Malpractice

The orderly pushes me down the hall on the gurney, jogging as fast as protocol will allow.  Twin doors swing open ahead of us like the gates of heaven to let us pass unhindered.  He swerves to miss a nurse that absentmindedly crosses his path.

"Move."

She presses up against the wall as we brush past her.

The orderly stops in front of a door where another nurse, this one dressed in surgical gear, is waiting.  She takes over and wheels me into the room.

I don't remember much about the accident, but judging from the amount of blood covering me, it must have been bad.  A dull ache in my arm hints that it is probably broken.  I can't move, so I think that I might have broken my neck or back or both as well.

A masked surgeon waits at the head of the stainless steel table, scalpel in hand, and I look up into his eyes when I am transferred onto the slab.  He looks like he knows what he's doing.  I think I'm in good hands.

A nurse pulls away what's left of my blouse, leaving my stomach and chest exposed.  She swabs away the blood with wet cotton, and I catch the acrid smell of alcohol.  I wait for the anesthesiologist to put the mask over my mouth and nose, anxious that the unendurable pain might finally end.

The surgeon reaches forward and his scalpel pierces my skin as he deftly draws a line from the top of my sternum to my pelvis.  I try to scream, but my mouth remains closed, immovable, and the only echo is inside my head.  Tears seep out of my eyes.  Can't he see the tears in my eyes?

He's digging through my organs, pulling up my kidneys and they look so small in his hands.  He lays one aside and with a snip severs the other.  He turns to an orderly standing next to him, and I now see that the orderly is holding a cooler.  The surgeon gently places my kidney in the corner, then returns to the forgotten one.  A quick, burning snip and it, too, joins its partner.

The orderly races off as the doctor returns his attention to me.  One by one, he harvests my liver, my lungs, and something I don't even recognize.  Now he's wielding a saw, cutting through my sternum, bone dust wafting in the air.  He slowly spreads the two halves and secures them with a retractor.  I feel like I am being torn apart.

"Lara.  Come with me."

I don't know how, because my neck won't move, but I look over my shoulder to see Papa there.  I remember him giving me piggy back rides and sneaking me soda pop before dinner.  But that was a long, long time ago.

"But I'm not dead yet." I look back to the surgeon who now has my beating heart in his hands.

"I know," he says.  "But you will be."

***

Today's prompt: Write about your greatest fear.

An Unexpected Storm

Lena had always loved the rain. Showers at any time were an invitation to kick off her shoes, run outside, and dance.

So she didn't try to escape the sudden, torrential downpour, though lightning lit the black sky and thunder shook her bones. She stood perfectly still until her t-shirt was drenched and her shivering could have been from the cold.

The rain washed the blood from her legs, washed his stink from her skin, and when she opened her mouth to catch a few drops on her tongue, it washed away his taste.

She wished it would rain forever.

June Gloom

Another gray day. The sky darkened with low-hanging clouds, but no rain, no lightning to break the monotony of the gray. There was a heaviness in the air that settled into Tammy's bones. She sat in the big armchair, Springer squawking from the T.V., a wine glass in one hand and a near-empty bottle in the other.

She'd lost count of how many days she'd sat like this. Her cat, Mixen, jumped up into her lap and rubbed his head against Tammy's arm. She must've remembered to feed the cat; otherwise he'd be whining and spitting at her. Well, at least that was one thing she could do right. Tammy pushed the mewling ball of fur onto the floor.

I should do something, she thought. Something. Grab a bite to eat. Take a shower. Maybe a little yoga. She could use a few endorphins. She peered into the smoky bottle, watched the red liquid swirl around and up the sides. Maybe there were a few more endorphins in there. She replenished her glass. At least she was using a glass. That was the difference between being drunk and being a drunk.

She threw her head back and chugged the remaining wine. Then she put down the glass and the bottle and stood up. She stepped over the piles of dirty dishes and clothes that littered the floor. She grabbed her purse and set of keys and went outside, not bothering to lock the door behind her.

She knew she shouldn't be driving, so she took the side streets and drove at a crawl. Kids would be at school. Safe. Safe from her. The rest? Well, more people died from car accidents than anything else. They knew they were taking their chances when they ventured out that day.

She arrived at her destination without incident and parked a little too far away from the curb. She slipped off her sandals, leaving them on the floor of the car. She popped the trunk. She dropped her keys in her purse, then threw it into the trunk before bringing the lid down with a snap.

The wind whipped at her hair, raising goosebumps on her arms, and she tasted salt when she licked her suddenly dry lips. The sand felt soft and tickled her bare feet. She walked toward the angry, pounding waves, the roar in her ears growing.

She walked into the water and felt the icy waves lap around her ankles, splashing up against her calves, making her jeans cling heavily to her legs. She braced herself and pushed out further, turned her back against the breakers so they sprayed her back and drenched her hair.

When she was waist deep, she dove under a huge, threatening wave, and felt the undulations as the water frothed above her. It was a soft, rocking motion, and maybe it was just then, at that very moment, that she truly decided to go through with it. She wanted to be rocked in the ocean.

She began swimming away from the shore with strong strokes. She was a good swimmer. She'd be able to get pretty far. But she wasn't a great swimmer. She counted on that.

*****

Today's prompt:  Weave a story which uses this cliche – “Drown your sorrows."
To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

The Perfect World

“Once upon a time, there was a perfect world. In this world, every baby born was wanted, celebrated as a blessing not a burden. Mothers held their newborns in their arms, close to their heart, while fathers stood nearby looking so, so proud. They dreamed great things for their children and promised everything to make their dreams come true.

“The perfect world was beautiful, but not because it was perfect. Muddy brown birds with speckles, bright colored birds, singers and squawkers, all of them were beautiful. And every flower was welcome in the garden. Can you believe people used to call some flowers weeds?

“And people were beautiful, too, not because they were all the same, but because other people looked for and knew how to find what made them so.

“Everyone in the perfect world had a soul mate. Sometimes it was a brother, or a best friend. And sometimes, people fell in love with their soul mate, and they lived together for the rest of their lives.

“And that's what made the perfect world beautiful.”

*****

Today's prompt:
Write a scene using purely dialogue. Nothing else is allowed ( no attributions, narration, description, scene setting etc).

This is from a previously written scene.  I just cut out everything in between the dialogue.  It's a rough draft and unedited, so it still follows the rules. :)  To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

No Good Deed...

The gray, stooped man stood at the corner of the intersection. His mahogany cane with the ivory handle trembled in his hands as he reached out as if to enter the crosswalk. He pulled back as a car whizzed by uncomfortably close. He peered back and forth, trying to catch the eye of one of the drivers to see if they'd let him cross. Heads turned away from him and seemed not to notice he was there.

