"M" is for Murder

Day 7 of StoryADay September (Yes, I know I missed a day. Life happens!)

The Prompt: 

“A killer is on the loose, having broken into the home of a wealthy woman and left her for dead. He absconded with a few items, then left the initials, ‘M.A.’”

“Whaddya think that means?” Rob pointed to the large “M.A.” scrawled on the cream wall, most likely in the victim’s blood.

Belle sat back on her heels, staring up at the letters. “I’m not sure. Initials, maybe?”

Rob stood still, his hands on his wide hips, pondering the possibilities. “Yeah, could be.”

“What is the victim’s name, again?”

Rob lifted his notebook and flipped a page. “Melinda. Melinda Abernathy.” Rob stared up at the letters again. “Could be her initials, I guess.”

Belle nodded her agreement. She’d already had that thought. Rob’s gaze went back to his notebook. “Her son is looking the house over, to see what’s missing.” Belle looked around the room. Polished surfaces were decorated with expensive knick-knacks. Rich oil paintings broke the monotony of the plain walls. Melinda was sprawled face-down on what used to be a lovely Turkish rug, her blood soaking the fine fabric.

“What’s his name?”

“Michael.” Rob stared at Belle, a look of concentration on his face that broke into a wide smile. “Hey, it could be his initials!”

Belle smiled back at Rob over gritted teeth. “Could be. What about her other kids? What are their names?”

“Uhm.. Madison, Mark, and Michelle.” The room was silent while Belle waited for Rob to think it through. “Oh, they all have M names. Could be any of them, yeah?”

Belle nodded tightly and stood from her crouch next to Melinda’s body. “Any other evidence?”

“A few prints. Tess is on those. Lotsa blood from the vic, including those initials,” Rob nodded to the wall behind him.

Rob and Belle turned at the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs. Brent was leading Michael back to the kitchen. Belle followed, stopping in the doorway to listen to the two men.

“Water?” Brent asked Michael, opening the refrigerator. Michael nodded in reply. “Mind if I have one?” Michael shook his head. Brent paused, holding in a sigh, then pulled two bottles of water from the fridge. He slid one to Michael and uncapped the other, taking a long swig.

“Did you notice anything missing?” Brent tried opening the conversation again. Michael nodded. Brent shot his eyes to Belle, anger flickering under the surface. “Wanna tell me what is missing? It might help us figure out what happened here.”

Michael turned the bottle of water in his hands, his eyes drifting over the label. “Pictures.”

“Pictures? Paintings?”

“No.” Michael began peeling the label from the bottle. “Photos. Of me and my brother and sisters.”

Brent looked up to Belle again, not sure what missing pictures might mean. “Were they in expensive frames?”

“No. They were in a photo album.” Michael finally took a drink of his water and looked over his shoulder to Belle standing behind him. “All the photos were from my senior year.” Michael turned his head back to Brent.

“Do you think those pictures would mean anything to anyone outside your family?”

“I don’t know. They were pictures of a bunch of kids. Who’d care about that?” Michael chugged off the rest of the bottle, then threw the bottle across the kitchen to the recycling bin tucked neatly in the corner. “Can I go? I need to tell my sisters what happened.”

“Yeah. We’ll be in touch.” Brent held out his card. “Call me if you think of anything else that is missing.”

“Sure,” Michael stood, then turned and walked to the doorway. Belle pulled back, allowing Michael to pass. His eyes locked with hers for a moment as he moved by.

“Brent, I’m heading back to the station. Keep me posted,” Belle turned and watched Michael move up the stairs before walking out the front door.

In her office, Belle slung her go bag into a chair before pulling the shades closed on her windows. Her eyes drifted to the plaque over her desk: “Detective Maribelle Anderson, Mayors Medal of Honor,” then back to her bag.

She reached into the inner pocket, removing a single picture. Two teenage boys, dressed in tailed tuxes. Two teenage girls, draped in silk and sequins. Four smiling faces. Belle flipped the picture over. “Madison, Mark, Michael, and Maribelle,” was written across the back in Melinda’s curling script.

Belle pulled a lighter from her bag and flicked it on. She held the flame to the corner of the picture and watched the waves of fire curl across the smiling faces.

