#ThreeWordWednesday (one day late :)), 5/23/13

Three Word Wednesday

Clever, Finish, Silky

Leslie sat at the intersection, leaned back and watched the semis blow by on the divided highway.

She couldn’t help feeling somewhere between smug and clever. Anderson didn’t have a chance. She reached back between the seats and touched the heavy briefcase. And now it’s all mine. ‘

Leslie smirked and lifted a glass of whiskey from the cupholder. It went down smooth, smoky and silky and lit a fire inside. So fine.

Another trio of semis zoomed past. She signed and looked both ways. There just wasn’t any way to get on the road here. As soon as one group of trucks passed, another came along, driving too fast to let her in. There wasn’t enough space to step on it and get started, let alone get up to speed.

She caught a reflection in the windshield and glanced over her shoulder. A dark-colored Acura was approaching from the rear. Someone else who went the wrong way. Leslie sighed and leaned back, adjusting the rearview – and froze.

The driver of the Acura was – what was it? He? She? The other car stopped not a foot from her bumper and she risked another glimpse into the mirror.

From the neck down, it could have been any businessperson – no, a woman, she decided. It was wearing a grey suit, closed at the neck, with pearls draped around its neck.  But from the neck up, it was a horror, jaundiced, warty skin, reddish eyes and a loose, wet mouth like a crooked line drawn by a child, stretched in a twisted mockery of a smile.

Leslie reached over and touched the power lock control  All four door locks clicked shut.  Not that the other driver showed any evidence of getting out of the car,  but Leslie believed in safety first.  She eased up on the brake and moved toward the main road. The traffic pattern held – there was no break in the semis and she cursed the luck that put her on this little podunk road and not at an intersection with a traffic light.

With no warning, there was a thud and the car jerked. Startled, she slammed on the brakes. Leslie saw smoke that had to be coming from the churning tires of the Acura behind her, and she panicked as her car inched slowly toward the highway. She pushed the gear shift into ‘park’. The car kept moving. She yanked frantically on the hand brake to no effect. The tip of the hood was nearly over the white line and a double FedEx tractor trailer was coming, too close to have any hope of stopping.

Leslie grappled with the door handle before remembering she’d locked the door. She flipped the lock. Nothing. Jammed.  Oh, dear God, jammed. She tried opening the power windows, one window after another. Nothing.

Oh, why didn’t I spend the money on one of those hammers.  She pounded hysterically on the window as the car moved forward in a sudden lurch. A few more inches and she would be far enough out for one of the trucks to make very small pieces of herself and her car.

She turned around and looked at the driver of the car behind her. The red eyes were glowing with a manic glee and the bizarre grin stretched from ear to ear. She heard the engine of the Acura rev to an impossible pitch and her car leaped forward, straight in the path of a semi and its horrified driver.

At the finish, she had just enough time to reach back with a mixture of terror ands apathy to once again touch the case that had meant so much just a few moments before.

The Roof – #ThreeWordWednesday, 6/6/2012

Bulky, Mist, Resign

Phil should have realized that the locked door would be like catnip to Jean.

She had a mind raised on Narnia and Middle Earth and a locked door meant intriguing secrets or some undiscovered country.

“You’re not missing anything.  It’s a hot tarry roof and the only time I unlock that door is about once every five years when I have someone inspect it for leaks.”

Jean persisted, but Phil stood firm and she gave up, resigned.

###

The next day, his brother Steve came over when Phil headed downstairs to open the store.

Steve was a wraith of a man, startlingly unsubstantial against Phil’s reassuring bulk.

“Philly says you’re all hyped up about the roof,” he said, indicating the door with one thin hand.

“Well, yes.” Jean was puzzled to see him.  He’d never said anything bad to her, but she always had the feeling Steve didn’t like her much.

“Sit down for a second,” Steve said.  “There’s something you don’t know.”

Jean paused, the irony of him asking her to sit in her own home not escaping her.  Then she pulled a kitchen stool over and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Ok. So what don’t I know?”

“Philly doesn’t talk much about his first wife…”

“I know.” Jean shifted uncomfortably.  “I’ve never wanted to push him on it.  I figure if he wants me to know, he’ll tell me. But what does that have to do with the — ” She met Steve’s eyes and took a deep breath. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah.  She jumped from up there.”

Jean stood and began to pace.  “Oh, poor Phil.  I never should have pushed him.  Wish I had known.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s healthy to be so hung up on it.  He needs to get past it.”

She looked at him uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look.” Steve stood.  “Let me show you what’s up there.  It’s actually fixed up pretty nice. Needs something — a nice table with an umbrella, and a grill or a bar. You guys could use it.”

