Honey Sweetheart

Written for the NYC FlashFiction Challenge, Round 2 2020

Her husband’s death has left a mess of lawsuits and dangerous questions. At least her company is thriving.

Monday, Second Shift

This is a story based on a Reedsy prompt. It's still in draft form. Comments welcome! I think I will submit it tomorrow night. 

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“MOM’S BIRTHDAY.” The message flashed across my iPhone screen as I glanced at it for the time. Right. I forgot, I had to pick up a gift. There was a lilac cardigan and a bottle of White Shoulders waiting for me at Percy’s Department store. Maybe I’d get her a cupcake too. Not a cake. I squinted at my lumpy thighs. Neither of us needed that.

Whoop! I focused on the time. I was going to miss the bus! As I accelerated, I saw the bus stopping a long half block away. I sprinted, yelling. The bus driver waved back as he drove by. Ass.

My pulse thudded in my ears. Ten minutes to the next one. I’d be late, but not deadly. As I considered whether to walk on to the next stop to fill the time, I noticed two men in warm-looking grey suits bearing down on me.

“Bus is gon—” I offered, but the two swooped in and grabbed my arms. “Excuse me? What is this? You can’t just—” I started struggling as they slid cuffs onto my wrists.

“You know what you did.” The men pulled me into the back seat of a dark-windowed sedan purring by the road. I was in shock as it pulled away.

“What the hell is this? I have rights. I’m a Canadian. You can’t just grab people. What do you think I did? Are you white slavers? What is going on?” I babbled in fear, whipping my head from one stony chiseled face to the other. They didn’t react in the slightest.

The car was going too fast. I was already in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. “Stop the car. Please! Stop and let me out! This is a mistake!” I was waiting for their grip on my arms to lessen but my struggling had no effect on them. “Where are you taking me? I’m going to be late for work!”

I realized I was sounding ridiculous now.

I fell silent, breathing heavily as my eyes twitched around the car looking for help.

Oh my god, I was still holding my phone! What a dolt! I wasn’t sure they had noticed – they continued to stare woodenly ahead, as if getting me in the car had been their task, and, accomplishing that, they had shut themselves off.

I discreetly unlocked my phone with my thumb and angled my phone to get a photo of one of the men and part of my frightened face. I concentrated on quietly and with minimal movement opening a message to my mom and sending the photo. Then I remembered the last message on my phone was from my boss – it was to him I’d sent the photo. Would he understand? I tried to imagine what he was thinking as I typed, “help me” and hit send.

“This car is shielded.”

The voice from beside my left ear made me jump and almost drop my phone. “Wha-what?

“You will not be able to send a message to anyone. Your phone is useless.”

He was bluffing. Wasn’t he? I risked a look at my phone. It looked dead.

“H-how did you…”

“Relax Miss Lovelace.”

They knew my name.

Was there a driver in the front seat? There was a window between, it was hard to tell, but it looked empty.

“Is … is someone up there?” I nodded my chin to the front. “Or is this car on autopilot? Who are you? Do you have badges? Show me your badges!” I was vacillating between terror and anger. They hadn’t shown any weapons, so I wasn’t really scared, although their iron and unrelenting grip on my arms suggested that they didn’t need guns.

I tried a different tack.

“What are your names? I mean, maybe there is a valid reason for this, but how do I know if you don’t tell me? Did some old landlord say I had overdue rent or something?” I was pretty sure this was the plot to an old Law & Order episode but I felt if I stopped talking, the silence would actually seriously frighten me.

The man on my right spoke for the first time, tonelessly saying, “You know why we're here.”

I started crying.

Lefty shifted his head a bit. “I think she may actually not know.”

Righty mirrored the slight head turn, gazed at her profile, and agreed, “She is reacting in a genuinely puzzled manner.”

Unexpectedly Lefty sighed. We were on a highway ramp now, leading west to one of the small suburbs of the city, and beyond that, toward the rest of the country. “Not again.”