Heroine

Day 5 of StoryADay September

The Prompt:

Your character is alone in the woods and finds blighted trees, drooping plants…rot and slime everywhere. It once was beautiful but overnight is turning into a swamp–its not natural. Your character must get to the bottom of this and stop it before something they love very much is threatened also.

It was nearing dusk when Trinka stumbled upon the cottage. She thought she knew every bit of this forest. Not knowing the species names for any of the towering trees that lined the paths she traveled every day, Trinka had given each individual tree a name. Brilla was her favorite. Brilla’s arms reached high into the sky, lifting delicate red flowers and fleshy green leaves to the sun’s light.

Brilla also marked the fork in the road. Normally Trinka turned left on her wanderings through the woods, but today she had turned right. The path here twisted through brilliant green shrubs flecked with tiny yellow roses and tall, willowy trees. The scent of the roses danced through the air, settling on Trina’s skin, perfuming her. She smiled and walked on, until she saw the cottage.

It was nestled snuggly in a cluster of white-barked slender trunks. Delicate white gingerbread trim lined the two windows looking out into the woods. Trinka paused, looking at the cottage, listening for sounds of life within. She heard only cicadas thrumming in the woods around her, singing their lullabies.

Trinka approached one of the windows, peering into the shadowed space. A small wooden table claimed the middle of the space, with a plate of goodies resting upon it. Trinka closed her eyes, took a deep breath through her nose, and was rewarded with the faint aromas of bacon and sugar. She opened her eyes, peering intently through the glass. Seeing no one, Trinka stepped over to the door.

Trinka paused with her hand on the door handle. One last moment to give someone a chance to declare themselves. Still nothing. Trinka pushed on the door and followed it into the cottage.

Few of the sun’s dying rays made it over the threshold. Trinka stood still, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. The first thing to come into focus was the plate on the table. Assisted by the aromas in the air, she was able to identify donuts. Maple-bacon donuts. Saliva poured into Trinka’s mouth.

She forced her eyes away from the confections to take in the rest of the cottage. Pressed against the wall to the right was a cot. On the cot was a man. A prince, judging by the fine fabric hugging his well-muscled arms and legs. And the crown upon his head. He was asleep.

Trinka gritted her teeth, and pulled her eyes away from the sleeping beauty. “Not my problem. Not today,” she said to herself, directing her eyes back to the donuts.

As she moved closer to the table, the smell grew stronger. By the time Trinka reached the table’s edge, she was swallowing waves of saliva. She fell to her knees beside the altar of deliciousness, reaching out to capture a donut and draw it to her lips.

Crisp bacon shattered and fell to the tabletop as she bit through the doughy delight. Sweet maple and smoky bacon mingled in her mouth, pulling a moan out from her toes. Trinka turned her head, her eyes darting to the prince. He slept still.

Trinka savored the first donut, scarfed a second, and tucked a third into the pocket of her tunic before rising to her feet. Sugar-drunk, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, mumbled a thank you to the prince, and stumbled out the door.

Trinka was almost halfway back to Brilla when she smelled it. The sulfurous smell of decay. Donuts shifted dangerously in her belly, forcing Trinka to the side of the path to lean on the closest tree. Her hand landed on the bark of the trunk, then pushed into its rotting center. Trinka pulled her hand back, gagging at the site of plump, white maggots swarming on her hand. She doubled over, expelling donuts to the forest floor. “I thought it was only apples. Dammit!”

She stood, surrounded by slowly crumbling timber and shrubbery, gagging again at each push of the rotten breeze. Deciding she couldn’t leave the prince to be swallowed by the decaying forest, Trinka turned back to the cottage.

The once charming building was being swallowed by black vines when Trinka arrived. She unsheathed the sword at her hip, cutting through the coils over the door. Streamers of slime unfurled from each severed vine. Trinka pushed into the cottage, again taking a moment to get her sight back. The smell of donuts was gone from the air, replaced by the smell of sewage. Trinka did not let her eyes drift to the table, pushing them to the prince instead.

So far, he was untouched. Trinka breathed a sigh of resigned relief and stepped to his side. She nudged him with her hand. No response. Poked him gently with her still drawn sword. No response. Tickled his ribs. Still nothing. “I didn’t want to have to do this again,” Trinka said as she sheathed her sword and leaned over the prince.

