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Sorry Seagreen, this was a good prompt, but this month was super busy and got in my way to enter a story.
Stevie
There was an empty spot on the sparkling, granite countertop where the coffee maker should be.
“Where’s the coffee maker?” I asked.
Alice slipped a saucer in the dish rack. “I tossed it.”
“You did what?”
“It caught fire this morning.”
“It does that from time to time. Unplug it, blow on it twice, and it will be fine.”
“You can’t be serious.”
A year of marriage, and I was already regretting it.
“Besides, the coffee was tasting bitter,” she said, “even after I cleaned it.”
“That bitterness is character. Character that can only be honed after a decade of use.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“Stevie’s been my coffee maker since I was at university.”
“What kind of grown man has a name for a coffee maker?”
The glimmering granite spot where Stevie sat mocked me.
“Where are Stevie’s stains?”
“I cleaned it. That was gross.”
“Those puddles were how Stevie reminded me it was time to patch the seals.”
“That coffee goop was attracting ants.”
“Did the garbage truck pass already?”
“They passed an hour ago, when you were in the shower.”
Of all the times, the garbage collectors could be on time, it had to be when Stevie was in the bin.
She sauntered towards me, rested a traitorous, sudsy hand on my chest. “I was going to surprise you for your birthday, but since you seem distraught by me saving us from being burnt to pieces by throwing out that fire hazard …”
She could have dumped the blender, microwave, nut milk maker. Why Stevie?
She returned, heaving a lump of a box. “This is the all new Magnifica coffee machine, imported from Italy. It cost me a fortune, but the smile this will put on your face makes it worthwhile.”
“I don’t want a fancy machine.”
Stevie brewed cups that got me through funerals, broken relationships, and that horrid day I had to put down my cat.
“It responds to your voice, shout for an espresso, and presto, you’ll have one,” she said. “Super-fast brewing time, and you can program it to play your favourite music while it brews. It cleans itself, too. No more wasting time washing, more time for you to paint or hike.”
She rested the contraption on the table. Pecked my cheek. “I got to get ready for work.”
#
For the next thirty-two years we were married, I hated that I enjoyed the Magnifica coffee. Loathed that it was awesome it played my beloved tunes while brewing. Despised it lasted three decades.
Each morning, she said, “You could try my green tea since Magnifica coffee makes you so miserable.”
“Never.”
The only thing worse than enjoying Magnifica coffee would be liking green tea.
Word Count: 462 words
Heartbreak
Megan sauntered to the immigration officer, a man with ears pointy as a chihuahua, and not much bigger. His name tag, begging for a new laminate said his name was Ralph. Megan slid her form and passport across the table.
Her week in St. Vincent had served its purpose but it was time to head back to Michigan. The humidity and flickering lights in the cramped quarters calling itself a departure hall agreed with her.
The immigration officer pointed at the bag in her hand. “What’s in there?”
“Rum.”
“What kind?”
Megan said, “Your local Sunset Rum.”
“You crazy? You can’t take that on an airplane.”
“Why not? It’s just rum.”
“Sunset is the strongest rum on earth.”
Megan had no doubt about that. One sip when she landed in St. Vincent cured her heartbreak. Her colleague, Alvin, back in Michigan, had told her about his native island’s rum. He was astute, it seemed. He worked beside her since she left college five years ago and never mentioned Sunset Rum until she removed the photo of that son of a bitch, Mike, from her desk, lost interest in eating and dieted on Air Supply through her laptop speakers.
Alvin had been right that Sunset Rum could cure heartbreak. And there would be more to come, surely. If Mike could shred her heart, anyone could. But to tell the immigration officer the truth would sound like a mountain bike missing a gear.
“I love your Sunset Rum,” she said. “I need it as a souvenir.”
“It’s too strong to carry on a plane, ma’am.”
Like how a passenger must have their seat in the upright position for take-off. Rules for the sake of rules but bureaucrats must find something to do. But there is one language bureaucrats understand.
She slipped her hand out her pocket, planted it on the counter. “What if my Sunset Rum was friends with President Andrew Jackson?”
The immigration officer smiled, revealing a crooked front tooth.
