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PAGE 247

I remember once one of my colleagues asked me how it felt to be a hired assassin, shortly after I was promoted for the fourth time. I replied, “It’s just like any other job; you need a cool head, fast reflexes, and the determination to get the job done.” Maybe I even believed the words at the time. But I never would’ve guessed that those words would be flung back in my face several years later by someone I loved.

I met Alex shortly after my 26th birthday. He was the manager of a telecommunications company, and I told him I was a vet, an alias I often used since I had a soft spot for animals.

“A vet? Really?” He ran a hand through his baby-white hair, grinned lopsidedly. “You don’t look like you could handle blood.”

“I’ve got a good stomach,” I said. I thought of the banker I’d shot in the back of the head just that morning, and smiled. “A really good stomach.”

We hit it off then and there, at my best friend’s Cuban-themed house warming. He was everything I wished I was: intense, imaginative, yet simultaneously down to earth. The kind of person whose life burns unapologetically bright, like a shooting star streaking across the sky.

It’s tough to find a knight in shining armour when you know how to kill a man thirty-six different ways just using your bare hands. Somehow, Alex made me forget it all, made me feel ladylike. On holiday in Prague, when a teenager stole my purse, it was Alex who ran after him and rugby-tackled him to the floor.

He brought the kid out in me, too. I remember our first Christmas together, living in the same house. We had planned a quiet dinner on Christmas Eve, and were impatient for the juicy turkey in the oven to finish cooking. Neither of us could sit still, so we decided to go out for a short walk. As I was taking a photo of the snow-capped trees, Alex snuck up behind me and smeared a snowball into my face. I returned the favour, with interest.

We returned home several hours later to a frantic fire alarm. All that was left of our meal was black unrecognizable lumps and enough smoke to get high off of. We ordered pizza, and it was perfect. Our hips brushed as we washed up together, and I remember thinking: this is love.

What I’d pushed to the back of my mind was my mentor John’s favourite saying. He’d rub the swirl of white hair on the side of his head, chewing on a toothpick, and say, “There’s no room for humanity in a job like ours, kiddo,” except each time he’d say it he’d replace ‘humanity’ with a different word: love, hate, distractions, error…. The list went on.

John’s lesson only really sank in after my first victim. Nevermind that it was a mercy killing, that the woman on the hospital bed was begging to die. In the end, when her body lay limp and still on the tangled sheets, she looked so damn vulnerable that I was sick in the plant pot. All the honor and adventure that had so interested me in the job disappeared. There was nothing else left for me to do. I kept working.

The second killing was easier. By the time I killed my fifth victim, I didn’t even dream about it. I’d learnt not to let them get to me. I’d learnt not to ever, ever let anyone in. Everyone except Alex. He wasn’t the most good-looking man I’d ever met, but I felt comfortable with him. I felt safe and human and alive.

We’d been together two years when Alex came home one evening, pulled out a gun, and levelled it at my head. “Sorry, love,” he said, not looking sorry at all. “It’s just a job.” The words were a smack in the face, made all the more bitter by the fact that I had said them myself years earlier. I remember looking at his face, so calm and serious as he held the gun pointed towards my heart, and realizing he was ready to kill me.

No room for distractions. I pushed aside the pain, leant against the kitchen counter, feeling behind me for the bread knife. “So much for working in telecomm.”

He shrugged with one shoulder. “So much for being a vet.”

That shrug saved my life. I threw myself to the side, heard the roar of the gun and the shattering of glass.

I rolled under the kitchen table, leapt to my feet and launched the bread knife. The heavy metal blade was sharp enough to tear right into his head. He dropped down to the ground — dead, dying, it didn’t matter — and I called in a few favours to get the body removed.

Being an assassin was just a job like any other, but Alex ruined it, made it personal. I’ll never forgive him for that.

******

The prompt was: write page 247 of an autobiography.

A SIMPLE PRAYER

My first #fridayflash piece, inspired by the ABC Challenge. The rules are this: write a story that is 26 sentences long. This first sentence must start with the letter ‘A’, and every following sentence begins with the subsequent letter of the alphabet, ending with ‘Z’.

******

An entire hour passed without Evan Pyre moving so much as an inch from his perch amidst the gothic spires of the Duomo. Beneath him, just as immobile, was one of the cathedral’s gargoyles, a duck-like creature with a serpent’s tail and teeth worthy of a predator. Chance — or perhaps destiny? — had made fools out of them both, and Evan could not help but feel kinship towards a creature so outwardly hideous and inwardly harmless as himself.

Dawn was fast-approaching; the horizon was a line of pale pink light amidst the darkness. Evan could already feel his skin prickling in warning, every hair on his arm standing on end, and he had to swallow back the urge to retreat into the crypts, back to his coffin.

Fido—the gargoyle—sniffed the air, then began getting into position, his neck outstretched, his tail curled around his lower half.  “Good weather coming today,” he grunted.  “Hot.”

“I hope so,” Evan said, for the stronger and brighter the sun, the faster his death, and the end of years of torment. Just then, the thought struck him that he should have done this years earlier, and saved himself a lot of trouble. Killed himself with daylight, and consequences be damned. Let the consequences take care of themselves.

Minutes crawled by, the light on the horizon stretching upwards, pale and weak at first but with increasing vigour, until the edge of the sun made its appearance. Night, all of a sudden, had been passed over for day, and Evan stood dumbstruck as he saw the sun for the first time in three hundred years. Ominous crackling filled the air; he thought it was his skin burning at first, but no — his skin was unmarked — it was Fido solidifying into granite. Perplexed, Evan examined his hand, awash in the morning light.

Quietly at first, and then with increasing urgency, Evan began to mumble one word: no, repeated over and over again.  Rays of light struck his skin without leaving the faintest mark, without burning or igniting or anything they were supposed to do.  Supposed to do, he thought numbly, almost choking on the irony of it all.

Throughout the years, Evan had come to learn that nothing else worked: not stakes nor crosses nor garlic.  Unless struck by light or flame, he and his kind were immortal, so he had placed all his hopes for peace on the morning sun. Vampires were only unmourned souls, and not sinners; surely they deserved to rest in peace eventually?

Why some were cursed and not others remained a mystery.  Xero the Elder claimed it was the work of God, but only destiny could be cruel enough to make Evan a vampire when he had committed no crimes. Yet there was Fido, a truly cursed soul, and even he was allowed the luxury of sleep that Evan was denied.

 Zealously, awash in the growing morning light, Evan bowed his head and prayed for another way to die.

HEAD-ON COLLISION

A short, amusing flash fiction piece inspired by the ABC Challenge. The rules are this: write a story that is 26 sentences long. This first sentence must start with the letter ‘A’, and every following sentence begins with the subsequent letter of the alphabet, ending with ‘Z’.

******

Aileen walked along the edge of a snowy road, lost in her thoughts and wishing she was back at home, in bed. Bedtime was her favourite time of the day, after all, as it was when she could finally let go and pretend the world outside did not exist. Could anything else really compare to the security of solitude?

Down the road she walked, absent-mindedly rubbing her cold hands together. Everywhere she looked, Christmas decorations sparkled garishly back at her, a nauseating overload of flashing lights and coloured baubles. Feeling a little bit sick, and more than a little lonely, she looked away from the houses, staring down at her shoes.

Granted, her life could be a lot worse, as there were numerous more miserable problems than loneliness. However, what her mind logically knew, her heart refused to understand.

Impatient with herself, Aileen looked up, determined to stop sulking and enjoy her walk, whether she wanted to or not. Just then, she stepped on a treacherously icy part of the road, and she slipped, falling backwards with a yelp. Knowing she was about to smack her head against a very unforgiving surface, Aileen tensed, expecting the pain.

Little did she know, however, that a young man had been walking behind her, lost in his own thoughts, and it was his misfortune to serve as Aileen’s personal cushion.

“Merde!” the man said, his train of thought interrupted by the sudden collision.

Not expecting the marginally softer landing, nor the outburst in French, Aileen heard herself yelp again.

Objectively speaking, she should have been thankful for the man’s unexpected (and unwilling) assistance, but Aileen, lying on top of him on the ground, could only feel embarrassed as she scrambled to her feet.

“Perhaps you should be more careful, I can say from personal experience that the road is rather hard,” he said, standing up with a wry smile on his lips as he rubbed the back of his head.

“Quite icy, yes,” Aileen agreed, feeling all the more foolish as soon as the words left her mouth. Rarely was she so flustered around a man!

She smiled shyly and ducked her head, her previous bad mood instantly erased by the strange turn of events. “Thank you for hitting your head for me,” she said finally, before turning, reluctantly, to leave.

“Unless you want to risk me passing out by myself, you should probably keep me company for a while longer until we’re sure no serious damage was caused,” the man replied, grinning hopefully.

“Very good point,” and here she felt a matching smile grow on her face, “I wouldn’t want you hurt.”

“Well, there’s a coffee shop up the road if you’d like to adjourn the head examination to there?”

“X-ray or MRI scan?” she asked as they both began walking side-by-side.

“You know best, I’m sure.”

Zealously, Aileen began her diagnosis, unaware that her heart and mind had finally reached an accord.

WITCH LICK FEET

Written in September 2009 for the first Search Term Writing Challenge [rules here]. It is a slightly bizarre urban fantasy short story.

******

Witch lick feet.

The graffiti was loud, obscene, a splash of neon colours on the brickwork. Liz scowled, and resisted the urge to vanish the marks. It would only prove her neighbours’ suspicions, make their petty attacks escalate into violence. And, really, if she hadn’t known the cultural weight behind that insult, she would have found the words amusing.

Liz jammed her key into her front door lock angrily, turning it with stiff, jerky movements. She pushed the door open and strode into her house, pausing just on the other side of the threshold. The air was still, devoid of the usual tingling magic that scanned every visitor. It could only mean one thing: her wards were down. Liz dropped her bag on to the ground, fingers curling in wary readiness.

She sent tendrils of magic out in front of her, scanning the surrounding rooms. There were faint life presences in the kitchen—her herb plants, she realized, nothing worth panicking about—and the bedroom and bathroom were clear.

Liz took a deep breath and began making her way down the hall, scanning with all her senses. In the air was a whiff of maleness, a musky, sweaty scent. One of the paintings on the wall—the one with flowers that her mother had given her—was hanging lopsided, as if drunk. The sight of it made her feel faintly sick, violated in her own home.

Liz rounded the corner, and stopped dead. In the middle of the hallway, just in front of the basement door, was a doll.

It had blonde hair, in careful ringlets, and a pink ruffled dress which Liz wouldn’t have wished even on her enemies. The doll’s eyes were wide open, its glassy blue stare focused on the ceiling. But most disturbing were its lips: bright red lips, parted slightly.

Was it cursed? She sent her magic forth, testing for a soul, for an aura, for any kind of lingering darkness. The doll shuddered, limbs twitching, and then sat up so suddenly that Liz leapt back with a yelp.

When it didn’t move again, she took a cautious step forward, crouched down to take a closer look. Something was moving down the doll’s face, tracing a path from its eye to its jaw line. Then it fell off, lost somewhere in the ruffles of material. Another drop quickly followed suit. The doll was crying.

She sent her magic forward again, slowly this time, sensing rather than attacking. As soon as her magic brushed the doll’s face, the tears redoubled. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was just the plastic. The doll was clearly an import: everyone in Coben used magic-proof plastic nowadays.

She straightened, stepped over the doll carefully as if it were a dead body. At the end of the hallway was a door, leading down to her basement, her private lab.

Liz hesitated, then opened the door. Silence. Darkness. Everything she expected, but eerily unfamiliar all the same. She reached in and flicked on the light switch before making her way down the stairs.

Her lab looked untouched. Even her towel was as she had left it, crumpled on the floor, stained red with a potion gone awry.

She took her towel and folded it, placing it on the back of her chair. Then she sat down at her desk and finally allowed herself to relax. The house was empty of intruders, and her wards were up now, anyway. Perhaps the doll was simply the result of her failed summoning earlier that morning. She’d have to double check her runes to be sure. But her towel needed some stain-remover, first.

Just as she was reaching for the first of her ingredients, a door upstairs banged open. The house was filled with the sound of marching feet, the pounding of boots unmistakable in their authority. Liz panicked, stood up so abruptly her chair toppled over, thudding heavily on the carpeted floor.

She glanced around her lab in dismay. If they came down here, her protests about being a white witch would fall on deaf ears. They’d see the glass vials, the runes chalked on to the wall, and—work visa or no work visa—arrest her immediately.

She had to head them off. Liz took the stairs two at a time, keeping a tight rein on her magic so as not to let even a drop leak through.

She burst through the basement door and stumbled to halt just on the other side of the doll.

Standing in the hallway, looking incredibly startled, was a man in his mid-forties, wearing camouflage clothing. And instead of crosses, stakes, or any number of odd weapons believed to be harmful to witches, the man was holding a rope.

A second man rounded the corner, pushing his dull orange hair out of his face to leer at her. “Good catch today, eh Mikey?” he said.

Holy Mother, Liz thought, her heart sinking. They weren’t the police; they were slavers.

There was little point in hiding her magic from them. Liz launched into the offensive, casting the first spell that came to mind, one that glued their feet to the floor. But the older man was equally quick to react; he coiled up his rope, threw it at her.