She stared at his face for a moment, willing his eyes to open on their own before closing her own and lowering her lips to his. She felt the life return to his lips as he pulled air into his lungs, and pulled her deeper into the kiss. She pulled away as he sat up and said, “You’re my heroine.”

Out the Window

Day 4 of StoryADay September

Prompt:

A person wakes up, not quite remembering what happened the night before, and is surprised and upset by what they see outside the window.
(The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams)

Out the Window

Sheila swims up from dreams of fire to the burn of unwelcome sunlight on her lids. She rolls away from the window, the motion rolling through her long after her body has stopped. Slowly her lids drift up, and she meets the day.

“Coffee. Coffee,” Sheila chants as she works her way to her feet, willing the walls to stop wavering. Grounds scatter the counter and floor before the precious liquid makes it to her mug. She clutches the beverage tightly in two hands, inhaling the sweet smell of caffeine glory as she shuffles toward the front of her house.

Shade trees block the worst of the sun’s rays, allowing her to stand near her sofa looking out at the fresh day. Blue jays jabber at each other, fighting for optimum position at the bird feeder. A squirrel waits below, picking up the spoils of war.

Sheila’s eyes skim over the animals, the grass, the pavement. They stop at the sidewalk’s edge. “What is that?” Sheila asks the squirrel. The squirrel doesn’t answer, just continues digging through the grass for scattered seed.

After a fortifying slug of coffee, Sheila slips her feet into sandals left helter-skelter by the door. Squirrel and birds flee when the front door swings open, spilling Sheila out into the world.

Now the slap of sandals is the only sound in the day. The sandals carry Sheila to the sidewalk and stop at the pile. Sheila nudges it gently with a sandaled foot before squatting down beside it. She lifts the top item, holding it up for a better look. A white tank top. Sheila looks down at the pile, and sifts through the remaining items. A simple white bra, pink lacy panties, a long purple skirt, two feather earrings, and a pair of green flip flops.

An image of the outfit dancing around a large bonfire flickers in Sheila’s mind.

“This is what Tracy was wearing last night,” Sheila mumbles to herself. She stands, still holding a feathered earring in her hand, and looks down the street. At the corner she sees another pile on the sidewalk. Sheila walks toward it.

“What the hell,” Sheila asks the second pile of clothes. This pile has a pair of cowboy boots, two white socks, jeans, blue boxer-briefs, a gray T-shirt, and a black baseball cap. Sheila doesn’t know the clothes belong to.

She stands over the pile and closes her eyes, partly to block out the bright light of day and partly to focus on the fleeting glimpses running across her mind. A bonfire. A group of women dancing. An old book. A lot of alcohol. A party at Jasmine’s house. That’s where she was last night, Sheila finally remembers.

Worried now about Tracy, wondering why her clothes were piled outside of her house, Sheila walks toward the site of the bonfire party. Along the way she encounters several more piles of clothes and accessories.

The worst is the small pile nestled inside a large stroller. With a binky laying neatly on top. Sheila stands for a long moment, one hand brushing the soft blanket draped over the pile of baby garments.

She continues walking. She sees no one. Only scattered piles.

At Jasmine’s, the front yard is marked by five piles. Sheila scans over them, not able to make herself investigate which of her friends they represent. She moves through the gate to the backyard.

Smoke is still rising in a thin stream from the ashes of the bonfire. The area around the bonfire is littered with more piles. Open on the picnic table to the right is the old book that had flickered across Sheila’s memory. She moves toward it, avoiding the piles in her path.

Sheila stops and looks down at the aged parchment. She closes her eyes and remembers. Tom, the guy that followed her through the grocery store last week. That found her yesterday at the park. That tracked down her phone number and called twice. She just wanted him to stop.

Sheila opens her eyes, reading the words scripted across the top of the page Leave Me Alone.

“This wasn’t what I meant.”

Fun House

Day 3 of StoryADay September.

The Prompt:

Your character is lost in a maze with the instructions to find a very important document or treasure hidden in its center. Or perhaps the character has lost this important thing, and must find it before the wrong person does.

“Let’s go to the fair,” she said. “It’ll be fun,” she said. Literally, those were Clara’s words.

I had no interest in the fair. Cows, goats, chickens, and deep-fried everything held no appeal for me. What did appeal to me was Clara. I was into Clara.

