Contest | Fiction | Opening Lines (April 2007)

[Icarus]

For April's contest, we're going to provide you with some anonymously written opening lines. Pick one and write a story to follow it. Choose carefully—each line was written by a staff member and you don’t want to make someone angry! The staff member whose line gets used the most will receive acknowledgment and a generous stipend, I'm sure.

You have 1,000 words and until 11:59 p.m. on April 24th to submit. Good luck and may the best line win!


1. Joanie could think of no reason why having seven dollars and sixteen cents in her pocket, a parole violation in her near future and a broken down motorcycle should prevent her from getting to Mexico.

2. Crafty, but not quite good enough, Burns thought to himself as he stood his ground.

3. If you think about it, 'angry' is a very general term though it applied to Max quite particularly.

4. Monalisa Good had always been a demanding daughter; and whatever the price, she always expected the very best.

5. Frankie thought his relationship with Julia was going very well until he discovered she was wanted for murder.

6. Ernie, wearing an unzipped cocktail dress and gripping an unfamiliar handgun, stood in the street in front of his house.

7. The best things in life are free, unless you count the federal bank.

8. It was light or dark, right or wrong, simple or complex, I doubted anyone knew the answer, and I planned on using that to my advantage.

[texmex1011]

Tapping the Red

It was light or dark, right or wrong, simple or complex, I doubted anyone knew the answer, and I planned on using that to my advantage.

The sweat did nothing to cool him in the heat of the day and there was no respite from the sun while he stood on the roof. Directly below him a hive of activity, a frenzy of barely restrained and simmered violence. The streets throbbed slowly forward toward an anti-climax of micro-waved ready meals and reality TV shows. His toes gripped tighter to the edge of the concrete wall, which in its original guise was intended to keep people from falling over the edge.

He leant slightly forwards, just so that he could see the pavement below. He breathed deep. He inhaled the city.

For a long time the crushing weight of guilt had made it hard to breathe, hard to focus. Every lungful felt like one too many, a gift undeserved.

“The drubs won’t let you snatch it away from them Harlan.” I said

He knew the voice; he knew it all too well.

“They don’t have a game anymore Jackson. I played it out and won the roll.” He replied.

“You played a two cent game,” I retorted. “The drubs don’t like it…….I don’t like it.”

I began to pace.

“You and the drubs can go to hell.” Harlan batted back.

I leant against the wall in my crisp grey suit, running my hand over my thin moustache and mouth. I cleared my throat before reaching into a pocket and producing a box of cigarettes.

Harlan heard the metal flip open on my lighter, I scraped the flint with my thumb; the crackling burn of the tip preceded my long, squalid, drag on the white stick.

I kissed the filter as I took the cigarette from my mouth.

“The beast called last night”

Harlan turned his head a little and let out a small sigh.

“What did he say?”

“He told me you were ripe.”

“He only said that because I stared him down.”

“He told me you had been on the powder when you did that.”

I let out an exhale of smoke as the words were formed on my lips.

“If I had been juiced up I would have killed him.”

“Your angles are all bent” I said. “The rats are in town and the heat is coming your way. They have already dug a dozen holes and they intend to put you in one.” I added.

“Let them find me.” Harlan replied. “Let them come and knock on my door and see how fast I put them in the ground.”

I had begun to walk in ponderous circles.

“These guys have left wet walls looking for you.” I told him.

My pacing changed directions several times, an invisible dancing partner seeming to lead me in random movement and thought.

“They have been tapping the red all over the city waiting for a rat to squeal on you.”

“I have sent worse home in a plastic sack.” Harlan retorted.

“The beast called them Harlan.” I said. “He called me too, asked if I wanted a piece of a rich mans pie, take out an old associate.”

I nonchalantly flipped my lighter open and shut.

“What did you say?” Harlan asked.

“What I tell everyone, I cashed in my bonds a long time ago and hung up my suit.” I suddenly became more agitated. “Now they want to see me on that slab because of your crooked shakedowns and green eyed plays.”

“Bad news for you” Harlan replied.

