OLWG#55- Just You Wait

Now, I’m just playing – written for OLWG#55


“Jeeze, Timmy! You showed up without your team?”

“They comin’…  just late, that’s all!”


This weeks prompts:

  1. limpid pools
  2. look at these scars
  3. when the boys arrive
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OLWG#55- Détente

a word picture – written for OLWG#55


The short summer night brings no respite from the oppressive heat that cloaks this god forsaken corner of the earth. No breeze to offer absolution. Klemper, a big man, sits across the table. His enormous head takes up too much space in the room. Sweat builds on his brow and runs down, it follows his jagged scar. A scar that begins just beneath his hairline traverses below the patch that covers his right eye only to disfigure the corner of his mouth and fall off his face at the chin. It is barren where surrounded by his rough scrabble beard. I study his eye above the candle flame and wait for him to break the silence.

“I’m here, Dalgaard,” he curls his malformed upper lip as he sneers; “I’ll hear what you have to say before I kill you.” He wiped the sweat off his face in a downward motion, shook his hand and slapped it loudly on the table top.

With no delay I unsheathed my Puukko and drove it down hard, pinning his hand to the table. It was the same Lappland blade that had scarred his face and taken his eye.

“You’ll have to kill someone else today, Klemper; but you should know that Göran is back and he hasn’t forgotten.” I pulled my knife back and wiped the blade on my sleeve.

“I’ll kill Göran first then. Before I come for you.” he said. He raised his freshly cut hand and lifted his glass. In response, I re-sheathed my weapon and turned away.


This weeks prompts:

  1. limpid pools
  2. look at these scars
  3. when the boys arrive

OLWG#54- Haibun

written for OLWG#54


The time was now. He had to go. He gathered up his few meager possessions paid his few debts and divided his land equally amongst his children. On the way, he stopped beneath the old tree to say a final goodbye to his wife, Lenore, gone these many years. He lingered to bid farewell to friends who remained and he paused to make peace with his adversaries.

With his affairs in order he turned his face to the sun and set off. In his heart he knew he would never come back.

Failure is not allowed,
they anticipate your return and,
your word is your bond.
It has been years since you were there,
it matters not; if they’ve gone.


 

Who’s to Say What Normal Is?

Thanks to Ms Rose for the inspiration. It’s kind of silly but I couldn’t resist.


Bettie, a genuinely overweight, middle aged woman stands at the pharmacist’s counter waiting for someone to tell her why she was given the wrong prescription. While she waits, she does what she can to put off horrible thoughts of what might have happened should she have gone ahead and taken the wrong drugs.
A woman’s voice behind her says, “Your ass looks really good in those pants!”
Stunned, Bettie turns and confronts the other woman. “Well…I have a lot of it…”
“No, I mean it! You look great in those pants! Who are they?”
“I don’t know. I got them at Macy’s; on sale.”
“Seriously, you look great!”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

“Well, thanks.”

The woman held her hand out to Bettie, “I didn’t introduce myself,” she said, “I’m Wilma Stokes. I’m new in town. Fred and I bought a house near the corner of Third and Carlisle.”

“I’m sorry,” Bettie replied, “you and your husband are Fred and Wilma?”

“I know; it’s horrible; isn’t it? At least our family name is Stokes and not Flintstone!”

They both laughed and then lapsed into a silence there in the queue. Bettie was fidgeting a bit, seemingly uncomfortable. Finally she spoke up, “Is that the grey and white house near the east end of the block?”

“Yeah, yeah, with the flat roof.”

“OMG! I live just over your back fence on Cobblestone Way. I’m right behind you! I’m Bettie, by the way. I’m so glad we met.”

“Oh, me too! Hey listen, Fred and I are planning a housewarming this weekend. Maybe you could come?”

“We’d love to! Can I bring my husband along?” Bettie asked, smiling.

Wilma got a serious look on her face, “His name’s not Barney, is it?”

“Oh, heaven’s no, his name’s Steve.” she said, “Steve Rubble!” she kind of mumbled afterwards.

“Get out. It is not – NO FUCKIN’ WAY! I need to buy you a drink!” she looked at her watch. “Look, it’s almost noon – where can we find an open bar?”

“There’s the Martini Lounge. It’s downtown. I think they open for breakfast.”

They both stepped out of the line, spun on their heels, linked arms and marched out of the pharmacy.


 

OLWG #53 – Games

Written for OLWG #53


Pamela wore a white ski jacket and trousers. She sat in the snow; behind a pile of deadfall wood, in dappled sunlight, on the side of the slope. She was almost invisible to the naked eye. Only her gun contrasted with the surroundings but she minimized that with light coloured netting that covered most of it. She watched as Drake moved slowly toward the house through the trees. She hadn’t seen him arrive. He must have come in via the lake.

“Oh, he’s good,” she thought to herself as she watched through her scope and waited patiently for a better shot. For almost twenty minutes she followed his movements as he made his way from tree to tree.

Something was nagging at her subconscious. Then it hit her, Drake would never be that slow on approach to a target. It would be a helluva shot, but he was within her range and she knew she could make it. Her breathing slowed and her finger tightened on the trigger. She waited for the target to pause again; with a tree trunk between himself and the kitchen window.

Then it hit her again, right in the middle of her back. Green paint spattered up and over her shoulders. She watched it land on the clean white snow in front of her. Slowly Pamela turned her head. Drake stood less than 15 feet behind her, his paint gun held low and ready.

“You’re getting better,” she said.

“I just got lucky,” he replied.

“Who’s that, then?” she asked. “Who’s that sneaking up to the back of my house?”

