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"The Necklace" (the forty-fourth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Necklace" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), April 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Necklace by mrwrleft@yahoo.com (Entry #7) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "Goddamn!" Art pulled binoculars
away from his eyes and shook his head in disappointment. "Blue Mist" - the
horse he’d placed the hundred and fifty buck bet on, who had lead most of
the heat, was overrun by three other horses fifty yards before the finish line.
And he’d had such a good feeling about this race. "Not my day… Sheesh…." For several dull moments Art sat and looked down at his brown leather Italian shoes. Joyous expectation escaped his chest and newly realized gravity pinned him down to his seat. He straightened up, put the binoculars back to his eyes and aimlessly surveyed the resting horses, dismounting jockey and the clusters of people in the amphitheater below. No more bets for him today. His attention, unexpectedly, was grabbed by the sight of a woman leaning forward over the wooden railing - her back to him - in the first row. Her figure, which for a brief moment flickered in the field of his vision, was so familiar that Art immediately returned the binoculars to the spot he expected she was and scanned it until he located her again. Art felt himself perspiring and almost involuntarily wiped several beads of sweat off his forehead. The figure belonged to his wife, Meg, deceased a year ago – victim of an unfortunate car accident. Bewildered, Art got up from his seat and trotted down the stairs, keeping the woman in his sight. As he got down to the first row and stood, now, directly behind her, he was smitten even more. However unbelievable it was, without a doubt it was she: her hips, her waist, her shoulders. How the hell was this possible? He remembered when the police informed him over the phone that his wife had been in an accident and suffered a severe blow to her head and that, unfortunately, the wound had been fatal. And, then, the strange funeral without her body in the coffin because Meg – a mental case about science - has donated her body to some stupid research foundation. "Meg?" his voice sounded lower than its usual pitch and cracked the way a seemingly obvious conclusion is affected by an unexpected question. "Excuse me?" the woman turned around. She smiled and looked at Art amiably, as if she was interrupted in the middle of a funny thought. She had Meg's body for sure. Now, from the front, the body resemblance was even more striking. But her head... it was not her nose, not her mouth, not her forehead, not her cheekbones, not her anything No it couldn't have been Meg. It was some other unknown and unfamiliar woman. How the hell did she have Meg’s body? ‘It’s not Meg, that’s it. She couldn’t be. It’s impossible. I am going mad.’ Still something was terribly wrong with this picture. Something seemed fishy, grotesque, even. Art couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. He looked at the woman more attentively and understood. The necklace. The woman wore a wide, turquoise, velvet strip around her throat - with an "artsy-craftsy" necklace, a local gift shop reproduction of something probably worn by Native American chieftains - over it. Why was she covering her neck? Or rather what was she covering? A scar, maybe? If so, it should go all around her neck. Art felt a chill go down his spine. Could this woman’s head have been attached to Meg’s body? No, it’s impossible. I really AM going mad. Unless… unless… it’s some cryogenic medical miracle. Cryogenic? For a split moment Art’s eyebrows rose revealing the white of his eyes high above his pupils. Isn’t that where they freeze the body so it could be unfrozen later in the future? What if they freeze the head and the body separately, so they could bring them back to life later? Didn’t he just recently read an article about cryogenics, the temperature of the liquid nitrogen, stuff like that? No, impossible... but if it was so impossible, how did this woman manage to have Meg’s body? Not being able to sort things out on the spot, Art decided to go with the flow, hoping that things would sort themselves out later. "What? Why are you looking at me so strangely?" The woman was still smiling. "Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. But, to be honest, I’m not losing anything with the substitution." Art tried to pull a genuine smile from his arsenal, but only half of it made it to his face. "Is that right?" The woman turned toward him, looked up, and slid a grin of pretend mistrust over her obvious interest. "Absolutely" Art already felt like himself again, warehousing his bewilderment for a later time. "My name is Art and I lost five hundred dollars today. How about you?" "Sandra. And two fifty." "Pleased to make your acquaintance." They both laughed, and Art shook her hand. It felt just like Meg’s, only different. Meg’s handshake was simple and hearty and this one was… if anything, all flirt. The new heat started. "Can we go somewhere where it’s not so noisy?" Art had to raise his voice to compete with the fans that started to scream, each for their favorite horse. "Where to?" "There’s a bar I know." Art offered. "But it’s not near. We’ll have to take my car." "Sounds good. Where’s it parked? *** "So... who was that other lady who looked so much like me?" Sandra took a sip of her Bloody Mary "...mmmm good" she licked her lips. "You know, the one that I don't lose anything in comparison with." "I’d rather not to say…" Art gulped from his glass. "Men. They’re such liars. Don’t you think?" "Not going to deny that in general. But I was truthful when I talked about you." "Oh, really?" "Absolutely. This is just as true as you have an impeccable taste. That outfit, you’re wearing - it’s stunning." "Oh, how sweet of you to say that. Thank you." Sandra looked down and smoothed the lines of her dress. "Bartender, another drink for the lady." "Same?" The bartender looked at their glasses. Art looked at Sandra inquisitively. Sandra nodded. "And for you?" The bartender reached to give Art another Seven-and-7. "No, thanks." Art covered his glass with his palm. "I see what you’re doing," Sandra sipped from her drink again, stood, and shook her finger at him in a pretend warning. "You’re trying to get me drunk. You think I’m just a bimbo, huh?" "Not at all. Actually, I want to ask you a very serious question. "Go ahead." "OK, here goes. What is your opinion of cryogenics?" "Cryogenics? Oh my…isn’t that where they cut people’s heads off and freeze them?" "Yes, something like that." "I dunno… I’m not sure I have an opinion on that." "Really?" "Yeah." Art looked intently into her eyes trying to penetrate beyond the surface of her eyes into her very soul, but he couldn’t quite accomplish it. They looked exactly the same whether he looked intently or not. "Hm, I see you’re trying to impress me with how smart you are." Sandra had just finished her second drink and her tongue was starting to disobey. "No, not at all. Your glass is empty, by the way. Another one?" She nodded. "Yes, I think you are." "No, I’m not. And as a proof, let’s not talk about cryogenics any more, but let’s talk about say… jewelry. That’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing." "Thank you." "My pleasure." "You’re just saying that." "No, really. It’s an amazing piece. Must be very expensive." "You’re kidding, right? It’s just something I bought in the gift shop." "Really? I could have sworn it’s authentic. May I see it closer?" "Sure, see away." Sandra bent over the table toward Art. "You’re winning a lot with the close up, you know this? But can’t you take it off and let me look at it?" "No." "Why not? You think I’m going to grab it and run away?" "It’s not that. It’s just…" she pulled back and away as if she’d said too much. "Just what?’ "Nothing. Let’s not talk about it." "You are such an enigma." "Who - me?" Sandra laughed. "Yes, you. Sphinx." Art felt impatient. He was tired of all this talk and wanted to know whether she had the scar or not. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this, whatever it takes.’ Sandra laughed even harder. "You…you…" she made a clumsy movement and spilled most of her third Bloody Mary down the front of her dress. "…oh shit, my dress!" she gasped as she clasped her hands in dismay looking at the tomato juice as it spread like a proof of virginity across her cream-coloured dress. "Oh, God… how am I going to get on the bus looking like this? She got up from her stool. "I need to get to a bathroom, fast." "These bar bathrooms won’t be much help." Art passed her a napkin.. Sandra cast a brisk "You’re not much help, either" look at him. "If I may…." Art also rose from his stool. Sandra looked at him inquisitively, but without much trust. "There’ss a motel nearby. You can wash up there." "Motel?" Sandra pondered as if tasting the word like a new drink. "Where?" "Near here. I stay there sometimes when I’m in luck and want to play the next day." "Are you sure you want to spend the money?" Sandra’s voice was a tad hesitant. "I just blew five hundred bucks for nothing. This way, at least, they’d go as a tribute to a beautiful woman." "Oh, stop that." Sandra waved as if fending off a fruit fly but Art noticed she was, also, smiling. *** When they drove to a motel Art asked her to wait in the car until he got the room. Having done this, he returned for her and they walked together to the room on the second floor, unnoticed. As they entered the motel room he kissed her. Sandra didn’t resist and even parted her lips in anticipation of Art’s tongue. Instead, though, Art caressed the back of her neck with the tips of his fingers. His eyes were impatient. Still kissing, he slowly maneuvered her toward the bed. "Wait, I need to rinse my dress." Sandra attempted to gently break away from his embrace. "Oh, come on - you can do that later." Art held her hand, not letting her to go to the bathroom. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. "Stay here with me." Sandra exhaled a sigh. Her eyes turned foggy with the expectancy of pleasure.. "I need to go, really…" she kept on saying but closed her eyes and tilted her face up, meeting his kisses and leaving her body unguarded as loot for his hungry fingers. Arts lips moved lower, from her mouth to her chin and, finally, to her covered neck. His fingers searched, found, and started working on the fasteners of her necklace. One, two, three - the necklace was off. At this moment Art’s embrace loosened. Sandra collected herself and with a coquettish giggle ran to the bathroom. Art stood still staring at the spot where her neck had just been. There was no scar. There was, however, a serious neck-wattle. He still felt excited, but the excitement was in its farewell, delayed the way thunder follows lightning. Art still wanted her body, but now the definitude of her identity and the shocking vividness of her neck made him feel deceived, repulsed and lost. Art listened to the sounds of running water coming from the bathroom and looked around the room. His gaze stopped at the necklace laying on the bed where he’d dropped it. The horizontal wrinkles moved closer together on Art’s forehead forced by the movement of his eyebrows to its maximum upward position as he shook his head in sour disbelief. Pulling out his wallet, he gingerly fingered several bills out and threw them on the bed next to the necklace. ‘That should be enough to get her home.’ Art quietly moved to the door and opened it then, suddenly, stopped. Turning back into the room, he listened, again, to the sound of running water - now punctuated by the murmurings of Sandra humming some tuneless song. Satisfied, he tip-toed to the bed and retrieved two of the bills he’d just thrown there. ‘Well, it’d better be.’ Grinning, he strode to the door and out to the parking lot, closing the door carefully, quietly, behind him. |
| The Necklace by P.S. Gifford psgifford@earthlink.net (Entry #4) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| "What a way to spend my twentieth
birthday- working my shift at Chucks Seafood." Rebecca muses as she stares
vacuously at her callous reflection looking back at her from the cracked
mirror. Then she giggles wickedly at the image, as she realizes it was still
pure evil. Placing an unfiltered cigarette to her thin lips, and ignoring the
