For those who noticed an absence of stories to read on the average Monday, I offer reassurance that the stories will return. Life has thrown a little more at me than my somewhat defective body could handle, so I put a brief pause on my weekly writing deadlines and boutique inventory updates.
So what keeps a hobbit that busy?
1. Chasing my tiny boss. A two year old has more energy than a dozen mommas of my advanced age. She keeps me busy from dawn until dusk, and often all the other hours in between. I actually started this post about twelve hours ago, but quickly got roped into playing, preparing food, and comforting for sorrows I may never understand.
2. Running to the bathroom. Having one toddler was not enough. Another tiny hobbit is growing happily inside my tummy, which means my bladder needs emptied frequently. This also means I get to discuss the previously mentioned advanced age with my doctors on a regular basis.
3. And if that doesn't make you a little more forgiving of my neglect of the gift of words, our growing family suggested a need for a slightly larger base of operations. We've been moving my hoard of craft supplies, costumes, baby accouterments, and papers for over a month. We finally have some places to plant our bottoms in the new house, so the end might be just around the corner.
Wish me luck, send up prayers that the stress doesn't melt my brain, and hopefully you will be reading lovely works of fiction again soon.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Monday, March 5, 2018
Even Exchange [FICTION]
Even Exchange
“50,000 is more than I can overlook, Johnson.”
“I know. I know.” I look down at my hands, trying not to look at my legs, which will soon be twisted in ways I don’t want to imagine.
“But you have something some of my other customers don’t have.”
My stomach lurches. My eyes slowly rise. I expect to be greeted by a lecherous glare. Instead, I see him staring at a ledger before him intently. I raise an eyebrow.
“What is that?” A frog creeps into my throat and makes my words bounce nervously.
A smile crawls across his face. “Don’t worry. I don’t need your body. You came through the club to get here…”
He waves his hand toward the office door. Outside its heavy oaken surface, dozens of scantily clad women with a high tolerance for leering gyrate in far too little clothing. I nod my understanding.
“So what do you want from me?”
“You forget I knew your father?”
“I know you knew my dad, but…”
“And I knew him well enough for him to tell me how proud he was of his daughter, who took to burglary better than a son ever could.”
“But, Mr. Clarence, I haven’t used those skills in years.”
“Like riding a bike.” He slams his hand down on the ledger emphatically. “At least, you better hope it is.”
“Well, I could probably crack a safe…”
“Oh. I need a little more than that. You’ve heard about my recent problems.” He pauses until I nod my head. “So I need some evidence to disappear from lockup.”
“You want me to break into the police station?”
“I need you to break into the police station.” He pauses while I process. “You need me to forgive your debt. $50,000.” He repeats the amount as if I could forget.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I sigh, hoping the air escaping my mouth covers the hammering of my heart.
“Here’s a picture of what I need.” He slips an envelope across the desk.
I pick it up and open the flap.
“Not here, Johnson.” He waves his hand toward the door.
I slide the envelope into my purse and stand up. “Hopefully, I have what I owe you soon.”
~
A few nights later, I dress up to deliver a pizza to the police station. Part of me hopes I succeed because, even in private, the bragging rights would be unparalleled. Most of me wants to fail so I can plead my case and beg for clemency and protective custody. I try not to fidget as I stand at the front desk with twenty pizzas obscuring my face.
“We didn’t order pizza. You realize this is a police station?”
“I just deliver where the boss tells me to deliver.” I squeak in my youngest voice.
The desk sergeant pushes the boxes aside to peer into my face. The lid of the top box flops open. He breathes deeply. His eyes close as he inhales again.
“You say these are paid for?” He glances at the name on the box again. “Mama De Medici’s is the best in town.”
As he bites his lip, I flip through my order book. “Completely paid. Deliver to this address.”
“Okay. Bring them on back.”
He stands up and motions for me to follow. I keep my head down as we make our way into the bullpen. Every officer looks up curiously. Most of them sniff the air appreciatively as I walk past.
“Someone sent us some free pies.” The desk sergeant announces to the curious faces.
One of the younger officers stands up to step toward us. “Did they now?” He lifts the boxes from my arms easily.
I stumble as my balance shifts. He places the boxes on the nearest table and places a hand on each of my shoulders.
“I happen to know that Mama De Medici’s doesn’t deliver to this side of town.” He raises a hand from my shoulder to pull the baseball cap from my head, peering into my now exposed face. “So maybe you should tell us why you are really here.”
“I’m delivering pizza.” My words hold steady but sweat pours down my forehead.
“Pizza I think you paid for.” He replies.
“Come on, Evans. You’re so paranoid.” The desk sergeant grabs a slice of plain cheese from the top box and begins to eat.
A few other officers dig into the pizza. I breath a sigh of relief. Evans doesn’t release my shoulders.
“I should thank you for the pizza, but I think I will give you a trip to an interrogation room instead.” He grabs my elbow, turning toward a female officer he says. “We should probably give her a pat down.”
The blood drains from my face as she steps forward and gently pats my shoulders. My head grows lighter and lighter as her hands approach my ankle, where my lock pick nestles in my sock.
“Looks like your instincts are sharp, Evans.”
I hang my head as he takes my arm. “Let’s go have a talk, Miss Pizza.”
“50,000 is more than I can overlook, Johnson.”
“I know. I know.” I look down at my hands, trying not to look at my legs, which will soon be twisted in ways I don’t want to imagine.
“But you have something some of my other customers don’t have.”
My stomach lurches. My eyes slowly rise. I expect to be greeted by a lecherous glare. Instead, I see him staring at a ledger before him intently. I raise an eyebrow.
“What is that?” A frog creeps into my throat and makes my words bounce nervously.
A smile crawls across his face. “Don’t worry. I don’t need your body. You came through the club to get here…”
He waves his hand toward the office door. Outside its heavy oaken surface, dozens of scantily clad women with a high tolerance for leering gyrate in far too little clothing. I nod my understanding.
“So what do you want from me?”
“You forget I knew your father?”
“I know you knew my dad, but…”
“And I knew him well enough for him to tell me how proud he was of his daughter, who took to burglary better than a son ever could.”
“But, Mr. Clarence, I haven’t used those skills in years.”
“Like riding a bike.” He slams his hand down on the ledger emphatically. “At least, you better hope it is.”
“Well, I could probably crack a safe…”
“Oh. I need a little more than that. You’ve heard about my recent problems.” He pauses until I nod my head. “So I need some evidence to disappear from lockup.”
“You want me to break into the police station?”
“I need you to break into the police station.” He pauses while I process. “You need me to forgive your debt. $50,000.” He repeats the amount as if I could forget.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I sigh, hoping the air escaping my mouth covers the hammering of my heart.
“Here’s a picture of what I need.” He slips an envelope across the desk.
I pick it up and open the flap.
“Not here, Johnson.” He waves his hand toward the door.
I slide the envelope into my purse and stand up. “Hopefully, I have what I owe you soon.”
~
A few nights later, I dress up to deliver a pizza to the police station. Part of me hopes I succeed because, even in private, the bragging rights would be unparalleled. Most of me wants to fail so I can plead my case and beg for clemency and protective custody. I try not to fidget as I stand at the front desk with twenty pizzas obscuring my face.
“We didn’t order pizza. You realize this is a police station?”
“I just deliver where the boss tells me to deliver.” I squeak in my youngest voice.
The desk sergeant pushes the boxes aside to peer into my face. The lid of the top box flops open. He breathes deeply. His eyes close as he inhales again.
“You say these are paid for?” He glances at the name on the box again. “Mama De Medici’s is the best in town.”
As he bites his lip, I flip through my order book. “Completely paid. Deliver to this address.”
“Okay. Bring them on back.”
He stands up and motions for me to follow. I keep my head down as we make our way into the bullpen. Every officer looks up curiously. Most of them sniff the air appreciatively as I walk past.
“Someone sent us some free pies.” The desk sergeant announces to the curious faces.
One of the younger officers stands up to step toward us. “Did they now?” He lifts the boxes from my arms easily.
I stumble as my balance shifts. He places the boxes on the nearest table and places a hand on each of my shoulders.
“I happen to know that Mama De Medici’s doesn’t deliver to this side of town.” He raises a hand from my shoulder to pull the baseball cap from my head, peering into my now exposed face. “So maybe you should tell us why you are really here.”
“I’m delivering pizza.” My words hold steady but sweat pours down my forehead.
“Pizza I think you paid for.” He replies.
“Come on, Evans. You’re so paranoid.” The desk sergeant grabs a slice of plain cheese from the top box and begins to eat.
A few other officers dig into the pizza. I breath a sigh of relief. Evans doesn’t release my shoulders.
“I should thank you for the pizza, but I think I will give you a trip to an interrogation room instead.” He grabs my elbow, turning toward a female officer he says. “We should probably give her a pat down.”
The blood drains from my face as she steps forward and gently pats my shoulders. My head grows lighter and lighter as her hands approach my ankle, where my lock pick nestles in my sock.
“Looks like your instincts are sharp, Evans.”
I hang my head as he takes my arm. “Let’s go have a talk, Miss Pizza.”
I know I posted a little late today. Did you miss your morning read?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)