Spes Magna Games

Today’s prompt is “Ghosts”. I decided to continue the story from a previous prompt. The first two short paragraphs are from an earlier post. New material clocks in at about 265 words.

The Decision Continued

“You gonna drink that today?”

He fixed on the bartender’s rheumy eyes, waited a beat or two, and then shrugged. The bartender shrugged, turned away to wipe down the bar yet again. The shot glass shimmered as the light shifted from left to right: a truck passed by outside, reflecting the late morning sun.

He opened the manila folder and slid out the contents: papers, photographs, a smaller envelope. Setting aside the smaller envelope, he looked first at the photographs. A handsome man, well-dressed, well-coifed, stared out from the top picture. Obviously a professional photograph, probably for corporate use. The others showed the same man in public, photographed without his knowledge. At the park. At the store. Leaving the office. The papers were typed, single-spaced, organized under headings that provided an outline of the man’s habits, movements, and, most importantly, the reasons why his death had been ordered.

“He deserves to die.”

Setting aside the papers, he looked up. A woman sat on the stool next to him. She was young, too thin. Her hairline was distorted from where her skull had been cracked by violence. Baseball bat? Gulf club? Her eyes had probably been blue in life. Now they were pale yellow.

“He’ll do this again,” the woman said, pointing to her wound. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“I know.”

“You say something?” the bartender asked.

The man shook his head. “Not really. Yeah, I’m going to drink this.”

He took the shot of whisky in hand and tossed it back. The liquid burned at first, but then faded into warm hints of spice and vanilla. He looked at the dead woman and nodded while sliding the papers and pictures back into the manila folder. The smaller envelope went in last, after he thumbed through the bills inside.

How much was a human life worth? Five grand, and even that seemed too precious in the particular case.

Tags: #8MWH

About 270 words this morning.

Another Empty Chamber, Another Day

The sun had just peeked over the eastern horizon when William slid a single bullet into the Colt’s cylinder. He looked at the weapon. It looked so normal, like any other pistol he’d ever handled. He pulled back the hammer, spun the cylinder, put the barrel to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

A few minutes later, William, dressed nattily, badge shining on his jacket, strolled down the hotel stairs. He nodded to the desk clerk and turned into the restaurant. Time for breakfast. The Farrington boys would still be asleep. No one who spent the night in the whore house would be up this early.

“Bring me what’s good,” he told the hostess. “That, and plenty of coffee, ma’am.”

The hostess correctly judged what was good. Breakfast was excellent, and the coffee was hot and strong and black. He left payment on the table and left the hotel. The street outside was mostly deserted. A few people were about, mostly shopkeepers opening up for another day’s business. The dim lights of lanterns burned behind drapes across the street at the whore house. William slipped his pocket watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time.

“The end is nigh,” William said.

He snapped the watch shut, slipped it back into place, and then pulled his pistol from its holster. The spent cartridge dropped to the porch, and William loaded six bullets while leaning against a post. A farmer passing by in his mule-drawn wagon looked away when William met his curious stare. As William as he stepped off the hotel’s porch and walked, almost marched, across the street and through the whore house doors.

Tags: #8MWH

Slower going today with 258 words.

The Mutiny

“Sometimes I feel so deserted by all the pretty girls with whom I’ve flirted.”

Impromptu verse. It gave me something to do other than bob up and down under the scorching sun, atop the gently rolling waves aboard the inflatable raft. I chuckled. Was I being clever? Was it the heat? The lack of water? What was it Coleridge wrote about water everywhere, but none it potable?

I adjusted the makeshift canopy I’d made out of the small oars and my clothes, but it didn’t matter. Part of me still ended up baking in the sun, so my real choice was which parts could stand a little more burn.

“Well played, gentlemen.”

I never saw it coming, ‘it’ referring both to the treachery as well as the rough hands that grabbed me while I was having a smoke on deck. They didn’t bother to explain. We all knew the why of it. I’d made promises that I’d been unable to keep, and five people died and the rest sailed half way across the Pacific, all for nothing.

“C’est la vie.”

I chuckled again. We had been close. I was certain of that, but, like they say, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. It does not count in treasure hunting with mercenaries, following a faded map found in the back of a nineteenth century journal. I guess, in retrospect, the idea of an undiscovered island in this day and age of GPS and spy satellites is a bit silly, but I’ve always been a romantic at heart.

Tags: #8MWH

My prompt for today yields this very short story in just over eight minutes and nearly 300 words.

Janie’s Project

“Soon, I shall be reborn,” she said.

I sighed. She was so beautiful, but hers was a severe beauty, like that of classical sculpture brought to life and full color without losing the granite. She was also smart, so much smarter than I’d ever be.

“Are you really sure, Janie? There’s no going back if you’re wrong.”

“I’m sure. I’ll lock the door once I’m inside. There’s no going back now.”

For years she’d worked in the cellars of our home, remodeling, installing, arranging the assembly lines, the generators, the robotic arms and computers, so many things that I understood in broad strokes only because she’d explained them to me. She dutifully kissed my cheek and shut the door. I heard the hiss of the locks.

I knew what people said. I was a cradle robber. A dirty old man. That she was a gold digger. That she was using me. Et cetera. I didn’t care. I loved her. I certainly loved her more than she’d ever love me, which is why I agreed to this project of hers.

A could feel the machinery thrumming through the floor. It wasn’t audible, but it was running. She was on that conveyor belt by now. The various apparatus were doing their work, cutting, removing, replacing. I retreated to the library, poured myself a vodka on the rocks, sat by the small fire. It wasn’t cold, but I was chilled. What she was doing…. Wasn’t it monstrous?

I must have dozed off. I didn’t hear her until her new feet were close enough that their clacking on the hardwood floor woke me from fitful dreams. I looked up. I couldn’t speak.

“Am I not beautiful?” her voice said through the electronics. “Am I not perfectly free from the marvelous meat machine that was my human body?”

Tags: #8MWH

Well, my track record for a daily eight minute writing exercise this week has been spotty at best. I decided to go back in time to when Matt Jackson posted his first piece, this one on the prompt of “The Shot”. I had an idea about where my story was going, but I didn’t get there before the on-line stopwatch let me know my eight minutes had passed. Regardless, here’s the results (all 211 or so words).

The Decision

He sat near the end of the bar, canted a bit on the stool to see both the entrance and the door leading to the latrines. Near one elbow was a manila folder, thick with its contents. Near the envelope waited a shot glass. The whisky in the glass glowed softly in the dim, yellow light. Few other patrons were in the bar. It was early, only a few hours after most people had to be at work.

He walked his eyes from person to person. The bartender: fat, bald head already shining with perspiration, neatly trimmed beard, tattoos done in fading blue ink, one of the back of his hand showing fanned playing cards, aces and eights, a dead man’s hand. The others were customers. Regulars. He knew them by face if not by name, each one always present. He wondered if they ever went home. If they had homes to go to.

“You gonna drink that today?”

He fixed on the bartender’s rheumy eyes, waited a beat or two, and then shrugged. The bartender shrugged, turned away to wipe down the bar yet again. The shot glass shimmered as the light shifted from left to right: a truck passed by outside, reflecting the late morning sun.

(This story continues here.)

Tags: #8MWH