Let her board with her precious Sunset Rum. Let anyone break her heart, she had the elixir.
“You Yankees think you can buy everything,” said the officer. “With the cost of living in this country, it would take more than a twenty to get me to break the rules.”
Megan jammed the crumpled twenty bucks into her pocket.
“So, every time I need Sunset Rum, I need to find a thousand US dollars for airfare, a couple hundred more for decent accommodation, beg my boss for a few days off, fly to St. Vincent, to get a drop of Sunset Rum?”
He shrugged. “Or you could move here and live.”
# #
If you have the good fortune of visiting St. Vincent in the beautiful Caribbean, you might pass Megan’s bar, Healed Heartbreak Shack. Please, stop by. Order the Ralph Special – Sunset Rum with a splash of lime. And don’t tell her she sounds like an American, she’s been working on her Vincentian accent for a couple years.
Word Count: 497 words
This was a good prompt. Unfortunately, this month was really busy, and I didn’t get a chance to come up with a story. I enjoyed the stories entered.
<p style=”text-align: center;”>The Sale</p>
The charlatan, bushy eyebrows, and matching scarlet hair, propped in her doorway. “What do you want?”I thrust my hand with the violin towards her. “I need to return this.”
“My ad said no returns.”
“You don’t have to refund me, just take it back.”
“No returns.”
This was proving harder than I thought.
“What kind of punk rock band needs a violin? I only bought it because it was so cheap,” I said.
“Didn’t The Clash have a violinist?” She laughed.
Joke about a lot of things, not The Clash. But now was not the time.
I said, “It’s not staying in tune.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
Desperate times called for honesty.
No noise came from her house, the street was deserted, but I found myself whispering, “Weird things have been happening since I bought this violin.”
She stared at the doorstep with its zigzagging crack. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve been hearing my dad’s voice and he passed away a decade ago.”
She fidgeted with the hem of her baggy dress.
“Last night, my new toaster caught fire,” I said.
“Maybe you need to return the toaster and not the violin you willingly bought.”
I could not stand another night with inexplicable cold in my home, hearing the wails of a child I never had, chairs overturning themselves.
“I could just dump the violin here,” I said.
“It wouldn’t change a thing for you, I have to invite in, and I’m not going to.”
“So, you admit this thing is haunted?”
She glanced around, exhaled. “Haven’t you noticed you play better since you bought the violin?”
My playing had improved in the last week, but I figured that was on account of my wife trading me in for a new beau, and the time that had freed. Besides, my band was playing simple tunes.
“Legend has it the original owner traded his soul for musical talent,” she said.
“Please, take this thing. I’m begging you.”
“I’m not inviting it in.”
# #
I was going to sell the violin to some sucker, pass the ghost on, but wouldn’t you know it? A concert hall manager watched me on a video I posted online and was blown away by my adaptation of The Clash in the style of Beethoven. She passed my number on, and three months later, I sat in the London Symphony Orchestra. Farewell empty bars and ten-dollar gigs, hello mucho dinero and a packed auditorium. It was well worth the haunting.
Word Count: 416 words
Bathsheba
I strummed my guitar in the basement, Ol’ Man River by Bing Crosby cooed from the gramophone.
My wife heaped a mound of crimson pigment on the palette. “You need to lock the doors and latch the windows before you head to bed.”
If I got stuck locking the doors like at our crummy old place, it would take an hour of locking and re-locking, such were the tortures of suffering with OCD.
“No need to lock the doors,” I said. “Living in Bathsheba is like the good, old days.”
“Anything to justify the ton of money we dropped on this house, huh?”
“It’s not about the money, the realtor said out here is peace and tranquility. It’s like the good old days.”
“The realtor, that beacon of objectivity.” My wife rolled her eyes.
My fingers danced across my guitar’s nylon strings, and finally hit the rhythm of the Bing Crosby song. It would be ready for band practice the next night. At last.
My wife squeezed oil from a cloth onto the crimson pigment, mashed it with a spatula. “You need to toss some of your old books.”
“I’m not dumping my books.”
“You don’t read them anymore. Plus, we don’t have space. Almost a million dollars on this house and it can’t even hold a couple books.”
“We’re paying for the location, not the square footage.”
“And don’t I know it.”
If I was a lesser man, I would remind her that we agreed this basement was to be my sacred space. I would also remind her the scent of linseed oil she used in her paint agitated me.
“If you insist on not locking up the whole place, at least lock the back door. There’s no light out there,” said my wife.
There was a light, but it needed a new filament, no need to dump a good light bulb. I would fix it the next day.
She dusted her hands on her apron, a sign she would be heading to bed, and I would be left in peace with my Bing Crosby, my guitar, and my thoughts.
She said, “I’m sure there was a robbery around here.”
“No, that was Suttle Street. Out here is like those days when a village raised a child, when everybody knew your name, and locking a house was silly.”
“You need to learn to let go.”
And she needed to go to bed.
# #
The next day, I would explain to the police why my house, which had been broken into, was left unlocked. At least, the thieves left my Bing Crosby records.
Word Count: 430 words
@athelstone, that was an enjoyable story. I liked how you interpreted the prompt. A deserving winner to end the year. Over to you.
He had seen the changing colors of the leaves which autumn requested. Felt the temperature fall. Of course, he had to haul himself on a plane years ago to experience this. Where he was from, it was hot all year round. No changing colors of leaves where he was from.
This year, he would experience autumn again. See the leaves change. Feel the air be crisper. Taste the pumpkin pie. His daughter had asked him, no begged him, to go somewhere with the change of season. A place where autumn would be welcomed.
He had to tell her though that their life was going to change. It changed when he felt pain where there should be none. When the doctor said there was no cure, and a wheelchair would be part of his life.
His daughter munched on the sugary cereal. She was small for a nine-year-old, by that age, her feet should be touching the floor from the dining room chairs. Another thing she inherited from him.
“I can’t wait to see autumn in Maine,” she said.
Tell her. Stop being a coward. She needed to know his health wasn’t looking good. He had laid people off, stood up to politicians, all he had to do was tell his child that daddy was sick.
“Will it snow?” she asked.
“Of course, it will. Just for you.”
What was he waiting for? This was only going to make it harder. Having this news not be delivered to her would mean it would hang over their trip to Maine.
“I can’t wait.” She smiled.
Rip it off like a cheap sticker.
“Aren’t you excited, daddy?”
“Of course, honey.”
Tomorrow would be better. He would tell her tomorrow. Promise.
The phone rang. Odd. No one called the house phone.
“This is Samuel,” the too familiar voice said.
The doctor. His heart plummeted.
“Possibly good news,” the doctor said. “There’s an experimental drug. It looks like it might cure that disease but there are risks. You might –”
“Yes. Sign me up.”
“There’s a ton of paperwork you’ll have to –”
“Doesn’t matter. How soon can I sign?”
“You can come by now if you –”
“I’m on my way.”
He ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Let’s leave early this morning. Daddy has a stop to make after he drops you to school.”
She nodded and smiled.
Maybe he would have no bad news to share with her after all.
Word Count: 410 words
This was a great prompt @seagreen. Unfortunately, this month I have been swamped with obligations from another part of my life and was unable to write anything at all (for the monthly comp or in general).
Rusty
Killing a man is easy. The hard part is disposing the body. Was disposing the body. Until I tried a wheelbarrow. Yup. Same type of wheelbarrow Mavis used in the garden, but mine was rusty.
Last year, I made the beginner’s mistake of using a garbage bag, but the lower back isn’t at forty-eight what it was at twenty-eight. Thanks to cricket on weekends.
The plan tonight was to dispose of this body without getting caught and head home. That should be a piece of chocolate cake because Fern Hill was nothing but shrub and frogs. Besides, the overcast sky blocked the incriminating moon and out here had no street lamps.
I grabbed my pipe. Lit it. Nice and bitter.
“This is the ideal place for a photoshoot,” a woman’s voice said.
I fell flat on my stomach. Nestled in the shrubs.
Another female voice said, “It’s so isolated.”
“Just what we need for these photos.”
Could they see me? Don’t panic.
My shallow breathing didn’t obey.
My mobile rang in my pocket. I hit the green answer button.