“I need the information Harlan. I need what you have in that head of yours. Before the drubs get to you, and they do you a permanent disfigurement, tell me what you know”

Harlan looked toward the sky, and then slowly toward the sun, hoping his retinas wouldn’t bake in the intense white light.

“What I know wouldn’t do you any good. The beast is crippled and he knows it, the sharks are circling and there is no way out of it. It’s a one way street, and we are all going to pay a debt. What a fitting kingdom it will be to a prince of pain, a king of melodic misery and desperate junctures.”

His feet took a tiny step forward, his toes completely over the edge of the concrete wall so there was no chance of gripping his life back.

“Tell me what you know Harlan, and I promise I’ll make it easy on you.”

I threw my cigarette to the floor and breathed out like a man long tired and exhausted.

“You are going to the sewer with the rest of us.” Harlan said.

“Harlan.” I resigned desperation. “Please”.

Harlan threw his weight forward from the perverted diving board.

I ran to try and stop the fall, but I was forced to watch the descent in every agonising detail.

By the time I had reached the wall all I could do was slam a furious fist into the concrete to try and blight Harlan’s end.

It was no longer simple. The darkness was creeping through the city, and with every inch by blooded inch it was finding its way closer to my door.

I needed what Harlan knew, I needed to save myself, but with Harlan gone, the only thing I could do, was run.

[Kravorkian]

Deceit


Frankie thought his relationship with Julia was going very well until he discovered she was wanted for murder.

He suspected nothing until he arrived home from a local book signing. His long, grueling day spiraled to a new low as he entered the front door. Julia was sitting at the kitchen table, a chrome 9mm nestled in one hand and a hot-boxed Marlboro in the other.

“Sit down, Frankie. We need to talk.”

Frankie was a successful man, or so he’d like to think. He was fairly wealthy. He had a beautiful home set in the lush hills of upscale Maine. His career as a best selling author had provided all he’d hoped it would - even his wife. They’d met just 7 months ago and were married a month later.

“There’s something about me that I’ve never spoken to you about.” She took a long draw of the cigarette. Frankie sat at the opposite end of the table, clearly confused.

“You see; the plan was to just take the money and run, Frankie, but there just wasn’t enough. There’s a desire in me that must be fulfilled.”

Frankie’s brow furrowed. His head cocked to the side and the confounded look on his face silently muttered the question “What are you talking about?”

Julia grinned.

“I killed a man, Frankie. I killed a man for his money.”

He shifted in his seat a bit, still speechless. He wondered if this was the same woman he’d married six months ago, the woman he’d made love to last night - the woman he kissed goodbye earlier this morning before he left.

“I know it comes as quite a surprise to you. To tell you the truth, I’m still shocked to know I have it in me to take a mans life.” She exhaled toward the ceiling and butted the cigarette out on the table.

Thinking back, maybe he really didn’t know her that well. Shortly after meeting, Frankie invited her to have lunch at a high-ticket diner. They had so much in common; he found it nothing short of amazing. Week after week and soon day after day, they were together, a veiled life with happiness beyond reason. They eloped, married in Vegas, and lived mirthfully. He’d never agreed with the idea of people getting married so soon after meeting each other, but this felt “right” to him.

Looking into her beautiful blue eyes he half expected to see a tear. Instead he was greeted with a dark nether that seemed full of hatred and demise. His lips trembled, wanting to speak, but he could produce nothing audible.

“It’s ok, hun. I understand what you’re going through. You can’t imagine a woman like me being a murderer,” she shrugged, smiled, and said, “but I am.”

The weight of this conversation was unbearable. Grief itself had one hand wrapped around his heart and another lumped in his throat. He managed to utter one word.

“Who?”

Again Julia smiled. A gunshot reverberated off the walls as she mouthed his answer.

“You.”



Three months later, Stephen arrived home from a local book signing. His long, grueling day spiraled to a new low as he entered the front door. Julia was sitting at the kitchen table, a chrome 9mm nestled in one hand and a hot-boxed Marlboro in the other.

“Sit down, Stephen. We need to talk.”

[ennubi]

WC: 998 [warning: mild language, risque]



Prompted



Ernie, wearing an unzipped cocktail dress and gripping an unfamiliar handgun, stood in the street in front of his house. Bert was right on his heels.

What can I say? When former imaginary friends start making demands, only a sane man would refuse to listen. And, besides, I had sworn off anything harder than beer years ago. Really. I rubbed my throbbing eyes hard, hoping that was still true.

Nope, no luck. The two muppets were still there, just as drunk, psychotic, and flaming as ever. Despite the gun in my face, I had to snicker. These guys had been gayer than Sulu for years. About time they finally came out of the closet.

I did move over towards the garbage can, though, like Ernie wanted.

"Loo-hook, ish not what you..." Ernie came closer, waving that very un-Jim Henson-esque gun under my nose. I made the mistake of looking away from his yellow head and over at Bert, who was wearing even less.

Anatomically correct muppets? Somebody had an almightly sick imagination.

Bert got right up in my face. "You gotta promish ta keep yer mouth shut!"

Okay, gun in my face was one thing. That in my face was quite another. Snapping off the trash can's lid, I jumped inside as the gun fired. Before the street vanished, a lousy Austrian accent called out, "That's one, two, three attempted murders, ha-ha-ha!"

I blinked hard. Why was I suddenly seeing red? I was insane- not mad, after all. The awful siren's racket reverberated off the metal walls around me.

A weirdo in a shipsuit hefted a hydrospanner over my head. What the hell is a hydrospanner, anyway? His id, dangling from a pocket, said 'Burns.' I zigged to either side, but the damn bastard held his ground.

"Crafty, intruder, but not quite good enough," Burns growled.

A whiny voice drifted out of a ventilation shaft above me. Apparently it was a pretty popular way to pop between realities tonight. "Who's been messing up my garbage can? You two? Drunk again ? No, I'm not a homo-phobe, you worthless excuse for children's entertainment. What- a gun?"

Time to go.

I squirmed between Burn's legs and then sprinted down the hallway. Behind me, Burns yelled, "intruder alert!" and the flaming duo kept panicking about me blowing their cover.

Lovely. I have a fan club.

And, right on cue, that damned Austrian accent kept track of how many people were trying to kill me.

I threw myself right down the garbage disposal despite the smell. "Eh, what the hell? It's worked as a standard plot device before!"

The chute dropped me off in ...Fort Knox? Bags of money covered in '$''s were strewn everywhere. Snobs wore money tuxedos and even ate appetizers made of folded dollar bills.

A middle-aged woman- with seriously expired assets -pressed up against me. "So glad you could make our Monalisa's birthday party. Perhaps the best things in life are free, but never where our little girl is concerned. She might be a bit demanding....but her tastes are impeccable....and only the very best for our little girl!"

I brushed her aside and made my way to the one normal-looking guy. His tux was plain black, though he glared at the greenback floor as though he meant to set it on fire.

"Hi, I'm...." I tried. I hoped normalcy would be contagious if I made the effort.

He sneered, "Irritating. I’m Max and...."

A Latin American wet dream swirled into Max's arms. I gaped. "…and you belong to me, Monalisa Good. I don't share." She sniffed, emphasizing her very in-date assets under their flimsy dollar-bill halter. "Whoever you are."

Great. I'm not like those two. Though they should be here any minute now.

Another gorgeous young thing appeared. Monalisa brightened. "Julia, darling, how are you and Frankie doing?"

Julia sighed. "We were fine until he wanted to play truth or dare too." A middle-aged business man, his head blown open, fell out of her open purse and bled on the greenbacks. "I loose more boyfriends this way."

Suddenly my regularly scheduled fan club was looking a lot better.

As though I'd conjured them behind me, I heard…

"Nice try, intruder, but I'm taking you to the brig for questioning!"

"Whatcha mean, cocktail dresshes arsen't in sstyle? Then, take 'at!" Ernie yelled. I heard him shoot again, but I wasn't worried. He was a lousy shot drunk.