no smoking sign, hung in the restaurant break room she remembers fondly when
first succumbing to her suppressed desires. She had just turned eight years
old, back at the orphanage which had taken her in her after her teenage mother
abandoned her. Closing her eyes she vividly recollects repeatedly bashing the
head of her young pretty room mate with the softball bat. Apparently she had
had almost killed her. As the memory of the bloodletting replayed in her mind
she smiles sadistically at how the sweet glorious smell of the blood had made
her feel. She had gotten caught for that one, with the bloodied bat still in
her hands laughing hysterically and had been sent to that "special home." That
day had taught her a valuable lesson-Not to let herself get caught again. She
somehow managed to survive the home for the next ten years, by some means
managing to suppress her dark desires. Then on the day of her eighteenth
birthday she had been released to the world under the watchful eye of a
probation officer. It was him who had gotten her this pathetic job as busgirl
at Chucks, she hated it with a passion, yet it allowed her to be free. He also
had found her a small dingy apartment just a mile from the restaurant on the
harbor. "I cannot believe I have worked here for two years" she thought "I would have gone crazy if it wasn't for my collection."… Just then Mr. Richards, the pompous restaurant manager, blasts into the break room and hollers at her. "Break was over five minutes ago Becky, we have a full house of tourists to feed out there, move it…" It was three hours later when her disconsolate outlook suddenly changed, as thatis when she saw her- or more accurately the peculiar and exquisite necklace adorning her scrawny neck. She was dining alone, and for good reason by the look of her appearing somewhat terrifying to Rebecca. She must have been in her late sixties, and wearing a long black gown; her graying hair hung scraggily halfway down her stooped back. There was no indication of make up on her somber sagging colorless face, and her flabby cheeks quavered` as she greedily chomped upon her bowl of clam chowder. However her deep set gray eyes were the most unnerving of all as they seemed to Rebecca as if permanently glaring unblinking at the world mercilessly Yet, the dazzling strange lure of the necklace dangling tantalizing from this palpably frail creature was becoming increasingly tempting. After several failed attempts, and her third cocktail, Rebecca finally managed to strike up conversation with the diner who begrudgingly informed her that she was indeed traveling alone. At long last opening up the diner introduces herself as Mildred. Rebecca offers concerns of her alcohol consumption and Mildred assured that she was not driving and that she was staying in a nearby bed and breakfast attending an annual reunion. As she cackled on Rebecca's mind was formulating her brutally simple plan, just as she had done so often before. At the end of her shift, she notes happily that Mildred was finishing her fourth drink…"This was going to be all too easy" she muses contently to herself as shemindlessly restocks the glasses in a side station. After her list of closing duties is hastily completed, she clocks out and waits securely in the darkness of the parking lot. Rebecca did not have to wait long before Mildred also left. Being a cloudless night the full moon provided plenty of light and shadows for Rebecca to both stalk and conceal herself in. She contemplates her plan fervently as Mildred makes her way with surprising swiftness and agility along the tree lined Harbor Street. Rebecca follows for a few minutes awaiting the perfect opportunity, and shortlyshe is rewarded as Mildred foolishly takes a short cut through a darkened alley, only moments from the safety of her room. It was then Rebecca pounced as agile as a cat and Mildred crashes harshly to the graveled ground. Rebecca is satisfied as the blood begins to copiously flow, and without hesitation or remorse, grasps the necklace from the limp body. Then and without even looking back she begins to run. As she silently races home adrenaline starts pumping excitingly through her veins. If she had a looked back she would have gotten a big shock, as Mildred was now pulling herself up from the ground and laughing hysterically. In twenty minutes she arrives once more to her small apartment and opensherself a can of beer. She feels the necklace in her pocket. "This aint such a bad twentieth birthday after all." She considers as she walks over to the bedside table, and places the It lovingly next to the dozens of over jewelry spewed carelessly on the dusty veneer. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, ear rings and even a gold watch were assembled there. Each piece held a memory of a brutal act, and each one she cherished. Grabbing a second can of beer she switches on her television set and sits on her bed, "Happy birthday to me" she sings to herself as Vincent Price comes onto the screen in some late night old movie. Ninety minutes later and Rebecca finishes her fifth and final can of beer as the closing movie credits start to roll. Getting up and stretching lazily she oncemore examines her new prize, this seemed to her perhaps the most valuable ofall. A heavy serpentine gold chain and attached a dozen strange and fascinating charms. Feeling a sudden overwhelming compulsion she picks it up and giggles excitedly she places it around her neck. The clasp easily and smoothly closes, and the coolness of the gold feels good against her bare flesh. Examining her in her bedroom mirror she seemed satisfies with her nights work "Poor Mildred." She whispers. "Poor old Mildred." It was then she felt it, suddenly grasping her neck, slowly yet steadily starting to get tighter. Panicking, she desperately tries to remove it, fumbling for the clasp, desperately she tries to undo it, yet all her efforts seem hopeless. Horrified she begins to feel the chain penetrating her flesh. Her flesh begins to tear with the pressure and blood starts to trickle and drip onto her carpet, soon the drips transform into a steady stream. Whimpering and fighting for air she collapses to her bedroom floor… A short distance away Mildred however was as fit as ever. As the ancient grandfather clock in the parlor started jubilantly strikes midnight Mildred was contently sitting with twelve of her closest oldest friends around a round table historical bed and breakfast. And as the annual meeting of the Salem witches meeting commences, clasp hands, and softly chant incantations… |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #7 Second place: #12 Others receiving votes: #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Necklace kgillenwater@swva.net |
#1 of 12 |
| 1643 | |
| Sarah saw it in the drawer: the necklace. The one she
had always hated. Her ex-husband had given it to her when they were first
engaged, and she had worn it out of obligation. It was tacky. It was clunky. It
looked like something her grandmother would wear. Her ex, Tom, had thought it was chic and modern; he had picked it up on a business trip to Europe. It might have been from one of those Nordic countries. The same one that introduced the musical stylings of Bjork! to the world. And somehow they thought they could design stylish jewelry. Tom fell for it. The nordic wife of a business associate insisted he buy it for Sarah, saying that it would be a unique gift. Yes, unique was true enough. Uniquely ugly. The necklace had stayed in her possession longer than Tom had. Only six months after the wedding, their marriage was over. They had stayed together two more years out of sheer laziness, filing all that paperwork was no easy task. But Tom eventually did. Sarah got the house, the more expensive car, most of the furniture, and, of course, the necklace. Sarah hadn't wanted it, but her lawyer had insisted, telling her it was given as a gift during her engagement and that Tom had no right to expect it back in the divorce settlement. Tom was angry about it, knowing how much Sarah hated that necklace. Tom had wanted to give it to his new girlfriend, the very same nordic wife who had suggested he buy it in the first place. It was funny how things worked out sometimes. Sarah hated that necklace, not only because it was ugly, but because it represented all the mistakes she had made in her marriage with Tom. That necklace was both a reminder of what not to do in any future relationships and of what she had lost. The early weeks of their love affair had been fantastic. She was a flight attendant; he was a jet-setting, high-powered international banker. They saw each other in snippets: during layovers in Iceland; waiting for lost luggage in Paris; sharing a rental car in Rome (who knew it could be so expensive to drive around Italy?). But she adored every second they managed to spend together. They decided to get married only a few months into their romance. Then, the arguments began. She wanted a big church wedding in her hometown; he wanted a civil ceremony in New York with only a few friends. She wanted to honeymoon for two weeks in Fiji; he wanted to spend one night in the Waldorf-Astoria. It went on and on like this until the day he gave her the necklace. Then, suddenly, he was agreeable to everything she suggested. Before he wanted a lemon curd filling in the wedding cake, now he was more than happy with hazelnut. Before he wanted only heavy h’ors deuvres and champagne at the reception, now he was satisfied with a sit-down dinner and five kinds of wine. For Sarah, it was bliss. Except for that necklace. He insisted she wear it to any special occasion or black-tie event. This forced Sarah to wear not the slinky black cocktail dresses or the body-hugging sexy gowns, but the one or two matronly dresses she could find that would match the clunky ugliness that was the necklace. The one time she put up a protest, he complained that she didn’t appreciate the fine things he had given her. And since all of his other gifts to her had been nothing but tasteful and expensive, she never again said a word about the necklace. She may have had dark looks or pouted on those days when he insisted she wear it, but never another word against the necklace did she speak. He was her husband, after all. But not anymore. In fact, she was glad that the lawyer had insisted she keep that necklace. It made her feel good to know that she had deprived Tom of something he really wanted. The house and car--that didn’t seem to bother him. He was so wealthy that buying another palatial home or another luxury automobile was of no consequence. But the necklace? Well, according to Tom, it was one-of-a-kind. A famous designer’s exclusive piece. To find a replacement would be like trying to find a replacement for the Mona Lisa. This made Sarah smile all the more the day she signed the divorce papers. In fact, she wore the necklace that very day just to irk her new ex-husband. The minute she entered the lawyer’s conference room, she felt Tom’s eyes on the beads around her neck. She knew it was all he could do not to lunge across the table and rip it from her throat. She looked at it now, resting in her lingerie drawer. She had always kept it there, like it was quarantined from the rest of her jewelry. Today would be the day to rid herself of the dreadful thing. A well-known jewelry dealer had offered her a good sum for the necklace, and she was looking forward to being rid of it. Dropping it into her leather handbag, Sarah hurriedly made her way down the winding staircase of her beautiful home. Admiring all the antiques and fine furnishings, she stopped in front of a large hall mirror to check her hair before entering the garage. A loud knock on the front door interrupted her preening, and she placed her purse haphazardly on a narrow shelf in the foyer. Opening the door she was surprised to see a handsome man standing before her. Gently patting her perfectly coiffed hair, she inquired, "May I help you?" "Don’t you recognize me, Sarah?" the attractive, well-dressed man replied. Then, Sarah was overwhelmed with amazement, "Erik, is that you?" It was her first serious boyfriend from college, Erik Olafsen. They had dated for three years before he left school to start his own business. At the time, she had been devastated at his departure. She couldn’t remember now exactly what type of business it was; that was almost ten