#fridayflash: In Short Order

He drags on the cigarette and lets the smoke out through his nostrils in a gray-blue plume. It clashes with the red vinyl of the stools, chairs and pocked countertop. A lump of adobe which used to be a pile of donuts fossilizes under a glass cover at the L-turn. A waitress is smacking her gum and flipping through pages of a bright magazine with tattered corners and a permanent crease in the center.

He swipes absently at his straight hair and sweeps it out of his eyes. He stares at the dossier in front of him and shifts in his uncomfortable booth seat. The ash from his smoke is three quarters of an inch long, but he doesn’t notice. His heavy brows are drawn over coal-colored eyes as he reads the forms.

Six women. All missing in the last three months, give or take. All of them traceable to this area and no farther. One in particular has his attention. A pretty brunette named Cindy Wilkes. Her photo is like a model’s head shot. She’s in professionally done make-up, her hair delicately coifed around her slender face, one hand on her cheek. A tiny rhinestone winks from its bed in her painted fingernail. It’s that little stone that captures his attention. A distinctive mark someone would recognize if they saw it.

A meaty, cigar-choked voice from the back grinds into the dining room. “Order up!”

He glances up at the clatter of a stoneware plate on the metal pass-through shelf, and the waitress brushes her palms on the tiny scallop-edged apron cinched around her waist. She pats her hair into place, but the plastic shield of her hair spray gave up hours ago. She grips the edge of the platter with the pads of her fingers, careful not to damage the manicure which cost more than her pink polyester uniform. The tag bouncing from the top of one boob reads “Madeline”.

Madeline spins on squeaking orthopedic shoes, tattered from years of hard floors and hard shifts. Still smacking gum behind bright scarlet lipstick, her cheap pantyhose swish against her skirt as she rounds the corner to his table.

“Here ya go,” she says around the gum. One edge of the plate bangs onto the pitted Formica and Madeline slides it with practiced ease behind the dossier. She drops her weight onto one leg and thrusts her hip out to catch the hand which falls on it. “That it for ya?”

He doesn’t look up. “Can I get more coffee?” he says, but doesn’t meet her eyes. His fall back on the page.

“Yeah, gimme a minute,” she sighs, and doesn’t hide her exasperation.

He juts his chin forward to acknowledge her statement, but when she turns her back to him he looks up. “Hey, wait a sec.”

She stops. Her posture screams irritation when she turns back to him, hand on hip again. “Yeah?”

“Let me ask you something.”

“I already told you, apple, cherry and blueberry.”

“No, not that. Look at these pictures.”

She exhales frustration through her nose and paces back to the table, where he’s spreading a series of 3×5 photographs over the dossier folder.

“Ever seen any of these girls?” he says, and looks up at her for the first time since he came in an hour ago. It took him forty-five minutes to get around to ordering.

Madeline puts one palm on the sticky table top, the other still on her hip. She gazes at the photos, touching each one with a long, hooked nail before moving to the next. He watches her face, and sees something flash on it.

Recognition, maybe.

“Seen ‘em?” he says, and watches her closely.

She stands and shakes her head. “I dunno. Lotta people come through here on their way to someplace else, y’know? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. None of ‘em look familiar.”

“None of ‘em? How ‘bout this one?” He points to the photo of Cindy Wilkes, taps it.

“Nah, not really. Why? You a cop?”

“No, I ain’t a cop,” he lies. “But all these girls were around here recently. Sure you’ve never seen ‘em? Maybe they came in here to eat?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Maybe one of the other girls who work here. You know, day shift.”

He nods. “Okay. Thanks.” But he’s not convinced.

He watches from the corner of his eye as she squeaks back toward the kitchen and bangs through the swinging door. He hears her chattering and that grindy-smoke voice answers, but he can’t hear what they say.

He takes a bite of his burger, and something hard stops his jaw from chewing. He fishes his fingers into his mouth in search of the foreign matter, brows drawn over his raven eyes again. He finds it and pulls it out.

His breath catches in his throat and his heart spikes when he sees it, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He feels the nausea swirl in his stomach as horror freezes his blood.

A fingertip. A delicate fingertip, with a broken painted nail on it, a tiny rhinestone embedded in the lacquer.

He’s too busy vomiting on the table to hear Madeline come out of the kitchen with the shotgun in her hands.

~end~

Morning Commute

Eddie sat in his usual corner at the back of the train car on the upper deck, face turned to the window. He didn’t look at me when I got to the top of the stairs at the front of the car. Usually he smiles. A woman in the front seat opposite us on the lower level was the only other person in the car. She had a pastel pink and yellow blanket over her outstretched legs, feet on the facing seat, head tipped onto her shoulder. The dark outside tarred the windows. Only stray piercings of light got through when a car passed or a street light went by.

The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed and the speaker crackled.

An automated voice droned “The next stop will be … Lake Townsend.”

Eddie looked rumpled, battered. His clothes looked disheveled, unkempt. It took a minute to register, because it was out of his nature. He was always pressed and energetic, ready with a smile and greeting. I’ve been riding the train with him every morning for six years now, and he never once failed to offer a bright morning start.

He drew a sigh and I sat in the seat next to him. I know, sitting right next to him wasn’t really a “guy” thing, but something was bothering him. Then the train creaked and the wheels ground. It rocked gently on the tracks and got underway.

“Eddie?” My voice seemed loud in the empty car. “Eddie, you okay? You look like hell, man.”

He sighed again. “Do I? I feel like hell too.”

I swallowed. He didn’t turn to face me, just kept staring out the window. When we passed streets, I saw few if any lights on the road. A dark late-autumn day, wet and cool. It was like being in a cave. The brightness in the train car deepened the dank.

“What … everything okay?” I didn’t know what to say.

“No … no it’s not.”

I shifted in the uncomfortable silence. I opened my mouth to prompt him again but he cut me off.

“Something happened on Friday.”

“This past Friday? The thirteenth?”

“Yeah.” He drew a third sigh. “I was on my way home. You know, I’m one of the last riders on the last train at the last stop. Sometimes the conductors don’t even check on me after they get the ticket. I don’t think they’d stop if they didn’t have to.”

I waited a moment for him. He finally continued.

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Rock-a-Bye Bully

I stood in the fresh country air, feet on the lower runner of a split rail fence, elbows on the upper. The strong sun beat down from behind the hazy clouds in the cadet blue sky and beaded sweat from under my long, silky bangs. The tall grass tickled in the muggy breeze and bugs buzzed and whined somewhere in it.

In the distance the trees seemed dense. Jungle dense. To a west coast kid, this place was like Africa or South America. It felt like being in the Amazon basin, and I expected night time to be filled with alien sounds of nocturnal animals crying their bloodthirsty wails into the stillness at the moon.

But it’s only Kentucky, and

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Western-Fantasy Vignette #1

A short (less than 2400 words) vignette with a western flair, but a fantasy foundation.

I had a dream several weeks ago, and this was the dream.  There’s another piece of it, too, though it seemed unrelated in how diverse the scenes were.  I’ll get to that one soon, I hope.

Enjoy, and please feel free to let me know what you think.  I appreciate the read!

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He lowered his haunches onto his broken, dust-caked boots.

His fingers touched into the powdery, silver dust in the dirt.  The fine, flour-like granules blew into a tiny cloud and wafted on the air currents along the tops of the more grainy, sandy gravel and grit of the box canyon.

He held it up to his eyes, narrowed them, and rubbed his fingertips over it.

Platinum.

His brows drew lower over his face beneath the brim of his battered hat, and he tugged it lower on his head.  He rubbed his hand over his stubble-crusted chin.

Not far.  Somewhere in the canyon, probably.

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A Jog in the Park

By now, my dad knows I’m missing.