Bert yelled, "'Ere 'e is! Get 'im! Nobody dishreshpects my shalute!"

Is that what you call that thing? I scrambled, looking for another way out. Stupid- you're locked in Fort Knox- what do you expect?

Then I saw the huge pile of unbagged greenbacks, soft and inviting.

I dove into the money and swam for it. Behind me, Monalisa, Julia, and Max all joined in the merry chase. I swam faster, desperate to put some distance between me and my growing fan club....

"Wake up!"

I blinked. At least my wife didn't have a gun and wasn't trying to kill me. I untangled myself from the sheets. "Joanie, I had the wildest dream and...."

She groaned. "After a midnight snack of week-old supreme pizza, nothing would surprise me. Why don't you go downstairs? I'm leaving for Mexico in the morning!"

I went. Learning to identify the real questions was the key to staying married. Downstairs, I cracked open the laptop and faced down those writing prompts. Again.

The last one caught my eye. I laughed. It was too perfect. Eight prompts and the contest required the use of one. Everyone would make the classic assumption of one or the other and fail to look beyond the obvious. I planned on using that to my advantage.

I began to furiously type. If one was good, all eight had to be better, right?

Our furnace made the oddest shriek, like something was stuck down there. I kept telling myself that the cat was fine and the blower had just kicked on.

Really.

[_zeb_]

Maxine

If you think about it, 'angry' is a very general term though it applied to Max quite particularly. That was the last thought then she blanked out…

The couple walked down the sandy beach arm in arm. Over the ocean, the sun was setting; blood red color like fire burning in the sky. The waves crashed onto the shore, bringing in shells from the tide. The pull of the water sucked their feet deeper into the sand, but the holes filled again as they kept walking.

The woman bent down with a smile as she saw a conch shell, perfect and whole, deposited in front of her. As she picked it up, she rinsed off the sand in a wave, exposing the gleaming blue-white surface underneath. She called her husband over who took a look at the shell and smiled also.

“What a find…”

His words were cut off as his wife suddenly ran down the beach. She left so quickly that it didn’t register at first. Puzzled, he took off after her. The woman stopped a little ways down the shore near a mass of brown seaweed, and he jogged up to her.

“What is it-“

He stopped and noticed that his wife had dropped the shell and it lay amid the weeds. Confused, he bent down to pick it up, but stopped short.

Right next to the shell was a hand.

The hand protruded from the pile, reaching up, as if to grab at something. It was small and pale. On the wrist was a large, white scar, twisted and sharp like flames.

The man’s eyes widened. He was frozen stiff and kneeling on the coarse sand. The woman bent down and started flinging handfuls of seaweed left and right. The man glanced over at his wife and saw an indescribable expression take hold of her beautiful features. She was digging, almost doglike, and he felt that if he tried to stop her, she would start clawing at him. Soon exposed, the body of a girl lay there.

She looked no more than eleven, little and fragile like a doll. Her hair was silver, gleaming in the setting sun and flowing over her shoulders. One could not help but notice that her once white dress was torn and in some spots looked singed, and around her neck hung a silver necklace with an azure stone that glimmered in the setting sun. She laid limp and unmoving, eyes closed.

The woman dug in her pockets for a phone. She began talking to a person on the other end hurriedly, while her husband got up and ran down the beach, calling for help. A siren began to wail in the distance.

Within minutes, ambulance crew were loading the silver-haired girl on a stretcher into the ambulance. Her hand drooped over the edge of the bed, the one with the flames. The man looked at it. It flickered and came alive, flashing red and running up her wrist.

“Hey-” he began to say. One of the workers turned her head, but it had stopped when he spoke. He waved his hand and the lady turned and continued strapping the stretcher down.

Finally the doors slammed closed and the ambulance drove off the beach, lights on but without a siren, leaving the couple standing alone on the beach waves crashing behind them. The woman sank to her knees and started sobbing. Her husband knelt next to her, cradling her in his arms. Neither noticed the shell as it was pulled back into the ocean, quickly disappearing beneath the frothy surf.

