Writing landmark, The Cortez Case story complete.

Hello again,

I'm proud to report that I've finally managed to complete draft one of my first novel length project, The Cortez Case!

The editing process has begun, and will take much time to perfect I'm sure.  I am excited to have seen the story through, and hope this may one day be in print or E-book for all to enjoy.  I cannot share an achievement like this and leave you, the faithful readers, hanging... so, without further ado, here's a previously unreleased clip of The Cortez Case.

Spade shaped leaves hindered Susan’s vision of the garden shed.  To the left, up the slope of backyard lay the Cortez mansion.  The right rolled downhill into the night, the dock and private yacht obstructions against the moonlight on the sea.  She dug her way onto the property under a boundary of solid stone wall.

She had to return.  All her federal belongings were tucked away in the safety of the garden shed.

The Cortez father and daughter would never venture into a shed dedicated to their staff; and Gerard the gardener would not be so curious as to check the deepest reaches of the loft.  Everything she needed to defend herself lay just twenty feet into the backyard, and inside.

She listened for the yapping of the poodle’s response to her preplanned deterrence.  Susan arranged pizza delivery.  She crept to the outer wall of the shed and around the corner facing the ocean.  She shimmied to the shed door.

The door was ajar.  A dim light shined from within.

She knew the hinges to have a terrible creak.  She stepped back from the building and sidestepped to peek through the crack between the doors.

Her knapsack contents were sprawled across a folding table beside a lantern.  The wet suit, passport, spare cell phone… all right there, in the open.

A closely-shaven man examined her pistol, peered around in caution, and shoved it into the backside of his belt.

Gerard.

Susan knew she could take him… if she could get to him.  As soon as she touched the doors, her presence would be known.  Would Gerard shoot her?  Had Gerard ever shot anything?  Was his allegiance to Cortez that strong?  Did he even know what was going on?  Surely Sierra had been found by now.  Would the information of the traitor-maid be privy to Gerard’s ears?

Perhaps she could waltz in as if she hadn’t made herself a public enemy.  Gerard would think no different.  The maid, showing up near eleven PM in the garden shed, in Sierra’s clothes.  Damn that Sierra.  Of all Susan’s belongings in Gerard’s possession, she most coveted the spare cell phone, since the little diva Latina managed to drop the miniscule phone from her garter belt into a fish tank before Susan bound and gagged her.  Bitch.

She released a measured exhale to remain silent.  Gerard paused to listen before continuing examinations.

No.  She could not risk it.  She did not trust him.  She did not know anything about him.  She wasn’t the only one on high alert.  No doubt Gerard might panic if discovered by a Cortez agent right now.  His nerves might just get the best of him, and he’d shoot at whatever entered.

The spare phone beeped quickly.

An incoming call.  Oh no, Ed!

Gerard eyed the cell for several seconds.  He finally answered.

“Bonjour.”

Now was her chance.

“Non, je parle francais.  Parlez-vous francais si’vous-plait?”

Susan threw the door open.  An agonizing creak ran through the shed.  Before she could step inside, Gerard swung around, gun drawn remarkably fast.

“Salut Monique.”

She threw herself sideways and ran.  The gardener fumbled into the backyard.

Gerard shouted, “Monique, arête!”

She yelled over her shoulder, “ACTIVATE PHONE SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE!”

“Eh?”  Gerard paused as if to interpret her words, and gasped.  “SELF ZEESTRUCT?”  He tossed the phone onto the grass and dove.

Gerard covered his head.

One second.

Two seconds.

Five seconds.

Nothing.

He finally opened his eyes.  The phone sat innocent on the soft grass, still illuminated with a call in progress.  Susan had disappeared into the brush.

He retrieved the phone, stared awkwardly, and brought it to his ear.

“Allo? “

The phone went dark.

Dark Light 3 available in Paperback!

Hello again,

Just thought I'd follow up the last published achievement with some additional information.  Dark Light 3 is available in Paperback!  Here's the link.

Dark Light 3 Book

Introducing the "Dark Light 3" Anthology by Crushing Heart and Black Butterfly Publishing, containing my short story "Inner Storm."

It's been awhile I admit, and apologize.  I swear I've been writing!  My current projects are a bit longer these days and as such, don't seem to be coming out the gates nearly fast enough.

The good people at Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing took this story under their wing.  It's an older tale of mine and I resurrected it from my noob writing days, gave it a fresh coat of paint and sent it on its way.

Siblings Danielle and Evan Harlow have volunteered to help with mandatory evacuations in their South Carolina community in lieu of a rapidly approaching category five hurricane. Danielle finds a house at the end of a cul-de-sac on the final road of their patrol, and its inhabitants have no intention of leaving.

That's the whistle wetter version.  For more, check out the book, Dark Light 3!

Dark Light 3

Delivery

Hi everyone!

It's been an eventful few months. I've spent three wonderful weeks poking around Asia. I had to put down one of the best dogs I've ever owned. One of my old vices, Magic the Gathering (don't laugh and pigeon hole me a nerd) has rekindled my interest to the point of playing competitive events. I got news of a couple acceptances, and a couple rejections. I'm a part of a writer's group now, a great bunch of folks from many different corners of New England are offering me feedback on my drafts, as I am for them. And, I'm revisiting the crime novel, "The Cortez Case" in the midst of it all. I haven't spent much time at the old Scratchpad lately so I thought I'd provide a short tale.

This was written as an introductory offering to my friends in the writer group. It's more of a character introduction than anything. It's called "Delivery," and I hope you like it.

Delivery

A satchel bounced against her hip as the woodland path rose into the hills. She travelled light, without steed, squire, or any other liabilities. A coin purse weighted with survival money rested below her left armpit, the strap denied her sleek mane the playful invitation of the breeze. She ventured upwards along the narrow trail until an unkempt man arrived abruptly along the path, heading in the opposite direction.

Mead-fused beard bristles did not waiver as he brushed himself off and spoke. “Good day lass.”

“Hail.” She tilted her head in a sideways bow. Traditional bows inhibited line of sight.
“
You’re a fetching young thing,” he smiled a toothless grin, spare one discolored protrusion from the lower gum. “What’s a vixen like yerself doing in these parts all by yer lonesome?”

“I’m a courier, on a delivery.”

“And to whom exactly?”

She stared him down before answering. “Who cares to know?”

“My dear lass, where are your manners. I asked you first.”

Her tone seethed of distrust. “Fine. I am en route to Strock Michaud, Duke of Covenham.”

The dirty man cackled. “Well lass you’ve come across a bit of luck. Travel no further, for I am Strock Michaud!”

She folded her arms. “You’re the Duke?”

“In the flesh.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Out for a jaunt. Heading to village for supplies, naturally.”

“The Duke has squires for such menial tasks.”

He spread his arms, drawing attention to the woodland. “Is it wrong to enjoy the tranquility of a walk through the forest? Clears the head, cleans the lungs. You’re a traveler, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose.”

“Tell me then, sweet girl. What do you bring me this day besides yer pretty face?”

Dark hair grazed her cheeks while she searched a number of items in her satchel until landing upon a rectangular burlap package bound in a cross of frayed rope. Without breaking eye contact, she passed the package to the Duke. The sound of a twig snap mismatched the timing of her step. She rescinded her boot. No twig lay beneath.

Duke Strock threw the rope and burlap to the ground. In his hand rested a book, blue cover, purple trim. His beard remained still despite the contortion to a frown. He objected, “A book is all?”

She nodded. “Knowledge is power, Duke.”

“Of course,” he scoffed. “Which is why I must share some knowledge with you.”

Two brutes, miners by the sights of their muscle tones and coal-smudged tunics emerged from behind large trees and stood near the Duke. A large forearm reached around her neck. She gasped.