Lefty released my arm and removed the cuffs. I flexed my wrist to restore circulation. I turned to look at him. He held his forearm in front of him and with the other hand, reached over to grasp it. With a tug, his arm, jacket and all, cracked opened like a small casket lid.

My mouth hung slack. “Wha..”

He reached inside where 35 years of science fiction film consumption had told me there would likely be metal and wires, but it looked smooth and buttery soft like old wood. He pulled forth a small pen-shaped device.

“Are you from the future? Are you a robot? Are you an alien? What are you?” I was jabbering now, equal parts scared and fascinated.

He grasped my arm again. “I am a cleaner.” Righty had changed his grip on my arm and was tapping his fingers along it like it was a player piano. He stretched a hand across me to take the object from Lefty.

“A… a cleaner? Like on Breaking Bad? Are you going to ki…kill me?” I whispered, staring as Righty tapped the object on my arm.

“Kind of.”

Suddenly I felt…. A prickling? A strange sensation in the crown of my head. As I stared, my forearm too swung open.

“You do this every time, Elsie. Skip your shift. Play human.” He tapped an indented button in a complex code.

“You’re late for work.”

Break on Through

Prepared over 48 hours to submit to the NYC Flash Fiction Contest 2020

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Break on Through

A woman tries to mentor her younger friend into finding a good relationship, but maybe she’s overlooking the obvious… will a séance point the way?

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The séance to call up Jim Morrison wasn’t my idea.

I mean, I suggested that Cal read the Lizard King to help find his mojo, but y’know… read the words. Don’t expect to HEAR them from the dead guy. But that’s Cal, always up for an experience.

I’d been looking for a suitable miss for him for a while. Maybe the spirits could do better!

Cal has a type. He seems to dig the androgynous waifs the way I used to fall for gay men. And it’s working for him about as well, but the heart wants what it wants. I thought I’d try setting him up with Kayleigh. I don’t know her well. She comes in to buy boho clothes, goddess beads and knickknacks. She’s tiny and young, and seems intelligent. Worth a try.

So I hosted a potluck at the store.

Kayleigh was excited, said she’d bring a “cake.” Cal showed up with something he called a Prownie—his own concoction of a boxed brownie mix baked into a pre-made pie shell. Ingenious.

I introduced them. His eyes widened as he checked her little bare midriff and midi skirt. Kayleigh handed him a bit of her cake. He was too smitten to hear when she mentioned “raw food.”

Cal offered a hunk of Prownie in exchange. “I don’t eat flour,” was her reply.

Cal mindlessly took a big bite. I watched his face wrinkle into a grimace. His mouth opened and raw cashew and raspberry mixture spilled onto his plate.

He doesn’t give up, my Cal. He followed her as she started talking to Galen, another customer. Galen nibbled the raw cake from his manicured hands like it was manna. He was explaining Fight Club to Kayleigh.  

Cal interrupted to explain how Fight Club was just a representation of toxic masculinity. Kayleigh and Galen left shortly after.

After the party,  I was closing up shop, when a downcast Cal returned. This time he was pining over Lana, one of three current crushes, not included the ill-fated Kayleigh.  

“She’d just not in to dating as a construct,” he said, sadly.

“It’s a line. She’s not into you, hon. Sorry.”

“I am the worst at girls.”

He says this a lot. It’s part of his personal mythology, though how anyone in their mid-twenties has developed a personal mythology already without having a love life is beyond me. Approaching forty, I am just beginning to build one. Since my last relationship, I am learning to look at myself in new ways. Older, wiser, maybe matronly. Maybe a matchmaker.

I was putting away some new stock while we talked. He inspected other items: a wrestling belt, a miniature stop sign like a highway worker would use, and a monocle.

“Ooh, I want this!” he exclaimed, holding the monocle. He disappeared into the clothing racks and came back wearing a velvet smoking jacket and the monocle, his hair down.

I nodded my approval. His blue eyes sparkled. His long blonde hair was softly curling. I felt almost maternal pride. What was wrong with the girls he knew?  