~

The organ played, low and mourning, as the people gathered around the coffin; a sea of black-clothed spectators. In the coffin lay the girl, hands clasped over her stomach. Around her neck was the pendant, the only colorful thing in the room. Behind the casket stood the couple, staring down at her. A tear trickled down the woman’s cheek silently.

The girl had not made it. The doctors had told them that her lungs were full of water, so she had died before they found her. Shaking their heads, they said they would have doubted she’d make it, even if she hadn’t drowned.

Complete stranger’s walked past the coffin, staring at the silver-haired child. The man watched them pass, and thought angrily, It’s as if she’s a freak, and they’ve come to take one last look.

He suddenly whipped his head down. Her hand couldn’t have moved. She was dead. But as he watched, the hand moved slightly, and the little girl’s eyes fluttered open. A person screamed in the distance, but it was no more than a buzz in the man’s ears.

The girl stared up at him with smoky blue eyes, wide and filled with fear. They captivated him and no feeling of shock or horror enveloped him. Her lips moved, forming words that flowed like honey. She said something that would puzzle and haunt the man for years after and leave him sleepless at night.

“Where is he?”

[Massoud]

In Search of Bread and Water


It was light or dark, right or wrong, simple or complex, I doubted anyone knew the answer, and I planned on using that to my advantage.

We left Paris in the worst possible humour – hungry as wolves, and angry with the whole world. From early in the morning we had been trying to turn our talents and efforts to account, either by stealing or earning something, and when at length we were forced to the conclusion. that neither one nor the other was likely to be crowned with success we made up our minds to push on ... But where? ... Just on, and on. ... This was the unanimous but silent decision taken by us all; for we were ready to go on, in every sense of the word, along the path of life which we had already for some time been tramping. This decision was no less silent than the previous one, though it flashed forth from under the lowering gloom of our hungry eyes.

There were three of us; our acquaintanceship was of recent date. We dropped across one another in a vodka shop in Saint-German, on the banks of the Seine.

One of us had been a soldier attached to the railway brigade, and later on took service as a platelayer on one of the Viesla lines; a red-haired, muscular man, with cold grey eyes; he could speak German, and had an extensive knowledge of prison life.

Folk like us don’t care much to speak of their past life, having always more or less good reasons for not doing so; and all of us believed one another – at least apparently – for inwardly each of us had ceased to trust even himself.

The second one of the party was a shrivelled, dried up little man, with thin lips, always sceptically pursed up; and when he told us that he was a former student of Moscow University, the soldier and I took it as a matter of course.
As a matter of fact it was all the same to us whether he was a student, a spy, or a rogue. All that concerned us was that during our present acquaintanceship he was our equal; he was hungry, he enjoyed in towns the special attention of the police, and in villages was looked upon by the peasants with suspicion. He hated both town and village with the hatred of an impotent hunted hungry animal, and used to dream of a general vengeance on all and on everything. In a word, as regards his position amongst the chosen ones of nature, and the powerful ones of life, and as regards his disposition, he was one of us.

Misfortune is the strongest cement in the uniting of characters, even divergent ones; and we were all deeply convinced of our right to consider ourselves unfortunate.

The third was myself. From that natural modesty which has distinguished me from my earliest days, I shall not say a word about my own qualities; and not wishing to appear before you as a knave, I shall be silent on the subject of my faults. But as a clue to my character I shall allow myself to mention that I always considered myself as superior to the others, and continue to do so till the present day.

Well, ... we left Paris, and were trudging along with nothing in view but bread, which we might beg of the shepherds, who seldom refused the petition of wayfarers.

[Pro-Q]

Unfaithful

If you think about it, 'angry' is a very general term, though it applied to Max quite particularly. At this moment, sitting in his car, he stared at the strange car parked in front of him. In his spot, in his driveway. An all too familiar anger welled up inside of him. He knew what that car meant.

For a moment, he considered leaving and letting everything go. He didn't know if he could deal with the pain again. It wasn't fair for him to have to deal with it again. No, he thought. I deserve better.