“You see lass, I am not Duke Strock Michaud. And I don’t regard a mere book a fair prize for this little game, so why don’t you give me the rest of your deliveries. I’ll take your coin pouch too.” The man revealed his lone tooth in a threatening sneer.

The steadfast forearm denied her squirming protest. “I… I must also share some knowledge with you,” she squealed.

“Oh yes? What’s that?”

Her voice turned cold, devoid of fear. “I am not a courier.”

Her hands returned from her belt, wielding twin silver daggers. She jabbed the constricting forearm and spun the blades on the encroaching brutes.

Each blade found a jugular at once.

The brutes toppled forward, wheezing and hacking. Blood gushed from piercings on their necks. She pivoted, dagger first. A rip of cloth and flesh created a diagonal scar across the torso of the flanking miner.

The large man growled and lunged.

She lodged a dagger in his upper leg. Her open palm ascended into nose cartilage.

The large man staggered, dead before his collapse. His limp body slid the decline of the path.

She turned to the faux Duke, equipped with a dagger of his own.

Both stepped to strike.

The knives clanged against the other. She deflected another blow, and elbowed a riposte. His knife dropped to the ground beside the book. She met his awestruck face with her boot, dislodging his sole tooth. Her small fist hit his bloody jaw… once… twice.

The ‘Duke’ fell upon his back.

She reclaimed his dagger, and staked his wrists into the solid ground.

He wailed and writhed, spat a mixture of blood, saliva, and tooth shards before screaming, “No! You can’t leave me here!”

“Fear not,” she said. “Between your fear and blood, the wolves will find you in no time.” She recollected and bound the book, her perfect offering to dissatisfy and provoke a suspected illiterate.

“You filthy wench,” he snapped.

Settling hair behind her ears, she offered a disturbingly tranquil smile. “The name is Meadow. And I’d probably think about being a bit quieter if I were you. Silence will buy you time. Don’t want to alert the wolves after all.”

Meadow ascended the path beyond the failed ambush and whimpering imposter; her unbridled hair accepting the invitation of the mild breeze.

Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations published!

Hello everyone!

Apologies for my recess, I know it's been a bit since I've offered a short story morsel for you all to chew on. Insert excuse here.

For those that have missed my tales, I have some great news. The anthology "Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations" has officially been published! And I'm proud to announce my short story "The Funeral Procession" is included! You can find the book for sale at Barnes and Nobles or Amazon. Here's the link.


Dark Tales

Currently I'm working an editing facelift of my ongoing tale, The Cortez Case. Stay tuned for redone segments and new content!

Third (write anything challenge, August 5)

Hi all, this is my two cents for a writing prompt site. Hope you enjoy. http://wa.emergent-publishing.com/writing-prompts/



Julie walked into a room full of people. Everything went uncomfortably silent and all eyes narrowed in on her. She crossed the room, taking a seat at the hair and make-up station in the far corner. Sure, don’t talk about this week’s casualty in front of her, she thought. Georgia gave Victoria a smirk and a wink, implying the Julie-bashing would continue at a later time. Hair stylists and make-up artists scurried around the stations. She could hear the crowd through the walls; she could envision the leggy blond hostess in the wings, preparing to commence the show. The dreaded elimination show. Three girls remained. Georgia: a quirky dancer and crowd favorite since the start of the season. The tough childhood neighborhood, the abandonment from her father, the face of overwhelmed graciousness... how could the audience NOT vote for her? Then there was Victoria. Not Vickie. She was not a Vickie. She started dancing at three, no, in diapers… or was it while she was in the womb? Ballet, jazz, tap, ballroom, she’s been trained in them all. What is she now? Contemporary, naturally. She danced a hip-hop routine this week that Julie hoped would finally show a sign of weakness. Of course not. She aced it. The judges loved her. The crowd loved her. Julie was certain the voters at home loved her too. She never performed hip-hop before. Her skills were superhuman.

Victoria asked Georgia in a mutter which of two dance outfits would be a better choice for the finale show. Georgia gave her a ‘not in front of Julie’ face. At least Georgia was still humble. Julie felt her skills were par to Georgia but Julie had not once received the same level of praise from the judges. The head judge declared Georgia his favorite. Julie was never a favorite. She had outlasted seven other girls since the show began, hundreds in the pre-show cuts and tens of thousands in the initial auditions. She should be happy to have come as far as she had. Millions of Americans have helped her get this far. The week before the finals. And here she sat in the company of the two that would best her tonight. Victoria, incredible. Georgia, unstoppable. Julie, vulnerable.

Applause raised then diminished as the blond spoke her first greeting to the audience. In moments, the three girls would be called to the stage. Julie felt like she were preparing for her own execution.

Georgia hugged Julie, “you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Julie feigned a smile.

Victoria offered a consoling rub of Julie’s shoulder, “I hope we can still be friends after tonight.”

“Of course, Victoria. Always!” I hope you fall off a bridge, Victoria.

A rap on the door preceded a disembodied male voice. “Ladies, you’re up.”

“Good luck,” Georgia said.

“Break a leg,” Victoria added.

Julie walked in silence. A theater of thousands, several cameras, and the blond host came into view. She squinted as beaming lights of the stage met her eyes. Lights that would highlight every tear that would soon roll down her cheeks.

Second Chance 4 (three word Wednesday - affinity, fidget, mention)

The final installment of the "Second Chance" story. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading.




Four young teenagers stood in blackness, their faces illuminated by a lone candle fixed in a bronze candlestick atop a centrally located altar.

“Where are we?” The blond girl asked. The thin brunette grinned evilly. The regular boy shrugged. The last boy stared at the three with icy eyes, emotionless. His aura seethed of ominous power.

The plain boy looked from Ellison to the powerful boy, “Well?”

“Interesting predicament, three have died. Three different outcomes,” the boy Death spoke in such a monotone that Russell doubted he truly found the topic interesting.

The brunette folded her arms. Russell again shrugged at Ellison.

Death positioned himself opposite the others. “To hell with you,” he waved his arm.

The brunette descended through the floor slowly, as if succumbing to quicksand. She did not protest or fight, Russell and Ellison watched her departure in amazement.

Ellison finally spoke, “that’s it for Campbell? Why did she just accept her fate?”

Death spoke, “I am returning her from whence she came. Some people are placed on earth to do great things. Others rise only to carry out evil.”

“That explains Hitler and Bin Laden,” Russell thought aloud.

“And Charlie Sheen,” Ellison added.

The emotionless Death continued, “Campbell was sent from hell to carry out a task, and her task was thwarted.”

“Thwarted,” the blonde Ellison squealed, “but, but I’ve been shot!”

Russell lowered his head. All about you, Ellison.

“Campbell was stopped before she got to her intended target,” Death turned his head, “you did well, Russell.”

“My death means nothing?”

Death’s failure to mention, or even acknowledge Ellison irritated her further. He glanced from the candle, back to Russell, “Dr. Peyton Rousseau was the intended target.”

“Doctor… Peyton?” Death spoke of the Hannah Montana clone? She becomes a doctor?

Ellison argued, “Rousseau isn’t her last name, that’s…”

Death interrupted, “Doctors Javier and Peyton Rousseau move to Ghana after medical school. They play a big part in abolishing AIDS in Western Africa.”

“Wow, that’s great,” Russell smiled.

“She marries Javier!?” Ellison scoffed.

“So does that mean I have succeeded what was asked?” Russell looked to the stoic boy with a hopeful expression. He thought he saw Death curling his lip, the faintest indication of a smirk.

“Yes, Russell, you stopped the shooting.”

Ellison’s jaw dropped, “Stop the… helllooo. I’m dead! Doesn’t anyone care I’m dead?”

Death waved his arm again. A glowing circle appeared, levitating over Russell’s head. A feeling of bliss pulsed through Russell’s body.