A cluster of teen boys approached, laughing and talking a little too loudly.  A boy in a red t-shirt and backwards baseball cap pushed the shortest of his friends who yelled as he reeled close to the passing traffic.  The short boy retaliated with a punch to the shoulder.

The old man looked desperately for a path across the street before the boys could arrive.  Finding none, he shrunk back, away from the road and into the corner under the shade of a tree.

The boys seemed too occupied to notice him, and the old man breathed a sigh of relief.  The small sound caught the attention of one of the boys.  Taller than the rest, he had the awkwardness of his age.  He was quieter than the others, too.  The old man sucked in his breath and waited.

The kid smiled and shuffled over to him.

"Do you need to cross?"

The old man nodded his head.  The boy stepped into the cross walk and beckoned to the gentleman when the traffic paused for him.  The boy's friends bounded across the street quickly and walked on, not noticing that he lingered behind them.  The old man shuffled as quickly as he could, the teen walking in a slow saunter next to him until they reached the other side.

"See ya, dude."  The kid started to jog to catch up with his friends.

"Wait."  The young man stopped, then looked around with knitted brows.  In place of the old man stood a tall, dark-haired man in jeans.  The cane in his hand had been replaced with a gnarly, twisted wand.  The man approached the boy.

"Don't look so surprised.  You know that there are magical creatures that walk amongst us."

The boy's eyes widened, and the man chuckled.

"Look, I appreciate that you helped me out.  I'd like to give you a wish."

"A wish?"

"Sure, anything you want."  The man waited, wondering, trying to guess the wish based on the little bit he knew about this boy.  Would he ask for world peace?  Or a million dollars?  Maybe just a new game system, he thought with a wry smile.

The boy shrugged.

"OK.  I want a fish."

"Excuse me?"  The man didn't think he'd heard him properly.  The boy flashed him a sheepish grin.

"Yeah, well, I've always wanted a pet, but our landlord wouldn't allow it.  We live in a small apartment.  I don't think he'd mind if I had a fish."

The man shook his head incredulously.  He nodded, then turned on his heel and walked wordlessly away.  When the boy arrived home, he'd find a new aquarium on his desk with coral, wavy green plants, and a few exotic fish swimming around.  The man decided he'd throw in a year's supply of fish food, although that was technically against the rules, since the boy didn't officially wish for it.

But hey, he liked the kid.

*****

Wow.  I am really rusty!  The inner editor was going crazy as I wrote this one.  Still, it feels good to get back into Fiction Friday again.

Today's prompt:  Use the images on the dice for inspiration.  The images were a cane, a magic wand, and a fish. 

To play along, visit Write Anything's Fiction Friday at their new website here.

Lullaby

Esther felt a wave of exhaustion settle into her bones as she shuffled her way through hugs and good-byes to the door.  Her son, Edward, ushered her outside and helped her into the car.  Another Christmas dinner come and gone, another year of loneliness spanned ahead of her.

He kissed her forehead at the door.

"Sure you'll be all right, Ma?" he asked.

She was in remarkably good shape for her age.  Spry, she would say, of both mind and body in spite of her 93 years on this planet.  It was the reason they let her stay in her home -- in their home -- by herself.

"Shush, son, I'm just fine.  Ready for a little sleep, though."  She smiled up at him and patted his cheek before going inside.

She went through the motions of getting ready for bed: changed into her flannel nightgown, brushed her teeth, took her meds.  She turned out the light, too tired for reading tonight, and climbed into bed.

Sobs overtook her, racked her body.  She missed him so much.  He was her best friend.  Twenty years gone, and still she missed him, still reached for him across the bed, still expected to see him sitting on Janey's couch, bouncing a grandbaby on his lap.

She wore herself out, quieted, and a strange peace settled over her.  She couldn't sleep now, but that was all right.  She had plenty of time to sleep.  She wouldn't be getting up again. 

It wasn't really suicide, right?  After all, they stopped feeding that Terry Schiavo lady so she could pass on, and no one thought that was murder.  She wondered if it had really been painless for that woman, like the doctors said.  Terry couldn't rightly tell them otherwise, now could she?  Esther hoped that when the time came, if it did hurt, and she faltered, that she'd be too weak by then to do anything about it.

God would forgive her.  He'd have to.  He'd have to let her in, have to let her through those pearly gates.  He had to let her find him.

*****

Today's prompt: 

Use this sentiment or theme for your story “I miss my best friend”.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday, here.

Ironic note -- as I post this, Brahm's "Lullaby" is playing on my stereo.  Cosmically fitting, I think!

Yearning

The night was beautiful, the stars sparkling with an intensity you never see in town.  As I leaned back in my camping chair, I saw a shooting star flash across the sky.  I automatically made a wish, then chuckled at myself.  Years of wishes on stars that never came true, and I was still as superstitious as ever.

I leaned in closer to the campfire, rubbing my hands to warm them.  I picked up the bag of marshmallows and fitted two of them on the hanger at my side.  I supposed a couple more wouldn't hurt.  I'd certainly burn off the extra calories on my hike back down the mountain in the morning.

A rustle in the woods behind my camp caught my attention.  I loved the little creatures that visited at night, racoons and opossum and once a small fox.  I picked up my flashlight and shined it in the direction of the sound, hoping to catch sight of my visitor.  The beam illuminated two bright green eyes staring intently at me.

I froze, mesmerized.  I held still, afraid to frighten it off, and my heart accelerated a little with excitement.  Whatever this animal was, I'd never encountered it before.  I couldn't wait to tell my students about it on Monday. 

The animal moved towards me.  As it approached, I realized it was much bigger than the visitors I had been used to, and the first primal hint of concern throbbed in the back of my head.  It moved lithely, slowly, with grace and purpose.  Its furry head and strong shoulders came into view, and it stopped for a moment, considering me.  I wanted to move closer, to see if I could get close enough to touch, to wrap my arms around its neck, place my cheek against its chest and feel the beating of its heart.

A deep growl from its throat broke the spell, and I became aware of how precarious a situation I was in.  I stood up quickly, brandishing the now flaming marshmallows, and yelled like a maniac.  The big cat bounded off into the woods, disappearing from my view.  My heart sank, and I wished I could bound away with him.

*****

Today's prompt:  For some extra fun each month, we are utilizing  ”Story Starter” die. Look at each face of the dice, ponder on its significance to a character, setting or plot you may have bubbling away.. now write – using these as your inspiration.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

The Spat

I paced the living room floor, periodically peering out the window, watching the black turn to a lightening gray. Still, the Easter Bunny hadn't arrived. The kids would be up soon, spilling in with sleepy excitement, looking for their baskets. Dang, even if he got there soon, I wouldn't have enough time to hide the baskets.

I knew the Easter Bunny didn't have a magic sleigh like Santa to carry him from house to house in the blink of an eye. Instead, he relied on the sheer volume of his family to get the job done. Maybe our house had been delegated to one of the young uns. They were cute and shy, but sometimes they got lost. But I'd never had to wait this long before.

