Flash Fiction Friday #50 - Terrible Suburban Secrets

Flash Fiction Friday: This week, let’s explore the family dynamic of sisters. 

Prompt: Write a story about sisters

My sister's house is like all the other examples of middle class, suburban home ownership going up and down her street. There are, of course, variations on the outside appearance but they all more or less have the general floor plan, a trick long used by builders to streamline construction and hold down costs. Being a real estate agent you learn these semi-secret facts quickly and work hard to downplay them with possible buyers. None of that matters as I strolled up the short curved walkway leading to the front door, instead my thoughts flash back to the day Jessica and Samuel, her husband, moved in just two years before.

***

“Lily,” Jessica yelled at me as she exited the passenger side of the rented moving van, “Samuel is going to need some help getting the piano unloaded first. How long will we have to wait for your husband to finally show up so we can get started?” Samuel came around the other side of the truck at the same time not saying anything, but I could tell he was upset. I had no idea what they might be fighting about this time but I knew it had nothing to do with getting the piano off the truck.

Still, my sister's question was fair, but I nonetheless cringed at the implied insult towards my own spouse. My husband, Mark Harrison, is an industrial salesman whose salary comes largely from commission. That means incredibly long hours and at least two weeks a month spent on the road in an attempt to keep clients happy. Throw in the fact that Mark's father owns the company and often gives his son the worst accounts in an attempt to show the rest of his employees he does not play favorites only makes my husband's job more difficult.

Mark showed up about two hours later looking drained still wearing the suit that he wore the day before to give a sales presentation to a major company in the process of building a new factory outside Charlotte, North Carolina. A six-hour round trip drive from Columbia, made worse by stress and not enough sleep. Despite his exhaustion, my husband puts in a full day's work of helping move my sister and her husband into their new house.

***

Coming back to the here and now, I unlock the front door and step inside. I am greeted by silence and Jessica's collection of family pictures hanging on the walls and nick-knacks placed neatly on several bookcases. Jessica's decoration of her house looks like a chaotic blend of formal portraits and impromptu snapshots combined with cheap souvenirs from numerous theme parks. I find her style clumsy and a little stomach churning, but then again, I wasn't the one living here.

As I turn to walk down the hallway towards the master bedroom, I am confronted by the picture of Jessica and I sitting by a campfire. The picture was probably taken by Samuel from some distance and it is obvious my sister and I are engaged in some sort of deep conversation. As usual for most sisters, we liked to think we told each other everything about our lives. I turn away from the picture and continue to the master bedroom, I have a task to complete for my sister before I return to my own life.

The trip was a combined family vacation to the Smokey Mountains of North Carolina just a year after they moved into this house. We all stayed in single rental cabin next a beautiful mountain stream. Jessica and I, along with our kids had a blast, except Mark who kept getting work-related calls on his cell phone forcing us all to wait for him. Samuel took it upon himself to take his two kids, Zane and Isabel, along with my son Lewis on hikes on the trails going up into the mountains. This gave Jessica and myself a chance to relax and reconnect in ways we hadn't been able to since we moved out of our parent's house.

***

“I can tell Mark's job is really wearing you down.” Jessica said to me taking our conversation into an entirely new and unexpected direction while refilling my wine glass. At first I said nothing in return instead focusing my fuzzy concentration on holding my glass steady. We had already killed one bottle before Samuel left with the kids and I had every intention of helping finish the one we were drinking from then and the other still chilling in the cooler.

“It's Mark's dad,” I say in frustration after leaning back in my chair, “the bastard makes him chase down every piece of shit lead and maintain the most difficult clients. I've told Mark to quit and find another job but he wants to take control of the business when his father retires.”

“That's not what I talking about,” Jessica says smugly. “I can tell you two are drifting apart. He's carried this type of workload for years, and not long ago you would have checked on him several times and done something to make him comfortable. Now, you just leave him alone, truthfully, it's almost callous the way you ignore him now.” She said making a motion towards one the cabin window's where Mark was visible sitting at a laptop while talking on his cell phone.

My sister had hit on something way to uncomfortable for me to think about with so much wine in my system. The only thing I could do was play to Jessica's self adsorbed nature and change the subject. “Enough about me and my marriage, what are you and Samuel fighting about these days.” Always one to show off her dirty laundry to me, that starts Jessica on a long rant about Samuel's own job and its crappy pay. Before long, with the wine now really loosening my sister's tongue even further, she confides in me her growing suspicion that Samuel might be fooling around on her.

Samuel's job is inspecting houses still under construction and those that are finished and being resold. It is a tedious and lackluster job that involves him crawling around in places best left to the imagination. To help out my sister, I started letting Samuel do all the inspections on the houses I am selling. My husband was also doing Samuel and even bigger favor by letting him, unbeknownst to my sister, work part-time at the warehouse his dad's company used. Jessica and Samuel always seem on the verge of being overwhelmed by their bills and the money he earned at the warehouse went straight to them.

The only problem was that this created periods of time where Samuel was out of touch with his wife. As time went by though, Jessica began developing suspicions on what Samuel was doing during these periods. Of course, Jessica's growing accusations and Samuel's equally strong denials only made the situation worse until they separated.

***

I enter the master bedroom where Jessica and Samuel slept to collect another load of her belonging and take them to our parent's house where she and the kids are staying. Like a large majority of the bedrooms in this increasingly homogenized suburban existence it is a near perfect copy of hundreds of others I have seen. Especially the empty houses for sale where I now secretly meet Samuel when our schedules allow.

I am ashamed of the thrill that runs up my spine when I think of our accidental encounter that started our affair just a few months before. That day my schedule was insane, with me running around showing numerous newly finished houses to prospective buyers. I made one last stop to checkout a house being resold and found Samuel climbing down from the attic. Our reaction at unexpectedly seeing each other was almost bizarre in its hokeyness, until we touched passing each other in the hallway.

I fully realize there is no future in what Samuel and I are doing, it is a betrayal of the promises we made to our spouses but loneliness and frustration is a powerful acid on even the best relationships. Of course, the end result will be disastrous for everyone connected to us, but as I empty the drawers containing my sister's belonging I cannot stop myself from planning my next encounter with her husband.

What Happens On A Cruise Stays On A Cruise--Flash Fiction Friday

 (Author's Note: Had to use the words tunnel, measure, eyebrow, corporation and cuff in the story. They're all in there, I just haven't highlighted them like I did in the past. Here's the link to the Flash Fiction Friday site.)

The cruise ship, Ocean Wanderer was already docked at its Port Canaveral terminal when I arrived and still in the process of disembarking over two thousand irate passengers. The basis for their anger was that the ship was back in port three days early from what was supposed to be a week long Caribbean cruise.