“Kayleigh should have seen you like this. Very nice!”

He made another grimace. “I don’t think I like raw foodies. Anyway, she seems to like that other douche.”

I jokingly raised the stop sign. “Galen’s not a douche. He’s just got more game than you.”

“I have no game.” True. I’ve seen him around attractive girls his age. He acted silly, talked louder. Bounced around like a puppy for scraps. They never got to see this poised, intelligent, if occasionally goofy, Cal.

He pulled out a film book from the box and began enthusiastically explaining the history of cinema. The Kayleighs and Lanas of this world were really missing out. He’s too sweet to be alone.

He appeared suddenly with a steampunk-looking corset. “You should try this on!” He whirled me over to the mirror, holding it in front of me.

“Hmmmm. Sure, why not.” He was standing closer to me than usual and I was suddenly aware he was wearing cologne.

I stepped into a change room and pulled on the corset over a loose white blouse to check the fit. The blouse exposed a fair bit of décolletage. I stepped out to check the mirror. Cal was back at the box of new stock.

“A Ouija board!” he exclaimed. “Let’s summon Jim Morrison! He was shy too, maybe he’s got some good advi—” he turned as he was talking, and stopped when he set eyes on me and all my exposed skin. That’s cute. I was flattered.

“A séance?” I rolled my eyes. “Why not. Let me change.”

“No, you should keep that on.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Jim likes breasts.” Oh brother. Fine.

He lit a candle and set the board down. Then he plugged in one of the record players and put on Hard Rock Café.

“We summon the spirit of Jim Morrison. Jim, are you with us?” he intoned, making the floating part head to “YES”.

Okay, sure.

He gestured me closer to the table. I felt like he might still be looking at my cleavage, but when I checked, his eyes were closed.

“Jim, will I ever have a girlfriend?”

“If you stop talking about wrestling and Gundams around girls until they get to know you…,” I muttered, but he shushed me as the Ouija board again indicated YES.

“Can you share with me the initials of this woman?”

The floater hesitated and swung around a few times. He was definitely checking out my cleavage.

“A… N…. C.”

He was staring innocently into my eyes now. “What’s your middle name, Anna Callaghan?”

“Norene, you nerd. How did you know that?”

“Love me two times,” played the record. Had he changed it?

Suddenly, his arms were around me, his lips on mine, and his hand squarely on one of my breasts.

Well, call me cougar, but who am I to argue with the ghost of Jim Morrison?

Grimm Justice

Y’all think ghost stories only happen in the dark. That’s jest yer ignorance.

Ruth had no bizness lettin’ her baby go pettin’ that mangy black dog. She knew it were a Keith-Tree dog.

I kin still see the blood a-drainin’ outta that Keith. Hanged men don’t bleed, Pa said, but I seen it. Said that man ‘tacked Dolly. Everbody knew she’d been steppin’ out with another feller. 

Keith sure loved dogs. They’s dogs at that tree, since.

Folks say he whispers to ‘em. Say they’s cursed. A-course that child sickened ‘n’ died. Poor thing, thrashing for air, bleedin’.

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Submitted to round 2 of the NYC Microfiction Contest. Awarded an Honorable mention. (one edit made to this version).

Coventry

Coventry

The smell of dirt took her back. Touring her father’s field. Glances from the field hands.

The Count’s cold hand. Her breast grasped like a heifer’s udder. Her father’s face turning away. The Count continuing business directives.

The bells were ringing to call her to vespers. She grasped her tools, headed back to the monastery. 

Through the kitchen, pausing as was her custom at Sister Ignatius’ semi-hidden, heathenish “Warrior Mary” statuette. Prayers not for chapel.

Sister Ignatius grunts, “the Count was unhorsed. Prioress says he dies tonight.”

Genuflecting. Eyes down. “I will pray for him.”

Shrewd Sister Ignatius.  “Me too.”

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Submitted to the NYC Microfiction 2020 competition, chosen in top 20 of category and moved on to semifinals.