It turned out the Clara wasn’t into the animals and food, either. She was into carnival rides. After two roller coasters, a spinning room with a dropping floor, and the Ferris wheel she drug me to the Maze of Mirrors.

It was late on a weeknight, so the few people who had been keeping us company were drifting away. We were alone in the funhouse.

Clara darted ahead, laughing as she dodged around corners. I followed, searching the glass in the flashes of light for a glimpse of her. Her laugh and smile bounced around me, pinging from one mirror to another.

The more I focused on the flashes of her face, the harder she was to see. I struggled to keep up, to follow the echoes of her voice as her laugh turned to a cackle.

I was frustrated with this game of cat and mouse. I wanted to catch her, now, but it felt like I was moving slower and slower, falling further behind.

Out of breath, I stopped. Gasping, trying to capture the air around me, I turned my focus from the hunt for Clara to the mirror inches in front of my face. An old man stared back at me.

I wheezed out an attempted scream and backed up a step, crashing into the mirror behind me. I sunk to the floor. The old man in the mirror sunk to the floor with me.

I turned onto all fours, crawling and dragging myself around the next corner, hoping to see the exit. Instead I found more mirrors.

My arms collapse, dropping me down onto the rough wood floor. I stared at the old man in the mirror, watching him grow older. Watching him turn to dust.

Clutch

Day 2 of StoryADay September.

The Prompt:

Your character’s an extremely talented pickpocket. He learned the skill when he was young and poor. Now he has a good job, a healthy bank account, and a respectable lifestyle, but he thinks it’s a shame to let such remarkable talent go to waste.

Clutch

I see him the moment I step into the ballroom. A blonde in a red sequined shift is draped over the left arm of his tux.

His right hand moves up, smoothing over his already slick hair. The raise of his arm reveals the weight hidden in his inner right jacket pocket. A wallet.

It’s been a long time since I’ve lifted one. There is no need to lift one now. But I am tempted to test my skills, see what I can win.

A smile flirts across my lips, my hands slipping down over my hips, straightening the cream-colored silk that flows from my shoulders.

I move through the room, establishing myself as a hugger. He smiles when he sees me, disentangling the blonde from his arm at my approach. “Julie, it’s been a long time.” He closes the distance between us.

I slide into his embrace, my hands skimming the surface of his shirt and jacket. He lingers a moment longer than he should. As I pull away, his wallet falls into the small clutch around my wrist.

I smile up at him, then look over his shoulder, moving on to my next admirer. “It is good to see you, George.”

I quickly work my way across the room, eager to escape and see what I have. Safely locked in a bathroom stall, I open my clutch and lift the worn brown leather laying inside. I flick past photos, ID, credit cards, and cash. A small haul, only eighty dollars. The payoff is the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

A plastic card slips from my fingers and falls at my feet. Emblazoned in gold foil are the words ‘The Royal Palms.’ The number 903 is etched on the back.

I close my eyes, imagining what I might find in the hotel room. A safe to pick. Jewelry left laying on the counter. Cash tucked into a suitcase. But I will have to move fast, before George notices he is missing something.

I tuck the card and wallet back into my clutch and head for a taxi. The drive to the hotel is long, my adrenaline surges with every mile. Deep breaths hold me together.

I skip the elevator, dodging most of the security cameras. Nine flights of stairs is too much for heels, so I slip them off and hike up my skirt for the climb.

I pause outside room 903, my hand resting on the surface of the door, my ear pressed against the smooth surface. I listen. I hear only the soft sound of forced air. I scan the key card and slip into the room.

I push the door closed behind me and drop my shoes to the floor. My eyes enter the room and I freeze. George is sitting on the bed, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “Julie. I was hoping it would be you.”

I keep my face calm, steady, the jumble of thoughts inside my head safely tucked away.

“This is a bit awkward, isn’t it?” George sets his bag of popcorn aside, and stands. “What do you think it’s going to cost you?”

I reach into my clutch for the only item I started the evening with. “Only another little piece of my soul,” I answer George as I pull the trigger.

 

The Kiss

Day 1 of StoryADaySeptember.

The Prompt: Today, write a story that features people disappearing.

Kissing Jake was a bad idea.

I knew how it would end. The same thing happened when I kissed Ben. And James. And John. And Dashiell. And Trent. And Sarah. Let’s not forget Sarah. I really thought it would be different with her.