“The halo will grant you the power to see the light. Go towards the light.”

“What about me?”

Russell stared at his new halo until a bright light appeared over his shoulder.

Ellison fidgeted, wearing a worried expression. “So, one went to hell. One went to heaven. Where’s that leave me,” she cried.

“You’re what we call an Almost.”

“An Almost?”

Russell observed her reaction as the conversation played out similar to the one he shared with Death just days ago. Ellison slumped, facing the candle with an empty stare.

Russell leaned towards her and whispered. She straightened her posture. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’ll pretend I did not see that,” Death said, “Russell, you are dismissed.”

Russell left Ellison in Death’s hands. The affinity to the soothing glow intensified, overtaking his entire being. He entered the kingdom of Heaven, and the dim room disappeared forever behind him.

#

Ellison snapped her head back and snorted. She must have dozed off. She examined her surroundings. A stranger sat in the seat to her right. To her left, an aisle separated herself from more strangers. The “room” was a giant sphere with many rows of occupied seats. She wiped her chin, checking for drool.

“What the…”

Her hands were aged, larger, well manicured. A black business suit covered her curvier, heavier, older body.

“I’m, like, old!”

Laughter came from all directions, then ceased with an intercom announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen we have reached our cruising altitude of thirty five thousand feet. Please remain seated while our staff provides a complimentary beverage.”

“We’re on a plane? Wow, never been on one before,” she said, facing the old gentleman alongside her. “Where are we going?”

If an expression could have called her crazy without saying a word, the gentleman wore it.

A long legged stewardess in a short skirt travelled the aisle, stopping at Ellison’s chair. “May I get you a drink,” she asked with an icy stare and monotone voice.

Second Chance 3 (three word Wednesday x 2 - figure, juicy, stress, blink, kind, occasion)

Hello, been awhile, my apologies. The tale is a continuation of Second Chance and its sequel, the story of Russell's brush with Death. Enjoy, and thanks for reading.



“Why are you following me?”

The blond girl spun; her aggressive tone called unwanted attention from several students in the school hall. Russell lowered his head. As if being the “new kid” wasn’t already a lightning rod for stray eyes. He had scanned as many kids as possible without slowing his gait, sizing each up for hints of a concealed firearm or an unstable demeanor.

“I don’t know what you mean Ellison. I’m going this way too. You just happen to be going the same way in front of me,” he lied. She wouldn’t believe the truth. If he confessed she was not long to this world, she’d interpret him as a threat and he’d spend the morning in the principal’s office. He didn’t have that kind of time to kill. He knew Principal Louis Kerry from church, and though he was very personable to adults, had a reputation as a hard-ass to students. Russell reminded himself, he’d be welcomed as the latter.

The blonde blinked at him, at a loss of words but frustrated regardless. He allowed her to continue down the hall before pursuing at a safe distance. Russell contemplated his next move, giving a judgmental glare to a prudish teacher whose face reminded him of the surface of a walnut, a stern-faced janitor shorter than the mop he toted, and a gender confused creature from the cafeteria staff.

Could it be an adult? What if it were? He hadn’t the strength to outmuscle an adult should the occasion arise. Most of the male students stood taller or broader than he, now that he looked around. Why did Death put me in this predicament? Why could I just have died like everyone else? He frowned, realizing his last thought was more of an assumption than anything else.

Ellison trotted rudely through a conversation, nudged a student with her shoulder, and vanished into a classroom. Today isn’t the best day to be on your high horse, princess. Russell wondered how fast he’d be called out in her homeroom. He had no identification. No teachers were advised of the arrival of a new student to his knowledge. He squeezed between a stocky boy in baggy shorts and a dumpy girl with a logo tee shirt reading ‘JUICY’ to take a seat at the rear corner of the class. Position myself to watch everyone.

Ellison carried on in hushed chatter with a Hannah Montana look-alike and a brunette with an anorexic figure; their pointing and giggling clearly in ridicule of anyone showing imperfection.

God, I used to hate girls like that…

“Forget them, way out of your league,” the boy in front of him observed Russell’s interest in Ellison and crew. It was the boy with glasses from the bus.

“Huh? Oh,” Russell chuckled, “not like that junior, way too young for me.”

The boy raised an eyebrow before continuing, “I’m Javier.”

Javier? Does anyone these days give their kids normal names?

“Russell Ward,” the handshake was both unanticipated and weak on Javier’s part.

“Why are you so concerned about them?”

Noticing a teacher had entered, Russell leaned forward and lowered his tone, “Javier, you don’t know anyone that’s been under a bit of stress lately? Not-right-in-the-head, like, gonna-go-postal any minute sort of person, do you?”

Javier’s blank stare was enhanced through the contortion of his glasses.

Russell frowned, “OK then. You aren’t by any chance hiding a loaded gun, are you?”

“What’s wrong with you,” Javier asked. He turned to face the teacher before Russell could reply.

“I’m Mr. Donahue for those that don’t know me,” the thin teacher announced over diminished mutterings. ”I’m your homeroom teacher. I need everyone to take a seat for attendance.”

Students reluctantly lowered themselves into chairs, Ellison and her clique last to disperse. Russell watched with disdain. Little miss perfects think they’re above the law.

“Ellison, Campbell, Peyton when I say ‘take I seat,’ that includes you,” the teacher stepped around his desk.

What is with these names? Isn’t Peyton a boy name and Campbell a soup?

“One sec,” Ellison replied.

Wow. Bold. Russell remained vigilant, scanning the room. All students were seated, all eyes on the three young ladies.

The teacher crossed the room.

Russell sat sideways in the desk, leaning forward. He pulled up his pant leg and collected the switchblade.

Campbell, the underweight brunette, revealed a pistol from within her cardigan, “Don’t tell us what to do, Mr. Donahue.”

Peyton screamed.

Students scurried to the door. Ellison attempted to rationalize through the noise, “Campbell put it away, you don’t need to…”

“Shut up, Ell, or you’ll get some of this too,” the brunette scowled at her.

Mr. Donahue lunged to seize the weapon.

Russell sprung from the seat, knife in hand.

BANG. BANG.

Second Chance 2 (three word Wednesday x 5 - effect,immense,shimmer,absolve,hiss,ridicule,hint,lust,sheen,engulf,imminent,tamper,gait,nudge,ripen)

It has been five installments since he last entered the ring. Miss me? (Mime hug.) I pun. I'm fueled for crumping!

...is an anagram for the 15 words I have missed over my 3ww hiatus. But I know you're not here for the anagrams, so on to the story, this is a "part two" of an earlier 3ww that resulted in many requests for a sequel. You can find part one here... Second Chance ... hope you enjoy.



“This is the school bus stop right?” The young Russell approached a blond girl he had known for years as ‘the neighbor’s daughter.’

“No I’m standing here ‘cuz I feel like it,” the girl hissed, texting in fluid motion.

“Sorry for the trouble little lady, was just a question.” Russell had long ago forgotten the art of conversing with pre-teens effectively. The glare of imminent doom told him she not only was unappreciative of the ‘little lady’ comment, but also doubly irritated for interrupting her texting concentration.

“I’m Russell.”

“That’s nice.”

He frowned, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?”

“I didn’t give it.”

“OK I guess I’ll call you Miss Sheen.”

“How’d you know my last name?”

Russell nudged her, pointing down the road, “You live there, don’t you? You’re Dave and Kelly’s kid.”

“Kerrie. My mom’s name is Kerrie,” confusion engulfed the girl.

“That’s right, I could never get that right…”

“Are you some kind of stalker?” The girl squirmed with the discomforting feeling her privacy had been tampered.

“Seriously Miss Sheen if I were stalking you, I’d probably know your name.”