“Did you hear something?” one of the women asked.
“Not sure …”
“Must be hearing things,” said the other woman.
I whispered, “Hello.”
Mavis’ annoying voice boomed into my ear. “Why are you whispering?”
“I’m at work.”
“You don’t whisper at work.”
Damn it.
“Boss is in.”
“When did that ever stop you from talking normally?”
The two women talked about their silly photoshoot.
“Are those female voices I hear?” Mavis asked.
“No.”
“I’m no fool.”
“I swear -”
Mavis cut the call off.
The models didn’t see me, but I slept the next month in the shed beside Mavis’ wheelbarrow.
Word Count: 280 words
Innocence
She spread the gorgeous plaid cloth over the table. So many things she could praise the new government for, adding class to the house topped the list. Who knew pigs would be classier than humans? And nicer.
After this, set the table for the pigs and their usual Thursday night guests. Serve dinner, check in every twenty minutes. Life was splendid.
The prime minister’s voice boomed behind her, startling her. The pig, Napolean, walked on his hind legs now, pointed at her. “You’re helping the humans cheat. I wondered all week how Mr. Jones and his idiot friends could have beaten us?”
She stumbled backwards. “Me? I didn’t –”
“Us pigs are superior. Made no sense. I figured it out.”
“I swear –”
“When you come in to supposedly refill our drinks.” He stopped an inch in front of her, glaring down at her, breath stinking of rum. “You’re signaling to them what cards we hold.”
She would never help the humans.
She couldn’t lose this job. She gave the other humans the middle finger when Napolean took over. No way she would find work with them. Or lodging.
She stammered, “Mr. Napolean, you must believe me.”
“The only thing I must do is kick you off my farm.”
“Please –”
“I’ll find a way for you to right your wrong.”
She nodded, beads of sweat on her face. Napolean stormed out.
Why didn’t she flee with Mr. Jones?
Wrinkles spoilt the tablecloth on the pigs’ side, where Napolean sat. She smoothed it. There was a hump under the table’s edge, hidden by the tablecloth.
What could that be?
She knelt. A pack of cards stared back at her.
That cheater. The animals were right – the pigs were the same as the humans.
Word Count: 293 words excluding title
@ Libby, thanks for the feedback. It was a great prompt.
I enjoyed all the entries and how varied the stories were.
@Sandra, congrats!
Fallen
I messed up.
In the worst way.
The building site was wrong. How could I have made such an amateur mistake? Because I was an amateur, that’s why. No man who has spent his life in the Alaskan mountains could know how to build in the Caribbean. And not a simple house, but a castle. The mosquito bites on my back provided evidence this was my maiden journey to the islands.
My construction partner stood before me in tears, the knot in my gut tightened. Her crying was the steepest cost of my choosing the wrong site. She looked like her mom, four-years-old and already with the same cute dimples.
I embraced her tiny sobbing body, shielded her from the sight of our collapsed sandcastle. “It’s okay, we just need to build farther from the sea.”
The deceitfully gentle sound of the ocean easing onto the sand and rolling back out taunted me.
I pointed toward the sand fifty feet from the treacherous sea. “We’ll build there.”
My daughter, body still shaking with weeping and ginger hair frazzled by the wind, looked towards the spot. Stopped crying.
Phew. Crisis over.
She gazed at the pile of sand that was our castle less than a minute ago; and resumed her weeping.
Crisis not over.
“I liked our castle,” she mustered between her sobbing.
“Me too, but we can build a new one.”
She shook her head.
“Build one like our home.” I wiped the snot dribbling from her nose with the back of my hand.
She smiled. Nodded.
“Let’s go.” I held my daughter’s small hand and guided her away from the sea.
An hour later, we would be beaming as we admired a replica of our home on the sand.
Word Count: 291 excluding title
The Road to Wishes
My cheeks hurt from smiling.
“I’ve never had a passenger be happy to go to this town,” said the driver.
“And I’ve never had a taxi driver dressed in a top hat and tuxedo.”
Although now he mentioned it, the cars around us were filled with weeping people. I had been preoccupied with the beautiful overcast sky and the all-you-can-eat diners bordering the road.