As I walked up the gangway, many of the departing could be heard on their cell phones talking about suing the corporation that owned the ship. Their anger was reasonable given that the official reason for cutting the cruise short was an engine problem requiring immediate repairs. Had they known what really happened I could only guess at the panic that might have ensued.

“Mr. Jonathon Carter?” The man with bushy eyebrows and dressed in the white suit yelled from across the grand entrance lobby as I stepped onto the ship. I stopped and waited as he quickly threaded through the thinning crowd leaving the boat. “You are the federal agent sent to examine our shipboard problem? He asked leaning in close to me.

“Yeah,” I said being careful not to pull out my badge and ID and alert the departing passengers that something had gone gravely wrong while out at sea. “I'm guessing you must be Thomas Sullivan, the ship's purser.”

“Yes agent, the captain has instructed me to escort you to the cabin in question.”

Sullivan then did an almost military-style about face and began walking away. I followed behind and began checking out the surroundings along the way. Before the divorce, my now ex-wife and I did a lot of cruises but the Ocean Wanderer was one of the newer and very upscale ships people like me only saw on television. The designers had gone with the ultra modern look making the ship seem like something from a science fiction movie. My one off the cuff criticism though was that the passageways looked more like tight, foreboding tunnels.

I followed Sullivan for several long minutes trying to memorize all the twists and turns as we worked our way through the ship. As Sullivan and I approached the cabin in question I wondered how the crew had gotten the passengers out of this area without alerting them that a crime had been committed. I didn't have time to ask before Sullivan walked right up to the door and lightly tapped it three times.

Waiting inside for me was the ship's captain, Nathan Anfinson, and the safety officer, Catherine Hammon. The briefing I read on the drive down said Anfinson was in his early sixties and a retired veteran of the Swedish Navy. On first glance I could tell the life as a cruise ship captain agreed with him. Anfinson was tan, physically fit, and except for the pitifully thin array of gray hair on his head looked fifteen years younger than his actual age.

Catherine Hammon on the other hand looked like all sorts of trouble. My guess was that she was in her late-thirties, a few years younger than me, and with a body men would definitely kill for the chance to touch. While both Anfinson and Sullivan wore the official, and out of date white suit that was standard uniform for the cruise line, Hammon's version had obviously been tailored to fully display her body in all its glory. As a counterpoint to the uniform, her blond hair was neatly bundled up in professional style but that just had me imaging her pulling out a couple of pins and allowing it to freely fall about her shoulders.

Both Anfinson and Hammon shook my hand and then showed me the reason for my presence aboard the ship. Anfinson pulled back a blanket that had been thrown over the bed to reveal the body of Mr. Ernest Kenward. The murderer had tied Kenward's arms and legs to different corners of the bed then slit his throat. The silk sheets still gleamed with the look of the blood puddling around the body.

“Ms. Hammon,” I said, “the report you sent stated Mr. Cohen's companion, a Joanna Hilbert, discovered the body around three o'clock in the morning. The followup report also states that you allowed her to disembark just after docking. Can you explain why you allowed her to leave?”

“Agent Carter,” Hammon said in a sultry voice as smooth as silk, “you have to understand the nature of our cruise line. We cater to a select clientele who cherish their privacy. Mr. Kenward was an investment manager for a major American bank in New York and Ms. Hilbert is a federal judge. Given her stature and obvious reaction to Kenward's body I used my authority as chief security officer to released her. Given the trauma she endured, I can't imagine what might have happened had she been forced to stay any longer and answer questions that might humiliate in front of her colleagues.”

It didn't take a rocket scientist for me to recognize the implied warning. “Okay, your report also left out where Ms. Hilbert was during the time Mr. Kenward was murdered.”

Catherine Hammon just smiled, “She was being entertained elsewhere.” She said with a look that suggested far more than I was authorized ask.

The cabin was large and roomy, a given when you consider the abundant wealth of an investment manager, and even possessed a balcony allowing the privileged to sit outside and enjoy the ocean. “Captain Anfinson,” I said, “doesn't the Ocean Wanderer have an elaborate camera system that records the passengers in the corridors?”

“Yes Agent Carter, and we reviewed the tapes. It only shows an obviously drunk Mr. Kenward entering the cabin and no one else until Ms. Hilbert several hours later.”

I stepped around all three and walked over to the sliding glass doors. They were unlocked and easily slid open. I stepped out on the balcony and took some deep breaths “How about the camera system mounted on the side of the ship to detect someone falling overboard? No one on the bridge saw anyone climbing up or down the side of the ship to reach Mr. Kenward's cabin?”

Anfinson now looked obviously upset, “No agent, the system went down late yesterday and has yet to be repaired. Why are you asking questions that will embarrass my cruise line. The murder happened in international waters and the Ocean Wanderer is a ship registered to the nation of Panama. Our calling the FBI was just a courtesy, one you seem to take enjoyment in abusing.”

I admit Catherine Hammon was good, it took less than a minute for her to whip out a cell phone and dial my boss. He promptly reminded me about the nature of cruise ships and how the investigation of the murder was something the cruise line and government of Panama would have to pursue. I was new to the Port Canaveral area and had little expertise in how relations between the FBI and these foreign-registered cruise ships worked so I measured my next words carefully.

“I apologize Captain Anfinson, I meant no disrespect. Thank you for being patient and I will file your report just like I was briefed by my predecessor.” With that I allowed Sullivan to guide me back out.

******

That night I'm back in my apartment when I heard a knock on my door. It was after midnight and as a precaution, I reached over for my pistol. When I opened the door, I was somewhat surprised to see Catherine Hammon standing there wearing a silky black dress.

“You were good, Jonathon,” she said walking in, “even I almost believed you didn't know what was going on.”

“Well, this was the first time I had to cover for your kind, although you went a little overboard with all the animal blood on the bed. And at least I didn't ask whether or not there was any blood left in Kenward's body.” I said feeling my lust growing.

“Yes,” Catherine said as she casually pulled loose the straps on her dress and let it drop to the floor. “Anfinson is a good man who is easily managed, I wouldn't want anything unfortunate happening to him, or you.”

She then rushed towards me and we kissed. It was pure animalistic passion devoid of any higher emotion. When we finally broke apart she smiled and I could see that her upper and lower fangs were exposed.

“You might want to call in sick tomorrow morning, Jon,” she said smiling like a wolf. “We're going to have a busy night.”

Fading Promises--Flash Fiction Friday Week 8

 (Author's notes: Jump over to the Flash Fiction Friday website and read the other, better crafted stories. The theme this week was broken promises.)

 Make no mistake, Captain Jeffery Hawthorne was an incompetent dick. I first met the guy during the final phase of ROTC out at Fort Knox, Kentucky. I was part of a group of over two-hundred cadets being run ragged by the most sadistic collection of NCO's and commissioned officers ever to wear an army uniform. Before the first week was over thirty of the cadets had quit from either injuries or simple fear of the staff. I almost quit twice myself figuring I'd rather deal with the nightmarish complications of failing than have to go through one more day of such demeaning and dangerous behavior by the instructors.