“Don’t call me Miss Sheen. My name is Ellison.”

“Nice to meet you, Allison.”

“Ellison. With an E.”

What kind of name was Ellison? Russell forgot what an immense feat it was to get information out of girls like Ellison. She was the type of girl twelve year old minded boys lusted after, texted love notes to, had difficulty speaking in front of. Russell was long beyond such angst, and his forward approach was something little Ellison Sheen was not used to. As soon as the bus turned the corner, any shimmer of friendship vanished and she resumed her proud, snobbish gait onto the bus. That’s right, can’t be seen talking to the new guy. At the least Russell felt absolved of the stalker label. Distancing himself from the ripened sweaty odor of the overweight driver, he sat on an unoccupied bench seat in the middle of the bus.

He confirmed the switchblade was still under his right sock, playing the motion off as an itch. If he was to diffuse a threat in the school, he needed something. It wasn’t much, but he wasn’t going to be the one to bring a gun into a Middle School. The jeans were baggy enough to show no sign of a concealed weapon.

“What do you plan to do with that?” A monotone voice said beside him. Russell glanced across the aisle to find the pale boy he had met two nights ago. The boy named Death.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Russell rolled his eyes.

“You are bringing a weapon to school.”

“Self defense. You and I both know self defense will be needed today.”

A boy with glasses in the seat behind Russell leaned over the backing, “Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, uh, no one. Just thinking aloud. Sorry.” Russell stared at Death across the aisle. Death spoke indifferently, “He cannot see me, only those whose time draws near can see me.”

“You shouldn’t talk to yourself. People will think you’re crazy,” the boy with glasses ridiculed before retracting into his seat.

“They’re bringing a gun, you’re bringing a knife. I hope you have a plan,” Death stated with an eerie calmness.

“It’s better than nothing. Can you tell me anything at all about…”

“No. That would be cheating.”

Russell sighed. The bus pulled into the unloading area at the school entrance. He and Death were quick to get off the bus. Russell stopped on the curb, overwhelmed at the scene of hundreds of kids greeting one another from their returns from summer break. The boy with glasses disembarked the bus, passing right through Death as if he were air, sending a shiver up his spine.

“There’s so many kids. Can’t even give me a hint?”

Ellison stepped out of the bus glaring a disgusted look towards Russell and his pale ‘friend,’ and stepped around Death towards the school.

Death squinted at Russell. Russell swallowed hard, “Ellison, come back!”

Keeping Up With the Necros (three word Wednesday X 2, demure, offend, volatile, charm, feast, robust)

A cold got the best of me last week, so I thought I'd compensate for my absence with six words thrown into the mix this week. This one is for my friends Ernest, Mike, Scott, and Phil; friends of the real world as well as an online realm of days gone by, called Everquest.



A blond maiden waited patiently at the base of a granite stairwell. Her olive robe intricately decorated with runic symbols grazed the grass as she paced; her soft beauty and demure disposition an illusory shroud of an experienced adventurer. She gazed from a clock in the town square, to an unusual bickering couple. A bald man no taller than the blonde’s knees carried on an animated conversation with a sleek elven woman with flowing white hair and grape colored skin. The human blonde was clearly the mutual friend that brought these two well dressed casters together.

The gnome man flashed a shiny charm at the dark elf.

“That isn’t! Where’d you get that?” The dark elf squinted her solid white eyeballs.

“Got it from the High Inquisitor of the Violet Guard,” he boasted.

“The Violet Guard of Nethershadow? But it takes a full raid to get into that stronghold!”

The gnome nodded, feasting on her jealousy. The dark elf retrieved her knapsack and pulled it open.

“Is that the Satchel of the Red Dragonguard?”

“Oh this old thing? Yeah, it actually regenerates mana just by carrying it around. A must have. You mean you don’t have one?” Her thin face twisted into an evil smile.

“I, uhh, well not yet. I’m working on that,” the gnome rubbed the back of his head. “Don’t you need an exalted reputation for the Red Dragonguard to sell you one?”

“You mean you’re not one of their most exalted necromancers? Sorry, didn’t mean to offend, most necromancers I know are in their highest graces. Maybe you can tell them you know me. Then again, don’t. I don’t want my reputation tarnished.”

“I said I’m working on it Akisha,” the gnome snipped, looking through his own smaller plain satchel. He revealed a black metal wand topped with a glowing blue orb in an inset of claw shaped bones.

“The Wand of Seven Manticores?” Akisha yawned.

“Yes.”

“I have one of those too,” she revealed an identical rod. “Is yours enchanted with the Aura of the Southern Crusader?”

“No,” He frowned, looking at the bored human blonde that was trying to evade the conversation. “Lacie?”

“You never asked, Masren. I can enchant it for you later,” the blonde shrugged, watching the town square clock tick.

Masren and Akisha displayed shoes, belts, rings, and other objects of grandeur, attempting to one-up each other by throwing jabs like, “I’ve had this for ages,” “I sold an extra one at an auction last week,” and “I wouldn’t be seen dead with that.” Akisha summoned her mount from the stall and a rare zebrasi from the Plane of Nature appeared. Masren countered by beckoning a robust dragon whelp (with a gnome sized saddle) from the underworld of the frozen continent, Velious. A half elven young man in chainmail walked up alongside Lacie while the show-and-tell was beginning to turn volatile.

“Have they been at this all day?” The half-elf nudged the blonde lady.

“Hours,” she rolled her eyes, “Thank the Gods you are finally here, Keudar. Now we can go.”

“Not yet. Fahna will be joining us shortly too. I told him to meet us here after he visits the druid trainers...”

“What?” Lacie slouched in despair, “You mean I have to wait here longer and listen to these two?”

The bickering necromancers conjured skeletal minions and drew weapons. Keudar pointed, “Looks like it’s about to get interesting at least.”

Second Chance (three word Wednesday - abstain, halo, prayer)

A sudden whirl of air startled Russell awake. The discomfort told him he dozed off in his recliner again. The flickering muted TV was the only source of light in his living room. What time was it? He peered, but the clock was obstructed by a thin boy in his pre-teens. The boy wore exclusively black, and appeared surprisingly pale in the darkness of the room. Russell was taken aback by this visitor. He was at the empty nest phase of life, yet his grandchildren were not yet as old as this stranger.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The boy stepped forward, “I am Death.”

“You’re... excuse me? Death?” Russell tried not to laugh. The boy nodded affirmative, showing no hint of humor.

“Bullshit.”

“You disbelieve me? Try to move.”

Russell found himself unable to simply move his arm from his chest to his face. “I… I’m dead?”

Unable to smile, the boy squinted in confirmation, “Heart attack.”

Russell absorbed the realness of his grim news. “Why aren’t you a big scary skull faced Reaper if you are Death?”

“Death can come in many forms,” the boy summoned a spiral-bound notebook from thin air. Russell decided to abstain from further patronizing, “So, what happens now? Do you have a halo for me or something?”

“Halo… hardly,” Death observed information from the notebook, “three counts of charity donations, but two counts of stealing... not many random acts of kindness… a regular prayer though… look at all those lies…”

“So it’s to hell with me then?”

“Not so fast, you’re what we call an Almost.”

“What happens to Almosts?”

“Nothing really,” Death lowered the notebook, “You’re looking at it. You don’t go anywhere.”

Russell was able to see his own body lying cold and motionless, clutching his heart in his favorite recliner, “But... my wife... my kids…”

Death stared indifferently.

“Death, you take many forms, why come to me as a little boy?”

“I have prepared for an upcoming event.”

“An event?”

“A mass homicide. First day of school at the local middle school. Lone gunner, goes crazy.”

“What?? That’s horrific! We have to do something!”

“Yes quite a tragedy,” Death stated, devoid of emotion, “Kids aren’t receptive to the Grim Reaper look, so here I am.” He looked down at his ‘costume.’

“When is the first day of school?” Russell reached right through a calendar that still displayed the month of July.

“In two days.”

“We have to stop it from happening!”

“How are you to stop anything? You’re dead if you haven’t noticed.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Russell pleaded to the boy.

Death folded his arms, staring through him to his corpse on the recliner. “Well I have liberty to give Almosts another chance if I see fit. Your heart is in the right place. We cannot use that anymore however,” he gestured to the cold sixty four year old body. “I tell you what. I will grant you your halo if you stop the school shooting.”

“Really? Thank you! I’ll do whatever it takes...”

Death waved his arm. Russell propelled back into the recliner and solidified. His feet hardly reached the footstool of the chair, and his clothes draped over him like a king sized bed sheet.

Death spoke, “You have one chance to save many lives. Don’t mess it up.”

The hand across his face revealed no scruff, and a full head of hair.

“Being forewarned and failing to act will get you a ticket in the other direction.”

Russell picked up his reading glasses with a small hand, and angled them to view his reflection. A prepubescent version of himself stared back. “I… I’m a little boy!!”

Death gave another affirmative squint, “I’ll see you in two days, one way or the other.” He disappeared abruptly, a clapping sound of air reoccupying the place he stood.

Shootout (three word Wednesday - grimace, phase, stumble)

“All right they’re coming in. Mitch, Nick, Carla go right, try to flank them. Randy, hold the middle with me. Rich, take the others left into the brush.” Eight people in full camouflage nodded their masks in accordance, readied their guns, and carried out Jacob’s plan. The dense forest around them sloped uphill on the right. Mitch would get a good vantage point and wait for an opportunity. He was the ace sniper of the team.

Jacob heard rustling of branches from ahead of them. He took cover behind a large rock, while Randy stood against a wide tree to his left.

“See anything?”

“No.”

Tat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat…

Gunshots. From the left… Rich’s side. Someone had seen or been seen by the enemy. Jacob raised his head, nothing but forest through his visor. A bullet grazed the large rock.

“Get down,” Randy swiveled his firearm around the tree and fired towards the source of the bullet targeting Jacob.

“Can you see them?”

“I saw something move…”

“Don’t waste ammo if you cannot see them…”

Tat tat tat tat tat tat… this time gunfire spawned from the hill. Shots were flying actively from several sources on the left. “Ungh,” the grunt warned that Rich’s side was down a gunner. Rich yelled to fall back.

From the right, Nick’s voice declared a small victory, “Got him...” before tat tat tat tat… “Ou… Got me.”

Jacob peered up the hill, then to Randy, “They got Nick… Randy?”

Randy had advanced twenty feet and shot determinedly forward. He had his eye on something Jacob could not see from his vantage point. Randy ceased his fire, apparently successful. He looked up the hill. Carla had pointed out two more enemy gunners. Jacob stumbled from the rock to Randy’s first tree, scanning the far left. Rich was now alone, running backwards, shooting into the foliage. Rich ducked behind the stump of a fallen tree, signaling two fingers to Jacob before pointing forwards. Shit. They were coming in hard on the left. Rich poked his head over the stump over to receive a splattering on the side of his head.

“Randy! Randy watch out left! They’re coming!” Knowing half the team was down, Jacob resorted to regrouping for stronger defense. He had hoped it would not get to this phase, but their backs were to the wall. Randy had advanced too far ahead into the center to hear Jacob. Jacob heard sticks breaking deep in the foliage on the left. He retreated up the hill.

“Carla, they’re coming around.”

Carla covered Randy in the center until Randy stopped running, a contrast of color from the camouflage across his back.

“Shit they got him.”

And just like that, they got Carla, too.

Jacob hit the ground. Where the hell was Mitch? Jacob pivoted his line of vision. Behind him, two were closing in. Ahead, at least one gunner was over the mound of earth. He had no choice but to disallow the pincer attack to happen. He ran forward, gun extended.

Tat… tat… tat tat tat tat…

He scaled the mound, strafed right to the cover of a tree, and fired openly. His back would be open to the foes behind, he had to land a hit and land it quickly. His foe jumped backwards in surprise, receiving the full impact of Jacob’s gunfire across his collarbone. Jacob circumnavigated the tree taking cover from the two in the rear.

“Hey,” a voice came from ten feet behind him. The voice was not Mitch’s. Jacob swung his gun around, but it was too late…

Tat tat…

Pink paint splattered across the visor of his face mask. Jacob lowered his gun, wiping the visor clean with the backside of his glove.

“Got you!” It was his brother’s friend Kyle. The eyes were all Jacob could see of Kyle’s taunting grimace behind his own face mask.

Kyle extended a hand to Jacob while his two teammates came into the clearing, “Good game, we win!”

“Did you now?”

Tat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat...

Mitch always was our ace sniper.

As Advertised (three word Wednesday - joke, leverage, remedy; and flash Friday)

“Can you get the door, honey?” Shelley shouted from the kitchen.

Shawn placed the newspaper down on an end table and moved briskly to the front door. Who could be ringing the doorbell during the dinner hour? He gazed through the peephole. A distorted image of a bulky delivery man awaited his response. Shawn swung the door open.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Gelinas? I have a package you’ll need to sign for,” he extended a clipboard with a delivery form and a pen clamped under the hinge. Everything appeared legitimate enough. The large brown van parked on the street matched the color of his uniform. Shawn passed the form back, looking around for an absent package.

“Thank you sir, you’re all set!” The large man tucked the clipboard under his arm and left the front steps. In his place, a young woman stepped forward. Bright green eyes gazed playfully under dark, long eyelashes. Her lips were full and glossed, catching the light as if they were wet. Straight blonde hair draped aside her defined high cheekbones and rested on smooth shoulders. Her curves at the bust, the waist and the hips were nothing short of majestic. She wore nothing more than a leopard print bra and briefs. Shawn’s jaw conceded to gravity. A blonde strip of well-groomed eyebrow raised and her welcoming lips formed cute cheek dimples as she smiled. “Hello, Mizzer Gelneez, I am Katya,” her soft voice hinted at a strong Russian accent.

“Uh… hi Katya,” Shawn blinked intentionally to cease ogling. My God, there was a half naked Russian model on his front steps! There are families in his neighborhood with small children! He glanced down the street; a basketball game between the neighborhood boys had come to a grinding halt. “Please please come inside,” Shawn stepped aside, holding the door open. He escorted her into the living room, “Katya, might I ask what you’re doing coming to my house in lingerie?”

“You order zis, no?” She rolled her arm as if presenting herself.

“I ordered… what are you saying?”

“Online order. Lingerie site from Belarus. Remember? You order zis online.”

Shawn jogged his memory. He did place an order a few weeks back for some lingerie for Shelley’s birthday. Of course he opted for an online purchase, buying lingerie in person was one of the most uncomfortable things a man could do. He looked Katya up and down. She was wearing the exact lingerie he had ordered! He recalled the blond in the photo, wearing the lingerie with such a sultry pose. He remembered thinking the message in the margin, ‘As advertised’ was somewhat out of place.

“You like Katya picture online. Your order here now Shawn Gelneez.” Katya winked and sat herself on the couch.

“Katya I ordered the lingerie only, not the model too! You can’t stay!”

“But Katya come from Belarus for you.”

Shelley appeared in the doorway. “Shawn, why do we have a mail order bride in on our couch?” She spoke through gritted teeth and flaring nostrils.

“I, well, uhh… you see, I ordered you some lingerie dear…” Shawn shrugged hopelessly.

“Shawn order from lingerie model site. I am Katya,” she waved innocently at Shawn’s wife.