I heard a sound and whirled around. The Easter Bunny himself stood before me, looking haggard and apologetic.

"Dude, what happened?" I asked. "The sun is almost up."

"I know, I'm sorry.” He handed me the baskets in his hand. “It's just that last fall, I forgot my wife's birthday..."

I shrugged and looked at him quizzically. "That happens..."

"and went to a bar with the guys instead..." he continued. I winced.

"I guess I kissed a waitress and got lipstick in my fur..."

By this time I was shaking my head, knowing the story couldn't end well.

"and didn't get home until after three."

I cupped my balls protectively.

"Ouch." I patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. "So she..."

"Cut me off. No sex for a month."

I shook my head in pity, then furrowed my brow.

"But that was last fall." I did the math in my head, understanding finally dawning on me.

"Yep. That's why we're short-handed this year."

*****

Today's prompt:  Why was Easter Bunny held up with deliveries this year?

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Great Cats

Sophie Hedley opened the door to the cage and stepped inside. She was greeted by a half purr, half growl. Samson came forward and stretched at her feet, his giant paws spread, his front legs rigid, his rear in the air. His mouth gaped in a yawn that showed his razor sharp teeth.

"Good morning, baby," she said, reaching out to scratch behind his ears. Samson moved his head against her hand, arching in delight, encouraging more. He rolled to his back, and Sophie laughed.

"All right, all right. So you want a tummy rub, do you?"

She knelt beside the great cat and scratched his tummy, working up to his powerful chest, watching his head loll back and his legs go limp. When she finished, he rolled onto his stomach and sat up on his forearms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his orange and black fur. She felt his breath rise and fall, and her own breathing mimicked his rhythm. She slid her hands down his back, past his shoulders, over his haunches, feeling the sinewy muscles. She placed her cheek against his chest and listened to the strong beat of his heart. Her own heart quickened. She felt so alive.

After a few minutes, she reluctantly stood up and backed to the door of the cage. Samson swatted at her lightly, and she lost her balance, almost falling over.

"Hey, I'll be back. You know I will. I always do." She closed the door behind her and clicked the lock.

Every morning, Sophie had to get her Samson fix before heading off to her job at the Department of Motor Vehicles. It was the only way she could stand it. The place was a crypt of dead-end lives, both the people in the cubicles around her and those lined in front of them. The mindless waiting brought out the worst in people; they rarely smiled, and often raged about the smallest mistakes, never taking responsibility for the things they could have prevented themselves. The hours dragged until closing time, and then while her co-workers made their way to bars or warring spouses, she eagerly returned to her Samson.

She'd had him since he was a kitten. Fate had brought them together. One day, she'd seen a classified ad in the newspaper. A tiger from a traveling circus had given birth to two kittens, and the owner was selling them. Sophie's father had left the family to -- seriously -- join a circus when she was eight years old. She often thought of him working with the big cats, and she believed she inherited her love of animals from him. Finding the kitten seemed like a cosmic gift from her dad.

Samson loved her in a way that no one else could. He never disappointed her, never took her for granted, never demanded anything more than her time and tummy rubs. Sophie broke off her relationship with her boyfriend and stopped going out for drinks with her friends. She had few visitors; Samson made people uncomfortable, everyone but Sophie.

Sophie's mother worried about her, warned her that Samson was a wild animal at heart, and that something bad would happen. Sophie soothed her mother's concerns and promised her Samson would never do something like that.

***

David, the supervisor at the DMV, called Mrs. Hedley. Sophie hadn't been in to work for three days. It wasn't like her to not call. He had left several messages for her, but she wasn't returning his calls. He thought she should know. Mrs. Hedley hung up and dialed 911.

The police car pulled into the driveway and two uniformed officers got out. They walked to the front door and knocked, waited for an answer. When none came, they canvassed the perimeter of the home. They spotted the enclosure in the backyard and approached. A magnificent Bengal tiger paced back and forth, spitting and hissing when it saw them. It stopped and bared its teeth with a loud, menacing growl. There, underneath its protective feet, lay a woman's body, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle but otherwise untouched.

*****

Today's prompt:  "Looks can be deceiving."   My kids love watching the show Fatal Attractions, where crazy people keep dangerous animals and think nothing could possibly go wrong.  That was my inspiration for today.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

And welcome, A to Zers!

Revision

My piece today is doing double duty:  I've revised my entry from the Hone Your Skills Blogfest using the wonderful suggestions I received, and amazingly, it fits with the prompt for Fiction Friday!  Let me know if you think this reads better.

Righting Wrong

I stood on the round metallic teleportation device in the middle of the room.  My eyes fixed on the only other person there. The old man busied himself with the console before him. He reached to push a button on the upper level, and the sleeve of his lab coat slid back revealing black ink tattooed digits. Faded, but indelible.

"When you enter, you should arrive in the southwest corner," he said.  "The oval table will be to your right.  He will be sitting at the head of it, of course."

Nervous perspiration broke out in tiny droplets on my upper lip.  I brought my arm up and wiped it away on my sleeve.  Fear tightened my throat, and I knew my voice would crack if I tried to speak.

"You will have only a few seconds before their surprise turns to action.  You must act quickly."

I steadied my voice.

"Should I have my gun drawn already?"

"No.  That would raise alarms immediately.  Let them see you and wonder first."

He paused, staring at his hands, unmoving. I knew he had thought this through many times, reliving it throughout the long nights leading up to this moment. Or maybe preliving it is a better word. He returned his attention to the console and made a few final adjustments.

"August 16, 1939. Are you ready?"

I placed my hand on the butt of the gun tucked inside the front of my jeans and closed my eyes.

I nodded.

My stomach lurched. Was I screaming? No, it couldn't be me, because I couldn't breathe. A high-pitched screech filled my ears, and my knees buckled. Tears squeezed from beneath my lids. And then it stopped.

I opened my eyes to see the scene exactly as the old man had described it.  I crouched in the southwest corner of the room.  The oval table was to my right.  He sat at the head of it.  His impeccable black hair, parted down the right, gleamed, the broom bristle mustache twitched under his nose.  His uniform was crisp, and he held his hat casually in his left hand.  The swastika band was blood red around his left bicep.  He threw his head back and laughed, disconcerting me.  I had never seen more than a frown turning his lips down at the corners.

The men became aware of my presence incrementally, as if in slow motion.  Expressions turned from surprise to confusion to concern as I removed the gun from its hiding place and trained the sights on the laughing man.  I pulled the trigger and blood erupted from the clean white shirt beneath his jacket.  The smile faded from his lips as I pumped three more shots into his chest. 