“Are you sure?” Jean repeated.

Steve took a large brass key from his pocket.  “Come on.  Let me show you.”

He went to the door and opened it, as Jean followed slowly.  He waved her in front of him and they climbed a steep, narrow staircase.  It opened onto the roof of the building, but instead of the tarpaper surface Jean was expecting, there was a strangely-pattered surface of paving bricks.

She walked around, tracing it with her eyes.  “It almost seems to make sense, but then it doesn’t.”

Steve shrugged.  “It’s been up here a long time.”

Jean surveyed the area, looking from the wrought iron fence around the edge, back to the pattern on the bricks.  “It could be nice.” She sounded like someone who wanted to be convinced.

“It could be.” Steve paused, and then seemed to come to a decision. “Look, I’ll leave you the key.  Tomorrow morning, you can come back up here when Phil goes down to the bakery and think about it some more. You could get it all nice and surprise him.”

She reached out and took the key from him.  “Okay.  Yeah.  I better get back before Phil comes up from lunch.” She turned back to him.  “I hope I’m doing right.”

“You are.  Phil needs to move on from what happened, like he’s done with you.”

“You coming?”

“Be down in a minute.”

Steve watched her as she went carefully down the steep stairs.  He turned away when he heard the door close and walked to the center of the design, removing a vial from his pocket as he went.

He pulled a small cork from it, poured the dark red fluid it contained into the circle at the very center and murmured some harsh sounding words.  There was a hissing noise and Steve stepped back.

As he exited the roof, a mist rose, and formed an amorphous shape.

“She’s all yours,” he said over his shoulder, and shut the door.

Waste Not, Want Not – Threewordwednesday

[Author's note:  A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a Friday Flash called "When the Sky Was Blue".  Some of the commenters said it felt like part of a longer story and after a lot of thought, I came to agree.  This is a first pass as to how that universe and some of its customs might have had their beginning.  I think I might feel a novel coming on... ]

John Proctor cupped his hands around the tiny plant in a futile attempt to nurture and support it. But first one leaf dropped, then another and the forlorn stem sagged.

He sighed and sat back on his lab stool.  Well, that’s that. He’d been diligent in collecting and filtering water samples and had done his best to refine the outdoor soil samples he’d collected, but no matter how remote his travels were, he couldn’t get away from the toxins which had spread, like tumors, from hundreds of years of industrialization and all that went with it.

A child’s amateur interest in green and growing things had become the man’s profession. For most of his work life, he’d gone from radio show to talk show to television interview to newspaper interview, preaching about the damage humans were doing, not only to their world but to themselves. As a rule, he was dismissed as alarmist and a “crackpot”.  Most people liked their lives as they were and weren’t willing to make the major sacrifices needed to fix the damage. Now they were dying by the thousands, born and unborn — quick and painful deaths, untreatable and for which there seemed to be no anodyne.  His scientist’s mind calculated that at the present rate, Earth’s population could become non-sustainable in less than five years.

Proctor held face up to the weak sun. That was another issue.  He sighed again.  There were so many – but it was time to stop weeping over what was done and uncorrectable and salvage as much as possible.  He spun his laptop around, and in a few decisive keystrokes, he started a new email.

From: jproctor@leaflab.com

To:  PresPriv521@whitehouse.gov

Subject: Project Ark

Per our discussion last week, my last experiment just died.  There is no time left, and you must begin the procedures I outlined when I was in Washington DC in February.  What good resources we have need to be collected and rationed. Use must be rationed.  It’s time to revive that good old Yankee saying our great grandparents lived by: “Waste not, want not”…

Three Word Wednesday, 1/4/2011

Naughty, Tactic, Zenith

Xeri focused briefly on the terrain in front of her and then strode briskly on a course three degrees to the left.  I’m sure this is where it is — it’s the kind of tactic he’d use.

Nearly half a wake period later, she stopped in front of three rocks, sculpted together by the wind. For years, they had met here, played, grown and bonded, to the despair of their parents. Naughty girl, she could remember her mother crying, and after we’ve worked so hard to establish the contract with Caetor Brandis. Do you know what you’re doing?

Xeri had shrugged her shoulders and nonchalantly accepted her punishment. I can’t help it if Ixle Brandis thinks he wants me. It will be Falai or no one. She repeated the words to her father, who visibly sagged and returned the mate-price to the Caetor. The following winters had been very difficult — and would have been worse had Falai not done what he could to help her.