Drake came the rest of the way down and sat next to her; a quick embrace.

“That’s Stanley,” he told her. “You remember him?”

“The ginger haired one from the islands? Of course I remember him. He’s getting slow.”

“No, I’m getting slow. I asked him to give me plenty of time so I could out flank you.” He looked her in the eye, “We need you again, Pamela. We need you to clean up the mess we made in the jungles.”

She shook her head, “I’m not that kind of girl. Well, not any more anyway.”

“Right,” he nodded his head as though he was expecting the refusal. “I’ll tell the minister.” He stood and took two steps back before turning. With an ease of motion he glided halfway to the top of the slope, paused, “It’s OK, you know. I still love you anyway.” Then he was gone.

Pamela turned to look at Stanley. He was gone too.


This week, the prompts were:

  1. we need you again
  2. I love you anyway
  3. I’m not that kind of girl

Don’t think! Write!
You have 25 minutes but if it takes longer – just don’t tell anyone.


OLWG #52 – Orange

Written for OLWG #52


The simple truth is that you and I belong together; everything else is complicated. This shouldn’t be happening; neither of us wants it.

We stare, touch fingertips, turn away and then turn back to hold hands, embrace, and draw out time, lose ourselves lest we lose each other.

¡Circles!

I’ll never forget the citrus flowers -your scent; fresh, clean, sharp.

 


This week, the prompts were:

  1. what’s one more or less
  2. everything else is complicated
  3. we say goodbye in circles

Don’t think! Write!
You have 25 minutes but if it takes longer – just don’t tell anyone.


OLWG #51 – Kotor

Written for OLWG #51


Wendy Johnson was born in Nebraska. She was just a girl, an ordinary girl in every way except one. She wore her sandy coloured hair shoulder length (with hair bands that brought out the blue of her eyes); she wore loose flowered dresses in the spring. Mary Janes.

Wendy maintained a ‘B’ average in her studies from grade one through high school. She did not participate in organized sports or cheerleading. She went to the community pool in the summertime, vacationed with her parents, rode a red ‘girl’s’ bicycle to school. She got summer jobs and saved her money. At sixteen she bought a modest used car, something that didn’t stand out. She hated being Wendy Johnson. She wanted to be someone else.

She did situps and pushups in her room before breakfast and again before going to bed. She really didn’t cultivate friendships; not lasting ones anyway. She took up running and wasn’t interested in boys. She was strong. She was fit. She was tall and lean.

After high school she joined the Army. She wanted to go ‘Special Forces’ she wanted to go ‘Green Beret’. The Army made her a typist so; she did her time and took her honorable discharge. She applied for a job at the CIA – Secretarial Pool. She got in and received her assignment in ‘Special Activities Division’. That’s where her potential was finally recognized.

It started off small. One day in early autumn. Her supervisor, Miles Rampart, pushed his head out of his office door.

“Miss Johnson!” he barked and pulled back into his office like a turtle retreating back into his shell.

She stopped what she was doing, stood and made her way to the office door. M. Rampart read the name painted on the rain glass pane set in the upper half of the door. She knocked, reached down, turned the knob and pushed. Remaining beyond the threshold she spoke up, “Yes sir.”

He glared up at her, “I don’t know what the reason is but the Director, himself, wants to see you upstairs.”

“Now, sir?”

“Of course now, Miss Johnson. Don’t keep him waiting!”

He needed her to take an envelope from Virginia to DC. It was easy. The envelope was delivered to a lawyer’s office. The lawyer’s girl, in turn, gave Wendy a package to take back to the Director. A week went by and then it was to Chicago. The trips kept getting longer. She was given plane tickets, train tickets, cash to get around, but the first time she was handed a pistol she knew the game was changing.

The day when was no longer Wendy Johnson was the day that the Director had a package waiting for her, about the size of a hatbox. Next to it was a small black carry-on bag, like a flight crew would use. On top of the hat box was a blued steel handgun and two clips.

“Do you know how to use this?” the Director asked as he picked it up and offered it to her.

“Yes sir.” she said smiling. She took the proffered piece “Beretta PX4 Storm Type F; it’s NATO Certified.” She dropped the magazine and racked the slide admiring the engineering before setting it back down on the hat box.

The Director reached into his pocket and removed an envelope. “Here are travel documents and tickets. This box needs to go an interested party in Montenegro. I’m giving you the Beretta as the box must be protected, at all costs. TSA has been alerted and you will not be troubled leaving the country. I’m afraid you’re on your own when you get to Tivat though. Miss Greene will fill you in on the specifics, but I believe your flight leaves tonight at 2100 from Regan. Is that correct Miss Greene?”

“It is indeed, sir.”Miss Greene spoke up from slightly behind and to the left, startling Wendy.

“Good luck, Miss Johnson,” the director offered as a means of signaling that the meeting was over.

Wendy picked up the Beretta and the hat box. Miss Greene grabbed the carry-on bag and herded her charge to the outer office. “Upon your arrival in Tivat you need to make your way to Kotor, on the coast. It’s not far. You have reservations at Hotel Vardar. The envelope that the Director gave you contains everything you should need.” She stuck out her hand and the two women shook, rather stiffly and formally.

“Good luck, Miss Finch.” Green said.

“Finch?” Johnson echoed back.

“It’s your name. On the papers. Make sure you review them before your departure.

Amanda Finch found herself in the hallway outside the Director’s office. She gathered up her new belongings and made her way to the elevator.


This week, the prompts were:

  1. You are not what I expected
  2. some myths are prophecy
  3. Tell them what?

Don’t think! Write!
You have 25 minutes but if it takes longer – just don’t tell anyone.