All fell silent for a millisecond, and then a buzzing roar filled my ears.  The gun dropped from my fingers, bouncing innocuously at my feet with a clatter against the hard wood floor.  The man nearest to my right tackled me, pushing me to the ground next to it.

I waited for the crack that would signal the bullet meant for me.  It didn't come.  Two burly men rolled me onto my stomach, wrenched my arms behind me, and I felt cold metal handcuffs coil around my wrists.  They hauled me to my feet, and I stood to face these men, his cronies and accomplices.  They stared back at me in horror, as if I were the butcher of millions instead of the man bleeding lifelessly at their feet.

The two large men flanked me, hurried me out of the building and into a waiting car.  We drove for miles, and as I stared at the passing German landscape, I wondered what would happen next.  A dark dank cell?  Torture?  Encampment and a cyanide shower? 

We passed through a large wrought-iron gate and came to a stop behind a dirty gray building. I was yanked from the car and propelled forward. Once inside, we walked down a dark corridor, turned left and passed several rooms before coming to a stop. The taller of the two stepped in front of me, and I heard the jingle of keys. He moved aside, and the other shoved me into the middle of a small cell.  Turning me around, he removed the cuffs from my wrists.  I heard the door shut behind me with a click.

The room was sparse but comfortable, a blanketed twin bed in the corner, a small desk and wooden chair against the wall.  A few books, a pad of paper, and a pen were stacked on the desk.  Behind a privacy screen were a toilet and a sink protruding from the wall.  And in the corner opposite the bed was a TV.

A TV?  I blinked back the surprise.  My confusion grew when I found a remote control on top.  I picked it up, pushed a button, and watched images, color images, spilling from the screen.

Somber announcers with tears in their eyes.  Mourners gathering on the stairs of the building I had been taken from, not just blond-haired, blue-eyed mourners, but brown and black mixed in.  A sea of flowers growing like a garden at the top, flowing down the steps like a waterfall.  Similar displays at German embassies in foreign countries.  Interviews with dignitaries from all around the world, in languages I couldn't understand, and then Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"The American people join our hearts to the great people of Germany and share their sorrow during this horrendous moment in history.  We honor this man who has done so much to further peace and prosperity in the world.  We vow to continue his fight against the very thing that took his life: blind hatred enforced by violence.  We will not stop or falter until every weapon has been safely buried in the ground.  Even in these darkest moments, his legacy shines before us, a beacon to follow, and he will go down in history as the greatest man ever born."

Dear God, what have I done?

*****

Today's prompt:  The one thing your character regrets learning the most is…… 

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Painted Ladies

It was a hot, dusty day, the kind of day that Tumbleweed was named for.  Most people stayed home and kept to the shade.  Not many visitors were in the First Chance Saloon, just a few of the regulars sipping their beers and playing a game of cards.  Old Sam, the colored man, played a melancholy kind of tune, not the usual toe-tapper he was best known for.

The doors opened, and the piano stopped playing.  All eyes turned to the figure in the doorway.

He wasn't from these parts, that was for sure.  Seemed a little too clean, if you know what I mean; his shirt had nary a wrinkle, and there weren't any patches on his jeans.  He glanced around the room, seemed to take us all in while dismissing us at the same time, and then made his way up to the bar.

"Gimme a Tanglefoot," he said.  The bartender lifted a brow and gave him a quick once over.

"Ain't got that in these parts, sir.  Think a little Red Eye'll do ya fine?"

The man nodded, took the glass of whiskey and threw it back with one gulp.  He waved to the bartender for another.  The bartender shot a glance at Miss Kitty fanning herself in the back corner of the bar.  She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off her stool and sauntered up to the man.

"Howdy, stranger.  Ya'll in town for long?"

He didn't look at her when he replied.

"Long enough, I suppose."

"You must be tired after traveling in this heat.  What do you say to some real refreshment?"

He threw back his whiskey, his third, set the glass on the counter, and turned to Miss Kitty, tipping his hat.

"I'd be much obliged, ma'am.  That sounds very hospitable of you."

Miss Kitty led him to her back corner where the rest of us were waiting.

Funny thing about an ugly whore.  They keep you furthest back where the shadows are darkest, because powder and rouge can only do so much.  You don't get chosen so often, and you're always worried when you do, because it's usually the mean ones that'll choose ya.  Miss Kitty won't let a man hit her pretty girls, but she figures with the ugly ones, a few bruises don't make no difference. 

So I was real surprised when the man pointed at me.  I don't know, just something about him didn't strike me as mean.  If Miss Kitty seemed surprised, too, she didn't show it, although Miss Alice had to stifle a gasp.  Miss Kitty beckoned me, and I led the way upstairs, swaying my hips real nice for the fellow, and meaning it this time.

With the door closed behind us, I stripped down to my petticoat and corset, and arranged myself alluringly on the bed.  He took off his gun belt and set it on the dressing table, but that was all.  He sat on the edge of the bed, hardly looking at me.

"Do you ever get...people... who just want to talk?" he asked.

Well, yeah, that was something that happened to ugly whores, too.  I felt a little deflated.

"Sure.  Sometimes."

"It's all right, ya think?"

Something in the way he said it made me feel a little sorry for him, like he was carrying a great sadness.  I patted his arm.

"Why, sure, it's all right."

He let out a big sigh and slowly, haltingly, began his story.

"My pa was a horrible, mean man.  Made his own corn whiskey and finished off a whole jug every day and every night.  Had a terrible temper.  He only took it out on us boys, though, never raised a hand to my ma or my sister.

"He spent a lotta time in the saloons, loved to play cards but wasn't very good at it.  He lost an awful lot of money, and sometimes we went hungry because he'd stopped at the saloon instead of the merchant.  Ma never said anything, though.  I didn't know why.

"One day he came home and told my sister to pack her bags.  He'd gotten himself into a world of trouble at the saloon and owed the owner more money than he could ever hope to earn in a lifetime.  'It's either you or the house,' he told her.

"She cried and cried while she packed up, but Ma kept reassuring her.  'You're a petty girl,' she said, 'you're gonna do just fine.  You'll get to wear pretty things, and least it ain't gonna be your pa anymore.'

"I didn't understand," he said with a helpless shrug.  "By the time I did, I came to town, looking for her, but she was gone.  The bartender at the saloon said she just up and left one day, making everyone real mad, but they didn't come after pa because she'd done a real good job while she was there.

"I'm still looking for her."  He stared at his hands for the longest time.

"I chose you because you have pretty eyes," he said, turning to look at me for the first time.  "They look real kind, ma'am."

I blushed.

"I just thought, maybe, if you ever see her?  If she comes by looking for work, you know?  You can tell her that pa's dead now, and her brother is looking for her.  Her name is Annabelle."

I nodded my head, knowing I'd never see that girl, and if I did, she wouldn't be Annabelle anymore.  No one goes by their real name, their Christian name, their pig tails and freckles and crown of daisies name.