His certainty fed his rage. How could she do this again!?

Finally, he stormed up the front steps of his home and through the door. At first he went for the stairs, his anger primed for the encounter that would ensue, but then he stopped. No, he decided.

This time will be different.

With his anger burning inside of him, Max stared at the closet door next to the stairs. He threw open the door and tore through its contents until he found a small lockbox he had hidden in the back. He opened the box and removed the .38 he kept inside. He didn't know why he had the gun really. He didn't need it. But he had it.

He stared at the gun he now held in his hand. As he did, the white hot anger inside of him turned cold. He welcomed the bite of that cold. He had suffered her for too long. He was good to her. He did everything he could to make her happy. He forgave her each time it happened, but it still happened.

This time will be different.

He left the closet and climbed to the top of the stairs. He could hear them now. They were just down the hall. She always brought them into the bedroom, to the bed he shared with his wife. He waited for his anger to consume him again, but it did not come. Only the cold in his heart remained.

This time will be different.

He walked down the hall and stood outside the door to their bedroom. From what he could hear, they were having one hell of a good time. Once again, he waited for the overwhelming rage. And, once again, it did not come. Only the cold remained.

This time will be different.

He waited until they were done. As he waited, as he listened, he absently spun the revolver's chamber. Could he really do this?

He wanted to feel something, anything at all, but nothing ever came, save for the bitterness of the empty cold inside of him.

He flung open the door. His wife was there in their bed, in the arms of yet another man.

He waited for his wife to react. He needed to see her guilt or at least some reaction from her. Maybe then he would feel something too. But she just stared right back at him, an empty mirror.

This time will be different.

"Who the hell are you!?" the surprised stranger said.

"She didn't tell you?" Max said. "I'm the husband."

"The husband!?"

"That's right." Max raised his weapon and trained it on the strange man. "The husband."

Bang


The wall behind the bed was painted red.

At last, his wife reacted.

She screamed and jerked herself out of the bed, "Max! What the hell is wrong with you!?" She started to sob uncontrollably.

"Me?" Max said accusingly as he trained the gun on her. "What is wrong with me?" His voice grew cold, "How many times have you done this to me? How many times have you lied when you told me you loved me? Even tonight, you didn't even bother trying to cover for yourself or even pretend to act like you had done something terribly wrong," Max grew thoughtful and paused. "I deserve better."

"Max, please," she pleaded, "please don't do this." Her sobbing became hysterical.

"Why not?" Max asked, his voice still cold. "Just how many times did you expect me to put up with this?" He motioned to the dead man with his gun.

"Max, please," she sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Now you're sorry," Max said bitterly. "Now, when its your turn to suffer. Now you're finally sorry."

Max approached his cowering wife and struck her head with the butt of his weapon, "I am done with your lies!"

She screamed as she fell to the floor, blood oozing from her scalp. "Max please," she cried again, crawling on her hands and knees. "I'm so sorry. God, please!"

"God?" Max nearly laughed, "God can't help you now."

She screamed again when he pulled the trigger. Finally, Max's anger reclaimed him and he fired all five of his remaining bullets into her chest.

Now the floor was painted red.

Max stared at his wife's body for a moment, and then he took in the body of the strange man in his bed. The cold returned to him, and once again he embraced it.

After a moment he tossed the gun on the bed and left.

This time was different.

[gary_wagner]

Ernie, wearing an unzipped cocktail dress and gripping an unfamiliar handgun, stood in the street in front of his house. She heard a shaky voice from the bushes on her left, “Ernestine? Come on, you don’t really want to do this, do you?”

Ernie fired two .38 slugs in the air. She laughed when Frank squealed in fear like a six-year old girl. “Didn’t I tell you to not call me Ernestine? Now get out of those bushes, you sniveling coward.”

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“There is that distinct possibility, however there’s a hundred percent probability that I will fire the rest of these bullets into that bush if you aren’t standing here in ten seconds.”

