In some ways, I find myself more prone to creativity when I'm about to go to bed. Like. Dali. Yeah.
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"Roger Sanderson's the name," the gentleman smiled, his forehead and cheeks wrinkling. "I sell dreams, wishes, and desires, m'ladies." His reflection in the mirror continued grinning.
Sanderson frowned, and the wrinkles straightened out. He sighed and ran knobby fingers through a wave of salt-and-pepper hair. He was no longer the James Bond of his younger days, and he was never sure if his charm made up for the lack of youth. Impressing the ladies was not exactly key to success in this last job, but everything helped. And at his age, Sanderson needed the extra help.
He wanted out. He was 52, his bones were protesting, and his joints disliked getting up in the morning. But a favor owed to a friend was a favor owed, and Sanderson was not going to get his vacation until he had paid out all his favors, this last one to a particularly wealthy friend with a hefty reward hanging in the balance.
The old detective rubbed the bridge of his nose and climbed into bed. Tomorrow that wealthy friend would be sending a contact at the drop-off with the necessary documents. And after the delivery in two days, Sanderson would be free to cash in the dated check and jump on the next plane to Tahiti. Or the Ivory Coast. Or New Zealand. Anywhere hidden from his growing list of enemies. He even had his new name chosen. Bellasseau. Nichol Bellasseau. It flowed on the tongue. Sanderson was particularly proud, that after having spent thirty-some years choosing names off a baby name website, he'd finally come up with his own. It was unique, special, not bland like Roger Sanderson, or Jason Hapleigh, or Kevin O'Conall, and so on. Too many names to remember. He hardly remembered his real name anymore. Whoever he was at present was who he was.
Sanderson flipped the switch and soft moonlight replaced the bright fluorescent bulb. He could worry about the plausibility of passing himself as an elderly French photography-addicted tourist in a few days. For now, sleep beckoned the old man in a quiet manner as Death himself might do several years hence.
357 words
Monday, January 16, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Something Gone Wrong
Work is hard. School is hard. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of transforming this blog from one story into random vignettes. I think it will be easier for the other side of my brain to turn on if the prompt is to write anything. Anything at all.
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I saw it rain horizontally once. The clouds had descended down to our valley, our farms and our villages, choking out light, exuding skeletal hands of mist. A pelter of water droplets hit my face, hit the side of my face and suddenly half of my body, the left side, became soaking wet. I can tell you there was no wind, only that when I opened my eyes, rain drops rushed by me like cars in a hurry, from left to right. Everyone agreed it was raining horizontally, because after the downpour..or...rightpour? the dirt was drier than jerky smoked for two whole months, and only the east side of the valley, where the cliffs suddenly rose up, was drowning in new pools of rainwater. If proper rain didn't come soon, there wouldn't be enough for the coming winter. Some blamed the former preacher, who was caught skivving the chambermaid two weeks ago. Others blamed the strangers in town, snake-eyed foreigners with golden coins and flashes of vivid brocade under dark cloaks.
I think it was the Wago.
An 'undred years ago, we had neighbors who lived up on the mountains. They called themselves the Wago, dark-skinned savages with blood-encrusted beards and feathers entwined in their hair, who waved staffs with weird sigils and markings and screamed their bone-chilling language at the skies. They learned our language and traded with us, bringing rich and wonderful goods in from outside the valley and carrying our produce out. Nobody complained aloud (although everyone complained to themselves), until the thundering of hooves rained down from the mountainside. The emperor's army had decided to carve their own path through the mountains and chased the Wago away, either into the depths of the mountains or into hell itself. The Wago vanished, but our trade was taken up by other merchants who came by the army's road, and no one asked where the Wago had gone.
Gramma Piola says that the Wago haven't made a single peep since the cavalry crossed the slopes, and poo-poos the idea that they're still alive. They hain't got any more women, she says while chuckling to herself. But if they're anything like us, I'm sure they'd want revenge. As much as I want revenge. I don't know what's held them back these past 'undred years. I just know I'm held back by Gramma Piola, a force stronger than her wrinkly skin and shriveled bones would tell you.
406 words
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I saw it rain horizontally once. The clouds had descended down to our valley, our farms and our villages, choking out light, exuding skeletal hands of mist. A pelter of water droplets hit my face, hit the side of my face and suddenly half of my body, the left side, became soaking wet. I can tell you there was no wind, only that when I opened my eyes, rain drops rushed by me like cars in a hurry, from left to right. Everyone agreed it was raining horizontally, because after the downpour..or...rightpour? the dirt was drier than jerky smoked for two whole months, and only the east side of the valley, where the cliffs suddenly rose up, was drowning in new pools of rainwater. If proper rain didn't come soon, there wouldn't be enough for the coming winter. Some blamed the former preacher, who was caught skivving the chambermaid two weeks ago. Others blamed the strangers in town, snake-eyed foreigners with golden coins and flashes of vivid brocade under dark cloaks.
I think it was the Wago.
An 'undred years ago, we had neighbors who lived up on the mountains. They called themselves the Wago, dark-skinned savages with blood-encrusted beards and feathers entwined in their hair, who waved staffs with weird sigils and markings and screamed their bone-chilling language at the skies. They learned our language and traded with us, bringing rich and wonderful goods in from outside the valley and carrying our produce out. Nobody complained aloud (although everyone complained to themselves), until the thundering of hooves rained down from the mountainside. The emperor's army had decided to carve their own path through the mountains and chased the Wago away, either into the depths of the mountains or into hell itself. The Wago vanished, but our trade was taken up by other merchants who came by the army's road, and no one asked where the Wago had gone.
Gramma Piola says that the Wago haven't made a single peep since the cavalry crossed the slopes, and poo-poos the idea that they're still alive. They hain't got any more women, she says while chuckling to herself. But if they're anything like us, I'm sure they'd want revenge. As much as I want revenge. I don't know what's held them back these past 'undred years. I just know I'm held back by Gramma Piola, a force stronger than her wrinkly skin and shriveled bones would tell you.
406 words
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