“Shawn there had better be a good…”

“I told you I only ordered lingerie,” he scurried for some leverage in the argument, but understood how bad this looked to her.

“No need for mad Misses Shawn Gelneez. Shawn got good deal. Pay low moneys. Katya, uh, how you say, on sale.”

Blood rushed to Shelley’s head, “…and how much exactly did you pay for Katya?”

“Well it was in foreign currency but it didn’t look too expensive.”

“Twelve thousand,” Katya again displayed her wonderful dimples.

Shelley roared, “US DOLLARS??”

Katya nodded affirmative.

“Shawn you did not bother to figure out the exchange rate to US dollars?!?!?”

Shawn slouched. He knew he had forgotten to do something. He recalled concluding the order quickly when a call came in over Skype. He could not believe what was happening. He stood there speechless, glancing between Katya and Shelley, searching for something he could say to remedy the situation.

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get that,” Shawn approached the door wanting to crawl under a rock. Whatever news awaited him on his front steps had to be better than his current conundrum. The delivery man stood there once again. “Mr. Gelinas?”

“You didn’t tell me you had a model with you…” Shawn pointed accusingly.

“I have another package for you.”

“Oh no, don’t even go there…”

The delivery man stepped aside, revealing TV personality Ashton Kutcher. “Shawn Gelinas,” Ashton extended his hand. ”You’ve been Punk’d!”

Katya and Shelley laughed and clapped behind him. Ashton pointed out hidden cameras. Shawn reddened in embarrassment. His wife orchestrated the best practical joke he’d ever witnessed. And worse, televised it.

This week of 3ww

The Cortez Case series has moved! Please visit this page for the ongoing story, as well as the collected past installments.

The Cortez Case

Wayne Status (3 word Wednesday - abuse, cramp, hatred)

“Day 100. Can you believe it’s been 100 days Dustin?”

Ugh, Wayne. Not Wayne. It’s too early in the morning for Wayne’s psychobabble. Dustin gazed at his computer monitor, attempting to check his Email, and hoping that Wayne would stop talking to the back of his head. Wayne looked over Dustin at a distant wall mounted monitor displaying close captioned CNN headlines. Dustin wished he were deaf, at least he could watch CNN in peace.

Every office had a Wayne. A Wayne was someone that loved to hear himself talk endlessly about nothing; someone people avoided eye contact with. A Wayne had such a reputation that would encourage subtle assistance from co-workers to save one another from the misfortunes of being cornered. Here was the office celebrity, the “Wayne of all Waynes” in all his glory, an unwelcome visitor in Dustin’s cubicle, reciting CNN as if Dustin were illiterate and not thoroughly exhausted of hearing about the Gulf oil spill.

“Did you know Tony Hayward is getting replaced? I think it’s about time, don’t you?” His nasal voice spiked hatred in Dustin, but he withheld enough to reply with rigid politeness, “I can read Wayne.”

The muted news anchor had moved on to an Iowa dam break, and Wayne followed suit. “Did they explain what caused the dam to...”

“’Scuse me Dustin can you look at this ticket for me please?” It was Crystal, right on cue, sparing Dustin from further abuse. She maneuvered her stout torso around Wayne and pointed at a blank piece of paper until Wayne departed.

“Thanks,” Dustin smirked and returned to his monitor. Crystal spoke in a gossipy mumble, “Geez he’s wound up today ain’t he? There’s a full moon out can’t you tell?”

“Yeah I saw it last night.”

“I think it’s really making people extra wacky because Venus is in retrograde which is odd for the early phase of Leo…”

Oh God. Don’t go into the zodiac stuff again Crystal. Don’t do it.

“...if you saw the moon last night, you could also see Mars if you had a clear sky, it was just off to the…"

“Shucks, missed it,” Dustin spoke with deflating enthusiasm. It was too late. Crystal had claimed Dustin’s only pencil and was sketching the planetary locations on the blank paper. He put his hand to his temples, perhaps she’d understand he really wasn’t following her, nor cared to. His distant expression only provoked Crystal further. Blah, blah, blah…

“Pardon me sir but did you see Jeopardy last night,” a deep male voice broadcasted over Crystal. Dustin knew what Guy was doing. Crystal had reached Wayne status, and Dustin was offered another life preserver. The bubbly Sage of the Zodiac retreated, leaving Guy in her place. The short man folded his arms; Dustin nodded in gratitude, faced his screen, and began to type. Finally, some peace and quiet.

“No I’m serious, did you see it?”

Oh come on, still here? “No Guy I did not see it, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me all about it…”

Guy explained with the energy of a sports commentator, “This one contestant was unbelievable! Shakespearian Characters, nailed it. Canadian Provinces, nailed it. African capitals, a personal favorite… nailed! Then he gets Periodic Table and meets his match! Who knows the capital of Burkina Faso but cannot get the obvious hint of Argon? I mean, come on…”

Dustin hoped Guy’s diaphragm would cramp from not stopping for oxygen. He patiently rubbed his temples, wondering whatever part of him that was emanating ‘Come babble to me’ could be located and maimed.

Guy ceased his animated rant when a woman with bloodshot eyes stepped alongside him.

“I need to talk… I’m sorry…” the woman welled up, fighting tears. Not one for drama, Guy placed his hand to his ear, “Is that my phone? Sorry I’ll let you two…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

Dustin grimaced at Tabitha, his latest train wreck of a visitor. “Ohmigod what happened,” he made his strongest effort to not sound monotone.

“He (sniffle) hasn’t returned my text yet,” Tabitha whined as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“When did you text him?”

“Two hours ago. He doesn’t normally take that long,” she wiped her eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to come over and start (sob)…” She crumpled her face and pointed at her eyes. Dustin would have gouged out his eyes and eardrums right then and there if Crystal hadn't made away with the pencil.

Dustin frowned. Yes you do. You know you meant to come over here and cry. You always do. And you cry to me because I am the only one that will look like I’m listening. Dustin offered a tissue, as was the normal routine with Tabitha. “Look Tab I don’t mean to be insensitive, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”

Tabitha leaned on his desk, clearing her eyes. Dustin really did not need to go, but sought an excuse to leave. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet; simply check his Email and do some work, uninterrupted. He walked across the office, ignoring two other counts of people trying to bleed their woes to him, before arriving at the mens room. He splashed his face with cold water and fidgeted with his hair. The furthest stall produced a flush, and the door unhinged.

The nasal voice pierced his soul, “Can you really believe it’s been 100 days?”

Unemployment Rate (three word Wednesday - bait, jump, victim; and Flash Friday)

Hank had no reason to expect company at nine-thirty in the morning. Date and time had not meant much to him in over three months. He threw a plaid robe over his boxers, made a feeble attempt to push his hair back, and answered the knocking at the front door. A clean cut man in a grey business suit nodded and extended his hand.

“Mister Hank Rowan, I presume?”

Hank scanned the younger man quizzically through sagging eyes. Hank knew he looked like shit; his face was scruffy, his hair awry, his teeth not brushed, he had not been graced with a shower in two days. Still the suited man did not look phased by Hank’s unkempt presentation. He leaned on his door and croaked, “What do you want?”

“My name is Walter, I am from Domestic Services.”

“What can I do for you Walter?”

“I understand you’ve been unemployed for awhile now,” Walter claimed the briefcase resting against his ankle and maneuvered his way around Hank. The living room was as maintained as its occupant. Taken aback by Walter’s aggressive jump indoors, Hank spoke slowly, “I was victim of a layoff in March.”

“Sorry to hear that. How has your search for re-employment gone?”

“It’s a tough market out there. I’ve sent resumes, I’ve looked online. Temp agencies. Nothing. Been collecting for about seven weeks.”