I needed this traffic jam to get moving. Fun times were calling in this town.
“I’m surprised to see speed limit signs,” I said.
The driver’s face was white as if someone smeared chalk over it. “Because of the traffic? It’s not always like this.”
“Not because of the traffic. I figured this would be more an anything goes kind of place.”
“We still need some semblance of order.”
That was a strange remark from a man with a chicken bone dangling from his rearview mirror and dust covering his dashboard. I wasn’t even mentioning the glove compartment couldn’t shut with the mountain of old cigarettes stuffed in it.
“Why won’t this traffic get moving?” I drummed my fingers against my leg. “I can’t wait to see Tommy. We’re going to get so drunk, gamble, eat until we pass out.”
“Tommy’s not there.”
“What do you mean? Of course, Tommy’s going to be there. He’s the only reason I want to go.”
“He’s not.”
He had to be joking. Some sort of twisted humor.
“How could you know that? You can’t know every resident of this town.”
The driver winked. “Trust me, I do. The Tommy you’re looking for isn’t there. Not Thomas Alphonso Walters.”
“How could you -”
“I know.”
What was going on? What had I got myself into?
I patted my top pocket, pulled out my trusty pack of cigarettes.
“Sorry, no smoking’s allowed in this car or town.”
“What? But …” I pointed to the cigarettes jammed in the glove compartment.
“That’s where my passengers put their cigarettes when I tell them cigarettes are forbidden.”
I smoked five cigarettes each morning. Six in the afternoon. Seven at night for good luck. Okay, nine at night, I confess.
“But I need my smokes.”
“You’ll survive.”
Life without smokes was a mistake.
The driver snapped his fingers, smiled. “Traffic is moving. Looks like you got your wish.”
Word Count: 382 words excluding title
All were great entries. Loved the ending of Seagreen’s story.
Sandra’s story was very touching.
I enjoyed being inside the head of the MC in Athelstone’s entry.
@Sandra, the MC’s husband was named Ian Pierce with that extra ‘e’ in Pierce dropped.
This was a fun prompt, Kate.
Congrats Seagreen.
Nia Price
The son of a gun had done it. I should have known it was from him, only he would use an unmarked envelope. I held the letter, signed by Nia Price, a discount anagram of his real name. He always told me if I got a letter signed by Nia, he had faked his death. I didn’t think he would do it, even when he said he found a way to make it to Fire Island.
He was drained by the fame, supposedly. Had to escape. He probably faked his death to spite me, knowing it would force me to do the one thing that would kill my soul.
# #
I lied, “He’s deceased.”
The policeman, wild eyebrows and a grey goatee, snapped his finger. “Just like that?”
I nodded. Another lie. There was nothing worse than violating honesty, the longer I stayed at the station, the more I would have to lie.
The rusty fan sat there in the corner, judging me. As it should.
I rose. “I should get goin -”
“I loved his second album.”
“It was a great album,” I lied. Again. “I need to -”
“Did the Thai police contact you?”
“They’ll send the paperwork.”
The estate would pay me two million. I should give it all to the police force to make up for my dishonesty, but my therapist would say that was regression. But what else could I do? I told four lies since I had been in his office. Two-million-dollar donation, tomorrow. And go to confession although I was atheist.
“I must go. I have to plan the funeral.”
That was an unnecessary falsehood, his mother was organizing the funeral. I would climb Mount Misery seven times tomorrow morning, I deserved it.
“There’s an internet rumor that he faked his death,” said the policeman.
I fidgeted with my handbag. “There’s an internet rumor that you can eat cheeseburgers and lose weight.”
He stared at me, circling his finger around a rubber band on his cluttered desk.
“Officer, I have a full day and -”
“Investigator, not officer.” He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “That internet theory is intriguing.”
“The internet thinks Bigfoot is real.” I giggled.
I paid for a pensioner’s groceries, carried her home. I was a good person.
“You don’t seem distraught for a grieving widow,” the inspector said.
“It hasn’t sunk in.”
He snorted. “His fans have a shrine outside your mansion, and it hasn’t sunk in?”
This was going worse than I anticipated. I was supposed to be in and out, one untruth that he died. No Mount Misery, no donations, no confession could make up for my lies.
