(Friday Flash Fiction prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 7 June 2013:
You've always been close to your favorite uncle, the 'mad scientist,' even though no one in the family has head from him in a couple of years now. You're thrilled to get a note in the mail from him one day, even if it is short, and rather cryptic - asking you to come to his remote country home and lend a hand. You arrive, and as you are walking up the long, wooded pathway towards the house, you swear you see large shapes among the trees that don't look like any human or animal you've ever seen before....)
I'd forgotten how little there was in Tipton county other than farms. I hadn't been to Uncle Max's place for a couple of years at least. Finishing school then starting a job had kept me busy, and Max (no "Uncle", he hated that), wasn't one to use the phone. I'm not sure he even had one.
The short note he sent me mid-week didn't give any reminders of how to get to his place. He'd assume I'd find it as always. We had the closest relationship in the family by far. I'm not sure most of my relatives knew about this place, or cared. Mom got a note from him every so often, mainly just a paragraph or two letting her know he was still alive. She had a studied lack of interest in his projects.
I knew I was in the right part of the county, but not quite on auto-pilot. After doubling back once and trying a different road, I saw the mailbox labeled "M. Weiland". I turned into the drive. You couldn't see the house from here. My theory was that every tree in the county was planted on these few acres.
The drive opened up into a small parking area after a hundred feet; I parked my truck there. A path wide enough for an ATV ran through the woods for at least a hundred yards, then you were at the house, a well-preserved Victorian. As I crunched across the gravel toward the path, I looked for Marshall. Normally Max's dog would appear after I slammed the truck door, black and white against the greens and browns of the woods, curly tail wagging. No Marshall today, so I walked up the path alone.
But as I got deeper into the woods, I didn't feel alone. Not exactly threatened, but watched, studied. I walked faster and scanned left and right. Nothing for a while, then to my right I saw a shape moving. Not a bear (in Tipton county?), but larger and stranger. The glimpse I had before it disappeared seemed to show too many limbs and proportions that were all wrong.
I looked ahead and could just see the outline of the house. Glancing left, I saw an eyeball the size of a golf ball, on a stalk, sticking out in the path toward me. I must have jumped a foot in the air. The eye stalk whisked out of sight, and I sprinted for the house. To my right there was crashing in the brush that almost kept pace, but I was focused on the front door.
I saw Marshall through a window, watching me and barking. As I leapt onto onto the front porch and reached for the door knob, the door swung open. I tripped on the threshold and sprawled headlong in the entry way. Marshall charged, growling, then recognized me and started sniffing and licking. I rolled over to find Max looming overhead. He slammed the door shut and locked it.
"Peter! Thanks for coming out to help me."
I was starting to catch my breath. "It's Pete, Max, not Peter. And what the hell is out in the woods?"
"Enough with the Pete stuff, Peter. You're Peter to me, so drop it. Those creatures you saw are why I called. I need your help."
"It would have been nice to know about them beforehand. I would have brought a shotgun or something."
"I know, I know, I was in a hurry and forgot. But they haven't shown any aggression so far. And they do seem to know what weapons are, so better you weren't carrying one."
I was sitting up on the floor now, scratching Marshall behind the ears. "Your note just said you needed me to lend a hand. What's that all about?"
"I have some equipment that's malfunctioning. With your electronics degree, you can probably help me fix it. And you're a pretty good welder, too", Max said.
"Does this have to do with those things outside?"
"Of course. But I'll get to all that. Come on with me into the shop."
I stood up and followed Max and Marshall down the hall into what used to be a sitting room. Now it was full of tables and equipment around the perimeter, cables and power cords snaking this way and that. In the center of the room a cylindrical device sat on the floor. About four feet tall and three feet in diameter, knobs and lights surrounding a door in the center.
"Okay, Max, so where did those creatures come from?"
"Mail order."
"Mail order? What are you talking about?"
"Not mail order from here, silly. Mail order from another planet."
My brain was starting to hurt. "And I suppose it has to do with this gadget here?"
"Yup. It went well at first, once I built this machine and got the link established with Plerxes 11. The little guys were easy to care for. Of course, my friends on Plerxes didn't mention how large they'd get."
"So what's the problem now?"
"Well, I think I fried a circuit board and the link is down now. I built a new board, but still no luck. Plus, there's a support arm inside that broke. I'm hoping you can fix that."
"What happens if you can't get the link back up?", I asked.
"There's a certain food that's their favorite. It only grows on Plerxes 11, of course. If I can't get more, they might get unhappy with me. Or us", Max said.
"What exactly do you mean by 'unhappy'?"
"Let's not talk about that. Better to just get the machine fixed. How about rolling over that oscilloscope cart and we'll do some troubleshooting?"
I walked across the room and started back with the cart. As I did so, one of the windows grew dark in the corner of my eye. I turned and saw three eyes looking at me through the glass.
I rolled the cart faster.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Friday Flash Fiction: A Fish Tale
(Friday Flash Fiction prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 31 May 2013:
I want to read a great fish tale! Be creative!)
It's hard to believe that just last week I slept with the fishes. I didn't think my gambling debt was that big a deal. Or the fact that I was late paying it back. But apparently Vinnie and his crew did. They caught up with me as I was walking out to my car with a pocket full of cash from a few hours at the blackjack table. I didn't even hear the car until it squealed to a stop behind me. I spun around as a few guys jumped out of the car and strode toward me.
"Hey, what's this?" I said.
"Shut up, moron", one of them, a massive blond guy in a sport jacket, said.
And with that they picked me up by arms and legs and threw me in the now-open trunk of their car. The duct tape on my wrists, ankles, and mouth kept me quiet. I sloshed around in the trunk as they drove for who knows how long. Probably not as long as it seemed. All that time I didn't feel panic so much as a cold dread that this was it. And that the "it" was not going to be quick or painless.
Finally the car squealed to a stop again and I heard doors open and slam as the trunk lid popped open. Rough hands hauled me out and dropped me on the pavement. The evening was windy, and I could hear water and ship's horns. The guys got a better grip on me, carried me to the edge of a pier, and dropped me again. I was bug-eyed and trying to communicate.
"Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!!", I said through the duct tape.
The blond guy gave me a twisted smile. "What? What? Speak up, I can't hear you." And he kicked me in the ribs, laughing along with the others.
Now they were wrapping heavy chain around me. The clinking of the chain was like footsteps marching me to my fate, the padlocks they snapped in place sounding like prison gates.
"Vinnie sends his regards. Sleep with the fishes, moron", Blondie said as they rolled me off the pier.
A couple of seconds of free-fall, then I hit the water with a huge splash, sinking fast. Who knows how deep it was, but I finally came to rest on the bottom. I couldn't see a thing other than the stars that were beginning to flash before my eyes. Just as I was starting to black out, I thought I saw lights, moving toward me.
Four scuba divers approached, one of them driving a sled of some kind. A gloved hand peeled the duct tape from my mouth and held a bubbling mask in place. I can't tell you how good that first breath felt! Another diver swam in close holding some sort of device. A hand turned my head away as light flashed from the diver, then the chains fell away. They loaded me onto the sled and strapped me on with my air tank, and we started a slow ascent from the bottom.
I couldn't see anything other than the divers' searchlights pointing this way and that. Eventually I glimpsed a structure, a wall maybe, and we passed beneath it. Now I could see light at the surface above us. A few more seconds of ascent, then we broke the surface in what appeared to be a man-made cavern. We floated over to the side of the pool where several people were standing. They rolled me off the sled onto concrete and cut the duct tape from my wrists and ankles.
I looked around, rubbing my wrists. The divers' scuba packs were labeled with "FBI". The five people standing around me were wearing badges and pistols.
"What the hell is this?", I asked, looking up at the woman nearest me.
"Just rest easy, sir. Agent Menendez will explain it all to you later."
I flopped on my back, exhausted. A minute later two men helped me to my feet and wrapped a blanket around me. We walked into a locker area with a shower to my left. Shirts, jeans, and underwear were folded and stacked on one of the benches.
"Go ahead and shower up, sir. There should be something over there that fits you well enough for now. Take your time."
They left; I stripped down and stumbled into the shower. The hot water felt almost as good as the first breath of air from the diver's tank, almost. I dressed myself from the stacks of clothes and was toweling my hair dry when a man walked in.
"I'm Special Agent Menendez", he said, shaking my hand. "You're Michael Stevens, correct?"
"Yeah, but how did you know that?"
"I'll get to that. Just want to check that you're feeling okay first."
"Yeah, I'm good. A lot better than I was, that's for sure. But where are we, exactly?"
"We're under the pier, actually", Menendez said. "When the pier was constructed they built this area we're in, then forgot about it. It's useful to us, and nobody knows about it."
"Are you guys all FBI?"
"Yes sir. We're building a case against Vinnie Marko, who you've obviously had trouble with. He likes to get rid of people by dumping them off the pier."
"I figured that out", I said with a small laugh.
"Yup, first hand", Menendez said, grinning. "We have a mole in his organization, so we know when he's going to do it. Then we have divers ready to attempt a rescue. We've succeeded most times. We're hoping a number of you will testify at some point in the future. We'll keep you safe regardless."
So, this is where I've lived for the last week. It takes a while to get processed for witness protection, but it's comfortable in the living quarters down here. I've met some of the other refugees before they scatter us with new identities. We have plenty of time to play cards. Not for real money, of course.
I want to read a great fish tale! Be creative!)
It's hard to believe that just last week I slept with the fishes. I didn't think my gambling debt was that big a deal. Or the fact that I was late paying it back. But apparently Vinnie and his crew did. They caught up with me as I was walking out to my car with a pocket full of cash from a few hours at the blackjack table. I didn't even hear the car until it squealed to a stop behind me. I spun around as a few guys jumped out of the car and strode toward me.
"Hey, what's this?" I said.
"Shut up, moron", one of them, a massive blond guy in a sport jacket, said.
And with that they picked me up by arms and legs and threw me in the now-open trunk of their car. The duct tape on my wrists, ankles, and mouth kept me quiet. I sloshed around in the trunk as they drove for who knows how long. Probably not as long as it seemed. All that time I didn't feel panic so much as a cold dread that this was it. And that the "it" was not going to be quick or painless.
Finally the car squealed to a stop again and I heard doors open and slam as the trunk lid popped open. Rough hands hauled me out and dropped me on the pavement. The evening was windy, and I could hear water and ship's horns. The guys got a better grip on me, carried me to the edge of a pier, and dropped me again. I was bug-eyed and trying to communicate.
"Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!!", I said through the duct tape.
The blond guy gave me a twisted smile. "What? What? Speak up, I can't hear you." And he kicked me in the ribs, laughing along with the others.
Now they were wrapping heavy chain around me. The clinking of the chain was like footsteps marching me to my fate, the padlocks they snapped in place sounding like prison gates.
"Vinnie sends his regards. Sleep with the fishes, moron", Blondie said as they rolled me off the pier.
A couple of seconds of free-fall, then I hit the water with a huge splash, sinking fast. Who knows how deep it was, but I finally came to rest on the bottom. I couldn't see a thing other than the stars that were beginning to flash before my eyes. Just as I was starting to black out, I thought I saw lights, moving toward me.
Four scuba divers approached, one of them driving a sled of some kind. A gloved hand peeled the duct tape from my mouth and held a bubbling mask in place. I can't tell you how good that first breath felt! Another diver swam in close holding some sort of device. A hand turned my head away as light flashed from the diver, then the chains fell away. They loaded me onto the sled and strapped me on with my air tank, and we started a slow ascent from the bottom.
I couldn't see anything other than the divers' searchlights pointing this way and that. Eventually I glimpsed a structure, a wall maybe, and we passed beneath it. Now I could see light at the surface above us. A few more seconds of ascent, then we broke the surface in what appeared to be a man-made cavern. We floated over to the side of the pool where several people were standing. They rolled me off the sled onto concrete and cut the duct tape from my wrists and ankles.
I looked around, rubbing my wrists. The divers' scuba packs were labeled with "FBI". The five people standing around me were wearing badges and pistols.
"What the hell is this?", I asked, looking up at the woman nearest me.
"Just rest easy, sir. Agent Menendez will explain it all to you later."
I flopped on my back, exhausted. A minute later two men helped me to my feet and wrapped a blanket around me. We walked into a locker area with a shower to my left. Shirts, jeans, and underwear were folded and stacked on one of the benches.
"Go ahead and shower up, sir. There should be something over there that fits you well enough for now. Take your time."
They left; I stripped down and stumbled into the shower. The hot water felt almost as good as the first breath of air from the diver's tank, almost. I dressed myself from the stacks of clothes and was toweling my hair dry when a man walked in.
"I'm Special Agent Menendez", he said, shaking my hand. "You're Michael Stevens, correct?"
"Yeah, but how did you know that?"
"I'll get to that. Just want to check that you're feeling okay first."
"Yeah, I'm good. A lot better than I was, that's for sure. But where are we, exactly?"
"We're under the pier, actually", Menendez said. "When the pier was constructed they built this area we're in, then forgot about it. It's useful to us, and nobody knows about it."