years ago. But he was obviously successful, his well-tailored suit and expensive desinger sunglasses revealed that much. She rushed forward to give him a warm embrace and a kiss on his tanned cheek. "You look absolutely fantastic," he declared when she stepped away from him. "Better than you did the last time I saw you." Sarah blushed at the compliment, "Oh, Erik! I’m not a young girl anymore. Why, I’ll be thirty in October!" He lightly touched her face, "Trust me, you look amazing." Overwhelmed by the flood of emotion that touch evoked, Sarah did the only thing she could think of: "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?" Now she seriously did sound like an old lady! But he graciously accepted her offer and entered the large, tiled foyer. "Why don’t you have a seat in the living room while I dash to the kitchen to boil some water?" Sarah indicated the plush couches in the superbly decorated room to her right. He happily entered the comfortable room and winked at her as she headed to the kitchen. She wasn’t so far from the living room that she couldn’t hear a muffled clattering. "Erik?" she called out while filling the kettle with fresh spring water. "Is everything all right?" He answered back brightly, "I didn’t know you followed my work!" He sounded extremely pleased. His work? Sarah was desperately trying to remember what he had decided to do when he left school all those years ago. Wasn’t he some kind of art student? Maybe he had painted one of the many art works Tom had collected over the years. They had oils and watercolors hanging on almost every wall. Once the water was boiling, she quickly filled a teapot and placed that along with two bone china cups and some imported teas on a silver tray. Carrying the tray quickly into the living room, she was curious to find out which painting was Erik’s. As she approached the room from the foyer, she noticed her purse lying on the floor, some of the contents had spilled onto the terra cotta tile floor. That must have been the clattering she heard, it had fallen off the shelf. Having full hands, she ignored the purse and continued into the living room, a smile on her face. How perfect that her divorce was finalized only yesterday. To reconnect with an old flame, one that she thought had been lost to her forever, was like a miracle. Erik was standing with his back to her, so she cleared her throat and asked, "One lump or two?" He turned, looked lovingly into her eyes and said, "This was my favorite piece. Where did you find it?" And there held tenderly in his hands was the necklace. The hideous necklace. He continued on, "It was one of my first designs. In fact, this was the one that catapulted my design firm to the top. I’m flattered that you've been keeping track of me all of these years." Sarah’s face froze in a grimace. Luckily, Erik didn’t notice her expression as he was admiring his design. He unclasped the necklace and stepped towards her. "Put it on for me," he said huskily. His blue-eyed gaze made her shiver with desire. She hesitated, then said, "Of course, my darling." He reached under her hair to close the clasp, and Sarah closed her eyes to the feel of the dreadful necklace once again around her throat. "I never want to see you take it off," Erik whispered, kissing her and enfolding her into his close embrace. The beads of the necklace choked her, but she found herself answering, "Never, my darling, never!" |
|
| The Necklace john tiong chunghoo bagiruang@yahoo.com |
#2 of 12 |
| 179 | |
| the silver necklace now sits in the bottom of the lake three miles from the house never to be seen again back to its unseen owner who claimed it's his talk about curses this old necklace bought in an antique store it brought dreams of ghosts, elfs, devils giving me the scare each night since i possessed it out of fancy fantasy that it was once worn by a tribal chief my love gone, my dream lost this necklace i longed to throw it into a lake where nobody would pick it up again the glimmer that carries a pain in my heart perhaps the tribal chief too of unrealised dream, lost love in my dream i saw a hand out of nowhere grapple with me for the necklace it is his to keep mine to lose and yes, i have been losing things since i bought it now its rightful place the bottom of the lake where no man would tread quiet as Lady Di's resting place where only it knows whatever happened to a life of losses |
|
| The Necklace gc_13@yahoo.com |
#3 of 12 |
| 100 | |
| Age - beads in hand - daily rested from work -
observed by Youth Youth - asked and was shown - names - represented with each bead With each name - a story - of family and prayer A rememberance - with so many names - twice round prayer made Spellbound - with wonder and imagination - youth listened learning Beads - Worn from prayer - lay unattended - on the nightstand Youth - with childish hands - took the treasure to wear - in a day of play In play - Youth - wore a family around her neck |
|
| The Necklace P.S. Gifford psgifford@earthlink.net |
#4 of 12 Runner-up |
| 1196 | |
| "What a way to spend my twentieth birthday- working my
shift at Chucks Seafood." Rebecca muses as she stares vacuously at her callous
reflection looking back at her from the cracked mirror. Then she giggles
wickedly at the image, as she realizes it was still pure evil. Placing an
unfiltered cigarette to her thin lips, and ignoring the no smoking sign, hung
in the restaurant break room she remembers fondly when first succumbing to her
suppressed desires. She had just turned eight years old, back at the orphanage
which had taken her in her after her teenage mother abandoned her. Closing her
eyes she vividly recollects repeatedly bashing the head of her young pretty
room mate with the softball bat. Apparently she had had almost killed her. As
the memory of the bloodletting replayed in her mind she smiles sadistically at
how the sweet glorious smell of the blood had made her feel. She had gotten
caught for that one, with the bloodied bat still in her hands laughing
hysterically and had been sent to that "special home." That day had taught her
a valuable lesson-Not to let herself get caught again. She somehow managed to
survive the home for the next ten years, by some means managing to suppress her
dark desires. Then on the day of her eighteenth birthday she had been released
to the world under the watchful eye of a probation officer. It was him who had
gotten her this pathetic job as busgirl at Chucks, she hated it with a passion,
yet it allowed her to be free. He also had found her a small dingy apartment
just a mile from the restaurant on the harbor. "I cannot believe I have worked here for two years" she thought "I would have gone crazy if it wasn't for my collection."… Just then Mr. Richards, the pompous restaurant manager, blasts into the break room and hollers at her. "Break was over five minutes ago Becky, we have a full house of tourists to feed out there, move it…" It was three hours later when her disconsolate outlook suddenly changed, as thatis when she saw her- or more accurately the peculiar and exquisite necklace adorning her scrawny neck. She was dining alone, and for good reason by the look of her appearing somewhat terrifying to Rebecca. She must have been in her late sixties, and wearing a long black gown; her graying hair hung scraggily halfway down her stooped back. There was no indication of make up on her somber sagging colorless face, and her flabby cheeks quavered` as she greedily chomped upon her bowl of clam chowder. However her deep set gray eyes were the most unnerving of all as they seemed to Rebecca as if permanently glaring unblinking at the world mercilessly Yet, the dazzling strange lure of the necklace dangling tantalizing from this palpably frail creature was becoming increasingly tempting. After several failed attempts, and her third cocktail, Rebecca finally managed to strike up conversation with the diner who begrudgingly informed her that she was indeed traveling alone. At long last opening up the diner introduces herself as Mildred. Rebecca offers concerns of her alcohol consumption and Mildred assured that she was not driving and that she was staying in a nearby bed and breakfast attending an annual reunion. As she cackled on Rebecca's mind was formulating her brutally simple plan, just as she had done so often before. At the end of her shift, she notes happily that Mildred was finishing her fourth drink…"This was going to be all too easy" she muses contently to herself as shemindlessly restocks the glasses in a side station. After her list of closing duties is hastily completed, she clocks out and waits securely in the darkness of the parking lot. Rebecca did not have to wait long before Mildred also left. Being a cloudless night the full moon provided plenty of light and shadows for Rebecca to both stalk and conceal herself in. She contemplates her plan fervently as Mildred makes her way with surprising swiftness and agility along the tree lined Harbor Street. Rebecca follows for a few minutes awaiting the perfect opportunity, and shortlyshe is rewarded as Mildred foolishly takes a short cut through a darkened alley, only moments from the safety of her room. It was then Rebecca pounced as agile as a cat and Mildred crashes harshly to the graveled ground. Rebecca is satisfied as the blood begins to copiously flow, and without hesitation or remorse, grasps the necklace from the limp body. Then and without even looking back she begins to run. As she silently races home adrenaline starts pumping excitingly through her veins. If she had a looked back she would have gotten a big shock, as Mildred was now pulling herself up from the ground and laughing hysterically. In twenty minutes she arrives once more to her small apartment and opensherself a can of beer. She feels the necklace in her pocket. "This aint such a bad twentieth birthday after all." She considers as she walks over to the bedside table, and places the It lovingly next to the dozens of over jewelry spewed carelessly on the dusty veneer. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, ear rings and even a gold watch were assembled there. Each piece held a memory of a brutal act, and each one she cherished. Grabbing a second can of beer she switches on her television set and sits on her bed, "Happy birthday to me" she sings to herself as Vincent Price comes onto the screen in some late night old movie. Ninety minutes later and Rebecca finishes her fifth and final can of beer as the closing movie credits start to roll. Getting up and stretching lazily she oncemore examines her new prize, this seemed to her perhaps the most valuable ofall. A heavy serpentine gold chain and attached a dozen strange and fascinating charms. Feeling a sudden overwhelming compulsion she picks it up and giggles excitedly she places it around her neck. The clasp easily and smoothly closes, and the coolness of the gold feels good against her bare flesh. Examining her in her bedroom mirror she seemed satisfies with her nights work "Poor Mildred." She whispers. "Poor old Mildred." It was then she felt it, suddenly grasping her neck, slowly yet steadily starting to get tighter. Panicking, she desperately tries to remove it, fumbling for the clasp, desperately she tries to undo it, yet all her efforts seem hopeless. Horrified she begins to feel the chain penetrating her flesh. Her flesh begins to tear with the pressure and blood starts to trickle and drip onto her carpet, soon the drips transform into a steady stream. Whimpering and fighting for air she collapses to her bedroom floor… A short distance away Mildred however was as fit as ever. As the ancient grandfather clock in the parlor started jubilantly strikes midnight Mildred was contently sitting with twelve of her closest oldest friends around a round table historical bed and breakfast. And as the annual meeting of the Salem witches meeting commences, clasp hands, and softly chant incantations… |
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| The Necklace Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#5 of 12 |
| 832 | |
| The woman always felt better when she wore the
necklace; happier, healthier. She asked her little girl to fetch it to her
bedside, saying she wanted to look pretty if and when she died. It was a simple
unassuming necklace, but one with great pretensions. Rhinestones set with a
triangular pattern with insets of cleverly colored glass in a classic filagree.