“Maybe I should discuss my reason for the visit. I believe I can help you, Hank. The Presidency has been very concerned about the nation’s unemployment rate being so high. A small group of individuals like myself were hired by the government to see what we can do to remedy the situation. Think of my visit as a job interview brought to you.”

Hank rubbed his chin. He had never heard of such a thing. Still he was willing to hear Walter state his case. Almost anything Walter proposed could be better than eating Ramen noodles two meals a day, and still facing a foreclosure. Walter interpreted his doubt, “Our organization has succeeded over the second quarter in bringing the rate from 9.9 to 9.7. It may not seem like much, but it’s thousands of individuals we are talking about…”

“Your group is taking the credit for the improvement?”

“You said it yourself Hank, it’s a tough market out there.”

“Alright then,” Hank took the bait, “What does your group do exactly?”

“Hank,” Walter pointed quickly and smirked, “I’m glad you asked. We look for unemployed and financially desperate individuals, such as yourself, no offense... and place them where they are no longer dependent on government funded support. This is creating a turnaround in national profit because we have reduced those relying on welfare.”

“Sounds like you’ve definitely done your part against the recession.”

Walter placed his briefcase on the filthy coffee table and unhinged the braces, “In fact, I guarantee I can get you to work by the end of the day!”

“That would be great! What kind of work? Do you need my resume?” Hank scanned the room, failing to locate his resume folder.

“No resume necessary Hank,” Walter revealed a .38 Magnum from the briefcase.

Hank froze in his footsteps, “You’re not really from the government, are you?”

Walter grinned, “I promised you some work. How are you with a shovel?"

To whom it may concern (three word Wednesday - gentle, praise, vulgar)

Dear writers,

I am writing this in good conscience that I need to make my voice heard on a subject that has been of great concern for awhile now. I am deeply worried that the subject of vampires has been overused in today’s movies and literature. Look, I know there’s a dark, mysterious danger that the vampire character offers to your fiction. Hollywood has cast us as a cold and savage species. It’s not like that at all. We are not so vulgar as to hunt down you humans for blood. Quite frankly, it’s far too messy. Everyone seems to have some sort of GPS these days. Next thing you know, the cops are all over you. Then it’s all this explaining, all this paperwork, possible arrest or even getting shot at. And what vampire likes to get shot at? Not yours truly, my friends.

Hollywood has recently made us an anti-hero. This has worsened our lifestyle truthfully. I feel it has impinged on our anonymity. Everywhere I go, humans want autographs. It has also become an unbearable nuisance with the paparazzi. Don’t they realize I will not show up in photos? I am no role model and certainly no anti-hero. I feel the praise and attention we receive is simply not justified.

I would furthermore like to set the record straight for bats. Bats have really got a bad reputation through the whole vampire infatuation you humans have going on. Bats are not after your blood, they hone in by sonar. If you don’t want them to bother you, then stop making noises! They are a pretty gentle animal overall and should be considered for domestication. If you were the first in your neighborhood with a pet bat, I am certain you’d be the talk of the neighborhood. Untapped potential here, people. It’s no more difficult than owning a ferret. Less odorous, too. Think of them as small, blind ferrets with wings. What’s not to love?

I go to the blood bank and pay for my meals like every honest hard working vampire. I sleep the sunlight hours away, so please stop knocking on my door during the daytime hours. I am not interested in your life insurance or your girl scout cookies. Just let me sleep people. A little privacy is all I ask. If you are awake in the wee hours of the morning, you can text or Email me, even follow me on Twitter. I’d rather you not visit in person though, I’m a bear if you interrupt my DVR’d Oprah.

Respectfully,

D

Twisted Experiment (three word Wednesday - acrid, bane, tepid)

I went with a continuation of The Cortez Case, characters in this installment were last seen in 3ww stories "Hostage" and "El Moco."





Blinding light protruded around the silhouette of the large man in the doorway. “Get up kid.”

Ryan planted a hand on the floor. His arm wobbled and strained. How long had it been? He had lost weight at an unhealthy rate, feverishly devouring whatever poor excuses for meals that were brought to him. Slices of bread, half eaten sandwiches, tepid leftovers, and an occasional bowl of oatmeal had been the cause of noticeable reduction in his arms and waist. He had not complained, for his adjustment to the high seas had not been a smooth one, and he feared a normal portion of food would not stay down. He knew they would not let him starve to death, as much as he thought that may be favorable. They would not let him, and he would not let himself. He was determined to get out. Alive.

The hair that fell around his face as he lifted his head reminded him that starvation was minor on his priorities. They had been drugging him. Not the good drugs. Not heroin. Ryan would take every one of them to hell for a fix of heroin. He had gone without for far too long. He dreamed of it. He hungered for it… more than a full meal... more than the need to shake the seasickness... more than life itself. He needed a fix. And he needed it now. The drugs he had been receiving failed at giving him a high. The only trippy effect was dizziness and a loss of balance. It was not even a loss, more of a shift. And body changes were a bane to his pride and his manhood. His facial hair had stopped growing. His skin was softer. His chest had become itchy with small pectoral growths. And, most horrific of all, his crotch had painfully shriveled to a fragile feeling of a rotten tomato. He dared not touch for fear of breaking anything. His voice had become less gruff and monotone, more pitchy and melodic. He found himself crying frequently, and mad at himself for not keeping it together. He had not seen himself since these changes began and was sure he didn’t want to.

A size 12 black shoe appeared alongside Ryan.

“I said get up,” a painful tug at Ryan’s hair weave hoisted him to his feet. Ryan stood level to Brick’s chest, which due to his girth was still larger than Ryan’s hormonally altered chest. Ryan thought about kicking his heel straight into Brick’s nuts, but feared a reciprocated strike would destroy him.

“It’s time to go,” Brick patted down Ryan’s faux hair as if patting a dog. Brick revealed a washcloth and commenced toweling the sweat from Ryan’s face. Ryan wished Carlos had come to get him. Carlos would have let him get up on his own, and thrown the washcloth at him. Not Brick. Brick was a creepy man. Ryan’s hormonal alterations were Brick’s fault, Brick’s twisted experiment. Ryan was not sure where they were going, but Brick’s efforts to make him presentable made him want to crawl out of his skin. They departed the cargo room, climbed stairs while the ocean fought his skewed balance, and finally arrived in the sunlight. The acrid odor of low tide rushed in, the sea breeze pushing his long hair across his nose repetitively. The boat was smaller than he anticipated. He envisioned a large cargo rig, but the deck was merely a rundown mid-sized tug boat. The coastline before them was lush and rural. Carlos roped the boat to a dock and faced the coast, little Chloe at his side. The blond kindergartener was preoccupied with a Barbie doll. At least their captors had a heart enough to keep Chloe happy.

Chloe nudged Carlos, “Are we going to see my Daddy now?”

“Not yet. But your friend Ryan is here,” Carlos motioned to Brick and Ryan approaching. Ryan walked up to her, “Hi Chloe, how are you?”

“You’re not Ryan! Ryan’s a boy!”

Her innocent observation rattled Ryan worse than any pain he’d ever endured. Brick smiled to Carlos, “See. Told you. Believable enough.”

“We’ll see. If Moco doesn’t buy it, I swear Brick, I’ll kill you…” Carlos blurted.

The knocking of several footsteps along the wooden dock grew louder. A greasy overweight Brazilian man lumbered amongst three bodyguards. Three onboard nervously watched the approach of Moco and his entourage; the fourth watched her Barbie doll.

Interview (three word Wednesday x 3- hassle, inject, wealth, erase, meadow, trace, feign, virtue, imply)

Hi everyone, its been a few weeks. I compiled 9 words into this one to make up for lost time. This is not a continuation of the Cortez Case; instead I went for a change and decided to check in on a different personality from earlier 3 word Wednesdays. You can find this character in my January contribution entitled, "The Protection Amulet" and its sequel in February. Thanks for stopping by, and hope you enjoy.