The bare yellow bug-bulb porch light blinked on next door. Old man Caruthers poked his head out and squinted at Ernie standing on the sidewalk holding the gun on Frank as he came out from behind the bushes. Frank saw him and called, “Hey, Caruthers, help me.”

Caruthers croaked back, “Kipler, I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. You park your car so the bumper sits a foot over my property line every night and you want me to do you a favor? Serves you right, you bumper invadin’ bastard.”

The light blinked off and Caruthers shut the door. The light came on again, the door reopened, and Caruthers called out to Ernie, “Go for a head shot. You don’t want him lingering.”

The light went off again and for a third time blinked on. Caruthers called out, “And for God’s sake cover him up when you’re done. Ain’t no one wants to look at that naked hairy monkey-man. Holy jeez, that’s a nasty sight to ruin an old man’s sleep.”

Ernie watched in amazement as Caruthers shut the light off, closed the door, and she heard him engage the dead-bolt. She turned back toward Frank, who was standing on the sidewalk with his hands held up. She lowered the gun and started laughing, “You do look like a monkey-man. In fact you remind me of that Orangutan, Clyde, in that Clint Eastwood movie.”

Frank dropped his hands to his side and, “That’s better. This is just a misunderstanding. I can explain everything.”

Ernie raised the gun back up and pointed at Frank, “Don’t be getting all comfortable and think your going to sweet talk your way out of this. Now, turn around and get your hairy butt into your house so we can settle this.”

Ernie followed Frank up the three steps, across the hollow sounding wood-floored porch, and into the house through the door that remained open since she chased him through it earlier. She pushed it closed and bolted it.

When she turned and pointed the gun back at him where he stood in the middle of the living room, he quickly threw his hands up again. She shook her head in disgust and said, “Go put some clothes on, your neighbor was right – no one wants to look at that.”

When he turned and walked to his bedroom, she nodded in satisfaction that he had bleeding scratches from jumping into the bushes across his buttocks. While she was waiting for him to return she called, “You know, I’ve been on some really bad blind dates in my time but let me tell you, this one takes the cake.”

He called back, “I’m sorry about all of this and I’ll make it up to you somehow, I swear it.”

He came out of his bedroom wearing a grey tee shirt that looked like he had played a bowling game that involved rolling sauce covered meatballs from his chin to his navel. The shirt was too small for him and left a gap of hairy belly showing above the pair of black sweat pants.

He walked slowly toward her and said, “Now, can you put that gun down and we’ll talk about this like reasonable adults? What’s someone like you doing with a gun, anyway? You don’t seem like the type.”

She fired a round into the wall beside him. He covered both ears with his hands and that little girl scream came out of his mouth again.

“So, what type do I seem like, Frank? Like the type of girl who you can steal her wallet from? The type that won’t mind that you sneak out the back door of the bar and leave me with the check, and no wallet, the only woman in the place, with a bunch of horn-dog greasy biker perverts? The type of girl who likes being rescued by the bouncer after those creeps unzip my dress, gives me a gun, and tells me to come find you and blow your junk off? Is that the type of girl you thought I was, Frank?”

“You know, Ernie, I can explain all of that. This was all an innocent misunderstanding.”

“Oh, shut your lying mouth, you stupid dipwad. Get me my wallet, and believe me, there’d better not be one dollar or one credit card missing or I’ll come back here and take your neighbor’s advice and make it a head shot.”

Frank took his hands off the top of his head, where they had remained since his last sissy scream, and tiptoed across the floor to roll top desk in the corner of the dining room. He pulled the middle drawer open, took her wallet out with two fingers – as if it was going to bite him, and tiptoed back over to her.

“It’s all there, I swear it is. I’m really, really sorry. Please, just take it and go. You’ll never see me again.”

She turned, let herself out, and walked down the sidewalk to the street. She assumed that the beat-up Oldsmobile, bumper a foot over his neighbor’s property line, was Frank’s. She fired the rest of the bullets into the radiator, hood, and windshield. At least old man Caruthers wouldn’t be completely disappointed in the morning.