It didn't take long for those of us working together to survive that Hawthorne somehow seemed immune to all the crap coming down on our heads. On those rare occasions when the instructors would actually give us a few hours to rest it was damn near normal to see Hawthorne walking around still looking like a fresh, clean flower while the rest of us were dead tired with our bodies and uniforms caked in mud or something worse. It didn't take much to realize that Hawthorne had the type of personality that allowed him to bullshit his way out if nearly all the instructors had planned for us. Making matters worse, Hawthorne could even shuck and jive a good number of fellow cadets into doing what dirty, strenuous, or monotonous work did come his way.

As anyone who has ever encountered such person could guess, Hawthorne had those dubious combinations of good looks, extreme but easy-going charisma, and slightly above average intelligence that allowed him to pretty much write whatever ticket he wanted in life. It didn't take to long before someone learned that Hawthorne came from a rich and well connected Georgia family hoping to break into the realm of politics and the easiest way to do that was have one family member join the military. The fact that Jeffery was the vanguard of such dynastic aspirations actually made me question my commitment to serving in the armed forces.

Yeah, the rest of us loathed Hawthorne but quite frankly we didn't have time to do much about it other than harbor a smoky hatred and hope the bastard fell down a deep but camouflaged hole in the ground. It all seemed beside the point once we graduated. For the most part we went our separate ways, as much as you can in the United States Army, with the new Second Lieutenant Jeffery Hawthorne utterly disappearing as if he was just some figment of our collective sleep-depraved imaginations. All that changed for me two years later when my platoon sergeant walked into the tiny office I shared with fellow First Lieutenant Nathan Riggs, a survivor of that awful period out at Fort Knox.

By that time Nathan and I were platoon officers in the 4^th Battalion, 19^th Infantry Regiment out of Fort Tanner, Texas. A nice place if you liked desolate prairie that was broiling hot in the summer and Siberia-like in the winter. Throw in the occasion rainstorm and on the warmer days we all got to play in waist deep mud for up to a month.

“Hey Lieutenant Bryant,” SFC Taylor said coming in and sitting down in a chair next my desk, “just got word from battalion who our next CO is going to be, and I believe you might know him.”

Sergeant First Class Mike Taylor was probably the best NCO I had ever met in my short career but he often treated me like a slightly mentally deficient kid brother, which irritated they crap out of me. Truthfully, I realized that was generally how all platoon sergeants thought of their lieutenants but I still didn't like it.

“What's the guy's name?” I asked with the faces of about ten to fifteen guys quickly running through my head.

“His name is Captain Jeffery Hawthorne and if I remember correctly he graduated from ROTC about the same time you did.” Taylor said absentmindedly while grabbing a copy of the Army Times newspaper off my desk.

Not only did I almost fall out of my chair upon hearing that news. My stomach turned so abruptly I about puked up the macaroni salad and turkey sandwich I had for lunch less than an hour before in the mess hall. Several hours later Nathan and I were sitting on the little patio balcony of my apartment chugging down cheap beer and wondering about the nature of a cruel universe.

“How in the hell did the slimy bastard make captain before either of us?” Nathan said finishing off another bottle of Rolling Rock beer.

“Connections my friend,” I said feeling the slightest tingling of an alcohol induced buzz “our great nation may not be as corrupt and despotic as say Russia or Nigeria or any other second rate country but we're trying.”

“Seth, you know Hawthorne is a disaster waiting to happen. He's going to get people killed.” Nathan said to me with a dire look on his face. “Dude, he continued, “given what we already know about the guy we've got to promise each other to expose him if people die for his incompetence.”

“Damn straight,” I said as I gently put a now finished bottle on the floor beside fifteen other of his empty comrades. Somehow I slightly knocked that bottle over causing a chain reaction of all the others to fall down like bowling pins. The alcohol running through my system almost allowed me to ignore the possible allegory to our future.

****

Fifteen months later we're all in Afghanistan with the battalion broken up occupying little outposts on top of mountains. For most of our deployment us and the Taliban had an unspoken agreement, they halfheartedly attack us twice a day and with the exception of patrols we didn't willingly bother the local too much. This arrangement worked too, until intel got word that a new guy had taken over as leader of the Taliban units in our area. This fellow had same commitment to God as a preacher I knew back in my home state of South Carolina. So no one will misunderstand me, I considered that a bad thing.

It was a Tuesday when the shit absolutely hit the fan. The Taliban decided to assault the outpost where Nathan's and my platoons were located. Twenty minutes into the battle it was clear that their intention was to overrun the place and everyone of my fellow Americans knew what would happen if they did.

Making matters worse good old Captain Jeffery Hawthorne had picked that day to visit. Up until then the little weasel had holed up exclusively at Headquarters making his presence known through daily inspirational speeches over the radio. For reasons none of us ever could figure out about a week before he had started flying to the mountain outposts to visit. I guess for photo-ops and to shake a few hands for his future political campaigns. Truthfully things had been going good for the guy. Our deployment had just passed the halfway mark and with an experienced First Sergeant to back him up Hawthorne hadn't yet made a fool of himself or our unit until then.

Forty minutes into the attack the mortars and RPG's started pounding and everyone of our guys were either at their positions or running ammo. When the two guys tasked with resupplying ammo to the others in my platoon were taken out I took up the job. That was when I saw Nathan, he had caught a round in the chest and while he had a couple of medics working on him there was just too much blood soaking the ground underneath his body.

The Apaches gunships flew in at the last minute and ended the siege. As the bodies and injuries were being counted I found Captain Hawthorne inside one of the bunkers underneath a table. The smell of piss and shit signifying his actions during the battle. I wanted to kill him but my better judgment only allowed me to cut the bastard down his face and forcing him to promise to leave the army once we returned home.

****

When we returned to the States I left the army myself. I never realized it during the worst of the battle but a piece of shrapnel had gone through my left knee and while it seemed minor it had nicked several tendons and they eventually popped due to the wear and tear. The operations to repair them was a bitch and because I would never get full use of my left knee I jumped at the chance to return to civilian life.

After that I tuned out from the world and left it all behind me. I rode a motorcycle across the country, joined the crew of a fishing boat in Alaska, and eventually made my way down to Costa Rica to work at one of those high class resorts Americans and Europeans like to go for that rain forest experience without forgoing full service spas and room service. That was when I learned about Jeffery Hawthorne's senate campaign.

I immediately wanted to kill Hawthorne out of simple spite. But I had begun to build a real life in a place that made me happy and it was stupid to do anything that might threaten this existence. Of course, I soon remembered my promise to Nathan, that I would expose Hawthorne as the incompetent and cowardly fool if he got people killed. The fact that Nathan had been my best friend pushed me over the edge. I was on a flight a couple of days later, whether it was just to expose Hawthorne or kill him was something I hadn't yet decided.

