JSW Prompt 3-10-2017

151dfc7f6b64dc5fe57f55e38750544b

“Nothing,” she replied calmly.

“Right, so how come you aren’t looking at me?”

“Really, Jeremy? Psychoanalyzing me now?”

“I’m sorry, darling, but….”

“But what?” She sniffed dismissively. “You think I’m some murderer?”

That came out of nowhere. “No, I just wanted to know if you were burying treasure in our backyard.” Where had the murderer comment come from? Even as he wondered, he didn’t really want to know. Guilt was a strong motivator, but what did she have to feel guilty for?

“I’ve got to go to work,” she replied, taking up her purse.

“Of course.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m grilling tonight.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Would there, he wondered, be grilling tonight?

He watched her drive away, mind still wrestling with the question of the garden. Maybe, he was wrong. It had happened before.

Maybe she had been burying food scraps or… a dead mouse she’d found in the yard….. or…. He pushed such thoughts away. Forced himself to clean up the breakfast dishes before heading to his home office. No patients today, but he had piles of papers to work through.

By lunchtime, his curiosity overwhelmed him and he had to go to the garden. Taking a trowel, he walked to where she’d been digging. Did he really want to know? Was it worth breaking her trust to find something meaningless like a dead mouse? Their cat brought in dead creatures all the time, but Kathy had never buried them before.

Kneeling, he started turning soil. Murderer didn’t mean she’d really killed somebody, he told himself. She would consider herself a murderer if she’d accidentally killed said mouse. That didn’t make her ‘one who murders’ or was he just finding excuses?

Maybe her paranoia was returning. Or maybe his. Maybe she’d had an affair, thought he wasn’t sure how that might equal digging in the garden.  Maybe…..

He kept digging until his trowel hit something hard.

Daily Post One Word Prompt – Yellow (Gone, Pt 3) 1-29-2017

Yellow

Gone, Part 3

Yellow. As in piss poor. Rubber ducks. The sun. Lemonade. Flowers. And dead if the man heading into the bank didn’t perform up to snuff. He’d wanted to kill the bait before, had argued for it, but had been overridden. Nobody wanted to listen. Nobody wanted to believe.

Yellow.

It was dangerous to use one piece of bait too long. Too dangerous, not only to the bait – which didn’t matter to him – but to the job. There was always more bait. There wouldn’t be another mission should this one fail.

He drew in a long breath, not looking at the asshole beside him or the rest of the team watching from above; strategically placed around the street corner on which the bank was situated.

“Good afternoon, Mr Marshall. I hope for a productive meeting.”

“I am sure it will be, Mr. Jenkins. I am sure.”

Listened to the sound of walking. The rustle of clothes. The almost silent breath. Checking the bait’s vitals on the machine beside him, he cursed. The bait was going to panic; he’d been waiting for this to happen. You don’t pluck bait from the street and expect them to function in the high-stress situation of a mission. This one had lasted longer than the others. He’d almost believed things would work out this time.

More fool, he.

The sound of a door opening and closing.

“This will be suitable for your review, I hope?”

“Yes, fine.”

More rustling. The thump of a briefcase laid upon the table.

“I will call you when I am done.”

“Very well,” the bank manager replied, clearly reluctant to leave. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” the bait said a moment later. “I’ll give you a call.”

Rustle of clothing and the squeak of door hinges opening and closing.

Now, the fun began.

Gone, Part 1

Gone, Part 2

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2017 WEEK #03

 

The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Thursday morning, January 12th. Allow the prompt to take you anywhere you want to go! (Limit your stories to 200 words.)

This challenge is open until 11:00 pm Wednesday night, January 18th, 2017.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner

man

The statue of Man faced the building, across a paved courtyard, like an omen. An omen for what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the statue’s blank eyes or the glass facade of the building, but he actually hesitated. Not for long, but long enough.

Hands in pants pockets, he regarded both, statue and building. He’d learned to trust his instincts: they were shouting at him to walk away. Why?

He didn’t take walking away lightly. In his price range, it wasn’t wise. Still, stepping back to wait for another opportunity was acceptable. He had no interest in returning payment, but neither was he going to turn stupid and miss the chance to spend the money.

He dialed a number on a cell he’d soon throw away. “Carter. You checked the Client?” Of course, he had, but asking never hurt. And asking would tell Carter things he didn’t want to put into words while in public.

“Don’t I always? The money’s good; it’s in the bank.”

“Look again. Deeper.”

“Davis?” A pause. “Okay.”

Davis looked at the statue once more – the building – and walked away.