Tag: fiction

Fiction: Two Games of Solitaire

Posted on by bryon

Rocco had spent a lot of time in the dingy warehouse on the lake. He had done a lot of work here – messy work that few other people had the stomach for, even in these dangerous times.

He put down the newspaper, which was a little over his head, and picked up a deck of cards to play solitaire. This, too, was above his abilities, but it was better than pure boredom as he waited for the phone to ring.

“Red seven on the … red nine? No, that’s not right.”

As Rocco puzzled over the intricacies of the game, Pentz sat quietly in his chair and said nothing.

“Black queen on … nothin’. I got nowhere to put it.” He set the rest of the deck back on the desk. “The hell with it.” He looked at Pentz. “You sure haven’t had much to say.”

Pentz proved Rocco right.

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Fiction: Prisoners

Posted on by bryon

Horace knew he was being a coward and berated himself for it. But the thought of what he was leaving behind set his feet moving toward London’s navy docks.

“An’ where are you going at this early hour, young man?” a man’s voice boomed.

Horace spun to his right.

“Shush, Evan! People are trying to sleep.”

“Notably the people you’re sneaking away from,” the old man said.

Horace grimaced but didn’t contradict Evan Smith. “That’s none of your concern.” He started walking up the street again and wasn’t surprised to find Evan tagging along.

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Fiction: Taking Notes

Posted on by bryon

Sy Retton made a leisurely lap of the New Year’s Eve party in his suburban Los Angeles home. The bartenders at all four stations were busy. All the right people had showed up – radio people, movie people, TV people, other music people – and were mingling nicely.

The fireplace was crackling along both for atmosphere and warmth as the evening started to get a little nippy. But Sy smiled, thinking about the frigid Wisconsin winters he grew up with. He had left the snow and the cold behind him, along with his birth name of Sylvester Rothahn and the slate of increasingly serious misdemeanors attached to that name. But hey! More than half the people in the room had pasts, many of them even more unglamorous and ill-spent than his.

Sy had found his new life writing music and had worked his way to the top of his profession. Movie producers, record producers, bandleaders – they all called him when they needed something new and special. He had always delivered, and that was why they were gathered in his beautiful home to ring in 1962.

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Fiction: PIN

Posted on by bryon

Daren swiped his credit card through the reader and pushed 8-7-1-5.

The screen read, “Incorrect PIN. Please try again.”

He frowned. That had to be the right number, and he tried it again with the same result.

He had one chance left and tested 8-5-7-1. The bank’s computer canceled the transaction. He took a quick look over his shoulder; several others waited in line behind him.

“I’ll have to think about my number for a minute,” he told the girl behind the counter.

“Okay,” she said absently, and turned to the next customer.

Daren walked away from the counter and stood by the newspapers as he pondered the number puzzle. It was becoming too much trouble for a pack of cigarettes. He turned the numbers around in his head. No, the number had to be 8-7-1-5. He’d used that number hundreds of times. He could see himself doing it. Push 8-7-1-5 and…

Oh.

He took a deep breath, and his PIN came to him as he exhaled. He got back in line. The cashier still had the cigarettes sitting by the register. At his turn, he swiped his card and pushed 6-2-9-4, and the transaction went through.

Daren walked out and got in his car. He opened the cigarettes and lit one, inhaling deeply.

Six years and I’m still trying to dial her phone number.

It wasn’t Daren’s only automatic response; ten minutes later, he walked into the bar with no recollection of having driven there.

Fiction: Ruffled Feathers

Posted on by bryon

The werecat tried to nap, but a buzzing sound and a whisper of breeze plagued him.

Orin held back a sigh as he lifted his head from his front paws and stared straight ahead. Every few seconds, Toshi the werehummingbird zipped into and out of view. Orin had strict orders from Mistress not to hurt Toshi; she was harmless, after all, doing nothing but enjoying a little flying.

Mistress knew well that the werehummingbird was teasing the werecat, yet she just smirked slightly and gave Orin no relief.

But Toshi was, in fact, a mild nuisance and not the werecat’s true nemesis.

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Fiction: Personal Ad

Posted on by bryon

I have never made a habit of reading the personal ads, so I missed the original publication. I learned of it quickly enough, of course, what with the entire city buzzing about it within hours of the Herald’s hitting the streets.“WANTED: Partner for suicide pact. Serious inquiries only. Respond to Box H3419.”

My husband, Murray, was the Herald’s editor then, and he was obliged to assign a reporter to tell the outraged world why the Herald accepted the advertisement.

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Fiction: Play the Game

Posted on by bryon

As they walked from the car toward the restaurant, David hummed a few notes and fondly patted Laura’s right back pocket a few times.

“Got a song in your head?” she asked.

“One of Queen’s.” Before he could tell her which song, Laura spoke.

“If it’s Fat Bottomed Girls, you are a dead man.”

They stopped and he looked at her. The silence continued seven seconds longer than it should have before he replied, “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

“That’s nice.”

They walked on to the restaurant. David opened the door for Laura and switched his mental soundtrack to We Are the Champions.

Fiction: Jeune Fille se Defendant

Posted on by bryon

The arrow nearly struck Paige, but some carefully honed instinct warned her just in time to duck. The missile hit a building’s façade and disintegrated harmlessly.

She whirled to find her assailant and found him crouching by a Postal Service collection box.

“You chubby little shit!” she yelled, heedless of her fellow pedestrians who were beginning to watch her with some interest. “I should kick your ass all the way to Poughkeepsie.”

“No, you should let me do my job and make you happy.”

“Happy? When the hell have you ever made anyone happy? You’re making me miserable!”

Then Paige remembered – again – that she was the only one around who could see Cupid. As far as her fellow New Yorkers were concerned, she was having a one-sided screaming match with a mailbox. For most of them, this rated no more than a three on the weirdness scale, but it was the only street theater they had at the moment so they watched. Continue reading “Fiction: Jeune Fille se Defendant” →