I arrived in Atlanta with a campaign rally already in progress. As luck or fate would have it I bumped into an attractive campaign worker and began talking with her. Somehow I let it slip that I had served in Afghanistan with Hawthorne and the next thing I know she is introducing me to the bastard's mother.

“I have no idea what Jeffery went through in that godforsaken country, but he was a changed man after leaving the service.” His mother confided in me as if I didn't already know. She was clearly from one of those aristocratic Southern families who obsess over such things as heritage and history. She smelled of old money and privilege and I hated every part of her down to the DNA in her cells.

“Jeffery's father and I had such high hopes for him,” she continued. “We had already lined up millions in campaign funds and all he had to do was agree to help our longtime friends. But the ungrateful twit rejected all that, he said he was going to chart a different course for himself and that he would do it alone if forced. Never since the day he was born did he show such a backbone, of course my husband washed his hands of the boy but I found Jeffery's change refreshing. You know he actually wants to help the workers and immigrants and says we've been all wrong about poor people. Poor Jeffery almost sounds like a Roosevelt socialist my grandfather use to rail against.

“What brought about this change?” I asked actually quite puzzled for a moment.

“It was something in Afghanistan,” his mother whispered as if she was talking about a disabled child. “He doesn't actually come out and say what happened but whenever he talks about charting a different and better course for himself I always see him touching that scar running down his face.”

I stayed a few more minutes but eventually slipped out before Hawthorne's mother forced me to see him. I know what I had promised Nathan but somehow that didn't seem to matter anymore. The war in Afghanistan was a huge cluster fuck and would continue that way for decades to come. It had killed and wounded far too many good and decent people, both locals and Americans. But somehow it seems one man walked out of the place changed for the better and I felt he should have a chance to make the most of that new perspective.

Flash Fiction Friday, Week 3: Final Convergence

 (Author's note: Doing Flash Fiction Fridays again, link over and read the other great stories.)

When he awoke and looked around, nothing in the room seemed familiar. Scott tried to remain calm and just waited for everything to come into focus. It had been years since the last transition and it always took time for his senses to adjust to how things had changed. Disappointment flooded through his mind as things became clearer. Scott had begun to hope the rift in space he had opened around himself in a foolish attempt to run away from his problems had finally healed letting him finally piece together a new life.

The new room was about the same size as the one he went to sleep in, that at least was a consistent pattern but the furnishings were radically different. The ornate Colonial American style dressing table, Chester drawers and night stands he had come to appreciate had been replaced with brightly colored, ultra modern looking equivalents that while functional seemed sterile and utilitarian. Even the bed he found himself was just a mattress laying on top of a box spring that was only slightly raised above a hardwood floor.

More importantly, Scott realized that from the looks of the disheveled bed sheets he, or more accurately, his counterpart had not slept alone the night before. Experience had long taught Scott that while he was alone he should try to figure out the type of person whose existence he had abruptly assumed.

After climbing out of bed, he quickly searched through the drawers of his nightstand, dresser, and open closet. In the process, he found a wallet with identification saying he was Scott Wilson Phillips of Los Angeles, California. That little bit of information was actually a huge relief, while patterns repeated across contrasting realities, occasionally he would drop into a completely different identity. Since he had the same name in this new existence there was a good chance he wouldn't have to relearn the basics of life and family history.

On a whim, he opened the curtains of the huge window that occupied one full wall of the bedroom and was greeted by bright sunlight and a gleaming city situated next the ocean. Wherever he was it didn't look like his Los Angeles or any of the others he had visited. The buildings he could see were mostly futuristic, organic-looking constructions made up of spheres and pyramidal structures all connected by an elevated mass transit system. On the ground, he could barely see the streets because of all the trees planted alongside. Where there were breaks in the foliage covering the roadway he saw small cars and people riding bikes.

“At least here they seemed to have beaten the problem with smog.” Scott said out loud to himself remembering the overwhelming level of pollution he had to deal with in the last reality.

A sound originating outside the bedroom pulled Scott's attention back to his immediate surroundings. Subconsciously feeling like a trespasser he quietly walked out of the bedroom careful not to make any noise. Just past the bedroom doorway was a small flight of stairs leading down to what looked like a living area with a couch and chairs. Again taking care not to announce his presence Scott slowly descended the stairs listening for any sounds that might give a hint of his current situation.

Reaching the bottom, he saw that the living room had the same utilitarian style as the bedroom above. The furniture was basic but comfortable and there was another huge window looking out at a different section of the city. The amazing view almost pulled Scott towards the window but another sound further off to his left reclaimed his complete attention. Hugging close to a small section of wall on his left he turned the corner and saw her.

“Amanda,” Scott gasped in bewilderment.

The beautiful blond woman, dressed in a loose t-shirt and yoga pants was standing at the kitchen counter buttering a piece of toast quickly turned around after hearing her name. “Hello sleepyhead,” she said rushing over to embrace Scott. “I was beginning to think you weren't going to ever wake up. You tossed and turned all night and there was one time I woke up and you seemed to have disappeared. I just assumed you went to the bathroom, so I turned over and went back to sleep. Just how did you make it to the bathroom without turning on the light?”

Scott just stood there looking into the face of his long dead wife. It was definitely Amanda he thought to himself, although graceful lines now played across her face signifying the fourteen years that had gone by in this reality. When Amanda had died in his reality she had been just twenty-five years old, and at her athletic prime.

“What's wrong Scott?” Amanda asked, “you look like you've seen a ghost.”

Scott longed to tell her the truth about everything but instead he pulled her close not wanting to ever let go. This Amanda's body was just as firm as he remembered his own wife's had been and it didn't take long for her to respond to his burning desire.

“Wait a minute baby,” she said pulling away, “I have hospital rounds this morning and you have some sort of presentation to give to your egghead physics buddies. As much as I would like to play hooky and make love all day we both have responsibilities.”

Scott just nodded sheepishly and let Amanda slip away to eat her breakfast. “You're right,” he said, “there are times I just can't seem to control myself around you.” He hesitated several seconds being careful to phrase his next question so his newly returned wife would not think he was going insane. “Amanda, I have forgotten most of the stuff I'm supposed to do today. Where did I put my schedule keeper?”

“Oh God,” she said in dismay, “you'd forget your own head if it wasn't attached to your neck. Your data planner is on the desk by the couch.

Feeling he had dodged a bullet, Scott walked back into the living room and found what looked to him to be a normal computer tablet laying on the desk. Before he could reach down to pick it up a face appeared on the screen. “Hello Dr. Phillips,” the voice attached to the pleasant but clearly computer-generated face said, “I am ready to assist you today.”