It was so unexpected Liz didn’t move in time. The rope wrapped around her, pulling her arms to her sides. A lasso. The man was armed with a lasso.

She half-raised a hand to cast another spell, but the rope tightened around her belly, cutting off her breath. Liz doubled over, coughing.

“I will release you when you undo this spell,” the man said, jerking slightly on the rope to get his message across.

With her hands pinned to her sides, she could do little but scowl. “I need to touch you for that.”

“D’ya hear that, Mike? She needs to touch us.”

Mike said nothing; he used both hands to tow Liz towards him. After fighting the first few steps, she gave up and walked towards him. His hands kept pace with her, keeping the rope tight.

When she was only a foot away, Liz stopped moving. “Aren’t you going to let me go?”

Mike nodded at his feet. “Release me, first.”

“My hands,” Liz said, letting her annoyance creep into her voice. She could barely move them from where they were pinned to her thighs.

“Wait!” the blond said. “She just said she needed to touch us, right? Not specifically with her hands.” And then he leered again. This close to him, the expression looked out of place on his baby-soft features. “Push her head down.”

“Push whose head down, and why?” The voice came from behind the two men. A young girl—maybe five or six?—rounded the corner. “Did you find Nelly?”

Mike straightened a tad. “Nelly is on the other side of… Of this girl.”

The girl skipped down the hallway happily, picking the doll up into her arms. She held the toy at arms’ length. “Nelly’s sick!” She ran back towards them, holding the doll out in front of her. “Look, Mike, look! Her face is all funny.”

Mike barely spared a glance at the girl, eyes focused on Liz. “I’m sure your father can fix her once we get home. We just need to finish talking to this girl, first.”

The girl turned around and cocked her head to the side, examining Liz. “You’re cute,” the girl announced, dropping the doll on to the floor. “Are you going to come home with us?”

The blond man grinned. “I’ve always had kidnapping fantasies.”

The girl bounced up and down. “Please? Please come back with us?”

“Your highness,” Mike said hesitantly. “She’s a witch.”

The girl’s eyes went round. She stared at Liz as if she were a mildly interesting but equally disgusting insect. “Do you really lick feet?”

“Your highness!” Mike looked shocked. “You shouldn’t use that kind of language!”

“I read it outside,” the girl replied defensively. “All by myself.”

“And what did your father tell you about repeating things you read?”

She scuffed her feet on the floor, her lower lip sticking out. “Not to say them.”

“And if you did say them?”

“No!” She stomped her foot. “I want to play! It’s not fair!”

Ignoring her protests, Mike cocked an eyebrow at Liz, loosening the lasso with a twitch of his wrist. “Do you mind?”

“Uh… sure.” Liz released the spell and stepped out of the lasso.

Mike rolled up the rope, then grabbed the little girl by the wrist. “Come on, your highness. We’re going home.”

They marched down the corridor, the girl kicking up a fuss the whole way. Her wails were cut off abruptly as the door slammed shut behind them.

Liz got to her feet, shook her head and turned around to head for the kitchen. She stopped short. Sitting in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide and vacant, was the doll.

Great. Just great.

THIS IS LOVE

I was convinced for the longest time that she hated me. At parties, at home, outside, I was mostly kept hidden out of sight like an embarrassing secret. I chaffed at the restrictions, scarred by the confines of each hiding place.

In bed, at night, she would place the pillow over me, muffling my voice. Not that she’d let me speak, generally. I’d stay quiet as a mouse all night. However gently I’d shake her awake in the morning, I’d be greeted with a sullen, bleary face.

Once she even left me behind on the bus, and I found myself wondering which was worse: being manhandled by a gruff-faced stranger, or returning to her muffling hands. As soon as she took hold of me, thought, I was startled by the depth of her fear. Her grip was tight and slightly sweaty, reclaiming me with a fierce squeeze. An odd feeling overcame me. I realized later what it was: home.

I began to obsess about her hands. She’s an incredibly tactile person, her fingertips brushing against me carefully to ensure I’m still beside her.

When we pass by crowds of boisterous men, she holds onto me like a lifeline, head bent down and looking busy.

Then there are the even rarer times, when her lips brush against me, leaving a trail of moisture…

It’s love, she types in, and I flash her a wink to let her know I understand as I send her text on to her friend.

This sketch was inspired by one of creative writing prompts in Louise Doughty’s A Novel In A Year. The prompt was “write from the point of view of an inanimate object”.