I don’t know where I am.  I’m lying in sand.  I was running, running through a park.  Someone came up behind me — I thought it was another runner — and then a sharp pain, on the back of my head.  Blackness, shot through with stars, then a binding over my wrists.  Something over my mouth next.

Pain.  A lot of pain.

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Do Not Enter, Part 5

The end of the story.  If you’re interested in seeing it from the beginning, you can do so from this page.

Thanks for following along, everyone!

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A hot wash of air rushed up from behind Rose.

It raised the hair on her arms and neck and a shudder wracked her body.  She heard her breath, thready and whimpering, rasp in the tight confines.  She felt the air heat, a layer of gleaming, slick sweat caked her skin.  She turned her head, slow, her eyes searching in the dark for the eerie dances of light.

The door stood black against the bright, hot edge of orange and yellow which danced on the wall, and from the crack between the door and jamb.

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Do Not Enter, Part 4

The kiriban prize for one of my faithful and very kind watchers on my deviantART page continues.

Enjoy, everyone.  I think – think – only one more after this.

If you’re interested you can see the whole thing here.

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Rose shook, her eyes darted across the battered pavement.

Nothing.  Utter solitude.

She heard a rasping breath, and her heart spiked.  She yelped and looked over her shoulder, but only the dark square of the building against the bright midday sky stared down on her.  She panted and realized the rasping breath was hers.

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Do Not Enter, Part 3

Here’s another installment of the “Do Not Enter” story, a kiriban prize for one of the terrific watchers on my deviantART page.

I hope you enjoy it.  If you want to catch the whole thing, you can do so here.

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Rose scrabbled up the stone steps on her hands and knees. She tore her weight forward, ripped skin and broke fingernails to the quick. Her rasping breath dragged gulps of dust, dirt, grime. She felt tiny stones stab the soft flesh of her knees and palms. The top of the dark stairwell seemed so far away and her frantic efforts didn’t seem to close the distance.

She exploded through the opening and pulled herself away from it across the splintery subfloor. Daggers of ancient wood sank deep in her hands. She flipped onto her back and skittered away until she slipped and crashed down on the back of her head in the middle of the room.

A new wave of dust puffed motes drifted and glinted in the white, soft daylight. She heaved and panted, stared.

The hole sat innocent, innocuous. A hole in the floor; nothing more.

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Do Not Enter, Part 2

Continuation of “Do Not Enter”, which you can find en totem here.

Thanks for following along!

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Rose came back into the building, the dusty haze still lingering in the sun streaming through the windows.  She held a tiny, silver flashlight from her car’s glove box in one hand, her purse slung over the other.  She pointed the flashlight at her face and clicked the button.  A strong white beam stabbed her eyes.  She snapped it off, blinked the blue-white spot out of her vision, and moved toward the staircase shaft to the grinding sound of grit on the rough floorboard planks.  The thump of her soles on the age-hardened wood seemed deafening.

She set her purse down next to her, and stared at the staircase shaft.

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Do Not Enter, Part 1

So begins a kiriban prize someone won over on my deviantART page.  She captured my 21,000th page view.  This is her prize.

As usual, I used the winner as the main character.  I’ve been moving this along at a steady pace now all weekend.  I started on Friday night.  At this point it’s about 4,100 words long, broken into three scenes, but it’s not over yet.

Anyway, enjoy, everyone.

You’ll be able to catch the whole thing over here as it progresses, if you’re interested.

God bless,
-JDT-

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Rose set her hands on her hips, jolted her whole body and huffed an exasperated breath.  “So … what do we do?”  Her eyes stared into the dark hole in front of her.

Butch stood beside her and fiddled with his Ray-Bans.  “Um … nothing, Rose.  There’s nothing we can do.  That’s why I called you — if we could do something, I’d do it.”

Rose turned to speak but her mouth hung agape for a moment before she snapped it shut.  Butch shrugged.

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