OLWG · writing

OLWG#169- Honkey-Tonk Beer Belly

This has been written for OLWG#169



Alani pulled the car into the lot and found a spot near the front door. She and Maya had been reviewing the rules.

 

“OK,” said Maya, “it’s a catch and release game, right? And, you have to take a photo; or it doesn’t count, right? Do you have to get them to buy you a drink or is a picture enough?”

 

“A pic will do,” Alani responded. She looked at the clock; digital numbers glowing green on the dash and added three hours. “We’ll meet back here, in the car at 1 am.” She reached for the door handle.

 

Maya put her hand out and stayed Alani, “Wait a minute, how about this? We judge by weight tonight. What do you say? This could be a good place for that.” She flashed her crooked grin. 

 

Alani leaned against the door just enough for the dome light to come on. She could hear the country-western music; the beat pulsing against the windows on the front of the building. “Ohhh, alright. I hate it when we do that, though.” 

 

“Well, how do you want to do it? Length of their beard? Size of their hat or wait, wait; maybe their belt buckle?”

 

“No, weight’s fine, but it’s not my favourite. Give me a three-minute head start.” Alani took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. She paused by the wooden door of the chosen Honkey-Tonk and adjusted her breasts. Giving a thumbs-up to Maya, she pulled the door open and disappeared inside.

 

Maya waited the agreed-upon three minutes and stepped out of the car. She adjusted the waistband of her skirt to raise the hemline a good two inches. Inside, he had to wait a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then she scanned the room for Alani. 

 

There she was, in one of the first barstools. She was toying with the straw in a tall thin glass and talking to a huge man with a bulbous nose that was red from drinking. The man threw his head back, roared with laughter then nodded. Alani got up and turned his stool so that he was looking away from the bar. She pulled out her phone and held it at arm’s length. She rested her other hand high on the top of his thigh. When he smiled, she snapped a picture.

 

“Damnit,” Maya said out loud. Alani’s going to be tough to beat tonight. 


The prompts were:

  1. let them go
  2. bulbous
  3. bandit cash

OLWG · writing

OLWG#168- This is the City

This has been written for OLWG#168



I was typing reports in the squad room when the phone on my desk trilled.

“Mulvaney,” I answered as I picked up a pen and got ready to write. I listened but wound up putting down the pen. I knew the location; I didn’t have to write anything. “I’m on my way.” They’d found another victim down by the boardwalk. That made five.

I made my way downstairs and took the city-owned slick back from the car park. When I got to the scene I ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape and checked in with Davidson, the uniform at the perimeter. I spotted Romero leaning over the body and lit a cigarette as I headed over. He motioned and scooted off to the side as I approached. Photographers and CSI personnel swarmed the vicinity.

“Check it out, Joe.” Romero, opened, “Same as the other ones. Eyes have been burned out of her head. She hasn’t been dead long either. I’d estimate less than half an hour.”

I studied the dead girl. She’d been a real looker with flawless skin the colour of café au lait. She was long and lean, a curly brunette dressed for the job; looked like she worked downtown. Looked like she worked maybe for a lawyer, a doctor, or at the paper; something like that – very professional.

“Got an ID, Romero?” I asked.

“Lois Peters,” he replied. “She dropped her purse, right here. Driver’s license picture matches the vic. She lives, or lived, about a block from here on Laurel Street. Nothing seems to have been taken from the purse, she has about a hundred dollars in her wallet. We should be able to rule out a robbery.”

I caught movement down on the beach from the corner of my eye. “Everybody, keep your heads down,” I shouted but didn’t panic. Davidson didn’t listen. He looked up and immediately began to claw at his eyes. I picked up the scent of burning flesh, but it was too late for him. I knew he was a goner.

I pulled dark glasses from my jacket pocket; the ones that I’d had made for viewing solar eclipses. These mothers were dark and I studied the beach. The problem was immediately obvious. There was a fat man in a speedo standing up about halfway between where we stood and where the waves lapped against the sand.

That’s the kind of thing you can’t un-see. I ran across the strand towards the perp. The running was hard; I wore brogues that fought the loose sand with every step. From about ten feet away I dove and took him at the knees. When he went down, I punched him in the face to discourage any resistance. Then I cuffed him and scooped sand on top until the most offensive parts were covered.

“Don’t move,” I ordered, “You’re under arrest. It looks like it’ll be for a double homicide, and that’s only for today, along with creating a nuisance. If we can tie you to the deaths of the other four girls, you’ll be gone for a long time. They’ll lock you in a hole so deep someone will have to pump in the sunshine.”


The prompts were:

  1. running late
  2. a fat man in a Speedo
  3. an old orange cat

writing

14 September 2013

victoriansansalpha 760x100

The prompts are:

1. Silk
2. So fix it
3. Huddled in the corner was ________.

Begin writing

Pablo hit the switch and the lights came on, at least one of them did.  The warm white color of the single working bulb in the single working fixture was almost yellow and did not offer a lot of illumination.  Something stirred on the other side of the room and he peered deeper into the gloom.  Huddled in the corner sleeping, was Kona, his blue heeler mix and best friend.  Kona had been rescued from a shelter outside Boulder about seven years ago.  She came over for some attention and then retired back to the corner to continue her nap.

Musée des arts et métiers, Paris. Machine à écrire portable Corona, 1920.

Pablo sat down at the typewriter and stared at the keys.  He sighed and pulled a sheet of paper from the ream in the desk drawer.  As he ran the paper around the platen, the bulb blinked once and then went out, plunging the room back into inky darkness.  So fix it, he thought, pushed his chair back and went in search of a replacement bulb and a torch.

His late wife’s admonitions rang in his head.  “If you would write during the day, like a normal person, you wouldn’t have these problems,” she used to say.

“Too many distractions during daylight,” he answered her.  “I can’t get anything done then.”

“You’re not getting much done now are you?”

“You’re right,” he said aloud.  “You’re always right dear.  I don’t want to argue with you now though.”

“Good,” she said, and it was almost as though she were standing in the darkened room next to him.  He could smell the citrus scent she had always worn.  The one that she said was lemon but always made him think of grapefruit.

He felt her lips brush against his ear and she whispered, “Are you going to kill him tonight?  Do you have everything ready to do it?”

“I’m not going to do anything until I get this light fixed,” he answered as he made his way into the laundry room off the garage.  He found a bulb and a torch and went back to his study.  Using the torch to see, he removed the defective bulb and put the new one in its place.  It blinked on and he flicked off the torch, sat down at the desk again, staring at the blank sheet of paper in the old Corona machine.

He heard her in his head again, “What are you doing?  Kill him, kill him now!  Are you scared?”

He rested his fingers on the typewriter keyboard.  It was a dark and stormy night, he wrote. Suddenly a shot rang out.

“Are you happy now?” he asked her.

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper