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 Aspiring Writers – Week 1-10 to 01-16-2017

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This week’s photo prompt is provided by Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode. Thank you Louise!

Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

1. A prompt photo will be provided each Tuesday to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.

2. Linking for this challenge begins on Tuesday and runs to the following Monday evening.

3. Please credit photo to photographer.

4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.


They stepped onto the boat, woman flinching as the deck tilted beneath her, gentleman assisting her to a seat. He chose to stand at the stern, clear view to where she sat.

He should have killed her the minute she knew, but he hadn’t. And he was pretty pissed at himself for not having done so. With so many ways she might destroy him, he needed to find out how she’d known.

Besides, a watery grave was no better, nor worse, than one landlocked.

The cool of the night surrounded him, moonlight sparkling off water, beautiful against the garish lights of the taxi. So much to do before he abandoned his life here. He’d liked living here, loved it in fact. But done is done.

He’d only taken his gaze from her for an instant, but when he looked again she was no longer in her seat. His eyes searched the boat, nostrils flared, but no matter what he thought, wanted, or believed, she was gone.

Sunday Photo Fiction – November 6th 2016

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“Humph,” was all he said by way of admitting the broken statue concerned him. I knew better than to expect more though I always hoped for the real truth, his real feelings and concerns, hopes and dreams and whether the cat should be outdoors, indoors, or both.

“Get somebody in,” he said, opening the door and stepping through into the dim hallway beyond. As if he knew he’d been discussed, the cat scooted out around his legs, stopping to look furtively at me before hurrying off to wherever it was cats went in the daytime.

I started the daunting process of finding someone who might be able to repair a broken statue. Forty-five minutes later, I’d found an artist who, thought he did not know if the statue was fixable or whether he could fix it in such a case, he at least agreed to come out and look.

The artist arrived and, after a minuscule inspection, thought he might be able to help. The door opened and he was invited inside to discuss price. I started dialing again, hoping to find another willing artist. After that, I would spend my day working up the disaster for tomorrow.


JSW Prompt 7-23-2016

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He humphed, looking pointedly away so I’d know he was miffed. As if I couldn’t read him better than ‘Dick and Jane’ any day. But a dreamer needs dreams and, God knows, he needed something.

I wasn’t fine, but no way was I telling. I’d be down, bagged and back in prison by sunset. And that, despite dreams, was so not going to happen.

He needed me out. I needed to be out, so here we were.

I ordered a drink. Gotta love an open bar.

He frowned. “This isn’t a Holiday.”

“Want me to fit in? This is a wealth-of-the-wealthy party. Not having a drink would cause questions.”

Bullshit, but I hadn’t had a drink in five years. I was going to make the best damn use of the time as possible.

“Look, you’re messing my rhythm. Try to look a little less like an ass at a pony show.”

A gaggle of beauties flittered by. I smiled, showing just enough interest to – almost – be rude, but not quite. They giggled and hurried on.

Chances lost and all that.

I surveyed the ball room. My, my, oh my. It’d been too long since I’d seen this much bling in one place. The sight was almost sexual. Not quite,  you understand, but almost. There again, five years.

I sipped scotch. There is a certain dynamic to a ball room. Once known, anything is possible.

“Do you see it?” he whispered.

“Not with you in my ear. We didn’t come as boyfriends.”

Which set him back a few steps.

“You brought me here to save your ass from a serious whooping. Let me do my job.”

While he chewed that, I walked away.

 

Read of the Week – The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie (Flavia de Luce #1)

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“It is not unknown for fathers with a brace of daughters to reel off their names in order of birth when summoning the youngest, and I had long ago become accustomed to being called ‘Ophelia Daphne Flavia, damn it.”
Alan Bradley, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

“A peculiar feeling passed over me–or, rather, through me, as if I were an umbrella remembering what it felt like to pop open in the rain.”
Alan Bradley, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie


It is the summer of 1950–and at the once-grand mansion of Buckshaw, young Flavia de Luce, an aspiring chemist with a passion for poison, is intrigued by a series of inexplicable events: A dead bird is found on the doorstep, a postage stamp bizarrely pinned to its beak. Then, hours later, Flavia finds a man lying in the cucumber patch and watches him as he takes his dying breath.

For Flavia, who is both appalled and delighted, life begins in earnest when murder comes to Buckshaw. “I wish I could say I was afraid, but I wasn’t. Quite the contrary. This was by far the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me in my entire life.”

Goodreads


I was pleasantly surprised by The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, the first in a series depicting the adventures of Flavia de Luce.  I normally don’t enjoy mysteries set in the past, but Flavia quickly won me over with her sharp wit, swift thinking, and quirky view of the world. The abundance of descriptive images was, at first, overwhelming, but, as I became used to Flavia’s way of relating to the world, I found myself thoroughly enjoyed Mr. Bradley’s writing style.

I actually listened to this book on CD, a definite plus to my enjoyment. The reader’s voice fit Flavia perfectly, making it easy for me to relate to her depths (or lack thereof).  Unlike the ‘adultness’ of some children detectives, Flavia, nerdy scientist that she is, also exhibits moments of childish fears and glee as she methodically winds her way through the dark alleys and dead ends of the mystery.

A definite must-read if you enjoy twist, turns and razor-wit in your mysteries. I’m looking forward to another fun ride with Miss Flavia in book 2, The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag.


“Seed biscuits and milk! I hated Mrs. Mullet’s seed biscuits the way Saint Paul hated sin. Perhaps even more so. I wanted to clamber up onto the table, and with a sausage on the end of a fork as my scepter, shout in my best Laurence Olivier voice, ‘Will no one rid us of this turbulent pastry cook?”
Alan Bradley, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

“I found a dead body in the cucumber patch,’ I told them.

‘How very like you,’ Ophelia said, and went on preening her eyebrows.”
Alan Bradley, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

 

Book of the Week – The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins

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The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins

“Hollowness: that I understand. I’m starting to believe that there isn’t anything you can do to fix it. That’s what I’ve taken from the therapy sessions: the holes in your life are permanent. You have to grow around them, like tree roots around concrete; you mold yourself through the gaps”
Paula Hawkins, The Girl on the Train

Rachel takes the same commuter train every morning. Every day she rattles down the track, flashes past a stretch of cozy suburban homes, and stops at the signal that allows her to daily watch the same couple breakfasting on their deck. She’s even started to feel like she knows them. “Jess and Jason,” she calls them. Their life—as she sees it—is perfect. Not unlike the life she recently lost.

And then she sees something shocking. It’s only a minute until the train moves on, but it’s enough. Now everything’s changed. Unable to keep it to herself, Rachel offers what she knows to the police, and becomes inextricably entwined in what happens next, as well as in the lives of everyone involved. Has she done more harm than good?

Compulsively readable, The Girl on the Train is an emotionally immersive, Hitchcockian thriller and an electrifying debut.


I absolutely love this book.  Let’s put it this way, it’s rare that a thriller/mystery keeps me guessing like Girl on The Train.  Every time I thought I’d figured out who and what and how, Ms Hawkins turned the tables on me and I’d have to re-think.  The story is gritty and well-written, with real life characters that keep the reader guessing.

Five stars!


“The holes in your life are permanent. You have to grow around them, like tree roots around concrete; you mould yourself through the gaps.”

Quote For The Day 10-27-2015

“Out of the choked Devonian waters emerged sight and sound and the music that rolls invisible through the composer’s brain. They are there still in the ooze along the tideline, though no one notices. The world is fixed, we say: fish in the sea, birds in the air. But in the mangrove swamps by the Niger, fish climb trees and ogle uneasy naturalists who try unsuccessfully to chase them back to the water. There are things still coming ashore. ”
Loren Eiseley, The Immense Journey: An Imaginative Naturalist Explores the Mysteries of Man and Nature