What’s past is past. She climbed the rocks, finding the familiar hand and footholds, until she reached the zenith. Her vision blurred with tears, but she brushed them away angrily. Falai would laugh at me.  He had been gentle and practical — even-tempered, not given to much emotion; a stark contrast to her volatile nature.

“You give me fire and I –”

“You gentle me. Yes.”

It had been their balance.  Now she had to find a new balance, alone.

Xeri reached out with her mind — here, there — trying to sense what he’d left behind. There?  No, there! She let her sense brush it gently, bring it to life. Slowly, before her eyes, a spark glimmered and grew. It was all that was Farai, all that was left of him. She cupped her hands in front of her, and the light floated to them, settling in.

“Xeri.”

“Yes, kerame?” The light glittered on her face in the wake of a single tear.

“Always with you. Always.”

“I know. And I with you.”

“Let me go now.” When she hesitated, his face shimmered briefly in front of her. “You must, mekera.”

“Yes.” She spoke the word of release under her breath, and the light rose, and thinned and vanished on the wind.

“Always…”

Three Word Wednesday, 11/16/2011

{EAV:3e1398f4356cb7d4}

Impetus, Solace, Vindication

(Author’s note: This is the inevitable result of reading too many Mills & Boon/Harlequin romances)

She’d just turned the corner when he came out of the building ahead of her unexpectedly. She held her head up – under no circumstances would she give him the satisfaction of seeing how badly he’d hurt her.  Never again. Her pride gave her the impetus she needed to keep her face bland and uninterested.

“Ursula?”

His voice, warm and sensual, struck through to her core.  She wobbled. It’s just these stupid killer heels. I’m not affected by him, not at all.

“Jean-Paul.” Her eyes met his, calmly, she hoped, afraid he might see through her pretense. He’d always read her emotions far too easily.

“Why did you leave?”

“How can you ask that? After what you did?” She made a futile effort to yank her arm away from his restraining hand.

“You didn’t see what you thought you did. Only what Prunella wanted you to.”

Ursula turned away.

Jean-Paul pressed on. “Think about it! Nom d’un nom d’un nom! Would I want her when I could have you?” He sought her eyes, sought vindication.

Something broke inside her then. “Are you telling me the truth, Jean-Paul? Did you really not –“ Ursula couldn’t continue.

He pulled her into the solace of his arms. “Mon Dieu! I swear it, bien-aime!”

Their lips met in a passionate kiss, and the pink covers slammed shut.

“Ohhh, I knew she’d believe him! That Prunella!” The reader put The Frenchman and the Innocent Secretary aside and picked up The Nanny and the Spanish Prince. “I just love these books!”

 

 

Lisa and Philippe #3, Three Word Wednesday, 9/28/2011

Cherish, Guarantee, Nausea – Thought I’d have some fun following up Cherries and this story

Lisa clenched her teeth tightly as the wave of nausea passed over her.  She glanced at the timer set on the bathroom sink and closed her eyes. Just five more minutes… Not that there’s any real doubt, is there?

Philippe peeked around the corner of the door, wary. Lisa’s temper had been a byword for the last week, and he didn’t want to set her off.

She smiled wanly. “It’s okay. I won’t snap your head off.”

He entered, sat down beside her on the side of the bathtub and handed her a mug of steaming hot licorice tea.

“Are you sure this will work?”

“Yes.” He gave her a sideways glance. “I guarantee it. I remember… Maman… Stephane.  It’ll help.”

She sipped slowly and he put his arm around her to pull her close.

“I love you, Philippe.”

“I know, ma belle. And I cherish you.”

The timer chimed. They both started, and then exchanged a long look.

“You look,” she said. “I can’t.”

Philippe stretched out one long arm and picked up the stick. “If there’s a line, yes?”

“Yes.”

A smile slowly spread across his face, like the sun dawning in the bathroom’s small window. He pulled her to him more tightly and kissed her on top of her head.  “So, what shall we name him?”

“Him?”

Three Word Wednesday, 9/14/2011

Backward, Ease, Omission

Testing, testing… That sound you hear in the background is rain. If anyone actually finds this recording, you probably didn’t need to be told that. Chances are good that you know it backward and forward, along with thunder and the sizzle of dissolving – . Strike that.

Right now, I can still ease against the window and relax. Sort of. There’s a drip outside the window that’s really annoying, but it’s not like I can do anything about it. So far, window glass seems to be proof against the corrosive effects of the weather – more than you can say for living tissue and things like wood and shingles and even the grass. Mowing the lawn is a thing of the past, as you also probably know. I’m looking out at what used to be finest Kentucky bluegrass. Now it’s a barren pitted mess, mostly down to bedrock. Of course, I won’t be raking the leaves, listening to birdcall in the morning or being awakened by the dogs who had lived in my neighbor’s back yard any time soon, either. I’m just glad I live in a stone house with a slate roof. At least I think I am.