“Please show me my schedule,” Scott said hoping it would be easy to gain access to his counterpart's files.

“What is the password doctor.” The artificial face asked him back.

“Oh not again,” Amanda said from the kitchen, “just use the retina scan override, you'll be all day trying to guess your password.”

The retina scan procedure took only a few seconds and with his computer assistant now believing Scott was his counterpart he had total access to that man's data. A few minutes later Scott had reviewed his counterpart's schedule and was sure he could pass himself off as the other man.

“One word of warning Dr. Phillips,” the tablet said, “until you re-institute protection firewalls, anyone can access the data in my files or listen to incoming calls.”

“That's fine,” Scott said placing the device back on the desk, “I'll take care of that later.” He then ran back upstairs to shower and get ready for the day. Scott could not believe how fate had smiled on him and he decided right then to drop all his research and find a way to make sure he never left this reality.

Twenty minutes later Scott returns to the living room to see Amanda sitting on the couch holding his computer tablet with tears rolling down her eyes. “You lied to me, you bastard!” She screamed at him. “You said there was nothing between you two and I believed it!”

Without another word Amanda handed Scott the tablet after triggering it to play back a recorded video call he received just minutes before.

“Hello Scotty,” a brunette woman said from the screen, “I've made our reservations for the resort down in Acapulco for next month. It starts the day after your wife leaves for the conference in London and ends two days before she get back. I can't wait to see you for lunch today.”

Scott lowered the tablet and looked back at his wife. She now held a small pistol in her hand and was taking aim at the center of his chest. Before he could say anything Amanda pulled the trigger and he fell to the floor feeling the blood flowing out from the chest wound.

As Scott's life slipped away he had time to think of the cosmic joke associated with his existence. It had been his rage at the discovery that his own Amanda was having an affair with another man that caused him to murder her. Overwhelmed with guilt, he later rushed to his laboratory and climbed inside an experimental quantum phase inverter that was supposed to painlessly scramble all his atoms into nothingness, instead it deposited him in an alternate reality.

A few seconds before Scott died he realized this was a fitting but ultimately ironic end to all his journeys. 

Almost Flash Fiction: Two For The Zoo

  (Author note: Ran across a website called "Story Butter.com" and liked one of their prompts which was to write a story taking place in a zoo. Didn't actually submit this one because of the slightly mature theme and a few words I used, that's why its almost flash fiction. They want to keep things family friendly.)  

Michael pulled into the zoo parking lot twenty minutes before the place actually opened. Largely empty, he slowly cruised around a couple of times making sure none of the few cars that were already parked looked familiar or had anyone just hanging out inside. It only took a few minutes for Michael to determine, with a high level of certainty, that there were no nasty surprises waiting for him.

All things considered, it took longer to figure out where to park his own car. If he parked close to the main entrance there was a good chance that someone he might know might recognize his car. If he parked far away, that in itself would draw attention as visitors arrived. Feeling a little foolish for over thinking the situation Michael picked a spot sort of between the extremes figuring that if there was no risk there could be no reward.

With the car parked silence overwhelmed Michael for a moment, he could feel the anticipation coursing through his body like electricity. What was about to happen had taken many months of tedious planning. First, of course, was just finding a lady, named Sara, in the cheaters online chat room. After several casual online conversations they then proceeded to a series of flirtatious emails. This culminated in an exchange of pictures, nothing weird, just normal snapshots of them generally doing mundane things at work. Sara picked a picture of her at the dental practice she worked. Michael sent one of him throwing a football at a company picnic.

The next step took both them closer to doing something wrong, but by this time the two were feeling like teenagers. In a way it was innocent enough, the two agreed to casually meet while walking through a nearby J. C. Penney. The plan was to exchange a few words in the section of the store that sold washing machines, then go their separate ways.

Michael arrived first and began reading the operator's manual on a new front loading washing machine. Immediately he was accosted by three of the salespeople sure his rapped attention to the manual meant he was serious about purchasing one. Only after assuring them he was just doing research for a possible purchase in the near future did they leave him alone.

“This sure is a nice model,” he heard someone say behind him. For about a second Michael figured it was another salesperson but turned and was happily surprised to see Sara.

“Yeah,” he said grinning like a fool but realizing he needed to control himself so not to make a scene, “the factories sure make they with all the bells and whistles these days.”

As if on cue, Sara giggled like a small girl then walked off without saying another word to disappear into the crowd. That night the two, more dedicated than ever to the affair, spent an hour instant messaging each other planning their next move. The respective spouses of Michael and Sara, consumed in their in own interests, paid no attention to what they were doing.

The two potential lovebirds went headlong into planning on how they would consummate their relationship. It was decided they needed a longer meeting to talk things out, preferably someplace offering a little privacy but not enough to draw attention to themselves. The city zoo on a weekday offered the perfect conditions with both acknowledging that a nearby travel motel would be the place they would go if they decided to take things to the next level. It took a couple of more weeks to carefully alter their respective schedules without drawing any attention from their spouses or coworkers.

Sitting in his car Michael watched the minutes tick down on his watch waiting for the zoo to open. It was during these quiet, closing minutes that he began blaming his wife for him pursuing someone outside of their marriage. She had become engrossed in various community services and charity work, and in a fit of self-righteousness, Michael felt uncomfortable with what he consider was a deep infatuation she was showing towards the director of the meals-on-wheels charity. Truth be told, while Michael did feel gravely under appreciated in his marriage, deep down part of his mind was playing the same game he saw his father and uncle do their wives.

For Sara, her husband, never the deeply physical type to begin with, had become a certified workaholic. Sex with him was now both extremely rare and mechanical when he did feel in the mood. Adding insult to injury he had become an avid fisherman and was now spending most of his time on the lake when not in the office.

The second the zoo opened Michael rushes to the ticket counter. He even beats a group of daycare age children being carefully lead inside by five already weary adult watchers.

“Taking a day off from work and going to the zoo I see,” the middle aged woman at the ticket counter says to Michael with a smile that could mean anything. “We don't see many single guys on a Tuesday.” she finishes still sporting an almost knowing smile.

“Yeah,” Michael says unsure how to handle her statement, “some days you just have to get away from the daily routine.” The ticket lady just nods as Michael rushes inside.

Being early in the workweek once the zoo opened the few people waiting to enter soon scattered all over making the place seem deserted of visitors. The only people visible were the occasional animal keeper and maintenance type taking care of their normal duties.

The plan was for Sara to arrive about thirty minutes after opening with them meeting in the newly constructed gorilla observation building. The inside featured a huge picture window looking out over the gorilla outside habitat and a small window on the far wall showing their living area. The best part about the building was the comfortable seats and the fact Michael and Sara could stay there for a considerable time and talk without drawing any undo interest. Another factor was because the observation building was on the far end of the zoo almost hidden by tropical-style vegetation. Michael felt it was certain Sara and he would have a long time to talk before heading over to the motel.

