A game we play

*Catch up with the adventures of Pauley and Millicent, beginning with “Dead Money.” This week, read Lance’s chapter first, “Shake it Out,” then come back here for the second installment.

Stan and Lenore watched as Pauley and Millicent walked out to the porch. Millicent’s arm protectively hooked around her friend’s elbow.

Pauley was laughing. “You know, there really is a Rick’s Café in Casablanca, just like in that old Bogart movie. There’s even an authentic 1930’s Pleyel there.”

Releasing Pauley’s arm, Millicent sat on the porch bench, “You know I don’t play the piano.”

“A senhorita Millicent quer um fogo grande,” Lenore said over her shoulder as she started climbing the stairs.

Stan reached up and grabbed for her elbow, ducking when she threw it back with bone-breaking force.

“Sorry, I won’t do that again, but Lenore, I don’t understand a single word of Portuguese.”

Lenore, nodded, acknowledging Stan’s apology. “I am sorry too, I do not like to be touched. Miss Millicent wants a fogueira, ummm…. bonfire.”

Raising his hands, palms up, Stan gestured for Lenore to proceed him up the stairs. “Then, we should bring down the deadwood.”

Lenore stripped the covers off the beds upstairs to wrap the bodies in, making it easier to dragged them down the stairs.

Picking up an end of one of the blankets, Stan started pulling his bundle down the hallway with Lenore following with a second one. At the head of the stairs, they kicked them down, watching as they tumbled, coming to rest beside their former boss.

Stan sat on the top step, scooting over so Lenore could join him.

“I’m impressed with your work,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “I could use someone like you in my organization.”

Lenore frowned, but didn’t answer.

“Working for me would be nothing like the Sampas,” he continued, watching the play of emotions across Lenore’s face. “You’d be more like a freelancer, like your own boss. I have certain jobs I need done. You take the contract or turn it down. It’s up to you.”

Lenore crossed her arms over her knees, biting the inside of her bottom lip.

“There is no punição, no… umm…” Lenore struggled for the right word, instead pulled up the back of her shirt to show Stan her scars.

“Oh, hell no!” Stan sat up suddenly, reaching out but not touching Lenore’s back. “No! That would never happen. I respect my crew, and treat them well.”

“I could leave when I wanted?” Lenore straightened her shirt. “I could turn down any job you asked?”

Leaning forward so he was again sitting next to Lenore, Stan tentatively held out his hand. “I tell you what, Pauley and I will find you a nice place to live in New York. I’ll put you on my payroll, and you don’t have to do anything. Then, once you feel settled, I’ll offer you a few jobs, take them if you want, or not. Your choice.”

“I will not take your money for nothing,” Lenore said.

“Once we get to New York, we’ll figure out something for you to do,” Stan kept his hand out.

“You will find me a real job?” Lenore held out her hand too.

“Yes, even if it’s just teaching me Portuguese so if Pauley swears at me, I’ll know what she’s saying.”

Lenore smiled and grabbed Stan’s hand. “Sim, it is a deal.”

“Do you two want to be alone,” Pauley stood at the foot of the stairs, smiling up at Stan and Lenore.

Stan stood, still holding onto Lenore’s hand, and helped her to her feet.

“We’re done,” Stan said. “Lenore is joining us in New York.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Pauley embraced Stan as he reached her. “I see you brought down the trash. Oh, by the way, we think Danela took off. One less problem to deal with.”

Between the three of them, Lenore, