Curves of a Killer - Flash Fiction Pulp Noir

The 3 A.M. Epiphany's second exercise is titled "Imperitive"—writing in the second person was strangely satisfying. I grew up playing D&D (among other RPGs) and so this was natural for me. It's also how adventure books (like Choose Your Own Adventure) are written- telling you where to go and what to do. Kind of bossy, really. 

Still, it was a great exercise; I wouldn't mind trying to create an adventure book, someday.

Exercise #2: IMPERITIVE (500 words)

Dusk slices horizontal strips into your dim office and onto your face, waking you.  You stretch, rub the sleep from your eyes and move to adjust the blinds when a quick rap turns your attention away.

You open the door, and a shapely female silhouette is softly illuminated by sunlight splashing off your desk. Her red fitted dress and matching flat-brimmed hat hide eyes that cut through black lace, judging your gape.

“It’s customary to ask a girl in to have a seat, detective.” She breathes. Her eyes glisten, moist and red from an emotional hotplate.

“Ah- sorry. Come in, Ms-?” you stammer while removing a stack of opened, unpaid utility bills off your guest seat.

“Devry. Lorraine Devry.” She smiles as you turn and shut the door behind her. You pull the chair and gesture her to sit. She places a Virginia Slim into her pert lips and you light it in one suave move.

She takes a long drag and blows smoke to the side. She notices the wall photo from your long-gone patrol days.

“You knew my father.” She exhales. You sit and pull a bottle of scotch out of your desk drawer.

“Devry. I thought you might have been related. He doesn’t have your legs, though.” You say as you pull out two glasses. You pour two shots but she refuses. You shrug and down your Scotch and Scotch chaser.

“Didn’t, as in past-tense. He’s dead.” She lowers her head. “I’ll have that shot now.”

A lump seizes your throat; Sgt. Devry took you under his wing as a snot-nosed cadet. He was a good chum with a hearty laugh. Though straight and narrow, you never liked how merciful was to dumb bums and undeserving vermin… the ones you knew were guilty.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Devry. What happened?” You wipe a glass with a handkerchief and pour a shot for Lorraine.

She takes a shot then begins to cry. You move in to comfort her but she shrugs you off and gives you the one-minute finger. She pulls out an envelope and hands it to you.

You see it’s a letter from him penned to you. Curious.

“It’s been opened.” You give her a side glance.

She shrugs. Never mind that now. You pull out the letter, turn and walk toward the window. You notice blood stains across the bottom of the paper.

The note reads: “Grimes. You son-of-a-bitch. I’ve known all these years it was you who turned me in to internal affairs. I lost my pension, my wife. All I got left is this gun to my head. Go to hell.”

You drop the suicide note. You turn and Lorraine is holding a gun right at you. She squeezes the trigger and three whispers fly out the silencer. You fall, feeling the wet splatter drain you cold to the floor. As your sight grows dim, you see her walk out and you contemplate the swing of those hips… the curves of a killer.

NaNoWriMore or Less

NaNoWriMo is on my mind. I have been attempting it. I also have been flailing sadly at how out of sorts I have been with my own storytelling- the only creative endeavor in which I find any creative flow. 

As it were, I had picked up The 3 A.M. EPIPHANY by Brian Kiteley about ten years ago from Borders Books. I wouldn’t say I was intimidated by the work that would go into it, but rather the fact that I wasn’t ready. The book was forgotten and gathered dust on my bookshelf… shame on me. 

That said, as I was looking through my personal library for my BOOKSHELF ACADEMY series, I pulled this off the shelf and perused it, promising myself that I WOULD indeed do the exercises and, hell, why not post them as well? 

I thought I had done the first exercise but it wasn’t to be found on any hard drive, but I suspect it may live in typed form- playing on an old Smith-Corona Classic 12 that I had found at an estate sale; something about channeling Hemmingway, Kerouac, and Asimov. Meh. I suspect they would all willingly use a laptop with Word had one been accessible, but I digress. 

Here’s the first exercise in what will likely become another attempt at legacy in some form or another. There’s very little editing- it could probably use some, but moving on:

Exercise #1: THE RELUCTANT “I” (624 words) 11/11/18

The exercise asked to write in the first person, but keep the amount of “I’s” to a maximum of two… I managed three by using “my” as a crutch. I also realized I tend to do too many grisly endings. 

There were about a million pieces to this investigation that nobody could fit together. All clues, all pertinent, but nothing was gelling. Perhaps it was all a matter of coincidence? It was likely the lack of sleep and coffee. The city doesn’t sleep, and apparently, we’re not supposed to either.

Charlie had enough. He was in my office looking through the day's report, laying across my couch as if someone were going to listen to his childhood problems.

“You realize that once Mrs. McCleavy lawyers up, this case is lost.” He said, not taking his eyes off the casefile photos of Mr. McCleavy’s remains in the kitchen, the bathroom, the livingroom, and the back patio.

There’s nothing to say but shake one’s head at the entire mess. “There’s no way she could have done this anyway. What is she? Ninety?”

“Sixty-four,” The words were dry and telling- there was no way my throat could keep the pitch low, “And she worked out. She may be tiny, but she looks strong.”

Charlie darted up and walked over to the office door. The office was empty save for the night dispatch and some snoring down by the holding cells. He turned around and looked straight at my eyes with a tremor.

“What does she do for a living?” He asked slowly. He knew, but he putting the pieces together.

“She’s employed by… hold on,” All the papers had become scattered and it took a second to dig out her personal information.  “Ah, here it is… Genome Dynamics.”

Charlie pulled out his phone and ran a quick search.

“Genome Dynamics. There isn’t much, but they do look like they have quite a bit of government contracts.” Suddenly, a call lit up his face.

“Weird. This is a D.C. area code.”

“Well, answer it.”

Charlie shrugged and took the call. “Detective Watts.”

A sudden ear-splitting sound shrieked into his ears and he dropped the phone. Still staring at me, his arm fell to his side and he collapsed to the floor, a steady pool of blood began to grow about his head.

“Charlie!” I jumped over to him- the phone continued its deafening shrill- grabbing it and hung it up. It was hard, pulling Charlie unto my arms and pulled my own phone out dialing 911- only to get a busy signal.

“Damn it!” Looking down at Charlie, he was beginning to convulse –  I tore one of my shirt sleeves off to try to stop the flow of blood now coming out of his mouth, nose, and eyes.

Running to the door and screaming at Old Sarge on dispatch- “Get on the radio and call in an ambulance! NOW!” Sarge hasn’t moved like that in likely fifteen years. Gotta give him credit.

The tremors stopped and he let out one last breath- a hollow rattle that never leaves you. Jumping on his chest the compressions we learned in basic training came back, but blowing down into his mouth only gave me a mouthful of blood. Spitting it out and continuing, but he wasn’t getting air- as if there was nowhere for the air to go. Sitting back and wiping my mouth, looking over at the night dispatch officer who had pulled over the cb radio. 

“He was gone the second he hit the floor, Lieutenant. Was nuttin’ you could do.” Old sarge was right. 

Sirens howled in the distance and shouts came from the drunk tank. The paramedics came in, again trying to revive old Charlie and hitting him with voltage to kickstart his ticker… Sarge screaming into the dispatch and calling in the Chief. 

I looked down at the report and knew fine and well that this case, the mauling of Mr. McCleavy was out of our league.

Writing Prompt #20: Ten Thirty One

10:31pm.

He’s thirty-one minutes late. Grundy was never good about keeping time, but he’s never left me to wait this long. Something’s happened.

The dishes clatter in the back as broken Spanish curse noodle-fingers and aching backs. I finish up the cold coffee and place a five on the counter. I smile at the waitress and she nodded a wink.

The February chill cut me to the bone. It hadn’t snowed all season; the drought saw to that.

I turned the corner and slipped on wet cement, catching myself against the wall.  Warm and sticky- with a heavy whiff of iron and alcohol… I nearly heave at the sight of Grundy’s headless form prostrate on the ground, arms and hands frozen defensively in front of him. Giant teeth marks where his collarbone should have been said it all- the beast is awake, here, and on the prowl.

---

Yep. I'm starting these up again. I find my best creative flow when I write. Let me know what you think!

Writing Prompt #19: Unexpected Reunion

The GTO started sputtering when Jack was ten miles out from Bakersfield. At five miles, it died. After he pushed it to the side of the road he lit a cigarette and looked around. Up ahead he saw an old Vanagon. Curious, he grabbed his empty gas can and a short rubber hose, and started hiking.

No cars. Figures. Not that he’d want to deal with anyone right now. Probably for the best.

He checked the Vanagon doors. Locked. He pulled out his trusty sparkplug and shattered the driver’s side window- and quickly tried to force the stench of beer and sweat out of his nose. Great, some homeless guy’s shelter, he thought. He looked around, no keys, so he stripped the steering column and hotwired it. The Vanagon refused to turn over. Jack coughed a laugh—the idiot seized the engine. But, the battery worked and it looked like he had a decent amount of gas. He decided he’ll top off the gallon and bring the car back and finish tapping this thing.

Jack hates sucking out gas. He’s good at it, but the fumes take forever to leave your mouth. Not the best time to light up a cigarette either- seeing his buddy Toby lose his face is a lesson you never forget.

He filled up the can and then rifled quickly though the Van for anything else. Nothing worth taking. That was that, he headed back to his ride.

After going back and getting the GTO, he emptied the Van’s tank and took off towards Bakersfield. Not one living soul drove by.

The taste in Jack’s mouth was really bothering him, spitting didn’t help. As he drove up he saw an old truckstop diner. No one will bother him there, and maybe he can wash up, too. He pulled in and quickly strode inside catching a quick glimpse of who was in there- two old truckers, some dirty kid and a strung out stripper on the counter phone, and the cook in the back washing some dishes.

Oh good, some shower stalls that take two dollars to open. No point in trying to outsmart this. He reluctantly paid and took a fast shower. He shaved quickly, leaving a Van Dyke.

Ten minutes later the scene hadn’t changed. He walked to the back booth and a skinny waitress he hadn’t seen before stumbled up with a pot. Her fake eyelashes looked like spiders resting on her cheeks.

“Coffee?” She yawned.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jack replied.

“You from Texas?” She smiled.

“Louisiana. Baton Rouge.”

Just then the greasy young kid looked back at him. He looked straight back- to which the kid turned away.

“Long way from home. Get you anything to eat, sugah?”

“I could go for a burger and fries.”

“Comin’ right up.”

Jack pulled out his beaten copy of Louis L’amour’s Shalako. It passed the time and provides good cover. The waitress came back with his order.

“Here you go, doll.” She looked at the book, “Hey, I’ve seen that movie.”

“Yeah, it’s a good one.”

“Can I get you anything else.”

“Actually,” Jack pulled out a letter, “Can you tell me how to get to Sutton Street?”

The stripper, turned around and eyed him.

“Jack?” She asked.

Jack looked up and his heart jumped out of his chest. “April?”

Before he could get up, April had knocked over the waitress and came after him with a steak knife.

Writing Prompt #18: Haystack Landing

Carver’s head throbbed as if an entire stampede had run over it. No more drinking. Ever. He then reached for his flask and finished off his Jim Beam.

As he sat up with a juicy belch, he rubbed his jaw and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The sheep called in the distance, and a few hens clucked around his feet. At least he landed in a haystack… but he had no clue where the haystack was. He looked around and spotted his motored bi-glider. P.B.'s not going to be happy, but everything seemed to be in order.

“’Bout time you woke up, Mister.” A young woman’s voice called behind him. Carver turned around to see blonde curls framing the most watery blue eyes he had ever seen. The rest of her weren’t bad, neither—except for the shotgun she pointed at him.

“Look, I’m sorry, Miss…?” No response. “I’m sorry, ma’am. If there’s any damage, I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, you’ll pay! You’ll pay alright!” The woman screeched as she took aim and cocked the shotgun.

Writing Prompt #17: Desert Dead

Lt. Montano wasn’t in the mood for games. Thirty-three hours of coffee and a gas station hot dog has barely been his fill. He would have give up his pension for a cot and two years of sleep. That wasn’t going to happen, not today at least. Good thing Oliver was driving out to the scene… maybe he could just rest his eyes for a minute.

“Lieutenant!” Oliver was standing outside the passenger door. Montano’s eyes snapped open and looked over at the rookie. “We’re here, sir.”

“Good.” He gets out and stretches, and puts on his sunglasses. The desert sun was especially bright today, only 7:30am and it would soon be soaring into triple digits. As he walked over, stepping over the scrub and a rattler that surprised him, he approached the crime scene. He ducked under the police tape and walked up to the victim’s half eaten corpse. He’d seen worse out here, but the fact that she was so young made his blood run cold.

The medical examiner pulled out the needle from the cavity by her liver. He jots down some notes on a clipboard, pushed up his glasses and stood up. Jates has been around since Montano’s dad was on the force, a permanent fixure, one of the best.

“Jates.” Montano steps up behind him.

“Lieutenant. She’s been dead about eight hours. I’m surprised the coyotes didn’t finish her off.”

“Probably the campers that spotted her. Any identification?”

Jates shook his head and starts cleaning up his kit.

“No. But she has the same carving on her chest”

Montano looked around and noticed the tire tracks that lead off back to the road.

“Oliver- get some plaster on these tracks… you know the drill.” He turned around to see Jates sitting on his kit, cleaning his glasses.

“This is the sixth one in as many days, Ramon.”

Montano puts his hat back on and headed back to the SUV.

Writing Prompt #16: Double Double Cross

Ice-cold water woke me, allowing me the pleasure of feeling the axe that pierced my brain. Oh, it’s not an axe? Just where that bastard managed to have me hit the corner of the Goose’s radio when he rolled the plane, you say? That’s right… ouch. A musky blindfold blocked out most of what I could see, but I could feel my chest was strapped to a chair with a thick belt and wrists were bound behind my back. I was surprised that my legs weren’t secured, All in all, it felt like a hasty job.

Another bucket of the Himalaya’s finest ice cold spring hit me full on in the face. This time I shivered and was wide awake. “Where am I?!” I coughed. I started working at my bonds immediately.

A fist grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. It was Meang.

“You've become a thorn in my side, Yankee! I should have slit your throat when I had the chance!”

I coughed and spat. “If there’s mouthwash is in those crates, help yourself to it.”

I could see Meang’s silhouette raise a hand to backhand me when a bark came from behind him. He shuffled backwards to the wall. Still working at the ropes, I managed to loosen them a bit more.

Lithe fingers danced across my shoulders. A long leg came over and stradled my lap and luscious lips plunged down onto mine.

“Meang, I sure hope that wasn’t you.” I snorted.

The blinding overhead lamp light burnt my eyes as the blindfold was ripped from my head. She had locks of long blond hair, the tip of her tongue on her top lip twisted into a wicked smile, sultry eyes beckoning down on me.

“I should have known,” I huffed. “Grace Harlow. You and your cronies dealing arms now?”

She slapped me good across the kisser. Then she plunged another kiss, only to follow it up with another slap hard enough for me to see stars.

Grace squeezed my cheeks with one hand, and came in very close.

With a rhythmic beat, she tapped on my nose. “You. Cause. Me. So. Much. Trouble. Carver. It’s getting to be that a girl can’t have fun with you sniffing around.”

“Listen honey,” Time to turn on the ol’ charm, “I don’t care what you do with those peashooters. Just let me and my buddy go and we’ll gladly get out of your hair.”

“That won’t be necessary,” a gruff voice came out behind me. I turned and looked.

“Reggie!” I couldn’t believe my eyes! Then… I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Aww… Regg, tell me you aren’t in with this rabble.”

“Sorry, Carver.” Reggie hobbled on a crutch and sat down on a crate. “Business is still business.”

"Greed is greed." I countered.

Grace was still on my lap when my bonds fell. I grabbed her and threw her into a strangle hold.

“Untie me!”

“Reggie!” Grace coughed.

“I’ll brake her neck! I mean it!” I screamed.

Reggie and Meang laughed. He gestured for them to leave. Just as Reggie was out the door he turned.

“Go ahead. She’s given us what we need.”

“You!” Grace wheezed a grunt. With a blow of a kiss, Reggie closed the heavy steel door with a lock. With that, the crate Reggie was standing against fell open, and a sleeping Siberian Tiger began to stir.

I let Grace go.

“Untie me! Untie me!”

With a snap to attention, the Siberian looked up and glared at us with hungry eyes.

Writing Prompt #15: Ceres Gambit

Sweat, spice, and cold damp rock assaulted Tula’a nose when she and her boss, Brock, stepped out of the Ravenclaw’s airlock. A low hum of voices came from below, Tula’a peered down over the walk way onto the merchants who swarmed like ants around ramshackle stands, desperately trying to hawk their wares. 

Brock pointed at them, “It’s mid-wake down in the Bazaar. Everybody’s scramblin’ to sell. More are scramblin’ to lift—so keep a feel on your belt items.”

The buzz and flashing colors of the Bazaar was dizzying.

 “You sure know how to pick them, Brock.” Tula’a gagged as she put her nose into the crook of her elbow.

“The juicy warrants are in maggot-holes like this one. I’m certain they passed this way.” Brock’s confidence waned, “But first thing’s first—let’s get to the dock master and see if Zeb’s ship is still here.”

After a quick discussion with Ceres’ dock master, primed by a handful of rupees, they headed down to the quiet lower docks. They managed to find Zeb’s ship in the dark catacomb structure.

“Funny. The dock master forgot to mention the magnetic impound.” Tula’a noticed. She then rubbed her hand across the side of Zeb’s ship and looked at her palm. “Heh. Mold. This tub’s been sittin’ for a long while.”

“No doubt Zeb was down on his luck, but sitting that long is unusual for him.” Brock rubbed his jaw. Then something twitched out of the corner of his eye and he yanked out his blaster.

“Down!” Brock barked as he dove on Tula’a, pushing them both behind a crate. A blaster bolt sent a chunk of molten metal and sparks right where they were standing. Brock stuck his blaster up and fired blindly, only to hear footsteps running away. Brock jumped out and started trailing.

 “Stay here! This might not be Zeb!”

“Brock! Wait!”

Tula’a watched Brock disappear past the corridor. She then slumped back to the floor with a huff. Just as she pulled out her blaster to check the safety, she noticed a limp hand out from behind a crate.

Brock was in full gallop behind the interloper. He wasn’t going to let this deadbeat get the best of him. As he rounded the corner he tripped into a full stop, nearly knocking down a merchant that was carrying a stack of kitchen pots. He was back on the opposite end of the Bazaar. He strained to look over the sea of bobbing heads, but his quarry vanished.

“Tula’a’s right, this place reeks.” He muttered. He pulled back his sleeve and spoke into his wristcomm. “Tula’a? You there, chica?”

“Yep. Loud and clear. You get him?” Tula’a’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker.

“Lost him in the crowd.”

“I think you better come back here. I found something.”

Brock and Tula’a stood over Zeb’s body.

“Those don’t look like blast wounds.” Tula’a mused.

“They’re not. They’re bites.”

“Bites?!”

“Yeah,” Brock rubbed his jaw, “We interrupted feeding time.”

Writing Prompt #14: Soul Toll

Warning: Strong Language

 

Tens of thousands of fans hopped in unison like the waves of a boiling ocean. The roar of their screams was deafening, the worship these four received would have made many kings and prophets writhe with jealousy.

The lights went low, and a lone spotlight shown down onto a lone figure. His voice was mesmerizing- an outstretched hand landed on the chorus, he knew he had them- his fans, his adoring fans. He could have any one of them, all he had to do was pick them out of the crowd.

His eyes brushed the crowd as he crooned with Izzy’s riff. The tempo fired up and he was whipping them up into a frenzy. Sweat and pheromones frothed at his orgiastic thumping and moaning- again, he looked out at the crowd, squealing girls, screaming guys. They were all in love with him. Except one. She stood there, staring with a dead look in her eyes.

He couldn’t blame her. Maybe he was too much. But her stare was a little unnerving.

He went across the stage but all he could do was see her out of the corner of his eye. He repeated a verse- Izzy and Groanman looked at each other and kept playing Izzy walked over to him to see what’s what.

He kept singing. Damn it. Why is she looking at him this way? It’s pissing him off.

Izzy’s guitar solo.

He walked over to security and told them to get rid of that girl.

“What girl, sir?”

“HER!” he pointed, but she was gone. Well, fucking good.

A wave of nausea overtook him and he barfed right on the security muscle. A few of the stage managers ran over, as well as his agent. He vomited again- this time it’s bloody. He looked down, chunks of something, sharp pain.

The stage hand carried him to his dressing room. He thanked the favor by punching him in the face when he stumbled in.

“Don’t fucking touch me! Leave me alone!”

He scrambled to the toilet and vomited again. It’s worse. His tooth fell out.

He ran some water in the sink. He looked in the mirror. It’s her.

When the news covered his death the next day, the band’s spokesman said that a lethal cocktail of alcohol and prescription medication was accidentally ingested on an empty stomach. When a reporter piped up asking of this had to do with the unseemly rumors of his role in the rape and murder of a young 15 year old girl last year in Omaha, they immediately shut down the press conference. In the back, the expressionless girl starred back at the band.

Writing Prompt #13: Wrong Road

Jack’s lower back had been bothering him for the last hundred miles, and the car was getting low on gas. Luckily, Rowley’s Junction was just up ahead. He recalled there was an old mom-n-pop gas and market out here; of course it’s been twenty years since he’s taken this road.

And it was still there. Jack eased the old Pontiac GTO up to the pump. He looked around and saw three other cars. Busy day for the Junction Watering Hole.

Jack walked inside and saw a middle aged man at the checkout, a strung out young couple, and Old Man Terry himself at the register. Jack grabbed some jerky, beans, spam, rice, and a fountain drink. He scoped out the joint and spotted saw an old camera in the corner of the store. It looked like the old cctv type, you can’t see any details on those things. The only other “surveillance” device he had was one of those big dome shaped mirrors in the other corner. Jack instinctively brushed his elbow against his left side, checking if his Colt .45 was still under his denim jacket.

The young couple waited until the other guy left. They both glanced in Jack’s direction to see if he was done, which he wasn’t. They made the move to go up. Jack finished and followed.
Jack glanced and saw the handle of a snub .38 tucked in the waistline back of Buzz-cut's camo shorts, just peeking past the dingy wife-beater.

“Anything else for you folks?” Old man Terry asked.

“Pack of unfiltered 100s,” Buzz-cut said. His purple dyed girlfriend kept looking around, avoiding Jack’s eyes but trying to ascertain his profession. Jack mused at her paranoid side-glance.