It had her initials inscribed on it by her late husband who had been too poor
to afford much else. She hadn't worn it since he died but it felt comforting to
her now. After her daughter had fastened it around her neck, she swore she felt much stronger, strong enough to take some tea and tell the little girl a bedtime story. Soon she felt deliciously sleepy and asked the little girl to put it back in the jewelry box until tomorrow. She pulled the downy coverlet close around her and felt she would sleep very well for the first time in weeks. Night takes on a mien of its own as buildings and trees assume grotesque shapes and the illusion of a soft enveloping darkness is often a facade for untold menace. That night a thief slunk in the second story window and, finding little else of value, made off with the contents of the jewelry case. He was a little squirrel of a man, usually not prone to misfortune but as he scurried around a corner, he bumped into the policeman on his beat and tried to pass off a genial but nervous greeting. Alas for him, a portion of the necklace protruded from his pocket and, after a quick search of the malefactor, the guardian of the law said: "I guess it's down to the station house for ye, Charlie." The necklace intrigued the florid faced policeman so much that he 'forgot' to include it in the swag when he turned in the scofflaw, thinking it might make a nice present for his wife. He placed it around her neck when he got home and she looked at it in the mirror. The frivolously dressed woman pirouetted, then after a closer look said: "Hey!" she complained. "This thing ain't real. And you probably pilfered it on the job. And I know I smell a few wee nips on your breath from your rounds tonight. Drinking again, ay? Well, I'm going for a long walk and I might or might not be back. There's better men than you interested in a fine woman like me." With that she flounced out, head held high, as he looked at her disappearing wake in sad beffudlement. Passing a trash can in the street, she flung the necklace into it and sallied off. Sadly for her, not for the nightlife she craved but only to her mother's house for some consolation. Soapy MacDougal was a man to whom life had dealt a series of unlucky misfortunes. Huddled in a doorway in his ragged clothes, he saw the woman throw something in the garbage. With his keen eye for the detritus of others, he stumbled over and saw the necklace. "This might bring a pretty penny," he thought, and made directly for the pawn shop. It only brought him the meagre sum of a dollar-fifty, but that was enough to buy two bottles of wine instead of his usual one. The next morning he was found dead drunk, half dead, and with the hoarse cough of pneumonia. The next day, a portly diva espied the necklace in the pawn shop and thinking it would make a much better stage prop than the ghastly pasteboard thing they had her sporting now. She planned to wear it at that day's matinee. That afternoon during her first song, the necklace didn't comply with her bellowing tones and she was having even more difficulty than usual hitting her high notes and sustaining them. She took off the too tight necklace in exasperation and flung it offstage. The sparse crowd which had come into the theater only to get out of the cold, the house, or work, happily showered her with their best catcalls and even a couple of rotten tomatoes someone had thoughtfully brought along for that express purpose. Offstage, a pretty understudy picked up the maligned necklace and gratefully put it on, thinking it would add glamour to her dimpled look. On her way out of the theater later, she slipped on a patch of ice, sprawled comically as the necklace broke loose and skittered to the side of the building. She found herself helped up with her sprained ankle and being hobbled off in search of a doctor. A sad little girl, returning from the grocery, spotted the necklace crumpled up in the street and picked it up. "This looks just like Mother's necklace." As she turned it over she cried, "Yes! It even has her initials here. Mother will be ever so happy to have this back and now she can get well again." |
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| The Necklace By Kelli Stahl loverlikenoneother@yahoo.com |
#6 of 12 |
| 2495 | |
| I saw it immediately laying brilliantly across her
bosom, not an envious person it was a surprise when the green jealous monster
reared it's head. How could she have something so beautiful? It was too painful
to even look at someone such as she wearing a piece so lovely. Fitting for a
Queen. Not for the likes of Miss Emily Bernstein. "Miss Emily darling!"
Cheerfulness was so fake how could anyone not hear? Making my way towards her
keeping my wits about me. Must always remember I am a lady which warrants
specific actions. My blood was boiling with anger the more I looked at the
sight. It should only be right that it belong to me. I am much more deserving
than Emily. It would look much better on me, it is lovely just the same but it
can not truly shine when upon someone so dull. Just imagining how I would look
in it made the longing intensify. As though it were not enough to flaunt it in
my face. I draw closer to find her enticing Mr. Parsons. She's leaning in
towards him too much, and worse he seems to be returning it. Approaching Emily
was a task and it is becoming harder by the second, she appears to be
entertaining Madame Harkin. That is my circle, and my future husband, not hers.
Why should she be speaking with them, furthermore why should she even be
invited to these parties? I must calm down and gain some composure. My image
will be shattered if this childish gibberish should fall from my lips. Not to
mention it would appear that I was jealous and felt threatened by her. No, that
would never do. We shall have to intervene just the same. "Emily dear, how are you?" I leaned in and kissed the air beside her cheek on either side, as she did the same. Hearing her lips smack so close to my ear with her hands touching my shoulders made my skin crawl. How my hatred grew so quickly for her. It surely could not be just jealously over a mere trinket. Emily shifted her body slightly closer to Mr. Parsons, and I caught a better look at it. A trinket? A far cry from it. I must have it, playing over in my head I can barely think through it. 'I must have it. I must have it. I must have it. STOP!' I will drive myself mad. "Mr. Parsons, always a pleasure. How are you feeling this evening? Better I hope." He barely looked away from Emily, "Hello, you'll soon have to stop calling me that. Always the pleasure is all mine. I am feeling quite better, thank you for your concern. I was afraid I would not be able to attend tonight." I felt my face redden. It's like I am not here. He was clearly just being polite, it's like he's hypnotized as I am. "I am so happy to hear. It would have been a shame, cancel the party even. Madame Harkin, lovely to see you. You look dashing as usual." "Thank you, hardly anything. Just an old dress I came across. It's good that you are here. We were discussing the flowers. You always had such great taste, I would love your opinion." She barely acknowledged me. Did not even look away from her. "Oh mum, are you alright you look flushed?" The smugness on her face made me want to scream. My face must have been the color of a fully blossomed rose. Hot to the touch, like I am cooking inside my skin. How dare she comment on me in such a manner. "I am fine Emily. Thank you." I taste the blood swirling in my mouth. I fear I shall have to take my leave soon before I bite my tongue off. "Elizabeth, are you sure you are alright? Would you care to sit? Your health is of great importance to us. You may be coming down with something." Mr. Parson's false concern infuriates me. "Yes, we should not want you to take ill. The worst timing with all the coming events." Madame Harkins added out of sheer politeness. "I thank you all, but insist I am fine. My health is quite well I assure you." If it were not for Miss Emily flaunting that ornament in my face I would be sealing my date with Mr. Parson's. "Emily, I must ask if you would join me for lunch tomorrow? It would be good for you to know the resturaunt." It was like they had read my mind and wanted to hurt me further. "I should get to know the reception area just in case. I am sure it is a lovely place." Her giggle like ridicule. The thought of them having lunch together nauseated me. "I am sorry I fear I must take my leave. I feel quite unwell." I curtsied and left, not waiting for their false farewells. Still listening as I was leaving, "I do hope she's alright, you know she's not a spring chicken any more. We have so much to do and not long to do it in." Madame Harkin placed a flower on the lapel of Mr. Parson's jacket, "Will this go with your dress, Elizabeth may like it." I watched them from across the room. My hatred growing steadily. Jealousy coursing through my body. Still stunned by the just events. Where did they get off calling me old? My progress with Mr. Parson's seemed to be moving forward smoothly. His interest in me was promising. I know it must have to do with Emily and her newly acquired chain. That she just had to flash in everyones face. Where could she have gotten something like that anyway? I must stop thinking about it. It is not right, accept it or change it. Change it indeed. As I watch her move she is graceful. delicate, I might be able to crush her. Wrap my arms around her neck stealing the very breathe from her. Not damaging the object I crave. They are far too beautiful for her and I must have it. "Pardon me, would you care to dance?" "I would love to, sir." He was far too old, wrinkled, grey, and slow. Twirling about the floor was nice, my eyes never left her though. I kept careful watch over her the entire night. I danced, made conversation I am a lady after all. Dear Emily always in my view. For if she should take her leave early I would do so in tow. How it hurt to watch her glide across the dance floor on his arm. It soothed me to think I could take my revenge on her. Tonight, it must be. The smile that crossed my luscious lips must have been evil. The elderly man who was asking for a dance had recoiled in disgust and excused himself. His look somewhat faltering. He was too old for me it's inappropiate. Who would care to dance with a man who'd be frightened by a lovely young woman, hardly a man. Mr. Parson's wouldn't be taken aback by a woman. The anger swelling in my head was getting to me. Her of all people. Like some cruel joke. Why do you mock me Emily? I see you laughing at me. All of you now. My head screaming, rage flowing through my body. I had to get out of there. Some fresh air would do some good. Save dear Emmy for one more night, again. Someday perhaps, if not this night, soon. A cool breeze flooded me as soon as I stepped out the hotel doors. It was refreshing, and calming. I no longer felt anything contemptuious. Despite little dancing I felt very tired, and sore. I started to walk to the corner when I heard that peircing giggle. I knew it was her no need to look. I could already see her smiling, hailing a cab mayhap. The need to see her jewelry once more overtook me. My traitor eyes gazed upon her. Hatred, anger, and jealousy rang loudly in my head once more and so strongly. She was leaving with him. My head began to scream. 