. The couch transformed too, back to its original state.

“Armani,” he said quietly. “I have to admit, I’m quite the clothes horse. But then, I get so few opportunities to really dress up.”

Blaine knew all the years of cell phones, microwaves and computer terminals had finally taken their toll. He had thought there would be more warning as the brain tumor’s growth progressed, but perhaps this way was best. One, two, three, and it would be over. No lingering for weeks or months in a bed in one of those vegetable farms.

“You’re thinking brain tumor, right? Let me explain. I wouldn’t have come here looking like that, but that’s how people recognize me. I like this look better though. The horns, long fingernails and flames--so tacky and uncomfortable too. It’s the heat, you see. I get enough of it 24/7. I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I am the Devil, but you can call me Gavin, if that will work for you. I like ‘Gavin‘. It’s trendy. I’m here because I have a proposal for you.”

Blaine thought, this is really happening. But why?

“Gavin, huh? Okay. Oh, and thanks. I just bought that couch. What could you want from me though? I shut businesses down, put people out of work, cheat families out of their savings with my scams, I’m already bad, and very rich. I don’t need to sell my soul to you to get anything. Besides, if I accidentally called you up, I apologize.”

“You don’t understand, Blaine. I don‘t want your soul. I’ve got too many as it is. You know, way back when this all started, I only got so much space. And it’s not like my house has a revolving door. They come and they stay. Forever. That’s a long time, bro, and it’s getting tight in there. We’re three deep already. It‘s like this. Hell’s crowded and full of whiners. There’s no fire and brimstone like in the movies, just a lot of nothing. Drives ‘em batty, and they whine because they know that’s all there will ever be. Fine and dandy, right? For them maybe, but not for me. They deserve what they’ve got, but where’s the perks for me? I separate friends and relatives, trying to make them as miserable as possible, screening the newbies, and it takes up all my time. I can’t get out to recruit, and I haven’t tempted anybody in years. I’m burned out. No pun intended. What I propose is you and I swap places for a month. Thirty days from now, I’ll bring you here and we‘ll swap back. You get a vacation from all your wheeling and dealing and I can stretch my legs, so to speak. I’ll even sweeten it some. When you get back, I’ll grant any request, no questions. What do you say?”

Blaine thought he had heard everything, but this beat all. What have I got to lose, he thought? I could use a vacation. Gavin pricked Blaine’s finger so he could sign the contract in blood. A bit dramatic to be sure, but the old guy seemed to enjoy it. Before he knew it, he was sitting on a tarnished throne, looking down on stacks of people, and they were all indeed whining. I can make people miserable anywhere, he thought, and enjoy the hell out of it. He had to laugh. Pun intended.

Two years later, Gavin returned home after a particularly exhausting day. He had convinced two stockbrokers to commit suicide, one bank executive to murder his entire family, and three teenagers to begin selling cocaine to third graders. He loved this apartment, with all it’s expensive furnishings and especially, the silence. That fellow, Blaine, certainly did have good taste. Wonder how he’s doing. Probably still waiting for those thirty days to be up. Should have read the fine print. Thirty of MY days…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 67: MY STEAMY VALENTINE

The theme this week, for Valentines’ Day, was My Steamy Valentine. We were supposed to write a story about love and romance. Ah, love. Such a misunderstood and elusive emotion. I offer a glimpse into the romantic exploits of a couple on the edge of commitment.  Well, definitely on the edge...

MAKING THE RIGHT MOVE

Sylvia was feeling quite apprehensive about this evening’s possible outcome. It was her fifth date with Burt Downy, the Stockroom Manager at Tilson’s Market, and if the past was any indication, tonight would be when he made his move. At the conclusion of the fifth date had been when all the others before him had made their moves on her--all eleven of them, in fact. But, she had been alert, aware, and on guard as Mother had instructed her to be, and she had escaped their clutches unscathed. All eleven times. She hoped with all her heart that Burt was different, but considering that he had requested she prepare a home-cooked meal that the two of them could enjoy privately in her dining room, the prognosis was dim at best. He wanted to be alone with her in her home on their fifth date. Oh, how history repeats itself. Yet, still she hoped…

Burt was ten minutes early, but he knew how important punctuality was to Sylvia. He did not want to disappoint her--not tonight. He needed her to be completely at ease and without suspicion. One opportunity was all he would have, and everything about tonight must be flawless. He had already experienced this evening over and over in his mind, meticulously planning every word, every action. All that was left was to fit Sylvia into the scene. She didn’t know it yet, but soon it would all be very clear. Soon. Burt rang Sylvia’s doorbell.

When Sylvia opened the door, Burt noticed her blouse was buttoned up all the way to the collar. Her sleeves were long, with folded cuffs covering her wrists, and her skirt completely hid her feet. All this time we’ve been together and she’s still so proper, he thought. Interesting. Sylvia pulled Burt in and pushed him into the dining room.