“It would be a shock, I suppose,” he said. “You’re free to go.”
If only it was as easy to be free from the weight of my dishonesty. I was off to my therapist, but first I had a donation to make. And to find a Catholic church. Why did he send that letter?
497 words excluding the title
I really enjoyed these entries! This was a difficult decision.
@ Kate, the fairy was a nice surprise. I never saw that coming.
@ Athelstone, I enjoyed that bitter twist at the end
@ Sandra, I liked how I never met the wife but through the character, I feel like I met her through his POV.
Tough decision, but the win goes to @ Kate.
@Athelstone, I enjoyed the story. Loved the justification for why he does what he does.
@Seagreen, great prompt. I’m motivated to return to working on the story for that antagonist.Elixir
The dead body in front of Santana was the second thing on his mind. Top spot went to conquering his nausea.
“You going to puke, man?” asked Jude.
Santana shook his head.
People plodded along the sidewalk, staring at the ground. A couple months ago, this street would be teeming with vendors selling fruit, but the new government ended that. They decided who did what.
“Was that necessary?” asked Santana. “He seemed contrite.”
“Don’t use words like that.”
“Like what?”
“Contrite. You not in an office anymore, kid. If you don’t want the guys laughing at you more than they already are, stick to words we get.”
Jude slipped a cigarette in his mouth, extended his greasy palm with the cancer sticks towards Santana.
Santana tucked one of the cigarettes behind his ear. “I’ll save it for later.”
Jude looked at the corpse. “We must keep people in check.”
The old government did the best they could with the mess they inherited. Give Santana the old government over this regime.
“You’re right,” said Santana.
Jude grabbed the corpse’s leg like Santana grabbing a turkey leg when such things were allowed. If Santana touched that cadaver, he was depositing his breakfast biscuits on the ground.
“I thought we’d leave him here,” said Santana.
Jude stared at Santana’s face, smirked. “You sure you’re cut out for this?”
A blackbird landed an inch away from the dead man’s shoulder, tilted its head, flew away. Lucky bird.
“Wouldn’t leaving the body here send a message?” asked Santana.
“There’s a certain village which needs this message. Take his other leg.”
Santana dusted his hands, cleared his throat, gripped the corpse’s leg. He retched.
Jude chuckled.
Santana looked at his mud-stained boots, warmth spreading across his cheeks.
“You’ve suffered enough.” Jude handed him a brown, thread-like clump. “That’ll help.”
He sniffed it. Gingerroot. Tossed it in his mouth. The spicy kick eased his nausea.
Jude said, “We know you got a weakness for coffee.”
Coffee was outlawed.
“I had. No more. I promise,” stammered Santana.
Jude patted his back. “Don’t worry. There are perks to being in the army. We got a lot at headquarters for you.”
He had not tasted the elixir in weeks.
He could immerse himself in the army and scratch out a decent life or suffer like the unfortunate.
Santana grabbed the corpse’s leg.
Word Count:392 words
@Seagreen, really enjoyable story. I liked the change in emotion.
<p style=”text-align: center;”>The Route</p>
My boss’ office stank of cabbage warring with eggs. A ginger ale for my stomach was the first thing I would get when I escaped his office.I fiddled with the fuzzy lint in my pockets.
“Out with it, I haven’t got all day.” My boss’ crow-black hair and smooth hands made him look younger than his sixty years. Who wouldn’t look young after spending every day tucked away in his office while the rest of us worked?
I said, “I want a new route, sir.”
He shoved a forkful of greasy stew in his mouth. “Why? You’ve been on that route for a decade.”
Standing helped hide my nervous energy. For once, I was glad the pig would never offer me the courtesy of a seat. An invitation to sit was reserved for useless politicians and the important people from head office, attired in suits.
My ex-wife and her beau moved in a house on my route last week. If the last seven days of acid reflux and no appetite were trustworthy, it meant I couldn’t take that sight. No doubt, they ate breakfast together on the patio every morning, knowing I would see.
I made circular shapes on the floor with my shoe, like a child in the principal’s office. “I want a change, I guess.”