Ol’ Terry rung it up and Buzz-cut handed him a crumpled twenty. Right then Jack choked back a strong inclination to grimace. Terry’s no slouch, and he—

“Got something else?” Terry pushed the twenty back after looking at it through the light. Jack mentally shook his head. Called it.

“Whadya mean?” Buzz-cut asked.

“The twenty- it’s fake. I need real tender.”

The girl piped up, “It’s real, asswipe.”

“Hey now, you can talk nice and pay me or you can get out of my store.”

“Call the cops then!” She said after she smiled at her beau. He snickered.

“Okay, I will.” Ol’ Terry picked up the phone and immediately the kids started stammering.

“I don’t want the cops to come. Come on Jeanine, let’s blow this joint.”

Jack was with Buzz-cut on that one. He’d pay for their damn stuff just to avoid that, but he realized that would bring unwanted attention to himself. Stay anonymous, stay quiet.

Jeanine began to shake with indecision, and Ol’ Terry gestured to Jack.

“Look, lemme check this gentleman out first, then we’ll figure it out.”

Jack put his items on the counter and ol’ Terry kept his attention on the kids as they paced back and forth, arguing what to do next. Jack glanced down and saw the very corner of a shotgun butt behind the counter.

 “Need gas?” He asked Jack, but kept his eyes on the delinquents.

“No thanks.”
“Alright.” It came to eight dollars.

Jack pulled out a one-dollar bill and handed it to Ol’ Terry, who was intensely watching the kids, rang it out and gave him change for a ten.

Jack piped up, “Sorry, I gave you a twenty.”

Ol’ Terry looked at Jack in surprise and quickly pulled out change for a twenty.

“Sorry about that, sir. You have a good day.”

Jack smiled a nod, and resisted the urge to run out. He fired up the old GTO, and took off. Just as he got to the onramp, he heard gunshots. Indifferent, he casually pulled out onto the highway.

“Guess I’ll get twelve dollars worth of gas in the next town.” He muttered as he looked at his gauge.

Writing Prompt #12: Summer Glory

Of all his friends, Denny was the fastest on his bike. Not only could he out-pedal anyone at Oak Hills Elementary, he could take on any jump in the field behind the abandoned gravel pit. That place was a world of its own- there were miles and miles of bike trails and hills, and groves of trees and a creek. So many days were spent where the boys re-enacted scenes from their favorite adventure movies, camped out and pondered the Milky Way, planned raids on the Fulton sisters’ house down the street, made a jump ramp over by the old gravel pit, and fished for carp in the old creek.

Good times.

Summer time was the best. Travis’ dad had just finished a contractor project and brought home some reclaimed wood. The gang feverishly dragged as much as they could to the grove on their wagons and bikes. Using rope, half pounded and bent nails, and a prayer, they managed to erect some semblance of a house in a large and twisted old Oak tree. Despite it’s ramshackle construct, it was fairly sturdy.

They managed to get the assembly about fifteen feet off the ground. Only Arno had a hard time walking across it—he was about three times as large as the others—with three times the appetite. Swing ropes and a draw bridge completed the monstrosity.

When the Southend neighborhood kids caught wind of what the Oak Hills boys were doing, they were determined to take it. Without warning, a lazy Saturday afternoon erupted into the most vicious dirt clod war all of Rock River had ever seen; it was the day when Denny’s highly admired BMX skills were put through their trial by fire and he became legend.

During the thick of the fight, the Oak Hills boys were holed up in the rickety fort. They had the high ground, but they were out numbered, and their supplies- and their bikes were down below. Eric had brought his brother’s airsoft guns so they could pick off the pheasants that stalked the area, but when the first wave came, he barely had enough time to kick the chest down into the lower embankment and cover it with some scrap wood and tree branches. If they could get them, they would outgun those scrappy Southend kids—but they needed a diversion.