He took my hand and held it for awhile, then he stood up and put his gun belt back on.  He left a couple of bills on the dressing table before leaving the room.

*****

Today's prompt:  Set your story in the 1880s, in a mid west, tumbleweed town. The doors of the bar open, the piano stops playing and all eyes are drawn to the figure in the doorway…… Now keep going.

My first  attempt at a Western!  I balked at first, but I'm glad I did it.  It's rough draft, unedited, of course.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

My Funny Valentine

David turned his key in the front door, opened it, and quietly made his way into the dark hallway.  A solitary light came from deep inside the house. He dropped his briefcase and overcoat in the hall closet, loosened his tie, and started toward the gleam.  As he was passing through the living room, the table in the shadows of the dining room caught his eye.

Piss.

Two places had been set with their good china, cloth napkins, and sparkling crystal goblets.  Jenny had never done more than get him a card before, and after three months of her withholding sex, he really hadn't expected this.

He heard a shuffle and turned.  Jenny stood in the doorway of the room, wearing her terry cloth robe and fuzzy pink slippers.  Even with the light behind her, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.  He shrugged helplessly.

"I'm so sorry.  I had no idea.  Work has been so busy, and I stayed late to try to get caught up.  I completely forgot it was Valentine's Day."

That was a lie.  He hadn't forgotten at all.  He'd simply chosen to spend the evening banging Phoebe, his secretary, on the suede couch in his office than enduring the cold silence of the woman he'd married.

"I know how busy you've been.  It's OK," Jenny said without looking at him.

That, too, was a lie.  It was not OK.  He could almost see her mentally taking out a three by five card and writing "2-14-2011: Missed Valentine's Day dinner" in bright red ink.  It would be filed away in that endless card catalog of hurts and mistakes that she had kept over the last 12 years.

She moved toward the table and picked up a covered platter.

"I could heat it up for you," she said as she walked into the adjoining kitchen.

"No, no, that's OK.  I had take-out at the office."

Now that was true.  He had ordered a three-course meal from Avanti Ristorante delivered to his office, complete with antipasto, crab-stuffed chicken over angel hair pasta, crusty bread and olive oil, and tiramisu for dessert, all served with the house champagne.  Phoebe had gotten tipsy, and then a little bit whiny.

"When are you going to leave your wife?" she'd asked him as he walked her to her car.

"Soon," he'd promised, then kissed her good-bye and watched her drive away.

Jenny came back into the dining room and began clearing the table.

"I can help with dishes," he offered.

She waved him away with a tired smile.  She was in full-martyr mode now.

"I'll just set them in the sink and do them tomorrow.  They didn't really get dirty."

He picked up the goblets and followed her, added them to the rest of the untouched dishes, and turned to leave. 

She reached out and caught his arm.  It was the first time they had touched, that they had been close enough to touch, in months.  Her hand trembled with uncertainty.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she said and finally looked up at him.

He held her eye, fell into those bottomless ebony pools and saw the jagged cuts and tears that he had caused.  Another lie.  He'd never leave her.  He'd always stay.  It was his penance.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

*****

K, this wasn't my favorite.  I guess I'm not a comfortable cynic! 

Today's prompt:

Its late on Feb 14th. Your character has just realised that they have forgotten Valentines Day and the affiliated expectations surrounding it. What excuse or reason are they going to give to their partner?

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

The Cure

Dr. Jonathon Randall was merely twenty-nine years old when he watched his wife pass through agonizing torment and from his life forever.  She left him with a chubby two-year old daughter who had her mother's eyes and her mother's smile.  Seeing the child sent waves of pain shooting through him, and so he hired a nanny and threw himself into his work.

He initially determined that he would find a cure for cancer, but he soon found that that was not sufficient.  He had to find a way to eradicate all disease, anything that could threaten to take his daughter, his second great love, away from him.

Dr. Randall was a brilliant geneticist, and his work progressed quickly.  First he learned how to catalog individual genes in the human genome.  Then he focused on perfecting splicing techniques.  His breakthrough led to a patent on designer genes, and he marketed the technology to a chain of fertility clinics.  He made a fortune off of parents who carried home from the hospital babies with beautiful blond hair and blue eyes, who were more likely to win spelling bees and make captain of the football team.

He used the money to further finance his research.  He expanded his laboratory and hired an army of the most brilliant young minds to assist him.  He learned how to identify defective genes, and he developed the technique for replacing them.  He focused his attention on the code for immunity, and through many experiments learned how to create a super-immune individual.

But that would only help the rising generation, the new babies of parents who could afford the enormous expense of genetic manipulation.  His own beloved daughter still caught colds and flus and once, walking pneumonia.

He stumbled upon the answer while he was recruiting at the International Conference for Young Scientists in Alexandria, Egypt.  One impressive young man, fresh out of grad school and still working on his doctorate, had given a fascinating presentation on the potential of retroviruses.  With their ability to invade and insert their own DNA into host cells, they were the perfect vehicle for transferring engineered genetic material into anyone, anyone at all.  Dr. Randall offered the lad a six-figure salary on the spot, and arranged to have him begin working at the lab the following Monday.

It worked.  After several more years, Dr. Randall had created a super-bug, a retrovirus that contained the ability to alter a person's DNA so that they would be resistant disease.  He had done it.  But as Dr. Randall held the triumph in his shaking his hands, he finally looked up from his work and discovered that his daughter was now a stranger to him, and humanity was no longer worth saving.

*****

Today's prompt: 

“My Million Dollar Idea”
Identify a problem or issue – either in your everyday life or community. What product or service could ease this?
Let your imagination go crazy. If you had access to all the resources you needed, what would your million dollar idea be? Just remember, alot of the advances in science came about from writers ‘crazy’ ideas and asking “what if?”

This was very fun for me, getting back in the swing of things after our horrific move!  And, just as a teaser, this is part of my story that started with "Iced."  You can read my previous excerpts here, and here, and here.

And don't forget, this is the last day to enter Cathryn's giveaway for a free copy of her debut novel, The Demise of the Soccer Moms, and a free Kindle!  Visit her blog for details at Suburban Noir.

The Magic Feather

Jackson woke to a hard shove against his shoulder.  Harris towered over him -- well, maybe not towered, but from Jackson's angle lying on the floor, the midget looked a lot taller than his 3 foot 6 height.  Harris grabbed his shoulder and shook him again, though Jackson noted it wasn't with as much strength as you would expect from someone wearing a strong man costume.  The thought made him chuckle, which he immediately regretted as pain shot through his temple with the movement.

"Man, are you OK?" Harris asked.

"Huh?" Jackson asked.  He looked down at himself, saw that his baggy pink pants were smudged with dust and his polka dot frilled shirt had a tear along the elbow.  He tried to sit up, and his muscles screamed at the effort.  It took a moment for him to get his bearings, then his eyes lit up and he grabbed Harris by the strap of his tank.

"I was flying, wasn't I?  I did it!"

Harris frowned and tried to pull back, but Jackson clung to him tighter.

"You must have hit your head pretty hard."

Jackson shook his head vehemently.

"No, no, I remember, I did it.  I flew.  Just like in the story."

He looked around and saw the fake burning building, the clowns dressed as firemen crowded behind Harris.  He pulled his hand up to his face, but it was empty.  He pushed Harris aside and began searching on the ground.

"I dropped it.  That must be why I fell.  I was doing just fine until I dropped it.  It's got to be around here somewhere."

Harris scratched his head.  He turned to the crowd of people behind him and shrugged.  He turned back to Jackson and tried to get him to sit back down.

"Now, now, why don't you just stay put until the ambulance gets here, all right?  The doctors are going to want to take a look at you."

Jackson waved him off and continued searching.  Something caught his eye, a hint of black on the dirt surface.  He reached for it and waved it triumphantly at Harris as a siren filled the air, growing louder with proximity.

"See?  Proof."  He held a black crow's feather in his hand.  The medical technicians came running towards him, and he showed his prize to them.  They eased him back to a sitting position and began examining him.  Jackson smiled at them and tucked his treasure into his pocket. 

"I'll need this for next time," he said as they led him to the ambulance.  "I just got to remember to not let go."

*****

This week's prompt:  Your character wakes in a circus tent. They are wearing baggy pink pants and a polka dot frilled shirt. A midget in a strong man outfit is shaking them awake asking if they are alright.


To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

Resolve

Happy New Year, everyone! Congratulations on surviving 2010, and may 2011 be filled with joy and the accomplishment of your hearts desires.

With that end in mind, I offer you my anti-resolutions:

1. I RESOLVE to NOT follow the latest fad diet in hopes of shaving a few pounds or twenty from my voluptuous thighs.  Eating nothing but raw foods for a month is a detox for my health, not a fad diet, and if I just happen to lose a few pounds while doing it...


2.  I RESOLVE to NOT run a marathon.  Or a 5K.  Or jog around the block.  Face it.  I probably won't even walk to the mailbox.

3.  I RESOLVE to NOT give up chocolate.  Duh.

4.  I RESOLVE to NOT assign arbitrarily selected word count and deadline goals to my writing.  Excluding the month of November.  Bah!  Go, go, NaNo!!!!!!

5.  I RESOLVE to NOT have an obsessively clean house.  A clean house is a sign of a disturbed mind... Nature abhors a vacuum -- and so do I... Our house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy... You know you've heard them all.

6.  I RESOLVE to NOT give up any bad habits.  Because I don't have any, do I, honey.  Um, honey?  HONEY?

I think that about covers it.  I am embracing the New Year with the expectation that good intentions coupled with passion will lead me to plenty of worthwhile accomplishments throughout the year.

What are your resolutions for the new year?

*****

Today's prompt from Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday:  

What are your top 5 Anti-Resolutions for the coming year?

(Looks like I cheated again.  Six instead of five.  Tsk, tsk.)

A Woman's Job Is Never Done

The members of the Justice League gathered around the commissioner's old walnut desk. They looked at each other, curious to know why they had been called in for duty the night before Christmas.

"Thank you all for coming," the commissioner said. "I know you'd all rather be spending time with your families right now. But this is an emergency."

He paused to give weight to his announcement.

"Santa Claus has been kidnapped."

Several groans rifled through the crowd of super heroes. Wonder Woman rolled her eyes. Of course. Some nut job always targeted Santa this time of year. She remembered slapping the cuffs on a middle-aged man who was apprehended before he could do any damage last year.

"Legos," he had spat at a flustered Santa. "I asked you for Legos."

The red splotches on the jolly old elf's cheeks were not exactly rosy.

"Look, it was a typo. And you can still build with Lincoln Logs."

She had led the man away, still muttering. Sheesh.

Batman took her arm, startling her out of her memory. He led her out of ear shot of the rest.

"You know we're going to need someone to cover Christmas, don't you?"

"No way, not me." She shook her head. "Why do I always get stuck with this kind of crap?"

"You're the only one here with any real super powers, besides Superman. And you know his ego isn't going to let him skip out on all the good fighting stuff."

She glanced over at Superman where he stood with his arms folded, his hands underneath his biceps pushing against them to make them look bigger. Why did he do that? Everyone already knew he was the strongest man in the world.

"Besides, you've already got transportation. Nice and roomy. You won't even need to figure out how to drive the sleigh."

"And what about sliding down the chimney? You don't think that being an Amazon might make that difficult?" She squinted and a sly smile lifted her lips. "Don't you think Robin would be a better choice?"

"Nice try. You forgot about the elves. We'll throw in a couple to help you out. Whatta ya say? Will you do it?" He smiled at her with all his Bruce Wayne charm. She sighed and dropped her head.

"All right, all right. But you owe me one."

"I know." He winked at her, then walked over to the commissioner to whisper the good news.

*****

This week's prompt:

Santa Claus has been kidnapped only hours before he is set to start his Christmas deliveries. Whilst the other superheros rescue and punish the offenders, it is up to one Superhero to undertake Santa's role this Christmas. Who will it be? How will they go?

Want to play along? Visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Wild Things

It was my favorite time of year to be hiking in Yellowstone -- fall, when the leaves turned brilliant colors, the days were cooler but the nights not yet freezing, and the tourists packed their broods into station wagons and left the surroundings littered but quiet.  The stillness in the air enticed the wild things to come back out of hiding and return to their normal habits.  Sometimes I'd pass another seasoned naturalist on the trail, and we'd nod, but mostly it was just me and blue skies and birds, squirrels, elk, deer, and a few big horn sheep.

I made good time, five to six miles before stopping for lunch, and then another leisurely four this afternoon.  When the temperatures started cooling and the sun darted in and out of trees closer to the horizon, I knew I needed to look for a place to camp for the night.  I liked to settle in and then listen to the awakening of the nocturnals.  I wandered off the main trail and found a nice clearing under a few trees, the ground fairly even and free of rocks and shrubs.  I shrugged off my backpack and popped up my one man tent, then scouted around for wood to use for a fire.

By the time night fell, I had a warm, blazing fire.  I heated some of the water from my canteen and poured it into my styrofoam cup of soup.  I settled myself against the trunk of the nearest tree.  I stirred my soup, took a spoonful, blew on it, and slurped a long, salty wet noodle into my mouth.  Not exactly gourmet, but it reminded me of my college years, and it suited the mood of the evening -- young, free, and just a little out of touch with reality. 