Of course, I have other problems. I’m down to the last 12 of the five-gallon bottles of water I’d managed to bring into the house when we – I — … sorry. [silence] Didn’t mean to break down. When my late spouse and I realized what was happening, we did what we could to try to get past what we were sure was a temporary situation. Our local water guy brought these out, when it was still possible to be outside. First, we tried a charcoal filter, but whatever it was in the water couldn’t be filtered out. So if you haven’t tried that, don’t bother. I spilled some of the water on my hand and – oh, well. I didn’t really need my left little finger anyway. (Did I mention how much that drip outside is really bugging me?)

Pat’s not here anymore. I think maybe the almost-constant rain caused a breakdown. All I know was I awoke to the mutter of “why are we bothering?” and the sound of footsteps, a closing door – and screams. I still hear the screams. By the time my brain responded, it was too late. I felt so guilty; I still do. I think that maybe I didn’t do enough or should have done more. I don’t know. I didn’t push my beloved out the door, but maybe I was guilty of a sin of omission. Maybe it was that drip outside. Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Hey. Had to stop there for a moment.

And another moment. Or two. There. So I’ve had lots of time to do all kinds of things I wanted to, even if there’s not much use in it. Believe it or not, the Internet still works, although the electricity is almost ready to quit, but most of the people I knew online are gone, and the ones who aren’t gone physically are pretty gone mentally. You can only watch so many people and animals die, you know. You do know, don’ t you?

Which makes writing pointless, kind of. When the aliens finally show up, or whoever, they’re not going to be reading flash fiction. And it’s not like I have anyone else to write for – Pat never really was interested in reading my stuff anyway. Back in a minute.

Ok. Back. Made dinner. Didn’t eat it. Opened the window real quick and tossed the plate into the backyard. All the food dissolved right away. Just like yesterday and the day before. And the day before that. I’m going to run out of plates before long, but if anything of civilization survives this mess, we need to save some of the water. Beats all the fancy detergents, and I’ll bet those plates are squeaky clean. Hang on.

Well, that was more than a minute. I needed to sleep. Guess I did for a while, but I got woken up by thunder and a crash. The Lemons’ flagpole just fell on their car. Too bad. And the rain, that woke me up, too. I wish it would stop. It’s not relaxing any more. Wish it would stop. Wish it would stop. Wonder what silence sounds like. I remember that. Kind of.

And there’s that damn drip again. You know what? I think I’m going to go fix it. Right now.

Don’t wait for me. I won’t be back.

Lisa and Philippe #2, Three Word Wednesday, 9/7/2011

Erode, Heart, Observe – Three Word Wednesday, 9/7/2011

“Twenty years isn’t all that long.”

“It’s more than a lot of people get.” Stephane lifted three loaves of bread out of the oven on the peel, put them on the cooling rack and turned to look at his brother. “I can’t believe you’re walking away from something this good because it’s only going to last the rest of your life.” He shook his head and moved to the next oven. “Besides, she’ll probably outlive you.  So what are you worried about?”

Philippe stared at Stephane.  “Thank you.  I feel much better now.”

Stephane shrugged and grinned. “Well… you were the one who was crying doom.  I thought perhaps you’d like some company.” He observed his elder brother fondly, as Philippe carefully wrote birthday wishes on the cake he was decorating. “Look, mon frère, you have two choices as I see it.  Risk your heart – marry this lady you’ve been wooing all this time with tiny desserts and sweet words – or spend the next twenty years alone.”

“After Suzanne –“ Philippe stopped. He didn’t have to say any more.

His brother leaned back against the sink. “I know,” he said softly. “You locked your heart away, kept it safe from wind and weather, careful to never let time, life or love erode it.  And what has it gotten you?”

“Not hurt.” Philippe retorted, finishing the lettering with a deft flourish of the pastry bag full of frosting.

“And not living, either.  Not really.” He put up a hand to stop the older man. “And you know it.”

“Stephane, if I do it, if I ask her and she says ‘yes’, will you–?”

“Stand up with you? Need you ask?” The grin reappeared, wider than before.

“Then I will.” He met his brother’s eyes, nodded once and left.

Three Word Wednesday, 7/6/2011

Cease, Heat, Nasty

I walked down the sidewalk, which was nearly empty in the stifling August heat, accompanied only by myriad dim reflections of myself in the dusty windows of the empty stores I passed. This part of town was past being just depressed; I would have called it depressing, if I had anyone with me to talk to.