“Dinner’s all ready,” she said, shoving him into his seat. Best to just go along and try to throw him off his game. “You see, it’s all on the table, nice and hot, right from the oven. I made roast chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, rolls, apple pie, and my special iced tea that you love so much. You can’t get a more home-cooked meal than that, can you?”

Burt was impressed and knew he had made the right decision.

“Sylvia, before we have our meal, there are a few things I need to say to you and something I’ve wanted to do since the first time I saw you. I don’t want you to say anything until I’m finished, okay? I’m already more nervous than I thought I would be.”

So now it begins, Sylvia thought, giving orders, and the desire for complete control. Textbook typical.

“Sylvia, the first time our eyes met, I felt a stirring in my soul that I’ve never felt before. I will admit I’ve dated a few times, but it generally didn’t turn into anything. I’d pretty much given up on finding the perfect woman. But then, I met you, and I knew you were the one.”

So, she thought, I wonder what it was about me that slotted me in--made me fit the pattern--made me THE ONE.

“I know this is only our fifth date,” Burt continued, “but I am certain I want to look no further. I don’t want you to look any further either and tonight, I’m going to make sure that the thought of seeing anyone else never crosses your mind.”

Oh my God, she thought. It’s really true. He’s going to do it. This is really going to happen. Again.

"I’m rambling, I know, so let me get to the point. Sylvia Potter, I have a surprise for you that I’m sure you never expected. Now, just close your eyes and…”

“And WHAT? You’ll tie my hands behind my back and drag me to the bedroom and ravage me and then slit my throat from ear to ear? Or maybe you’d rather strangle me with my own pantyhose? Well, brother, you can’t kill me with those because I’m wearing sandals. Outsmarted you on that one, didn’t I, mister man?”

Burt was confused. What was Sylvia going on about?

“Sweetheart, what are you saying? All I want to do is…”

“I know what you want to do. You came here to kill me in my own house just like all the others wanted to do. But I figured them out and I figured you out too. ‘I’m the one’ and “you’re going to make sure I don’t want to see anyone else’. I know what that means. Choose, then stalk, then murder. What kind of a fool do you take me for?”

“Murder? How can you think such a thing? Why, I would never harm a hair on your head. I don’t understand you at all.”

Burt drank half his glass of iced tea.

“Please, let me explain. I…” Burt grabbed the table to stop himself from falling off the chair. Why was he suddenly dizzy.

“I mean, I wanted…“ Why did his head feel like it was going to explode. He’d never had a headache in his entire life.

“What is hap…” Burt was finding it impossible to get a breath.

Burt clutched at his heart, slid from the chair, and when he collapsed dead on the carpet, a small box fell from his shirt pocket. Sylvia picked it up and opened it.

“Oh my,” she said. “What a beautiful sparkly ring. The stone isn’t quite as large as most of the others, but it’ll do. Splitting it would make a pair of lovely earrings. Imagine him thinking that I’d wear jewelry that belonged to his dead mother or whoever while he was making me breathe my last breath. Where on earth do these men get their crazy ideas?”

She hoped Stan Burgess, who re-shelved books at the downtown branch of the library wouldn’t get any crazy ideas. Their first date was scheduled for tomorrow night and he was planning to take her out for burgers and fries and then to a movie at the Multi-Plex. She’d have to tidy up the house, especially the dining room, so she could invite him in for coffee and cookies after. There was plenty of time though. First, she’d enjoy the delightful meal she’d worked all afternoon on. Of course, she’d put on a pot of coffee for herself as a beverage. After all, the cyanide she’d mixed in with the iced tea wouldn’t go too well with apple pie…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 66: FOR HONOR'S SAKE

This week’s theme was Swords and Sorcerers and Dungeons and Dragons and MAGIC! We were include the following words: Forest, fortress, flying, forever, and brimstone, and keep it under 1500 words. It was a lot of fun trying to create these images and weave a story around them. Please enjoy.

FOR HONOR’S SAKE

Soldana was afraid. Being adjudged evil and outcast and forced to reside alone in a small shack on the edge of the forest delighted her to no end. Keeping company with the malevolent spirits and hideous creatures her power allowed her to control brought only rapture to her cursed soul. No. It was not the adulterers who sought a potion to forever silence their demanding mistresses or the aging wives pleading for an enchantment to make them appear to their husbands as still young and desirable that caused her this overwhelming fear. It was the gentleman who had come calling on this, the darkest of nights and who now sat before her. Lord Dolwin of Millcroft, eldest son of the High Priest, Caulder, who she, along with all in the province, knew lay dying.