“Wh… where am I?”

A lone candle centered on a circular wooden table provided the only light. Vague blues and greens of a Hawaiian-style shirt floated out of the darkness.

“Yoo ar Zon York, ar yoo not?” Teeth and eyeballs above the colorful shirt spoke. The dark face was still unclear as he took a seat across the table.

“What is meaning of this? Who are you?”

“Yoo can call me Dean. Now, yoo’ar Zon York?”

“John York, yes. Where are we?”

Dean wasn’t about to feign an apologetic tone. He had little tolerance for the humility expected by people of wealth. “Mista Zon York, I need ta ask yoo some questions. An’ I need yoo ta cooperate.”

“But I demand to know…” John pounded an unexpectedly small fist onto the table.

“Zon, time is short. Lissen to me. I need yoo ta retrace wat happened at the golf course.”

John swallowed and sighed before beginning. “Me and my business partner were on the fourteenth hole, I was three over par but still beating Greg. We were shooting onto the green, about 80 yards from the hole, when these guys came walking over to us. Jamaican guys, four of them. They started to hassle us. Started demanding money on the spot.” John grabbed at his throat, “Does my voice sound funny to you?”

“Pleez jus continue Zon. Wat happened next? Did yoo give dem money?”

“Well I looked back at Greg, the caddie had hit him over the head with the sand wedge. He put Greg in the cart and rode off. I tried to stop them but one of them had my arm and was taking my gold watch. Another one grabbed my left hand and they walked me off the course.”

“Do yoo recall anyzing about dem?”

“One had an afro. The others had short hair. Wait, one was bald. Got fuzzy at that point, one of them injected me with something. I think one responded to Trevor from another one of them… Trevor had the afro.”

“Was der any reezon foh Trevor an his men ta come affer yoo? Did yoo owe anyone money?”

“What are you implying?” John was alarmed and his pitch raised to that of a whining woman. “I am an honest man with good virtues! I am not a swindler or hustler! I made my living honestly! “

“Point taken Zon, jus’ tryin ta piece tagether a motive iz all. Pleez continue wit Trevor.”

John gazed to the candle flame, scrounging random memories from erased interims. “A car ride… then I was being pushed around… everything was spinning. An ATM machine… I remember… then another car ride… I was in the trunk. I was in a meadow, don’t know how I got there, they were making me dig…”

“Wat was neer zis meadow Zon?”

“I don’t recall… grass, trees, wait… there was a playground nearby. Looked like a schoolyard… far… in the distance.”

“Then wat?”

“That is all I remember.”

An awkward silence fell between John and his exotic interviewer. John squinted trying to make sense of Dean’s labyrinth tattoo across his right cheek. Dean got to his feet and leaned toward the candle, “Dat is all I haf foh questions Zon. I will blow out dis candle an when I do, yoo will return to where ya came. Thanks foh your cooperation Zon.”

John nodded. Dean’s next gesture left the room pitch black. When the light returned, Dean was across the room at a light switch. He strolled across the room to the frazzled woman sitting at the table. She looked around confusedly, “What happened? Did it work?”

“Can yoo tell me yoh name ma’am?”

“Allison York.”

“Yes Mrs. York,” Dean revealed a recorder from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, “We made contact wit yoh husband.”

El Moco (three word Wednesday - hidden, noble, roam)

More from The Cortez Case. This one is a continuation from the past entry "Maid In Columbia." Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!



DING DONG.

A high pitched yapping from a toy sized dog approached the backside of the grand oak door.

Knock. Knock. Knock. The slow and steady rhythm mimicked the percussion of Fog Hat’s Slow Ride. A distant whine summoned the maid unsuccessfully. The stomping tantrum of a teenager grew closer. An impatient diva restraining her black poodle appeared through the opening. She glared disgustedly at the slob on her front stairs. A Brazilian man with a beer gut and a cologne resembling tuna smiled back at her. She recognized that slimy receding hairline and scruffy face instantly. She cinched her nose with her free hand.

“Pe Pe,” she broadcasted behind her in a nasal tone, “El Booger is here.”

He stepped into the foyer of the Cortez mansion. This place never ceased to amaze him. Marble columns and dark wood side tables complimented the Incan relics displayed on them, giving the home a museum feel. The well groomed foliage in the backyard rolled downward to meet the Atlantic. This place was fit for a noble; and his boss certainly was a noble of the crime world. Sierra roamed away silently, leaving him waiting for the scurried tardy arrival of the maid.

“Allo Monsieur Moco,” she greeted with clearly feigned manners.

He grumbled in dissatisfaction, “Bah, no French. It is ‘Oy Senhor Moco’ where I am from. Please show me you are not a stupid bitch and use the right language next time.”

“You are right Senhor Moco, je regrette.” She beamed a smile that could not be more fabricated. She wanted to kill Moco ever since she had met him. He was as chauvinistic as he was odious, but that was not the worst of it. She had no idea just how terrible his personal hygiene habits were until she discovered a hidden remnant crusted to the underside of a patio table after one of his recent visits. It was no surprise he earned the sobriquet ‘Moco,’ Portugese for mucus. He had squeezed her ass several times that same visit. Who knows where else those fingers had been. She had to shroud true feelings, for it was no secret this scumbag was Cortez’ right hand man.

“Somezeen to drink?” She thought, Arsenic perhaps?

“Caipirinha, extra lime,” he patted her behind as she departed for the kitchen. Saw that coming. “Right away Senhor. Monsieur Cortez ees on zee patio.”

Moco strolled through the home with hands behind him. A tropical autumn breeze met his face as he opened the French door to the patio. The man on the patio stared through reading glasses at a laptop. He stroked his goatee, fixated on the screen.

“Oy Moco. Come, sit. Just finishing up here.”

“Oy sir,” Moco sat opposite his boss.

“What is the report?”

“We got three more from Spain over the weekend. Just spoke to Carlos, we have two more on the way from the States. One of them is Thomas’ daughter.”

“Raul Thomas is out of the way,” Santino spoke with disinterest. “Totals, Moco. I need totals.”

“Dúzia, sir. One dozen.” Moco sought a response in Santino’s stoic face, still glued to the activity of the laptop monitor. “Doing some bookkeeping?” Moco finally burst with curiosity.

“Haven’t I taught you anything? What do I always say…”

Moco swallowed hard, “Asking questions will get you killed.” He knew that Santino trusted him, but Santino’s trust had been shattered in the past. Moco would not leave the mansion alive if Santino commanded it. Still refusing to look at Moco, Santino squinted in contemplation, “Mahjong.”

“Que?”

“I said Mahjong. Love Mahjong.”

The maid arrived with a clear drink in a short glass, crushed lime beneath a surface of ice cubes. He sipped the beverage before continuing, the maid retreating through the French doors. “Policia searched my car yesterday. No drugs found. Shoulda seen ‘em, they were pissed.”

“They think we are amateurs. Drug lords,” Santino chuckled, “Every wannabe crime lord on the Columbian coast has their hands in that market. Too predictable, too much supply, too easy to track these days.”

“You are a wise businessman”, Moco commented, “We should make some good money this weekend.”

“When is Carlos arriving?”

“This evening.”

“Good. See to it our new assets get safely to the winery,” Santino continued to click his wireless mouse.

“I will sir.”

“Very well. Keep security tight, we don’t need complications this close to the auction.”

“Si Senor.”

The maid, just inside the French doors, quietly departed. She climbed the stairs in the foyer and travelled to the far side of the house, the master’s chamber. She retrieved her unnoticeable phone in her garter belt and pressed a fast dial. The phone rang several times.

“What are you doing?” The teenage diva in the doorway folded her arms.