The number of the building I stopped in front of had once been lettered proudly in gold leaf, but now one whole digit was missing and the others were neglected, slowly disintegrating. I could see enough in the almost-clean spaces to know I was at the right place, though, and that was all that mattered.

My footsteps echoed hollowly as I climbed the rickety staircase. At the top, I knocked once on the worm-eaten door, paused, then knocked once again. I could feel the eye at the peephole, watching me, then the door opened and a nasty-looking fellow in a shabby suit and a shirt that had definitely seen better days peered at me suspiciously.

“Hammond?”

“Yeah.”

He waved me in laconically, shut the door behind me and then went back to whatever he’d been doing. Judging from the way he sprawled in his chair, I assumed it had been nothing.

A guy who looked like an unsuccessful prize fighter stood between me and the man I’d come to see.

“You know the drill,” he rumbled.

I did.  I raised my arms slowly to the side and stood as he patted me down. When he realized I wasn’t carrying, I got a stupefied look. “Mr. Sposo, he aint got any heat.”

“Doesn’t surprise me, Charlie.  Let him go.”

Charlie got out of my way.  The expression on his face was that of a man presented with a riddle too complex for him to solve.

I ambled forward until I stood in front of Sposo. “Well? You called for me.  I’m here.”

“Sit.”

“Thanks, no.  I’d rather stand.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pulled the front section of yesterday’s newspaper from a pile and slapped it on the desk, turning it to face me.  “See that?”

“Yeah.  They’re expecting a heat wave.” I staggered a little as Charlie shoved me.

“Don’t wise off to Mr. Sposo.”

I gave Charlie a sideways look, then met Sposo’s eyes again.

“I mean this.” He pointed to the article on the right column.

I knew what he meant. Everyone I knew had called me and told me how much trouble I was going to be in. Hey, I believed in freedom of speech. Even guys like me had Constitutional rights.

“So?”

“I’m tellin’ you – what is it they say? ‘Cease and desist.’”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah, “ he said, settling back into the big wooden chair.  “Just like that.”

“And if I don’t?”

“There used to be an elevator in this building.  Elevator’s gone, but the shaft’s still there. You don’t, and Charlie will show you to the elevator.”

“Do tell.”

Charlie had sat up like a mastiff offered a bone. Obviously he liked playing ‘fetch’ for Sposo.

I leaned forward slowly, took a sharpened pencil from the jar in front of me and shook my head ruefully.  “That’s too bad. I hate to spoil Charlie’s fun, but –“  With no warning, I swung the pencil sideways and buried it in Charlie’s throat.

He gibbered at me, eyes bulging, hands grasping, as he tried to stop the bleeding to no effect.

In one movement, I stepped nimbly back and swung my other hand back, crushing the windpipe of the man who’d opened the door. He crumpled to the ground like a wet piece of paper.

Sposo tried to reach for the drawer where I knew he kept a gun, but I made it around the desk in time to slam the drawer shut. At the same time, I took the newspaper and slapped it over his mouth, pressing down to stifle his scream.

I watched him quizzically. “You know who I am and what I can do, and you still summoned me down here like an errand boy. You tried to tell me what to do.  I just can’t have that.” I shoved his head back hard, paper still over his face. His head slammed against the radiator and his eyes rolled up in his head.

I checked for a pulse, but I knew he was dead.

On my way to the door, I took a piece of celluloid from my pocket.  It fit nicely under the threadbare carpet, and I struck a match on Charlie’s shoe and lit it, just to show there were no hard feelings.

“Charlie, if I thought it would help you, I’d let you in on a little secret.  Just because a man doesn’t carry a gun, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t got any weapons.”

As the carpet caught, I closed the office door behind me and trotted down the steps.  As I left the building, I began to whistle. You know, I really love my work.

- 30 -

Three Word Wednesday, 6/8/2011

Alter, Fond, Tranquil

 

“Pray don’t alter yourself in any respect, my dear.”

“What’s with the bad Jane Austen impersonation, Bill?”

“Well, women are supposed to like her. I think I’ve seen you read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ a couple of hundred times since we got married. And you’re always watching that Colin Firth guy.”

“Yes, I’m fond of the books. It must have been a more tranquil time, in many ways. But that doesn’t mean I want you to turn yourself into Mr. Darcy.”

“I –“

“Stop sighing, Bill. What is it?”

“I thought you’d like it if I was a little more romantic.”

“There’s ‘romantic’ and ‘romantic’.  Pray don’t alter yourself in any respect, my dear.”

“Oh, great. Wipe that Cheshire cat grin off your face, will you? I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Nope.”