“My Lord, forgive my impertinence, but I cannot, and will not, use my power to hasten the death of your father. Good Sir, it is true I am already damned for my deeds, but to aid in the killing of a High Priest would certainly bring thrice the torment in the afterlife that my soul is already destined to endure.”

“You stupid cur, I should draw my weapon and open your throat for your insolent manner. No one refuses me, you miserable slug. Never forget that. But for once in your worthless existence, a spot of good fortune shines upon you. It is not my father whose end I seek. He is already very weak, and his soul will leave this world before the hour is done. I am certain. It is Albert, my younger brother, who you must destroy. And it must be done at daybreak and he must suffer great pain and fear for all the injustice he has visited upon me.”

Brother against brother, Soldana thought. No taboo there, but still it troubled her. She knew of these two. The eldest found disfavor with the father because of all his cruelty and corruption. The youngest was kind and loved by all. He even saw to it that the soldiers never assaulted her person or plundered her supplies. Word was he offered prayers for her salvation and begged forgiveness for her sins. Wasted effort to be certain, but still. She wondered why his death would benefit the elder. Surely Lord Dolwin was first heir to the father’s fortune and high standing. The younger brother would gain nothing until death of the eldest. That was the law of the land.

Her attention was drawn back to Lord Dolwin, who was opening a pouch and placing two chains, each with a jewel-encrusted pendant attached.

“This round one with the small diamond, this is the one my brother wears to battle. This is the pendant I want the spell on. He’s off at sunrise with his brigade to the hills of Toradunne to deal with some bandits who have been desecrating the churches there. He wants to remain at our father’s side until the last, but I’ve taken steps to ensure father will breathe his last well before morning. Protecting places of worship is the duty bestowed on the youngest son, and when he wears this, I want his sword to fail it’s intended purpose. I want the enemies to run him through and through again without him being able to raise a hand. He will die slowly, his life’s blood staining the churches’ aisles crimson. Then, they shall all be damned and I will be avenged.”

“And the other, my Lord? The large triangular one with the rubies and emeralds?”

“Mind your curiosity, witch. But it matters not if you learn it’s significance. This is, was, our father’s. You see how he mocks me even as he dies. This should be mine, but it was already given to my brother. He keeps them pouched side by side, but the one I will claim as mine will remain at the Manor when he takes his leave.

So. I’ve had enough conversation with you, servant of the Almighty Evil One. Do you need to touch it to enchant it? Quickly now. I have to place them both back with his belongings.”

“Sir, I do not wish to anger you further, but I cannot render his sword a passive companion. If he thrusts, it will deliver its wound. But, since you desire fear and suffering, I have a solution I feel will please you. I have a pet. He is as large as 10 men, with teeth as long and sharp as your sword. His claws grasp and tear and once the victim is rendered defenseless, he begins to feed until not a trace remains. He can penetrate any fortress, flying on black leathery wings to do his assigned duty. Close your eyes, Sir, and the spell will be cast. When the chain is applied, it will tighten and the clasp will be permanently secured. My pet will then seek as his living feast, he who wears the chain.

The smell of brimstone was overpowering and Dolwin knew true evil was near. He smiled. Soon, he thought, very soon, and I will have it all.

Dolwin awoke and asked his aide about his father. Died shortly before dawn, he was told, as had been arranged. At Dolwin’s command, the aide had added the poison to the High Priest’s cup of water. No point letting him linger. Put him out of my misery, Dolwin thought. He decided he’d have the aide executed later. Wouldn’t want him to suddenly develop a conscience.

On the writing table in his suite, he noticed a pouch with a note. Within the pouch was the gold chain and the large pendant, the rubies and emeralds filling the room with flashes of colored light. He read the note.

Brother, I have taken my leave to bring the bandits to justice and to send each one to the God he has defiled. I remained with father until the end, and his last wish was that I present his beloved pendant to you. He never understood the distance between you and he, but he respected your need for it. He hoped you would accept it from me as a symbol of his love and devotion to you. Your servant, Albert

Dolwin dropped the note and grabbed the chain, put it around his neck and fastened the clasp. His right hand cradled the large pendant and he sighed. Well, he thought, Albert will be permanently gone and I will have this too. Good fortune certainly has shone its light down upon me this day.

He heard an unnerving flapping sound and went to the window. Heading directly toward him was a creature straight from the depths of Hell itself, mouth open, teeth bared, claws reaching…

Dolwin felt the chain tighten around his neck. He grabbed the clasp, but it would not release. She couldn’t have, he thought, she wouldn’t have… As the nightmare landed on the balcony outside his window and made its way inside the room, Dolwin screamed. Once.

Soldana shut the door of the creatures’ pen. It was home now, today’s duty completed. As she made her way back to her shack, she smiled. She knew she had done the right thing--the honorable thing. This time. She decided never again though. Bad for business…