That’s when Denny piped up.

“Alright! These guys are stupid. If I can get down to my bike and take off, they’ll come after me. That’ll give you guys a chance to get the pellet guns!” Denny felt brilliant, as if the fate of the free world rested on his shoulders.

“You’re crazy! They’ll kill you when they catch up!” Arno blurted.

“Dude, I can out run them! You just get the rifles and be ready when I get back.”

With that, the gang gathered as many dirt clods as they could that had landed in their vicinity, and at the count of three launched a furious counter attack giving Denny enough time to slide down the rope and take off on his bike.

“Hey losers!” Denny taunted as he tore away.

It was beautiful. He took a jump and pedaled through the groves. As he suspected, the Southend kids all took off after him. Denny circled around, flew over the old water main, through the thicket, and around the bumpy trails. Two of the boys had turned off and re-appeared right in front of him—that surprised him. He turned off and slid to the side almost falling into the old gravel pit. He got up- scraped shin. His wide eyes darted around. Cornered! But adrenaline pushed his bike and he lost no time staying ahead- though they covered the trails back out to the main dirt road.Then he realized- he was by the jump ramp!

The others laughed thinking he was trapped. Denny swerved his bike, rounded a jump and on full huffed up the board ramp up over the edge of the pit and used his momentum to jump over the embankment and over their heads—all of them stopped and craned their necks in a state of shock.

Denny landed hard jolted his spine, but he managed clear the pit and stay on course. He’d feel that later, but it was better than getting his butt kicked by those boys.

Denny rounded again and came up on the backside of the grove. Just as the boys came riding up, the rest of the Oak Hills boys jumped out from behind the trees and sprayed painful paint pellets on the unsuspecting Southenders. They turned and rode off.

The Oak Hills boys cheered jumped for joy! They screamed and hollered. They grabbed Denny and hoisted him up on their shoulders.

It was the best day of Denny’s life, and rounded the top five after his marriage and the birth of his son.

Writing Prompt #11: Retired Permanently

Abe had just spent twenty minutes making the marble floor sparkling. He was proud of his work, even though no one else noticed. He placed the caution sign out and moseyed on over to the vending machine—a relic from a time before Abe can even recount—the damn thing had been there before he even started.

He always mused about it. It was like an old friend, keeping him company, offering him his favorite chocolate bar when he took a break. That, along with the old plant which stood for over twenty years… yeah, he’d miss them all after his shift tonight.

His boss, Gordon, was working late tonight. He liked Gordon, too. Not as much as the old vending machine, because Gordon liked to yell when Abe forgot to put away his bucket or fill the towels in the men’s bathroom on the third floor. He couldn’t help it. If he left his access badge in his car, he wouldn’t be able to have time to take his break. It’s okay. The new kid had been managing to pick up his slack. After all, he was retiring… only four more hours to his shift and then he could pick up his pension starting next week. Not sure what he’s going to do. Maybe old widow Donaldson would like to go dancing. Maybe he’ll learn golf. Nah, seems boring.

As Abe was putting the mop bucket back into the closet, the alarm sounded. He had never in all his years seen it go crazy like that. The lights shut down and the red emergency lights came up. Weird. Oh well, it’s loud, maybe he’ll call it a night now, he only has five more minutes anyway.

Gordon came running around the corner and ran full on into Abe. Gordon’s papers went flying everywhere.

“Goddamn it, Abe! Get up! Run!” Abe had never seen Gordon move so fast. He was kind of fat and old, not as old as he was, but up there in the years.

The door exploded into a shower of shrapnel and rock- it was hideous- it’s heavily veined muscles boiling under it’s sparsly haired skin- it’s fangs were razor sharp- it’s eyes- it had none… but it turned and looked at Abe and smiled.

Abe never knew what hit him. The hellspawn ripped him apart as it galloped through the lobby, spraying blood and feces all over Abe’s freshly mopped floor.