He exploded in laughter, launching balls of stew across his desk. “You? Want a change? You’ve eaten the same lunch every day for years. You clock in at exactly two minutes before five every morning.”
He wasn’t lying.
“Larry is willing to take my route,” I said. “I can take his.”
My boss wiped his mouth with the back of his hand despite the napkin on his cluttered desk.
“Larry needs to focus on his punctuality,” he said. “His truck left late eight times in December. The last thing he should be thinking about is swapping routes.”
“Maybe, someone else can -”
“You’re in charge of rostering now?”
“I thought -”
“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to drive and deliver mail.”
He reclined in his leather seat; it moaned in protest. “Get going.”
“I should. I have to meet the auditors.”
He shot out his lounging position, leaned forward. “What? Why would you have to meet the auditors?”
“I was surprised too, but they said they wanted to meet with me.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I overheard one auditor saying to the other one, something about inflated expenses, but it’s Greek to me.”
He tugged on his ear lobe. Gazed at his cup with his green eyes which changed color magically last year. He claimed it wasn’t contact lenses.
“What will you tell them?” he asked.
“I should get going, traffic’s bad on my route.”
“Hang on.” He gulped from his mug, slammed it on the table, and smiled. “Why not take Larry’s route?”
“That sounds like a good idea, sir. I won’t let you down.”
Word Count: 494 words
@athelstone One entry but a great story. I really enjoyed it. Loved the twist at the end and the setting description is amazing. I look forward to your prompt for this month.
Thanks Athelstone! This was an enjoyable prompt.
I enjoyed your story, Seagreen. As a runner, I empathized with the MC.
I will post the prompt for November tomorrow.
The Day Grammar Didn’t Matter
I held a snake, ate a worm-like creature out the ocean so fresh it was moving, and listened to a mariachi band. But it was time to iron. Such was life when a business trip spanned a weekend and stretched into the next week.
I tossed my white Oxford shirt across the ironing board.
My tenth-floor hotel room’s bay windows welcomed the moonlight. Bland beige walls wrapped around the room.
The lights on the wall trembled. The television shook. I had a couple local beers earlier, but I wasn’t drunk. Not close. I held my hands out as if they would steady the shaking. Rattling filled my ears.
The chandelier flickered.
If I was going to die, I was going to die running, not frozen like a character in a horror movie.
I bolted through the door.
Two men stood in the hallway chatting. Their peach polo shirts tucked inside their pants gave away they were employees.
“Should we evacuate?” I asked. Did I speak the grammatically correct Spanish I was proud of? I couldn’t be sure.
“Why?” asked one of the men.
The hotel vibrated.
“The earthquake,” I said.
The men chuckled. “This is a little earthquake.”
“Where I come from, this is a major earthquake.”
“If this was one of our big earthquakes, we’d all be dead by now,” said one of the men. “You wouldn’t have wanted to be here for the big one a decade ago.”
Their smiles suggested this was meant to provide me comfort. It didn’t.
The shaking stopped.
<p style=”text-align: center;”># #</p>
I smelt her cherry perfume before I saw her.The accounts clerk handed me the flash drive. She smiled, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You still look anxious.”
“I’m not superstitious, but I’m not ironing for the remainder of my time here.”
She laughed. As if I was joking.
I sipped the bitter coffee. Why wouldn’t company policy allow me to drop a splash of cognac in this drink?
She said, “You’re not putting in that transfer request after all, I’m guessing.”
“How do you live with the constant threat of earthquakes?” I asked.
“How do you live with the constant threat of hurricanes?”
I shut my laptop. “Hurricanes have the decency to give you time to prepare.”
“Hurricanes give you time to crap yourself.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Your country looks so tiny on the map,” she said. “Hurricanes are so big.”
“We always get spared by hurricanes. Haven’t had one since they first put a man on the moon.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. The air conditioning unit kicked in, startling me, to her amusement. “We only get earthquakes once a decade. You’re safer here.”
“You’re wrong.”
<p style=”text-align: center;”># #</p>
My country got hit by a hurricane. Her country hasn’t had an earthquake since. Maybe I should have submitted that transfer request.Word Count: 473 words excluding the title