Feeling slightly nervous though, Michael decided to stroll around for a few minutes to clear his head before heading over in that direction. At the alligator exhibit he stopped for a moment figuring everything was finally coming together, the zoo was nearly empty, Sara and him were clearly a perfect match, and both of their spouses were totally oblivious to what was going on. Figuring it was time to go, he quickly began walking towards the building.

The zoo had gone all out on the observation building and had installed glass doors that were heavily tinted making it impossible to see through. So much that to Michael's surprise when he stepped inside he saw several other people hanging around giving every appearance they too were waiting for someone to arrive. What Michael clearly realized after only a minute of standing around was that the four men and three women were all by themselves and trying their level best to not only seem invisible but ignore all the other people.

Making matters worse, it was also clear everyone was looking at their watches or cell phones taking careful note of the time. The guilt hanging in the air was so think it was almost visible like a London fog. A lady suddenly rushes inside and stops dead in her tracks upon seeing everyone else, “Son of a bitch,” she exclaims before making eye contact with the man she was apparently hoping to meet. They quickly rush out together huddled close looking as if the paparazzi might descend on them any second.

It was then that Michael realized one of the gorillas was sitting just on the other side of the main window looking at them all. Michael could not believe his eyes, but the gorilla clearly seemed to have an expression of quiet mirth on his face. As if this was just some silly human game put on for his enjoyment.

Michael made a quick look at his watch and saw that he still had ten minutes before Sara was supposed to arrive. During that time a few more people arrived, found the person they were there to meet, and immediately left. For one guy and lady it was clear the people they were waiting for had changed their mind. Both walked out of the observation building looking obviously dejected.

With two minutes to spare the observation room was empty except for Michael. He silently rejoiced in this turn of events figuring everything would work out after all. Just then both of the tinted glass doors flew open from a flood of small children entering. It was total chaos with the children running around and screaming at the top of their small lungs as three adults tried to keep them under control. Much to Michael's horror he realized that the adults were wearing t-shirts identifying themselves as workers for one of the very charities his wife helped out with several times a month.

When Sara arrived a few moments later she immediately panicked after seeing all the children and ran back out without seeing Michael. He attempted to follow but was grabbed by one of the ladies watching the wild children. “Well Michael Harris,” she said, “what are you doing here this time of the day?”

Michael was an intelligent adult and had an answer to that question that didn't make him look completely guilty of something, but it took a full twenty minutes before he could reasonably break away from one of his wife's charity coworkers. During that time he caught glimpses of the gorilla looking straight at him seemingly about to laugh his ass off.

(Final note: The origins of this story are slightly complicated. A while back my wife and daughter decided to go shopping one Saturday afternoon. Not something I would usually volunteer to join except that my wife said that if I drove lunch would be at our favorite Italian restaurant. While they were inside the Kohls department store I sat in the car listening to NPR. Now this particular Kohls is in the Harbison section of Columbia and has a rather strangely placed parking lot that essentially hides it from view of anyone driving the main road.

While innocently sitting in my car another pulled up almost perpendicular to mine. In this other car was a couple who spent several minutes doing some seriously old fashioned making out before the lady jumped out and got in her own car. The guy had driven off the second the lady closed the door to his car but as the she backed out to leave herself she finally noticed me. She gave me a strange look of what I could only call acknowledgement then left herself. Okay, I'm an adult and have seen things and know how the world works but since I was totally minding my own business it took me several seconds to realize what I had just saw.)       

Flash Fiction---Stranded In A Frozen Airport Purgatory

(Author's note: Doing the BeyondProse.com flash fiction again. The prompt was "stranded in a snowstorm" and while I have pulled a a few fictional strings this story is very nearly true,)

The only thing worse than being fourteen thousand feet in the sky inside a small commuter jet plane during a snowstorm or having to land during such bad weather is being stuck in an unfamiliar airport praying that your connecting flight home is not canceled. On paper, I was supposed to have a thirty-minute layover in Detroit once the vagaries of post-9/11 air travel were satisfied allowing my suffering travel cohorts and I off the plane that truly had more in common with a sardine can than will be appreciated or believed.

Inside the terminal for a couple of minutes I had some hope that the travel gods might show some mercy on me because the television screen showing all the still active flights leaving Detroit had my particular plane's departure only delayed for thirty minutes. Like some cruel joke though, that minor thirty minutes delay then turned into and hour, then two, then was canceled outright. That was when the worst of the waiting began.

My work had sent me to a three-day trouble shooting class offered by the company that manufactures the equipment we use. Their headquarters is located in Pennsylvania requiring a travel route deep into territory where winter weather, for me, could get weird. Here in warm South Carolina the entire state panics if more than two snow flakes hit the ground at the same time. I found the fact that the Detroit airport, a place where snow is normal, was winding down operations that day because of the white fluffy stuff more than unsettling.

Several long and boring hours later as I strolled down the nearly deserted American Flier Airlines terminal I couldn't decided if it more resembled a cathedral or an empty tomb. I was leaning towards the latter because there is just an innate eeriness of being in a place nearly devoid of people when during a normal business day it should be so crowded some might find it hard to breathe. There were a few unfortunate souls like me left stranded here when the snowstorm ramped up into a full fledged blizzard. Each person had long since staked out tiny territories close to their departure gates in the slim hope that the weather might let up enough for them to escape. As I walked by these strangers they all looked at me warily obviously worried I might come sit by them and try to chat.

Finding company was the last of my concerns as I walked down the terminal. I had been stranded in that frozen purgatory for over six hours without anything to eat. When I stepped off my plane most of the various eateries had long since closed up with their employees fleeing back to the safety of their Detroit homes. It didn't take a food connoisseur to realize that those left open were only for those so desperate that they bordered on suicidal. In truth, my hunger had almost pushed me to point of taking a chance with the green tinted wieners from a place trying to pass itself off as a fast food joint specializing in gourmet hot dogs.

“Hello sir,” the dude working behind the counter said slurring his words as if his batteries were running low. “Welcome to Jiffy Dog, what can I get for you?”

“I don't know,” I replied suddenly losing the courage simple hunger had built up inside me. “Give me a minute will you.”

It was only as I stood in front of the semi-awake hot dog dude that I remembered from my previous visit there was someplace in the terminal where a vast array of vending machines were located offering an assortment of processed food that while unhealthy were not an unnatural green. As my usual luck would have it I also realized those vending machines were on the far, opposite end of the terminal. Curiously enough after walking ten or twenty feet, I turned back around to see if the hot dog guy was still standing at the cash register. He was, but what bothered me was that he seemed frozen as if my sudden abandonment of his open air establishment had not yet registered on his consciousness.