'He is leaving with her! Leaving with her, and not you! Never you. HER!' That word over and over and I couldn't make it stop. HER! I darted to the side of the hotel and watched. Listening as well. "It is such a nice night Robert. Would you walk with me instead?" It was what she knew was coming. It was a wonderful night for a walk. "As you wish, Mrs. Parson's." They laughed together. Hearing her call him Robert, in that voice. I followed closely. They were so enthralled by each other they hadn't noticed me behind them. It's like they're in their own little world. A world I would soon bring down with much glee. I watched him bid her a sweet good night. Such a gentleman, the gentleman I knew he was. I happened to catch my reflection in the store window I was waiting by. It really didn't look like me. The woman looked haggard, her lips peeled back in a distasteful snarl. Wrinkles overtaking a face that looked like it had years of worry on it. I could not be looking at my reflection naturally. It had to be a trick carnivale mirror. My attention was misplaced however I would have to worry about my appearance after the deed was done. It was a long good bye. My patience had run thin. He finally walked away. She looked on for a bit then climbed her stairs. I could barely hold myself back from running forth. If I were to charge at her like a bull she would react and my chance might be lost forever. How many times have I thought of this? Too many to keep count of. I shall bide my time. I have waited thus far, another hour and it will be all done. No more Miss EMILY. What a charming thought. The lights came on in her living room, and went out just as fast. After a few steps I seen her bedroom light come on. Watching and waiting. Probably grooming before bed, Emily was vain you know. Rummaging through her closets to find the right attire for tomorrow's date that she will not be attending. However Emily does not know that. I glimpsed her by the window, phone in hand. Her face twisted it worry, so I must wait longer. Anticipation will overpower me shortly. Excitement in the air, inside me swirling all about. All those emotions flowing through me, setting my nerves on edge. Imagining how it will feel to stand over her. What faces she will make as she realizes it is me? All these thoughts making me giddy, but I feel so tired. Finally her lights went out, darkness once again sweeps the sidewalk. Save for the street lamp, the purpose of those things I shall never know. The wood flooring is old and it is creaky. My steps I must choose very carefully. If she awakens it will not be the same. The surprise on her face would not be as fresh and so I would not enjoy it as much. I make my way through her living room. Kept so tidy no chance of tripping over anything. The stair case was easier to climb quietly than I had thought it to be, like I new exactly where to step. It seems I know my way around perfectly, after entering her bedroom my stomach failed me. Suddenlly I felt sickened at what I was about to do. For what? Everything had seemed so trivial. I began to turn to leave before it was too late. Almost out the door when something caught my eye. Sparkling in the moonlight I seen it just laying there. Tossed like that! She honestly did not deserve it. Mr. Parson either, he should be mine too. Mine not hers, I regained control over my stomach. I crept closer to her bed, and watched her sleep a moment. A sence of deja-vu struck me violently, my hands drawn toward her. She looked so peaceful until I leaned on her bedside. Quickly wrapping my hands around her neck, I squeezed as hard as I could. She fought a great deal more than I had thought she would. So I laid my body on top of hers. My face right in front of hers. When she opened her eyes and saw me. I laughed in her face, as shock and horror twisted her face. After a short time the wriggling beneath me stopped. Her body limp and lifeless as I stood over feeling satisfied. It felt so wonderful, as freedom normally does. I could wait no longer. I rushed to the pile of slumped clothes for it. It was mine now. My searching hands found it and placed it around my neck. I could feel it's weight. All those lovely gems twinkling on my smooth skin. I had to see it with my own eyes. I put the light on and went to Emily's favorite mirror to enjoy my beauty with it. "NO! Oh how could this be? You still get the last laugh. You always must." Shock was not a strong enough word. How dare she? Who was this woman looking back at me. Standing there so dumbfounded for how long? Sun pushing in through Emily's window was blinding. It is morning already, it seemed night was here just minutes ago. I heard someone shouting from behind me but he seems less important in comparison. My dilemma is simple yet confusing. "What have you done? How could you?" The sirens blared in my ears. I could not seem to make myself leave. I could do nothing now but stare at the reflection. The necklace! The necklace that drove me mad, to the point I had finally rid myself of that horrible Miss Emily. I heard the door slamming open and bumping her little stand that held her keys and sent her vase crashing to the floor. Police officers clamoring up the stairs. As I stand helpless and shocked. I recall the first questions they had asked. Are you hurt Maam?" Called me maam as if I were an old lady, "Maam, are you hurt? Do you live here? Do you know what happened here?" At first I could say nothing just stare at the necklace. My eyes scanned up, another scream escaped my lips. It was a haggard old lady, lips peeled in a snarl, drool flapping from her gums. It was me and around her neck, the necklace that sent her sanity on vacation permanently. Those chapped lips said, "The necklace. The necklace was mine. I had given it to my daughter. The necklace, oh god, it had been a wedding present." |
|
| The Necklace mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#7 of 12 Winner |
| 2091 | |
| "Goddamn!" Art pulled binoculars away from his eyes and
shook his head in disappointment. "Blue Mist" - the horse he’d placed the
hundred and fifty buck bet on, who had lead most of the heat, was overrun by
three other horses fifty yards before the finish line. And he’d had such a
good feeling about this race. "Not my day… Sheesh…." For several dull moments Art sat and looked down at his brown leather Italian shoes. Joyous expectation escaped his chest and newly realized gravity pinned him down to his seat. He straightened up, put the binoculars back to his eyes and aimlessly surveyed the resting horses, dismounting jockey and the clusters of people in the amphitheater below. No more bets for him today. His attention, unexpectedly, was grabbed by the sight of a woman leaning forward over the wooden railing - her back to him - in the first row. Her figure, which for a brief moment flickered in the field of his vision, was so familiar that Art immediately returned the binoculars to the spot he expected she was and scanned it until he located her again. Art felt himself perspiring and almost involuntarily wiped several beads of sweat off his forehead. The figure belonged to his wife, Meg, deceased a year ago – victim of an unfortunate car accident. Bewildered, Art got up from his seat and trotted down the stairs, keeping the woman in his sight. As he got down to the first row and stood, now, directly behind her, he was smitten even more. However unbelievable it was, without a doubt it was she: her hips, her waist, her shoulders. How the hell was this possible? He remembered when the police informed him over the phone that his wife had been in an accident and suffered a severe blow to her head and that, unfortunately, the wound had been fatal. And, then, the strange funeral without her body in the coffin because Meg – a mental case about science - has donated her body to some stupid research foundation. "Meg?" his voice sounded lower than its usual pitch and cracked the way a seemingly obvious conclusion is affected by an unexpected question. "Excuse me?" the woman turned around. She smiled and looked at Art amiably, as if she was interrupted in the middle of a funny thought. She had Meg's body for sure. Now, from the front, the body resemblance was even more striking. But her head... it was not her nose, not her mouth, not her forehead, not her cheekbones, not her anything No it couldn't have been Meg. It was some other unknown and unfamiliar woman. How the hell did she have Meg’s body? ‘It’s not Meg, that’s it. She couldn’t be. It’s impossible. I am going mad.’ Still something was terribly wrong with this picture. Something seemed fishy, grotesque, even. Art couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. He looked at the woman more attentively and understood. The necklace. The woman wore a wide, turquoise, velvet strip around her throat - with an "artsy-craftsy" necklace, a local gift shop reproduction of something probably worn by Native American chieftains - over it. Why was she covering her neck? Or rather what was she covering? A scar, maybe? If so, it should go all around her neck. Art felt a chill go down his spine. Could this woman’s head have been attached to Meg’s body? No, it’s impossible. I really AM going mad. Unless… unless… it’s some cryogenic medical miracle. Cryogenic? For a split moment Art’s eyebrows rose revealing the white of his eyes high above his pupils. Isn’t that where they freeze the body so it could be unfrozen later in the future? What if they freeze the head and the body separately, so they could bring them back to life later? Didn’t he just recently read an article about cryogenics, the temperature of the liquid nitrogen, stuff like that? No, impossible... but if it was so impossible, how did this woman manage to have Meg’s body? Not being able to sort things out on the spot, Art decided to go with the flow, hoping that things would sort themselves out later. "What? Why are you looking at me so strangely?" The woman was still smiling. "Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. But, to be honest, I’m not losing anything with the substitution." Art tried to pull a genuine smile from his arsenal, but only half of it made it to his face. "Is that right?" The woman turned toward him, looked up, and slid a grin of pretend mistrust over her obvious interest. "Absolutely" Art already felt like himself again, warehousing his bewilderment for a later time. "My name is Art and I lost five hundred dollars today. How about you?" "Sandra. And two fifty." "Pleased to make your acquaintance." They both laughed, and Art shook her hand. It felt just like Meg’s, only different. Meg’s handshake was simple and hearty and this one was… if anything, all flirt. The new heat started. "Can we go somewhere where it’s not so noisy?" Art had to raise his voice to compete with the fans that started to scream, each for their favorite horse. "Where to?" "There’s a bar I know." Art offered. "But it’s not near. We’ll have to take my car." "Sounds good. Where’s it parked? *** "So... who was that other lady who looked so much like me?" Sandra took a sip of her Bloody Mary "...mmmm good" she licked her lips. "You know, the one that I don't lose anything in comparison with." "I’d rather not to say…" Art gulped from his glass. "Men. They’re such liars. Don’t you think?" "Not going to deny that in general. But I was truthful when I talked about you." "Oh, really?" "Absolutely. This is just as true as you have an impeccable taste. That outfit, you’re wearing - it’s stunning." "Oh, how sweet of you to say that. Thank you." Sandra looked down and smoothed the lines of her dress. "Bartender, another drink for the lady." "Same?" The bartender looked at their glasses. Art looked at Sandra inquisitively. Sandra nodded. "And for you?" The bartender reached to give Art another Seven-and-7. "No, thanks." Art covered his glass with his palm. "I see what you’re doing," Sandra sipped from her drink again, stood, and shook her finger at him in a pretend warning. "You’re trying to get me drunk. You think I’m just a bimbo, huh?" "Not at all. Actually, I want to ask you a very serious question. "Go ahead." "OK, here goes. What is your opinion of cryogenics?" "Cryogenics? Oh my…isn’t that where they cut people’s heads off and freeze them?" "Yes, something like that." "I dunno… I’m not sure I have an opinion on that." "Really?" "Yeah." Art looked intently into her eyes trying to penetrate beyond the surface of her eyes into her very soul, but he couldn’t quite accomplish it. They looked exactly the same whether he looked intently or not. "Hm, I see you’re trying to impress me with how smart you are." Sandra had just finished her second drink and her tongue was starting to disobey. "No, not at all. Your glass is empty, by the way. Another one?" She nodded. "Yes, I think you are." "No, I’m not. And as a proof, let’s not talk about cryogenics any more, but let’s talk about say… jewelry. That’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing." "Thank you." "My pleasure." "You’re just saying that." "No, really. It’s an amazing piece. Must be very expensive." "You’re kidding, right? It’s just something I bought in the gift shop." "Really? I could have sworn it’s authentic. May I see it closer?" "Sure, see away." Sandra bent over the table toward Art. "You’re winning a lot with the close up, you know this? But can’t you take it off and let me look at it?" "No." "Why not? You think I’m going to grab it and run away?" "It’s not that. It’s just…" she pulled back and away as if she’d said too much. "Just what?’ "Nothing. Let’s not talk about it." "You are such an enigma." "Who - me?" Sandra laughed. "Yes, you. Sphinx." Art felt impatient. He was tired of all this talk and wanted to know whether she had the scar or not. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this, whatever it takes.’ Sandra laughed even harder. "You…you…" she made a clumsy movement and spilled most of her third Bloody Mary down the front of her dress. "…oh shit, my dress!" she gasped as she clasped her hands in dismay looking at the tomato juice as it spread like a proof of virginity across her cream-coloured dress. "Oh, God… how am I going to get on the bus looking like this? She got up from her stool. "I need to get to a bathroom, fast." "These bar bathrooms won’t be much help." Art passed her a napkin.. Sandra cast a brisk "You’re not much help, either" look at him. "If I may…." Art also rose from his stool. Sandra looked at him inquisitively, but without much trust. "There’ss a motel nearby. You can wash up there." "Motel?" Sandra pondered as if tasting the word like a new drink. "Where?" "Near here. I stay there sometimes when I’m in luck and want to play the next day." "Are you sure you want to spend the money?" Sandra’s voice was a tad hesitant. "I just blew five hundred bucks for nothing. This way, at least, they’d go as a tribute to a beautiful woman." "Oh, stop that." Sandra waved as if fending off a fruit fly but Art noticed she was, also, smiling. *** When they drove to a motel Art asked her to wait in the car until he got the room. Having done this, he returned for her and they walked together to the room on the second floor, unnoticed. As they entered the motel room he kissed her. Sandra didn’t resist and even parted her lips in anticipation of Art’s tongue. Instead, though, Art caressed the back of her neck with the tips of his fingers. His eyes were impatient. Still kissing, he slowly maneuvered her toward the bed. "Wait, I need to rinse my dress." Sandra attempted to gently break away from his embrace. "Oh, come on - you can do that later." Art held her hand, not letting her to go to the bathroom. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. "Stay here with me." Sandra exhaled a sigh. Her eyes turned foggy with the expectancy of pleasure.. "I need to go, really…" she kept on saying but closed her eyes and tilted her face up, meeting his kisses and leaving her body unguarded as loot for his hungry fingers. Arts lips moved lower, from her mouth to her chin and, finally, to her covered neck. His fingers searched, found, and started working on the fasteners of her necklace. One, two, three - the necklace was off. At this moment Art’s embrace loosened. Sandra collected herself and with a coquettish giggle ran to the bathroom. Art stood still staring at the spot where her neck had just been. There was no scar. There was, however, a serious neck-wattle. He still felt excited, but the excitement was in its farewell, delayed the way thunder follows lightning. Art still wanted her body, but now the definitude of her identity and the shocking vividness of her neck made him feel deceived, repulsed and lost. Art listened to the sounds of running water coming from the bathroom and looked around the room. His gaze stopped at the necklace laying on the bed where he’d dropped it. The horizontal wrinkles moved closer together on Art’s forehead forced by the movement of his eyebrows to its maximum upward position as he shook his head in sour disbelief. Pulling out his wallet, he gingerly fingered several bills out and threw them on the bed next to the necklace. ‘That should be enough to get her home.’ Art quietly moved to the door and opened it then, suddenly, stopped. Turning back into the room, he listened, again, to the sound of running water - now punctuated by the murmurings of Sandra humming some tuneless song. Satisfied, he tip-toed to the bed and retrieved two of the bills he’d just thrown there. ‘Well, it’d better be.’ Grinning, he strode to the door and out to the parking lot, closing the door carefully, quietly, behind him. |
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| The Necklace lee10@host365.com |
#8 of 12 |
| 2465 | |
| Daniel belched and tasted his last whisky. Laughing, he
swung the Subaru round a corner and up a steep hill, experiencing the torque;
loving the pull of power. Daniel was delighted with the feel of the car. They
can keep their Porsches, he thought. My Impreza's as quick as shit off a
shovel. The Warren Valley Dip was ahead and Daniel decided to see how his new toy would handle. "We'll show 'em what we can do," he shouted. The rain had stopped and the clouds had mostly gone, but the moon's crescent showered some silvery light over the nighttime countryside. The road seemed clear. Daniel thrust his foot flat to the floor. At the bottom of the dip he was doing a ton. At the top of the rise he was still doing 70 but lifted off in time for the sharp left over the crest. Only he was not in time; not in time to miss the cyclist; not in time to avoid smashing into the small twinkle of light and the dark shape in the centre of the road. "Jesus Christ." Daniel stamped on the pedals but the road was greasy after the rain and the Impreza kept on going. He saw a shocked, white face; the terrified face of a girl wearing a beret, over long hair that the wind had flicked across her cheek. The bike's light disappeared; the girl vanished. The car slowed, but it was too late and Daniel felt the jolt as the wheels rolled over her, then a second as the rear wheels crushed what was left. The engine stalled. The car stopped. Daniel screamed. "No! No! No!" He screwed his eyes tight shut, painfully so, to block out the nightmare. He clung to the leather steering wheel so hard, his hands hurt. It had to be a bad dream. He'd wake up sweating in bed. But that double jolt had been only too real. He leaned his head on the wheel and moaned, keening for himself and for the girl. She had to be dead. There was no way she could have survived such a thump, never mind what had followed. Daniel opened his eyes and stared down the road. There was nothing but thedark. He glanced in the rear view mirror. There may have been a still, shadowy hump in the road, blacker than the tarmac. It was difficult to tell. He started the car, drove slowly down the road and backed into a farm gateway. The girl was obviously beyond help but he could save himself, if he kept his head. Though the wheels skidded on mud, the car pulled away without too much effort. The girl was in the middle of the road. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he edged past, and away. The moon's sliver of light was dulled by a wisp of cloud and darkness lay heavy on the land. It seemed to take forever to reach home but eventually Daniel turned into his drive. He staggered from the car and with the help of the security lights, inspected the damage. There was a deep dent in the bonnet and the bumper was twisted, held on only by two bolts. "Thank God the number plate's still there," Daniel said. He had to do something. He'd boasted so much about the car; his mates wanted to see it that weekend. But he couldn't take it out in this condition. That dent was a dead give away. And any garage mechanic worth his salt would know what had caused it, so he couldn't get it fixed. He had to disguise the damage. He had no choice. He sat behind the steering wheel again, turned on the engine and prepared to scrap £25,000 worth of motorcar. He strapped himself in. His drive was long. He floored the throttle. The car's phenomenal acceleration sent gravel flying. He snatched at the wheel and hit the oak tree near the gate. The airbag inflated. Daniel didn't hear it go because his face was buried in it. He was disorientated. He was nauseous. His ears rang. When he'd regained a little of his breath, on shaking legs he fell from the car and looked at the damage this second crash had caused. He figured he'd been doing at least 30 when he hit. The bonnet was squashed up against the windscreen, which by some miracle was still intact. The bumper was imbedded in the tree trunk, wrenched from the car when the vehicle bounced back onto the drive following the impact. There was a slash of bright blue paint on the bark and a branch, as though in revenge, had snapped from the tree, crumpling the car's roof on the passenger side. Daniel sniveled and wiped his nose. His face was streaked with blood. He needed a whisky, or two. * Daniel woke the following day to a cacophony of bell ringing. Much of the noise was in his head but he sensed that some might be the front door bell. Groaning, he pulled himself from the depths of the old leather chair in which he'd fallen asleep. The heating had been on for hours and the sitting room was uncomfortably hot. He felt sticky and dirty. "I'm coming. I'm coming," he grumbled, making his way to the door, every step sending a flashing white pain through his head. Two uniformed policemen stood on the step. "Good morning, Sir. Mr.Pugh?" Daniel shielded his eyes from the daylight glare. He grunted. The elder of the two policemen said. "I'm Inspector McBride. This is Sergeant Blake. May we have a word with you?" Daniel's thought processes struggled to catch up with the conversation. "What?" he said. "A word, Sir. Inside perhaps?" "What about?" McBride nodded his head towards the Impreza, which was slumped against the oak tree where Daniel had left it. "About motor cars, Sir. Sporty motor cars in particular." Daniel went cold and felt the colour leave his face. "I'm gonna be sick," he said and disappeared into the house. The two policemen took this as an invitation to enter and stepped into the hall. It was several minutes before Daniel returned. He apologised, "Sorry, I had a few too many last night." "Was that before, or after you hung the car on the tree?" Sergeant Blake asked. Daniel grimaced at the officer's attempt at humour. "Oh, it was after, and because of," he said. "Sir?" "I only took delivery of the car yesterday," Daniel explained. "It ran away with me and as you can see, I didn't even get it as far as the road." The two policemen nodded. "So, if that's all," Daniel added, " please excuse me, I really need a shower and a shave." He ran his hand over his dark bristles in explanation. "Well, it's not quite all," McBride insisted. "We came specifically to ask you a few questions. If we may, Sir?" he gestured towards the interior of the house. "Maybe you'd be more comfortable if you sat down?" Daniel was horrified and wondered if he'd given himself away somehow. What had they found? Could they link him to the scene of the accident? He doubted it but with modern forensics you could never tell. He tried to pull himself together, looked at their serious faces and decided it was all over. He tried to delay the inevitable. "I need coffee." He gestured down the hall. "The kitchen be alright?" McBride nodded and the two followed Daniel into an untidy, bachelor kitchen. They declined a drink but once Daniel's fingers were curled round a hot mug and he began to feel a bit more human, bravely he asked, "What are these questions then?" "It's about car tyres, Mr.Pugh," McBride explained. "The sort you have on your Subaru. We are questioning everyone locally who has bought, within the last couple of weeks or so, certain expensive, low-profile tyres. And people like yourself who have recently purchased a car that might have had them fitted." Daniel sipped his coffee. "I don't understand." The steam made him blink. "Why?" "You haven't seen today's local news I take it, Sir?" Daniel shook his head. Pain jabbed at a delicate spot behind his left eye. He rubbed his forehead. "There's been a rather nasty hit and run on the Blakesey to Cranmer road, not above five miles from here." "Good God," Daniel gasped. "Quite. A young lady was killed as she was cycling home from work. Such a tragedy. It left twin baby girls without a mother." "That's terrible," Daniel whispered. He rubbed his eyes, which were threatening to fill with tears. "But I don't see how I can help you." "Maybe you can't," McBride agreed. "It's a process of elimination. The maniac who hit the girl might have reversed his vehicle into a gateway before he fled the scene. We found a clear imprint in the mud of a particular type of tyre. It was such a good print that we could also see the marks of those little rubber nubs that you get on brand-new tyres." McBride paused, but before Daniel could draw breath to comment, Sergeant Blake demanded, "Where were you between 8pm and 9pm last night, Mr.Pugh?" "Er, er," Daniel's mouth was dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth "Was that when..." He managed finally to say. "Yes, Mr.Pugh," McBride spoke more gently than his colleague. "The young lady was killed between 8 and 9 o'clock." Adrenalin-fuelled panic hit Daniel. "I ... I shouldn't have had that coffee." He lurched to the sink. The officers waited impassively until he'd finished retching. "I'm sorry to bother you like this when you are obviously unwell," McBride said after Daniel had swilled and dried his face. "If you will just answer that one question, we'll be on our way." Daniel tried to think through a mind that was soggy with drink and near frozen with fear."It's difficult," he protested. "The car was delivered here about half 5. I was a bit mad because I'd waited in nearly all afternoon." He stopped to think. He screwed his eyes shut as though in intense concentration. "Yes. It was about that time because Neighbours had just started on the Tele." The sergeant started to scribble in a small, black notebook. He paused when Daniel did. Daniel continued. "The salesman and mechanic..." "Duff's Garage?" "Yes. They were here about three-quarters of an hour doing the paperwork and showing me the controls. That would make it about?" "Six thirty," Blake prompted. "Yes. Six thirty, that's right." "And after that?" McBride joined in. "Then I ordered a take-away pizza?" "From?" Daniel sighed in exasperation and wished they'd just let him tell the story straight before he forgot any of it. "Pam's Pizza in Cranmer." The detail was jotted into the notebook "The pizza came at 7.30," Daniel said hurriedly. "I ate it, had a shower and shave, then decided to take the car out for its first spin. That would have been about a quarter to nine." "And how far did you go, Mr.Pugh," McBride asked quietly. "One hundred yards! Only one hundred f...g yards!" Daniel spluttered. "Then I hit the f...g tree!" He slammed his fist on the draining board. Assorted dirty crockery jumped violently. "God! I feel so f...g stupid." The two policemen nodded sympathetically. The inspector said, "Thank you, Mr.Pugh. That seems to be all we need for now." Sergeant Blake folded his notebook and put it away in his jacket pocket. Daniel let them out. He closed the door. Through the glass he watched them walk down the drive. It was a long walk. The Impreza was blocking the drive and the police car was on the far side of it. McBride inspected the badly damaged vehicle while his sergeant unlocked their car. Something seemed to catch his eye. He stooped and peered at the offside rear wheel. He called to his colleague who joined him. Daniel saw McBride point at the wheel. He saw the other policeman nod. And rummage in a pocket. He took out what appeared to be a pen. Using it as a tool, he teased something from between the tyre's treads. McBride held out an envelope. The item, whatever it was, was dropped in. McBride sealed the envelope while Sergeant Blake unclipped his radio and spoke into it. Inspector McBride turned and walked back towards the house. Daniel opened the door. He recoiled from the look of disgust on the other man's face. "Inspector?" McBride ignore him. "Daniel Pugh," he intoned, "I am arresting you for the manslaughter of Karen Smith on the night of..." Daniel didn't hear any more. His mind closed down, overcome by terror. It was only later, as he was being led away that some small sense of sanity returned. His drive was swarming with policemen, uniformed and plain clothed and he heard as he was being marched past a constable, "Slimy bastard. The long drop's too good for the likes of him." Daniel was loaded into a police van with darkened windows. McBride accompanied him.Mystified, he asked the inspector what was happening. "You, my friend," the Inspector replied, "have given us all the evidence we need to convict you for the hit and run, for the death of that poor girl." "I don't understand?" Daniel thought he'd covered his tracks pretty well. He'd left nothing at the scene, he was sure. He'd staged a pretty good accident and destroyed the evidence of his damaged car. What could they possibly have on him? As the van sped away, back down the country lane towards town, McBride looked smug. "There was one detail we kept from the press," he said. "Karen was wearing a silver necklace. It had belonged to her Grandmother and after the old lady's death, Karen wore it every where." "So?" "So, being an old piece of jewellery, it was well made; tough, you might say. When it caught on the car that killed her, Karen was almost decapitated." Daniel turned away from the Inspector and vomited violently into a corner of the van. The sour aroma of second-hand whisky quickly filled the air. The driver opened the windows in the cab to flush out the stench. "And," the inspector finished, "the necklace broke. We found most of the links at the accident scene." He paused and looked at Daniel. "The remainder, half a dozen links or so, we found embedded in the mud in the tread of your tyres. The mud that you picked up when you reversed into the gateway." Daniel groaned. "You could say, I suppose, that the necklace was the silent witness to a despicable crime," the inspector finished. And Daniel realised he, too, was finished. |
|
| The Necklace George A. Stahl Jr. biggiestahls@yahoo.com |
#9 of 12 |
| 1563 | |
| The mortician looks at the lady on the slab with an
evil smile. His teeth a yellowish tint. He runs his hands up her arms to the
necklace that she is wearing around her neck and gently unclasps it. "Tanya,
Tanya, if only you had done more good in your life then you wouldn't have ended
up here. I will take this necklace back. I will again give this here necklace
to an undeserving woman." The necklaces powers aren't evil. It feeds off the
evil that these women possess and sucks the life out of them. Tomorrow the
cycle starts again. Most last only a couple of days. There are those strong
ones that last no longer than a week. Let's see 452 S. 9th Street Ah yes, good old Mrs. Jenkins, little miss perfect. Her husband was diagnosed with cancer no more than six months ago and yet she strays away from him. Last count I have is eight counts of adultery. Poor Mr. Jenkins. He's sick and going to Kemo-therapy everyday. Now is my opportunity to deliver the necklace. Mrs. Jenkins is out whoring around and Mr. Jenkins is out getting his treatment. I figure I'll slip in through the back door since it's wooded with no visiblity from the street and put it neatly in it's box on her dresser. Maybe she'll think it's a present from Mr. Jenkins. For now I will get back to the mortuary and finish my work and wait. As Mrs. Jenkins pulls up in the drive she thinks to herself 'How long until that old bastard just kicks the bucket. I'm tired of sneaking around and playing the happy little housewife.' She walks into the house and goes right up to the shower. Her bright blonde hair is a mess and she reeks of sex. She quickly jumps in the shower and throws her clothes down the laundry chute to discard the evidence. As she walks into her bedroom she spots an odd box on her dresser. She picks it up and opens the top. Oh my god look at this. The necklace is a pure gold color with three black onyx stones on each side with a bright red ruby in the center. Bob always buys such nice things for me. It's such a shame I have no love for him. I wouldn't have married him if not for his money. I still refuse to take care of him though. I'm just to beautiful to wait on him hand and foot. I do give him credit though this necklace is so beautiful, I think I'll put it on right now. As she puts on the necklace the hospital transport pulls up to drop Mr. Jenkins off. He's to weak to walk on his own. He must rely on a motorized wheelchair to get around. As he wheels in the house she's coming down the stairs. "Hi, Dear," he says in his typical cheery voice. "Yeah hi, Bob," she says. She walks away just mumbling under her breath. "Donna, dear could you please get me a drink of water?" "No, Bob. Why don't you get up and get it yourself, you lazy bastard?" "Donna, dear why must you be so cruel to me? I don't ask you for much of anything. Just a little help every once in awhile." "Why I'm so cruel, you ask? Well I'll tell you why. I think you are weak. You can't even fight off something as little as cancer. Be a real man and maybe I'll act like a real wife. So now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go to bed." As she's walking up the stairs she feels a painfull tingle go through her. She suddenly felt weak. Something she's not used to feeling. She climbs into bed with her bath robe on, not bothering to change into her night clothes. As she wakes up the next morning she still feels weak and tired. She crawls out of bed and walks to the bathroom to do her usual daily ritual. As she looks into the mirror she shrieks. Her skin is pale, her cheeks are all sunken in. It looks like she aged thirty years overnight and for a thirty-two year old woman she should not look that way. She rummages through her medicine cabinet for every beauty product that she has. She starts caking everything on one by one and yet no change. She takes her clothes off to change and she is nothing but skin and bones. She starts panicking and runs to her room to put on baggy sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. "Maybe if I wear this no one will notice." She quickly goes to her walk-in closet to get her hat with a veil on it to hide her attrocious face. As she goes into the bedroom and down the stairs she sees Bob. "Where are you going, Dear?" "None of your business. I'm going out." She slams the door behind her and gets in her car. As she's driving down the road she feels more and more of her energy draining. She pulls up to her plastic surgeon and rushes into the lobby. She starts screaming. "Dr. Slazosky, where are you?!" The receptionist asks her if she can help her. She just ignores her and walks right into the Dr.'s office. "What is wrong with me?" "Ahhh, Mrs. Jenkins?" Dr. Slazosky, asks. "Yes, Mrs. Jenkins. Can't you even recognize me? You only seen me last week." "I, I, I'm sorry, Mrs. Jenkins. I just wasn't expecting you." "What is wrong with me? Yesterday I was beautiful and today I'm this." "I can give you botox shots. That's about the best I can do without sending you for tests." "Oh forget it! What good are you, anyways?" Frustrated she peeled out of the parking lot. She pulls up to this raggedy house with the awnings all ripped. She walks up to the door and starts pounding. "Bret? Bret, open the door it's me Donna." He opens the door and jumps back. "Donna, is that you?" "Yes it's me!" She goes to hug him but he barely even touches her. She pulls back. "Bret, what's wrong? It's me. Do I repulse you now? Don't you want to screw me like you did yesterday?" "Donna, calm down. What happened that you look like that?" "I have no idea, Bret. I went to bed last night and woke up like this. I feel weak. I need to sit down." She went for his kitchen chair closest to them. "Donna, I think you need to go home and rest." "Bret, I need you right now. Please don't turn your back on me." "Listen, Donna, we had a good thing but I think we need to end it." She starts sobbing and walks out the door, and to her car. She pulls up to her house and walks in the door. She passes Bob saying not a word to him, and goes up to her room. "How can he do that to me? I need him most and he turns his back on me." 'I feel weak and need to lay down.' Mr. Jenkins was waiting for Donna to come down for dinner. He was waiting for what seemed like hours with no sign of her. So he went up the chair lift and went to her room. He pulled the covers back and saw what used to be his wife. Her face looked to be as if she were ninety years old. Her body looked like she hadn't eaten in weeks. He quickly wheels over to the phone to call the authorities. The police show up and begin their questioning. "Mr. Jenkins, can you tell us what happened to your wife?" "No, Officer, I just came upstairs to check on her and found her like this." "Did she do anything different than normal in the past few days?" "No, she hasn't done anything different than she usually does." "Alright just a second, Mr. Jenkins." The officer walked to the door of the bedroom. "Officer Thomas to dispatch. Could you please send a coroner to 452 S. 9th Street?" A female voice came back, "Thomas, coroners eta is 15 minutes." Officer Thomas walk back to Mr. Jenkins. "Ok Mr. Jenkins, I am sorry for your loss. Coroner will be here shortly, is there any preference as to what mortuary you'd like to send her to?" "Yes. I'd like her sent to Damien's mortuary on Shady Ave." "Yes Mr. Jenkins. Would you like a ride there?" "Thank you, but no. I'll meet them there to make arrangements." "Alright, you'll have to ocme down the station tomorrow." "Thank you, Officer Thomas." As Mr. Jenkins walks into the door the mortician meets him in the front hallway. "Mr. Jenkins, I'm terribly sorry for your loss. Would you follow me downstairs to start making the arrangements?" "Of course." They go down in the elevator and to his office. "Alright Mr. Jenkins, now you know the price for what I did." He gets up from his wheelchair and walks over to the mortician laughing. "Yes I do know. An eternity in hell is better than a lifetime of hell with that bitch." Again they share a laugh together. "So after my death my soul is yours." They shook on that. |
|
| The Necklace Rita B. Fox daridi@zeelandnet.nl |
#10 of 12 |
| 1252 | |
| Just like every third Saturday of the month, there was
a flea market. The Hudson’s had tidied up their attic. There was so much
that they didn’t use, but it was too good to throw away with the garbage.
Most things were inherited. "We got so many things that are too good to throw away. Maybe we can rent a booth on the flea market. Maybe we can sell a lot of it. What do you think James?" James was very annoyed. ~ Who buys all that old junk from other people, thought James. ~ But he didn’t say it out loud. Most of the things were from Sierra’s family. "If you think you get paid for those things, it is okay with me. I shall help you were I can." "Thank you James." Sierra had a good look at the things, wondering why her family ever bought those things back than. There were all kinds of things, lamps, books, old records, ect. Too much to name. "Good morning, Marie Spencer speaking, how can I help you?" "Good morning Madam Spencer, I like to know if I can rent a booth for the upcoming flea market," Sierra asked. "A moment, please, Madam, I shall take look for you" Sierra heard music in the background. "Yuck, they play music every where, and you have to like it as well." Those few minutes seems hours. "I’m back, you’re lucky, it’s the last one. On Saturday somebody comes by and collect the money from the booth." The lady took Sierra’s name and gave her the booth number. "James we are lucky, we had the last booth ." ~ Do you call that luck," though James. ~ But he kept his mouth shut. His idea was to throw it all away at once, but never the less. Sierra decided to putt all items together, books with books, records with record, ect. So it was all together and easy to put on the booth. The alarm clock went off, Sierra look 8 o’clock AM. The sun was shinning in the bed room; she felt the warmth of the sun at her face. "James, wake up. You promised to help to get all the things to the flea market. If you come out now we can have breakfast together." James turned around to face Sierra. "Okay love, I will be downstairs in a minute." Sierra got out of bed and went downstairs and fixed breakfast. "James, downstairs now." "Yes I’m coming deer." James got out of bed as well and went downstairs. "What are you going to do after you bring me to the flea market?" "I don’t know, perhaps gardening, but you can reach me on my cell phone. Can I have a cup of tea, please?" Sierra poured the tea in his cup. "It might be a terrific day, who knows," suggested Sierra, "when I sold everything at the end of the day." Sierra smiled. She knew that that wouldn’t happen. After they finished there breakfast, they left with the car and all the boxes for the booth. The flea market wasn’t that far away, but all the things must be brought to the booth. The weather was very nice, so she expected a lot of people. James helped Sierra to get all the books and the rest to the booth and what couldn’t fit the top, he put on the ground in front of the booth. "Maybe I see you later, see how you are doing. Bye bye dear." He gave her a kiss and disappeared. The whole morning people came by, lots of people looked and a lot bought. Sierra was surprised that that much was sold already. "Gosh Madam, are you sure you really want to sell this?" Sierra heard a nice woman’s voice. Sierra looked up and saw a woman with a photo album in her hands. The lady handed it over and Sierra looked at the photos. She didn’t recognize anyone in the photos. "No, Madam, I don’t think so I’m sorry. Thank you for giving it to me." The woman took of to see the rest of the flea market. Sierra put the album away. The album was in her mind all day. At 5 o’clock PM James was back. He was suprised as well that some many things where sold. When all the unsold things where back in the car and Sierra sat beside James, she told him about the photo album. "A woman found it between the books. I never seen the photos or the people in it, you might have a look later?" "Okay, I will. How was your day?" "Not bad, a lot is sold, it got a second live, maybe a third……" "That true Sierra, I must admit it." They drove back, just not in a hurry. "If you take a look at the photos, than I will fix our dinner." James took the album, sat him self down at the couch and opened the photo book. He saw old yellow photo’s in the photo album. James didn’t recognize anyone either, although the lines beneath it told him that they where his great-grand parents. He leafed through the book. Suddenly a piece paper felt on the ground. James picked it up and read the words: "The one who read this and knows were the bed is can keep what he finds. That was our secret. No one ever knew where that loose knob meant Old Isaac Jenkins" ~ Which bed? Loose knob? What on earth where they talking about. ~ He called Sierra and gave her the note. Together they took a look at the picture. People who were dressed beautifully with the most gorgeous jewels. Not that garbage you see today. One of the last photos was of a man and woman on old bed. She sat on it and he stood beside it, with the knob of the bed in his hand. "Is that the bed……?" They both wondered. They looked to each other……. ~ Is that….? On the attic was a very old bed…………. Nòòòòòòò, that couldn’t be true……. Or could it be………. ~ James put the album on the table, looked at Sierra and they both ran up the stairs to the attic. They looked for the bed; they both felt their heart pounding in their throats. Sierra climbed on the bed and start to turn the knobs. The first one, jammed. Second one, jammed. Third one…jammed as well. They looked to each other, nòòò that can’t be true. With trembling hands Sierra reached out for the last knob, grabbed it and started to turn……. She felt the knob moving. Sierra took the knob and laid it down on the table. Together they looked in the hole. They saw something inside of it. They fished it up with a long pin. It was a package. "What would be in the package James, maybe the jewels that they wear in the photos in the album?" "I haven’t any clue love, I know as much as you do, open it Sweetie." Carefully Sierra opened the package and putted it all on the bed……….. . They were amazed; all those time they had a big treasure in the attic without knowing it. The most beautiful jewels glittered at them. A golden necklace with a big ruby, bracelets, earrings. They sat on the bed; cherish the treasure they found for a long time. It was the best ending of a day that you can imagine. |
|
| The Necklace GPain97046@aol.com |
#11 of 12 |
| 200 | |
| She was talking to her love and wildly gesturing with
her hands. When she yanked her black leather hat off, I could see her curly
white hair. Black leather pants and a matching vest accented her slimness. Her
tiny feet were in black leather boots. She wasn’t shouting, but her voice was loud. I couldn’t make out her words from where I was sitting. I nonchalantly moved closer. "I’ve given you everything and still you want more. Why?" Her face flushed. No reply. "I adore and idolize you. Doesn’t that count?" She slapped her back leather gloves on her legs. No reply. "Hell, you’re not worth it. People told me you’d do this and I didn’t listen." She threw her hat on the floor and started pacing. "Please don’t ask for more." She sat down and tried to smile. I moved closer. This was getting interesting. "Why can’t you give me something in return besides that cheap old necklace?" No reply. "Okay here’s my last dollar and that cheap necklace. I hope you’re happy." She threw them both. This time there was a reply. Bells started clanking and whistles starting blowing when the slot machine hit a jackpot for her. |
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| The Necklace Rex@Kansaswind.com |
#12 of 12 |
| 870 | |
| It was quite a step up, I thought sardonically.
Just six weeks ago I had been a respected guard in a warehouse. Now I was
more a remotely controlled robot. If not for the necklace, I'd still be checking crates for contraband and stowaways, oblivious to the outside world. Necklace, hell, came the unbidden thought. More like a ten pound dog collar. They tell me I owe my latest upgrade to a college kid. That and my success at sneaking around and following orders. The kid had integrated cameras, GPS, and communications in a way that others had not, enabling my partner and the fat CIA operative to tell me where to go and see what I was seeing. The CIA, of course, had to add their twist and implant the audio into my skull so the enemy couldn't hear it coming to me from the necklace. I guess college kids aren't allowed to rummage inside a girl's skull like that. Today's mission was relatively easy. Just plant a bomb on the enemy's HQ and it's home in time for milk and cookies. Since it was two in the morning, I'd probably skip the cookies and hit the sack. "Wake up, Joey," I called, nudging my counterpart. Not a bad-looking sort if you like lots of hair and muscles, he carried twice my load and had two targets to mine. "Some day, Gwen, you'll learn not to touch me when I'm sleeping. Combat habits are hard to break." "Yeah, yeah, so you say. The big tough commando might bite my head off without even knowing it. I still think that line goes over better with civilians who don't know what a pussycat you are." We had been dropped in the evening, camouflaged as civilian traffic to get close. Now the hour had come and we moved out toward the enemy camp. A quick jog and we were close enough to smell their latrines. Too close, by that gauge. "Whee, remind me not to eat the corned beef tonight. That could be me in there," said Joe. A second after I spotted the break in the fence, my partner Rusty came on line. "Veer left and enter." My night vision is better than his, but radio silence prevented the retort he deserved. A lonely corpsman had obviously made this cut in the chain link to go to town, then tried to hide it with a bush. We entered enemy territory and immediately trotted left to get out of the lee of the privies. We slowed down a bit after a hundred paces and belly-crawled to the top of a small embankment. Joe's targets were ammo bunkers for the heavy guns, and he would be fairly exposed getting to them. Mine was a squat truck in the middle of the compound, easy prey for someone as sneaky as me. The necklace seemed lighter now that our destination was so near. I crawled behind a thicket and trotted toward the center of the camp. "If you get caught waltzing in like that I've got tapes to prove it was you, not me," warned Rusty. The guy gets left behind and gets sentimental on me. Joe circled instead of going straight in and was still a ways out when I crawled under the truck designated HQ. "Target confirmed, leave the necklace," said Rusty. I hung the heavy contraption on the frame and looked for Joe. He had dropped his first parcel, but a concentration of guards near the second gun prevented his getting close. They reminded me of the customs agents in the warehouse; looking like they would be there 'til shift change. A sudden breeze reminded me I had not eaten in a while. In spite of Joe's comment their corned beef smelled pretty good. It also gave me an idea for helping him out. I crawled to the mess tent and looked around. A raccoon was already there, just waiting to take the blame. I shooed him out the east side, then knocked over a tray of silverware while he was trying to get back in. Whee, from the spotlights you'd have guessed they were looking for a formation of bombers! But, it did distract them from the guns. Joe made it to the fence shortly after I did. "Thanks. All they needed was a deck of cards and they were ready to spend the night," he said. We again took the fragrant route and exited with no one the wiser. Unfortunately, getting through the friendly troops surrounding the camp was just as easy. Except for one soldier taking a last-minute dump before the bombs went off, we encountered no one. He heard our bushes rustling and finished his business in a hurry. Joe's partner was waiting less than a mile away and gave us a lift back to camp. Just before we got there the bombs were detonated and Operation Flour-Power commenced. The 'bombs,' with their white marker powder, took out the brains and big guns according to the referees. The exercise was a complete success. "Yeah, yeah, hurray for the K9 corps. Tomorrow's another day, another necklace. Let's get some shut-eye, I'm dog tired," was all Joe had to say. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club