I finished the noodles and threw my head back to drain the last of the liquid from the cup when I noticed a large black feather falling from the tree.  It landed beside me.  I picked it up.  It was sticky.  I brought it near the fire so I could see better.  Deep maroon, still almost black unless the light from the flames glinted just right.  Blood? 

The feather looked too big to be from a duck or woodpecker.  I worried it might be from a falcon, or worse, a bald eagle.  Curious, I fished my flashlight from my backpack and shined it up into the tree I had been leaning against.  The faint beam landed on a dark, feathered body, wings splayed and head tilted askew.  It was a big bird, but probably not an eagle; more likely, just a hawk.  Looked like the predator had become prey.

The light illuminated something else on a branch a little further up the tree.  A deer, or at least what was left of a deer.  Its legs dangled lifelessly, its head flung backwards, exposing the ripped, hollowed underbelly and a few pieces of flesh still clinging to the fur.

A deer?  In a tree?  I'd heard of leopards doing that with their prey, but this was Wyoming, not the Serengeti.  I shined my light back and forth, along the branches, and then dropped it with a clatter at my feet.  I fell to my knees, groping around in the dark, desperate to find it again, while reason fought against what I thought I had just seen.  A human hand, glistening white, dangling from a branch.

I heard a deep-throated growl and froze.  I shifted my head to see two yellow eyes towering above me.  So this is what it was like for Steve Irwin and that guy who lived with the grizzlies.  The last thought flashing through my mind: what was that guy's name?

*****

Today's prompt:

In most parts of the world, Halloween is celebrated – in some form or another – this weekend. Your challenge this week is to write a horror scene (or something horrific) using a wet noodle, a styrofoam cup and a feather.

Predator and Prey

Ash took the bulging manila folder from his briefcase and set it in front of him on the table in the cruiser's only cabin.  A thin fluorescent light swung from the ceiling, casting shadows around the tiny room.  He pulled out the dog-eared pages of the analyst's report.  He glanced over the words, although he had them almost memorized.  Sixteen biological terrorism attacks, innocent civilians, no known motive, no political group claiming responsibility.  Just one man.  He turned to the worn photos.  The aftermath, piles of bloodied bodies, some that looked like they had been blown up from the inside, others that looked like they had imploded.  A photo of stillness, as if the multitude of people were just sleeping, a mid-afternoon siesta.  And a single photo of his target, blurred but enhanced enough to see the man's likeness.  Tall, unusually pale, ice blue eyes.  The eyes marked him.  He would know the man in any crowd by his eyes.

His instructions were simple.  Neutralize him.  But be careful.  Ash must not, by any means, be seen.

That would not be a problem, under normal circumstances, because Ash preferred to hunt by night.  He knew how to slip through the shadows like a lynx, undetected by his prey even at the moment of striking.  But this was different.  His guide had taken him to the wrong island, and he had wasted precious black hours searching for a man who was not there.  As they approached this island -- the right island, he had been assured, and it better be the right island, because he would not be so forgiving a second time -- dawn had already crept in, and slashes of pink rested on the horizon surrounding the lip of the rising sun.  Ash desperately wanted to wait until darkness descended again, but he knew it would be impossible.  His instructions emphasized it must be done now, and he was already hours behind schedule.  He would have to improvise.

Ash brusquely swept the pages and photos back into the folder, returned it to the briefcase, and pushed the bag under the bed.  He hadn't really needed to look over the information again, anyway.  But anger and disgust helped him be more efficient.  He felt the fury pulse in his veins.  He was ready.

He climbed to the deck of the cruiser and watched as the island came into focus.  Black sand beaches leading into a thick jungle overgrowth.  Very good.  The hunter would feel right at home.  He relaxed a little, feeling that his job may not be too difficult after all.

The captain cut the cruiser's power, and they drifted the boat to shore.  The crew busied themselves with boxes of medical supplies to be delivered to the doctor, their cover should the natives become curious about the strange men landing on their island.  Ash slipped away silently, disappearing into the dense canopy.

The island was small, merely a few miles radius.  Ash moved lithely, traveling in a circle, alert to the sounds of the waking jungle, closing in tighter and tighter around the village.  Soon, distant voices drifted to his ears.  He moved in their direction.  He found a clearing, saw several grass huts.  He readied his weapon, then crept closer, confident in the camouflage of the trees and vines.  There.  To his left.  His target.

Ash hesitated.  Something wasn't right.  The man in front of him was stripped down to his ragged jeans, his tan chest bare, as were his dust-covered feet.  A dozen small, dark, laughing children surrounded him, and they kicked a hollowed out coconut shell back and forth between them.  The coconut rolled in front of the man, and just as he was about to kick it, a tiny boy snaked in front of him for a steal.  The man threw back his head, his laughter loud and raucous, and Ash saw the sun glint off his perfect white teeth.

Ash sucked in his breath.  The man snapped his head in his direction, their eyes met.  Ash felt the blood in his veins turn to ice, fingers skittering through his body before closing around his heart.  In the milliseconds before his heart exploded, he did not see his life flash before his eyes.  Instead, he saw the bloodied bodies, the hollow eyes, the piles of victims he failed.

*****

Today's prompt:
Include this theme in your story… After a long night, a hunter sees something he/she cannot believe.

Kneading

Vivian lit the trio of lavender tea candles, put a CD of nature sounds in the player, and adjusted the volume to a gentle trickle filling the room.  She turned to her client, naked under a slightly warmed flannel sheet in the middle of the room.  It had been cold last night; she didn't want her catching a chill.

She moved to the top of the table and folded the sheet down to expose Monica's bare back.  She reached for the bottle of ylang ylang massage lotion and squeezed a liberal amount into her palm.  She brusquely rubbed her hands together and smoothed them around Monica's shoulders.

Vivian closed her eyes and sighed, letting her hands move instinctively, searching out the tight knots embedded along the neck.  Monica had such a lovely energy about her.  It was because she was a mother.  There was something about mothers -- they were always so giving, sending so much positive energy out into the world.  Not every mother, she knew, but Monica was one of the good ones.

Vivian found a particularly stubborn knot and paused to give it a little extra attention.  She pressed her thumb into the heart of it, rotated, wiggled it just a little.  She felt it release.  Monica sighed, and Vivian felt her body release a little, too.  Ah, this was going to be a good session, she could tell.

Vivian worked her fingers up through the base of the neck, up to the cranium.  She felt a tightening under her fingers right behind the jawline.  Monica must have been fighting with her husband recently.  Vivian massaged the area with her index finger, felt it leading down the side of her neck, so she followed.  She followed the tightness across her shoulder, around the curve of the shoulder blade, pausing to jiggle it a little, feeling the release.  It ended just under her arm.  Smooth, the whole path was smooth now.  Monica wouldn't be having any more of those tension headaches for awhile.