Even knowing it would end badly, I couldn’t resist. Jake is just so… yummy. And kissing is so much fun. I’ve been staring at Jake’s lips for over a year, wondering how it would feel to touch them with mine. Wondering if he was the one, convincing myself this time everything would work out well.

So I did it. We were face to face, close enough that I could feel the drift of his breath against my cheek, making the tiny hairs on my face stand on end. I breathed him in, pulling his essence deep into me and leaned in.

My lips grazed his, all of my air escaping on a sigh. Jake pushed closer to me, taking in my air and exchanging for it his own. One moment of complete and perfect connection.

Then he disappeared.

I opened my eyes as the cool air replaced his warm lips on mine. “Shit. Every time,” I said to the boy who wasn’t there.

This made seven. Seven people I have kissed into oblivion. Not in a good way.

I plopped down on the hip-high brick wall behind me, kicking my heels against the rough surface as punishment. I was so sure that Jake was the one. The one I was meant to be with, the one I could kiss without him disappearing. I needed to find the person I was meant for soon, before I decimated the population of Ironwood.

A black mustang pulled into the parking lot, tires squealing in protest at the sharp, quick turn into a parking space. The driver’s side door opened, allowing Mark to unfold his long limbs and escape the tight interior. Damn, I didn’t need this right now. I couldn’t deal with the human I hated most after making the one I loved disappear.

His eyes landed on me, causing his lips to curl into a grin. “Kelsie. Were you waiting for me?” he called as he began swinging his legs in my direction.

I started to tell him “Hell, no,” but then saw the opportunity in front of me. No one else was here. The parking lot was empty of cars other than Mark’s. I could make him go away. Forever.

I allowed my face to relax into a welcoming, sultry smile. “Yes, actually, I was waiting for you.”

Mark’s feet paused, a quick hitch revealing that I had thrown him off. His face stayed smooth as silk. “Really?” His feet resumed their rolling rhythm as he closed the distance. He didn’t stop walking until his toes touched the brick beneath me, his legs leaning against the wall between my own.

I settled a hand on his chest, battling the urge to push him sharply away. I forced my fingers to curve into him, gripping the fabric of his faded T and pulling him toward me.

I swallowed hard, hoping he thought I was swallowing excess saliva and not the bile that was burning the back of my throat.

Mark’s eyes drifted closed as his grin became expectant. I had him.

I pulled him in close and took a steadying breath before I allowed my lips to meet his. His reaction was intense, his hands finding their way to me, one twining gently into the hair at my nape, the other sliding around my waist to nestle in the small of my back.

I felt the pull of his breath on mine and realized this was the longest kiss I had ever had. I pushed hard on his chest, forcing Mark to take a step away and open his eyes.

He was the one. Shit. 

When Stephen King and Scott Westerfeld mingle in my mind

I have several TBR lists. One for fiction, one for nonfiction, and another specifically for books about writing and the writing industry. The result is that at any given moment, I am in the middle of at least three books. The result is often like walking through a chemistry lab and choosing random chemicals to mix together. You never know what will happen.

Currently, I am rereading On Writing by Stephen King. At the same time, I read Afterworlds by Scott Westerfeld. These two had some interesting interactions in my mind.

King talks about the level of detail he likes to use in descriptions of character and setting. He is a bit of a minimalist, giving the reader a few small pieces and letting them fill in the rest. The result is that any character in a Stephen King novel isn’t really one that King created. The character is really created by the interaction of his chosen details and how the reader interprets and fills in the rest of the picture.

This got me thinking about movies. I don’t tend to like the movie versions of books I love. Partly because the story changes. But I think my real issue is that there is no interaction. In a movie, the visuals are determined for me. The director, actors, and other crew involved present their interpretation of the characters and setting to me. As a viewer, you are not involved in the creative process.

This is where Scott Westerfeld comes into play.

In Afterworlds, Westerfeld brings up what he calls the Anjelina Jolie paradox. Here’s the premise: When Anjelina Jolie is cast in a movie, that means that the world the movie occurs in is one in which Anjelina Jolie does not exist. Otherwise, people would comment on how much the character looks like Anjelina Jolie.

What follows from that is the movie version of a book actually occurs in a different world than the book did!