Once my little forced, indoor march was complete when I finally came upon my coin-operated Shangri-La I imagined my reaction was similar to that of man seeing a green and watery oasis after spending days lost in a hot and dry desert. Standing in front of a machine selling snack cakes my mind imagined the sweet taste of a honey bun as I eagerly pulled out my wallet to grab a couple of dollar bills. However, just as I inserted the first bill into the cash slot the power in that section of the terminal died sending each of the machines I thought would be my deliverance dark and quiet.

“Oh my God!” I screamed to an uncaring universe. I could still see the power was on throughout the rest of the terminal but for some reason, whether weather related or man-made, only the dim illumination of the emergency lighting was holding back a near total darkness. Adding to the stark desolation a nearby plate glass window offered a view of the outside showing that if anything the weather was getting worse.

About that same time I started seeing people scurrying about that were obviously airport maintenance workers. There sudden appearance lead me to assume that the power outage was weather related so I decided to wait and see if the lights and vending machines might soon come back on.

An hour later, still sitting in the darkness I finally answered the question I had been wondering about since I arrived. The hurried activity of the airport workers I had observed right after the power died had disappeared. What reigned now was a surreal silence that gave an overwhelming feeling of being utterly trapped in an ancient and forgotten tomb.

BeyondProse.com Flash Fiction---A Death in Hollywood

 (Author's note: The prompt for this story is "She was a child star." I didn't get the mood of my longer version quite right. It's just hard to sit down to write at my house, someone will always interrupt me the minute I get something good going. Even worse, I found a serious typo in the version I posted at Beyondprose.com.) 

Just seconds after busting down the door to her apartment I found the once famous Emma Carter dead, laying naked on her bed. Her place was one of those extra small studio apartments where the kitchen, bedroom, and living area occupied one over sized room. For several moments I hesitated before stepping across the threshold worried I might have somehow misjudged the situation.

I had received her text message while in the middle of an afternoon meeting. At first I thought it was some joke, except for a very brief and ill conceived reunion event of the cast from our old sitcom a few months before I hadn't spoken to her in almost twenty years. Emma had stormed into the rented and nearly empty banquet hall acting like the energetic and mischievous ten-year old child star I met at the beginning of our sickly sweet television show. I was eight-years old at the time and I fell in love with her from the beginning despite the fact we were playing brother and sister orphans being raised by our wise old grandfather. Even though the event was advertised as a happy reunion of cast members who thought of each other as family it was obviously designed just to resuscitate Emma's comatose career

Of course, she and I eventually posed for pictures together in front of the small collection of disinterested paparazzi that attended but the second they drifted away she literally ran after them leaving me behind. Unlike the rest of the cast, I stayed to the end with Emma crying on my shoulder for several minutes as a reward for my patience. When we finally parted something deep inside told me I never see her again. So, it was quite the shock when I received her message pleading for me to come save her.

After the end of my meeting I sat in my car for thirty minutes staring at the screen of my cell phone wondering if I should head over to the address she gave. Eventually figuring I had nothing to lose I drove across Los Angeles just to satisfy my curiosity. The address turned out to be an old warehouse whose interior had been converted into small apartments. I imagined the developers of the building had wanted it to be an upscale location for young professionals but shifting neighborhood lines had claimed the area making it more than slightly dangerous.

With the door now swinging loose, I looked in from the threshold, her place seemed clean and well kept with mementos of her television and music career adoring the shelves of a couple of bookcases and walls. Everything looked so orderly that I again became concerned for a moment that maybe this had been some huge mistake. When the overwhelming stench of liquor and death finally hit me that was when I stepped inside.

Looking to my right I immediately spotted Emma's body and her nightstand where a decorative box containing a multicolored collection of pills and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat giving a clear indication of how she took her life. I also couldn't help but notice that Emma's body was contorted into something akin to a seductive, “come hither” pose. It was a sick thought but given Emma's behavior the last couple of years it did not take much for me to believe it was one final act of defiance to tell the world that while it might have used her up and tossed her to the side of the road it in turn could go straight to Hell.

The sitcom she and I starred in made us nationally famous for about six years. When the series ended my fame evaporated overnight thrusting me back into the real world. The effects of puberty and a severe case of teenage acne had robbed me of my charming boyish innocence and the network producers simply dropped me like the proverbial bad apple. In terms of simple numbers there was probably a couple of thousand better looking teenage boys coming to LA each year wanting their chance in show business. So I was less than nothing to those who made the big decisions about who to promote or send home.

However, a whole spectrum of producers and agents fell all over themselves to make sure Emma stayed in the national spotlight. She immediately became a leading cast member of television drama series and a mere two years later they again moved her into the music business. Her career soared with the entertainment journalists constantly floating rumors that with her ethereal beauty and devastating acting ability she could be the next Elizabeth Taylor.

It was always clear from the beginning that the big players in Hollywood had every intention of making her a major movie star. Sitting home nursing a bruised ego and a growing envy over her success I remember the massive promotional campaign on the eve of her first movie. I also remember how it was a massive box office disaster with special criticism aimed at Emma's awful performance.

Five major flops later her once golden career is destroyed with her eventually reduced to singing in the food courts of shopping malls and struggling to win a spot on some reality show. That was when her outrageous acts and stupid stunts exploded increasingly making her a laughing stock all across the country. All she got for her desperate efforts was an existence living off residual checks in a second-rate apartment all alone.

Looking at her dead body I had no real idea why she called me, even in the best of times we were never close. The only assumption that comes to my mind is that during our series my character was the nice and always responsible brother who dearly loved his sister despite her mischievous ways. The day she cried on my shoulder after the disaster that was our reunion event only seemed to back that idea up.

With nothing left to do I call the police and tell them what has happened. Naturally they tell me to wait and I move back towards the entrance of the apartment. Not before I pull out my cell phone and start taking pictures of Emma's body, her apartment, and the pills on the nightstand. The tabloids will pay a bundle for such pictures and I have child support I have to pay.

Helium.com Flash Fiction---Night Owls

 (Author's note: More Helium.com flash fiction, and you can read the four-hundred word version here.)

“Hey newbie, you're late,” Billy and Jack yelled almost in unison from the old picnic table as I stepped out of the factory and into the crisp night air. Except for my friends, the silent and calm nature of the empty factory patio was a welcome relief to having spent the last four and a half hours dealing with loud noises and always demanding production quotas.

My two middle-aged friends have filled the rickety old table with a literal late night feast of sugary soft drinks, overstuffed sandwiches, potato chips that drip with fat, and high calorie snack cakes. To them the overabundance of junk food is how they cope with the circumstances of working nights for what must now close to twenty years. Though both have paid a price with growing health problems that range from simple obesity and high blood pressure to diabetes for Billy.

“Yeah,” I said rushing over to join them for the all too short period of time night shift was allowed for lunch. 

“My new assistant doesn't know his head from a hole in the ground. I had to recheck most of my production run before Janice in Quality Control found the defective items he let slip by.”

“Oh Christ,” Billy said while Jack shook his head in silence, “you definitely don't want her running off to the new supervisor. I saw those two try to sneak out of the supply room unnoticed last week.”

“Doesn't this sound familiar?” Jack finally said after swallowing a bite of his sandwich. “Seems like it was yesterday that you and I were complaining about this new temp worker named Chuck Barnes who messed up nearly every simple production run.”

I wanted to offer a retort, but I just bite into my own sandwich because I was both hungry and wanted to ignore the truth in Jack's statement. Because in fact it did seem such a short time ago that I limped into the plant as a new hire still upset at the injury that cost me my football scholarship. It all unraveled for me during last game of the season when Clemson played the University pf South Carolina. We were halfway through the fourth quarter playing offense hoping to add to the small three point lead we struggled to hold.

My teammates and could tell the Gamecocks were getting both pissy and desperate with the clock edging ever closer to the end of the game. I was one of the wide receivers and the play called for me to run down field just enough for a first down since we wanted eat away at the remaining time as much as possible. When the ball was snapped everything went into super slow motion. I even remember how pretty the football looked as it spiraled in my direction after the quarterbacked released it. However that is the last thing I remember.

I still harbored a great deal of resentment against the hulking linebacker that seemed to have a personal grudge against me. When he and one of his buddies finally succeeded in ripping my knee apart all they got was a fifteen yard penalty while I was carried out unconscious on a stretcher. It only took three days after that for the team doctors to decided I would never play again. At the same time a university bureaucrat reduced my full ride scholarship to half. They might as well have just pulled the entire thing since my family couldn't afford that amount.

I didn't go back to my hometown of Saluda, South Carolina despondent though because I had a plan. It involved getting a job at one of the nearby factories and working my ass off for two years saving every cent. Instead I actually go and screw things up even further.

Not a month on the job my girlfriend comes to me in tears carrying the pee stick from an in-home pregnancy test. With a baby on the way and a new and disgruntled father-in-law looking over my shoulder a short time later I found myself permanently exiled from the world of higher education along with any chance of getting ahead in life. I had gone from a life filed with possibilities to being condemned to living in what is jokingly called a “right to work” state constantly under threat of my job being outsourced overseas, benefits being reduced, to smarmy management types looking score some points with the front office by catching the workers doing something wrong.

It was Billy and Jack with all their years of experience that showed me the ropes and forced me to learn enough to be useful to management that was always circling the workers like vultures. I owe those two wise old owls, forever condemned to night shift, everything. Without them I wouldn't be able to feed my family or keep a roof over their heads. At the same time, I passionately hate them because they most certainly represent my future and I die a little each night thinking I will live out the rest of my life eating lunch under the stars while wondering how things could have been so different for me.

Helium.com Flash Fiction---From the Blackest Corners of Our Souls

 (Author's note: More Helium.com inspired flash fiction. The prompt this time was "Black Coffee.")


 The cold November winds whipped through the narrow streets of the Marais district of Paris like angry hornets bent on revenge. A fitting analogy Duncan Archer thought as he sat alone at a small table outside the Café Charlot nursing a cup of black American style coffee. From his carefully chosen spot Duncan quietly watched the throngs of native Parisians and tourists stroll up and down the Rue de Bretagne lost in the wonder of being in one of the most beautiful cities on earth. A small part of Duncan’s mind wished that he could be one of those oblivious masses enjoying the simple pleasures of life.

His purpose for being in the City of Light had nothing to do with pleasure or joy, for Duncan was the purest form of predator patiently waiting for his quarry to stray within his range. Outwardly relaxed, Duncan nonetheless sat coiled, ready to strike like a snake with his right hand inside his coat pocket comfortably gripping his pistol. For Duncan this occasion held a grim satisfaction for all the years he spent in pursuit of a man responsible for the death of hundreds of innocent people, his team, and the only woman he ever loved.

The toll for his single minded pursuit of one man had cost Duncan his professional career, his family back home in the States, and more importantly, his soul. Staring down at his cup he caught a reflection of himself in the dark liquid and almost didn’t recognize the face looking back at him.

For a month Duncan had watched the man he sought to terminate casually stroll within inches of his current spot acting as if he was just a common human being. There was even a day when as Duncan followed his target too closely the jostle of the hectic crowds walking down the street caused the two to bump into each other and make eye contact. Years of careful detective work could have evaporated in that moment alerting his long time foe that he was being stalked.

Somehow his enemy did not recognize him and went about his usual affairs, it was enough to send chills down Duncan’s spine and cause him for a short time to reevaluate everything he believed about what he was doing. Something about the situation just did not add up, had his quarry become so engrossed in his civilian life that he could ignore his surroundings and past? Or, Duncan thought, had he sacrificed so much of himself that not even his enemy could recognized him now.       

Once Duncan understood his enemy would not run he spent the rest of his time in Paris carefully honing all the elements of the equation that would allow him to successfully kill his target without harming anyone else. With everything in place the long awaited day arrived, for the first time in all the years of searching some small surviving part of Duncan’s soul understood everything would finally end one way or the other. Sitting at that small table all that was left was for his prey to come to him.

“Is this seat taken?” Someone asked in a strangely familiar female voice.

Duncan looked up to see a ghost take the empty seat across from him. “Hello Victoria,” he said realizing every part of his reality and existence now meant nothing. “You look as beautiful as the day you supposedly died.”

“Duncan you need to understand this quickly,” she said, “I cannot allow you to kill Sergei, I turned him to our side years ago and he is the most vital deep cover asset we have. My team spotted you the first day you setup your position here. I was hoping someone at Langley would come and force you home but I was disappointed when I finally got word you had gone rogue. Russian Federal Security cannot for an instant believe Sergei is anything but a valuable operative, far too much is at stake.”

“Victoria,” that bastard killed my team, I saw the video of him shooting Anthony, Mary, and Daniel in the back of their heads. Dammit, I thought he killed you!”

The two former lovers looked at each other across a gulf of time and circumstance that was impossible to bridge.

“Duncan,” she whispered, “I never wanted this but we both made a commitment when we joined the Agency. Please, go home, or find an island someplace and rebuild your life.”

“You know I can’t let this go.” Duncan said actually surprised that this day would end not in bloody satisfaction but in a totally unexpected impasse with the love of his life he thought long dead.

Victoria always had remarkable reflexes and he barely felt the needle she held enter his leg. The poison was relentless but Duncan was able to stay upright in the chair. When Sergei finally came into view Duncan saw no lingering animosity from his ancient foe or glee in his impending death. As his vision faded he did notice the look of love Victoria and Sergei exchanged with each other, it was enough to make Duncan chuckle before everything went blacker than the coffee he had been drinking.