"Are you guys all FBI?"
"Yes sir. We're building a case against Vinnie Marko, who you've obviously had trouble with. He likes to get rid of people by dumping them off the pier."
"I figured that out", I said with a small laugh.
"Yup, first hand", Menendez said, grinning. "We have a mole in his organization, so we know when he's going to do it. Then we have divers ready to attempt a rescue. We've succeeded most times. We're hoping a number of you will testify at some point in the future. We'll keep you safe regardless."
So, this is where I've lived for the last week. It takes a while to get processed for witness protection, but it's comfortable in the living quarters down here. I've met some of the other refugees before they scatter us with new identities. We have plenty of time to play cards. Not for real money, of course.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Friday Flash Fiction: What Happened?
(Friday Flash Fiction prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 24 May 2013:
Fill in the blank to start your story.
"Seven days ago, _______________. Now, no one will talk to me.")
Seven days ago, I booked a hotel room. Now no one will speak to me. Going to a hotel shouldn't be a big deal, right? But let me explain. Sometimes when I'm on a writing binge or have a looming deadline, I'll check into a hotel for a few days so I can concentrate. Only my assistant knows where I'm going, and she keeps the secret. The TV stays off, the wireless stays off, it's just me and my laptop.
So on Sunday afternoon I drove a couple of hours to the hotel and checked in. I hadn't been here before but it looked nice. My room had a view of the city instead of the interstate. The fitness room had a weight machine and an elliptical, enough for basic exercise. I ordered dinner in my room, showered up, and went to bed early.
Monday started off as I'd planned. I woke up early and wrote two chapters for my latest mystery novel. My main character, Flynn Benning, was solving a bank teller's death and finding out this was no ordinary bank. He was facing threats from all directions and I was trying to keep him alive for the next story. I ordered up breakfast and pecked on my laptop until noon. The staff brought me a sandwich for lunch, and I kept writing until mid-afternoon.
I needed a break; a workout would clear my head. I spent an hour in the fitness room alternating between the weight machine and the elliptical. No one else was in there, so I turned off the TV and worked up a good sweat. At one point I caught motion out of the corner of my eye. Looking out the interior window, I saw a woman walking past in the hall. She should have been on a red carpet somewhere. Tall and curvy, auburn hair flowing over her shoulders, burgundy lipstick to match her dress, small gold cross on a necklace. She eyed me with a slim smile and was gone.
Something hurt. I figured out it was the leg press I had held when she appeared. Letting the weights down, I stepped over to the window and looked down the hall. Nobody. After one more round on the elliptical I huffed up the stairs to my room for a shower.
I considered the day's writing a success, and decided to celebrate by eating in the hotel's restaurant. My 6 oz fillet mignon and glass of merlot were perfect. When I returned to my room and opened the door, I caught a whiff of perfume. Tiptoeing further inside, I spotted a familiar-looking red dress on the floor. A little further, around the corner, I saw a woman in my bed. Face down, with flowing auburn hair. Not moving. I stepped up to the bed and shook her right shoulder; no response. I held two fingers to the side of her neck. No pulse.
I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths. When I looked at the bed again, she was still there. I stumbled over to the phone on my desk and called downstairs. Within minutes police and hotel staff were at my door, and my room was now a crime scene.
The first detective on the scene pulled me aside to get a statement. He arched his brows when I said I had no idea who the woman was, just that I saw someone like her downstairs in the afternoon.
"So, you just came back up here after dinner, and there she was. Is that what you're saying?"
"That's right. I really don't know who she is or how she got here."
"Uh huh. Well, we think we know who she is. Hotels are where she usually meets her clients. But you're saying you don't know anything about that?"
"No. Not at all. And you're talking about a certain type of client, right?"
"Yep, she's a call girl, or was. In your room. Dead. You sure you don't have anything else to tell me?"
"No sir", I said. "I just drove over here to write for a few days, without all the usual distractions."
"Uh huh."
So that's how it started. Everything in my room was boxed up as evidence, and the hotel staff moved me to a new room for the night. I called my assistant and explained the situation, including my impounded car. She agreed to drive over and get me when the police would let me leave.
"Assuming you're not in jail", she said.
"I appreciate that vote of confidence, Leslie."
By the next morning the story was everywhere. Mystery novelist caught with dead prostitute in his hotel room. When will he be arrested? Has he done this before? How often does he hire call girls?
My publicist flew in and gave statements to the press. The police found drugs in the woman's system that didn't appear connected to me. My DNA sample was still being tested, though. I stayed at the hotel for another three days, spending most of those days in interviews with multiple detectives. Eventually they said I was free to go, for now.
By the end of the week I was back home, and I called a few friends and family to see about lunch, dinner, whatever. Everyone was unavailable. Leslie said she was taking the next week off.
So here I am, a pariah. For now. But I have a great idea for my next story.
Fill in the blank to start your story.
"Seven days ago, _______________. Now, no one will talk to me.")
Seven days ago, I booked a hotel room. Now no one will speak to me. Going to a hotel shouldn't be a big deal, right? But let me explain. Sometimes when I'm on a writing binge or have a looming deadline, I'll check into a hotel for a few days so I can concentrate. Only my assistant knows where I'm going, and she keeps the secret. The TV stays off, the wireless stays off, it's just me and my laptop.
So on Sunday afternoon I drove a couple of hours to the hotel and checked in. I hadn't been here before but it looked nice. My room had a view of the city instead of the interstate. The fitness room had a weight machine and an elliptical, enough for basic exercise. I ordered dinner in my room, showered up, and went to bed early.
Monday started off as I'd planned. I woke up early and wrote two chapters for my latest mystery novel. My main character, Flynn Benning, was solving a bank teller's death and finding out this was no ordinary bank. He was facing threats from all directions and I was trying to keep him alive for the next story. I ordered up breakfast and pecked on my laptop until noon. The staff brought me a sandwich for lunch, and I kept writing until mid-afternoon.
I needed a break; a workout would clear my head. I spent an hour in the fitness room alternating between the weight machine and the elliptical. No one else was in there, so I turned off the TV and worked up a good sweat. At one point I caught motion out of the corner of my eye. Looking out the interior window, I saw a woman walking past in the hall. She should have been on a red carpet somewhere. Tall and curvy, auburn hair flowing over her shoulders, burgundy lipstick to match her dress, small gold cross on a necklace. She eyed me with a slim smile and was gone.
Something hurt. I figured out it was the leg press I had held when she appeared. Letting the weights down, I stepped over to the window and looked down the hall. Nobody. After one more round on the elliptical I huffed up the stairs to my room for a shower.
I considered the day's writing a success, and decided to celebrate by eating in the hotel's restaurant. My 6 oz fillet mignon and glass of merlot were perfect. When I returned to my room and opened the door, I caught a whiff of perfume. Tiptoeing further inside, I spotted a familiar-looking red dress on the floor. A little further, around the corner, I saw a woman in my bed. Face down, with flowing auburn hair. Not moving. I stepped up to the bed and shook her right shoulder; no response. I held two fingers to the side of her neck. No pulse.
I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths. When I looked at the bed again, she was still there. I stumbled over to the phone on my desk and called downstairs. Within minutes police and hotel staff were at my door, and my room was now a crime scene.
The first detective on the scene pulled me aside to get a statement. He arched his brows when I said I had no idea who the woman was, just that I saw someone like her downstairs in the afternoon.
"So, you just came back up here after dinner, and there she was. Is that what you're saying?"
"That's right. I really don't know who she is or how she got here."
"Uh huh. Well, we think we know who she is. Hotels are where she usually meets her clients. But you're saying you don't know anything about that?"
"No. Not at all. And you're talking about a certain type of client, right?"
"Yep, she's a call girl, or was. In your room. Dead. You sure you don't have anything else to tell me?"
"No sir", I said. "I just drove over here to write for a few days, without all the usual distractions."
"Uh huh."
So that's how it started. Everything in my room was boxed up as evidence, and the hotel staff moved me to a new room for the night. I called my assistant and explained the situation, including my impounded car. She agreed to drive over and get me when the police would let me leave.
"Assuming you're not in jail", she said.
"I appreciate that vote of confidence, Leslie."
By the next morning the story was everywhere. Mystery novelist caught with dead prostitute in his hotel room. When will he be arrested? Has he done this before? How often does he hire call girls?
My publicist flew in and gave statements to the press. The police found drugs in the woman's system that didn't appear connected to me. My DNA sample was still being tested, though. I stayed at the hotel for another three days, spending most of those days in interviews with multiple detectives. Eventually they said I was free to go, for now.
By the end of the week I was back home, and I called a few friends and family to see about lunch, dinner, whatever. Everyone was unavailable. Leslie said she was taking the next week off.
So here I am, a pariah. For now. But I have a great idea for my next story.
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