Vivian added a little more pressure as she moved down her back, pushing then pulling the muscles into submission.  She moved to the side and worked along the spine.  She heard a little pop, and then another, as the vertebrae slid back into place.  Vivian took pride in knowing most of her clients didn't need a chiropractor.  During a session with her, everything just kind of melted into balance.

She lightened her touch as she reached the spot in the middle of Monica's back.  This was a touchy area, she knew.  She'd once asked if Monica had ever had a traumatic injury, ever been in a car accident or injured herself playing sports.  No, Monica didn't remember any such thing.  Vivian knew then; it was something deeper, more traumatic, not talked about.  Something when she was very young.  Vivian always approached it with great care, and she noticed it was healing a little bit more each time she worked on her.  If Monica did choose to ever bring the trauma to the surface again, she'd be surprised at how much better it is now.  It was one of the gifts Vivian gave her clients without them knowing.

Vivian paused and squeezed more lotion into her hand.  She took Monica's arm in her hands, smoothed over the large muscles, worked her way to wrists and pressed into the fleshy palm of Monica's hand.  She noticed the callous marks from finger nails of clenched fists.  Tension here, too.  She stretched each finger, rotated the hand until it eased softly back onto the sheet.

Vivian pulled the sheet up over Monica's back, moved to the bottom of the table and folded the sheet away from Monica's legs.  She repeated the motions along the large muscles, and then pulled up her stool to sit while she worked on Monica's feet.  The feet told everything.  Monica needed a gentle touch today, and Vivian gently prodded the heel, rolled her knuckles into the arch, walked her thumbs across the toes.

She replaced the sheet, moved to the top of the table, and gently brushed her hands down Monica's covered body, corralling the negative energy and moving it down the planes and banishing out of her body.  She looked at the clock.  The hour was up.  She spoke softly, telling Monica to take her time getting up.  She walked to a back bathroom and waited until she heard Monica stirring, waited longer until it was quiet again.

Monica's face shone when Vivian came back into the room.

"You are amazing," Monica said.  She rolled her neck back and forth.  "I feel so good.  And it's never the same massage twice.  You're very intuitive."

Vivian smiled, hoping Monica didn't notice the hint of sadness behind it.

"Thank you.  Yes, you're right, I am.  But it's a blessing and a curse.  See, people can't lie to me."

Monica looked puzzled.

"That's why I don't date much," Vivian said lightly, and Monica laughed as if it were a joke.

"So, I'll see you next week?"  Vivian asked.

"No, sorry, I can only come every other week right now.  Make it the following."

"All right, I'll pencil you in."

Vivian led Monica to the door, watched her get into her car, and waved as she pulled out of the carport.  She walked back inside and found the calendar on her desk.  She looked at all the blank white squares and wrote down "Monica, 10 am" under the 24th.

*****

This week's prompt:   What is your Character's Very Mild SuperPowers?

Righting Wrong

I stood on the round metallic teleportation device in the middle of the room.  I turned to face the only other man in the room.

"When you enter, you should arrive in the southwest corner," the old man said.  "The oval table will be to your right.  He will be sitting at the head of it, of course."

I nodded.  Nervous perspiration broke out in tiny droplets on my upper lip.  I brought my arm up and wiped it away on my sleeve.  I didn't speak for fear my voice would crack.

"You will have only a few seconds before their surprise turns to action.  You must act quickly."

Again, I nodded.  I steadied my voice.

"Should I have my gun drawn already?" I asked.

"No.  That would raise alarms immediately.  Let them see you and wonder first."

I could see the old man had thought this through, over and over, reliving it again and again throughout the long nights leading up to this moment.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly.  I placed my hand on the butt of the gun tucked inside the front of my jeans.  I closed my eyes.

I nodded.

I opened my eyes to see the scene exactly as the old man had described it.  I was in the southwest corner of the room.  The oval table was to my right.  He was sitting at the head of it.  His impeccable black hair, parted down the right, gleamed, the broom bristle mustache twitched under his nose.  His uniform was crisp, and he held his hat casually in his left hand.  The swastika band was blood red around his left bicep.  He threw his head back and laugh, momentarily disconcerting me.  I had never seen more than a frown turning his lips down at the corners.

The men in the room became aware of my presence incrementally, as if in slow motion.  Expressions turned from surprise to confusion to concern as I pulled the gun from its hiding place and trained the sights on the laughing man.  I pulled the trigger and blood erupted from the clean white shirt beneath his jacket.  The smile faded from his lips as I pumped three more shots into his chest.  The room felt silent for a millisecond, and then a buzzing roar filled my ears.  I let the gun drop from my fingers, bouncing innocuously at my feet with a clatter against the hard wood floor.  I was tackled and fell to the ground next to it.

I waited for the crack that would signal the bullet meant for me.  It didn't come.  Two burly men rolled me onto my back, and I felt cold metal handcuffs coil around my wrists.  They hauled me to my feet, and I stood to face these men, his cronies and accomplices.  They stared back at me in horror, as if I were the butcher of millions instead of the man bleeding lifelessly at their feet.

The two men pushed me through the door, out of the building, into a waiting car.  They drove for miles, and I wondered what would happen next.  A dark dank cell?  Torture?  Encampment and a cyanide shower?  They pulled up in front of another building, pulled me out, pushed me through the door.  They led me down a corridor, turned left, and opened the door to a small room.  They shoved me forward, then turned me around and removed the cuffs from my wrists.  They left me standing in the middle of the room, alone, and I heard the door shut behind me with a click.

The room was sparse but comfortable, a blanketed twin bed in the corner, a round table and wooden chair in the middle.  A few books, a pad of paper, and a pen were stacked on the table.  Behind a small privacy screen were a toilet and a sink protruding from the wall.  And in the corner opposite the bed was a TV.

A TV?  But that hadn't been invented yet.  I blinked back the surprise.  I found a remote control on top.  I picked it up, pushed a button, and watched the images spilling from the screen.

I watched for hours.  Somber announcers with tears in their eyes.  Mourners spontaneously gathering on the stairs of the building I had been taken from, not just blond-haired, blue-eyed mourners, but brown and black mixed in.  A sea of flowers growing like a garden at the top, flowing down the steps like a waterfall.  Similar displays at German embassies in foreign countries.  Interviews with dignitaries from all around the world, in languages I couldn't understand, and then Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"The American people join our hearts to the great people of Germany and share their sorrow during this horrendous moment in history.  We honor this man who has done so much to further peace and prosperity in the world.  We vow to continue his fight against the very thing that took his life: blind hatred enforced by violence.  We will not stop or falter until every weapon has been safely buried in the ground.  Even in these darkest moments, his legacy shines brightly before us, a beacon to follow, and he will go down in history as the greatest man ever born."

Dear God, what have I done?

*****

Today's prompt:

Your Main Character is a time traveler. He/She arrives at a destination but not all is as expected….