[Tau]

Pink water

Monalisa Good had always been a demanding daughter; and whatever the price, she always expected the very best. But sadly the best was not possible now, or even the good. Right now the worst might be fitting. Though on second thoughts that was unfair towards all those that had to live with the worst.
Monalisa Good had very little to say about this, speaking was no longer an option. Thinking still was but not for much longer, and that would not help.
A stopped hart and injured lungs where really limiting Monalisa’s options. Not that there had been any worth taking, she was dying and there was no way around it. At first she had been annoyed but that soon faded as unconsciousness creped in, and how could she be annoyed when the water was so pretty with its pink colour, spreading from her body.

Daddy had refused the yacht trip at first. Being a multibillionaire meant he could easily afford it. Though he tried not to spoil his daughter he often had little choice. Monalisa got what she wanted, the consequences of not doing so where to great. More then once he had tried to hold out; so that she could learn that the world was not dancing to her will. He nearly managed it this time, but then Monalisa had played her trump. She had sent a letter to her mother.

Monalisa was easy to handle compared to that woman. If she did not threaten to leave rehab, though she often did anyway, she would file some legal complained or sued him outright. At times he had been tempted to let her have custody of Monalisa again, but Matthew H. Good could not let his only child go that way. Having the mother in rehab was bad enough, having his daughter join that woman there was unacceptable. He could always refuse to pay for Cassandra’s rehab, but that idea was also worrying. For then she could be anywhere doing who knows what. At least in rehab he could keep an eye on the woman. Well an eye on her progress reports written by some nurse. If Cassandra ever won custody again the Matthew would have to pull string to ensure that Monalisa did not end up on the streets. Strings he would have to buy and the precise where steep, even for him. Better to agree to give Monalisa a new horse or some fancy holiday. The horse had even been a good thing; Monalisa had spent a lot of time outdoors last summer. Caring for the animals had even given her a bit of responsibility and forced her to think about others and not just herself. That had been when it was warm, now it was mid winter and cold out on the riding fields. So a boat trip to the warm had been wanted. Cried about. Tantrums thrown about. Threatened about. And finally received.

Monalisa had only seen her mother a few times. The last time on her twelfth birthday a few days before she got the horse. She never understood her mother really but Monalisa knew she could get daddy to do thinks if she talked to mommy. When she was small she always liked visiting mommy since she always lived in some nice house somewhere far away, but now that she knew what rehab meant she did not want to see her again. That did not mean she would not write and complain about daddy. That still got things done better than any tantrum she could throw. She had gotten her holiday on the yacht that way. The first few days had been a bit boring as she was not aloud to go swimming while the yacht was moving. Once they had anchored in this bay she had gone swimming all day or gone on shore and explore the little island. Best of all daddy hand not come along. He had sent one of the babysitters with her.
Madeline was new. She spoke funny but otherwise was good. She would be strict about bed and mealtimes but would let Monalisa do more or less what she wanted the rest of the time.

The captain spent most of his time in his little cabin now that there was no need for him to command the yacht. He had tried to be friendly at first, telling Monalisa stories about his ship as he called the yacht and about the waters they where moving trough. She liked them at first but soon got board with them. The last he had tolled Moralise a story about the island. Something about a dragon, named Mizamgh, who lived there. Monalisa had not really paid attention; the satellite TV had been way more interesting. After that he had given up telling her stories, there was no pint since she no longer listened.

This morning the old captain had said they had to move the yacht to somewhere else; he had even begun shouting at Madeline and Monalisa that they had to go no matter what. The radio had said something about pirates in the area. Monalisa did not believe in pirates, they where something out of stupid stories, and any way no pirate would dare come close to her, daddy’s name always kept unwanted people away. Madeline had said that they should let the captain do as he wanted. It was his yacht after all, but Monalisa would have non of it, in the end she called daddy who had a word with the captain. He had argued quit a wile but in the end money settled the matter. The captain was still uneasy and jumpy but he allowed them to stay where they are.

That had been this morning when the Monalisa’s option where still open. Now there where no options any more, as the wake of the sinking yacht pulled her down.
No more thought on how pretty the pink water was.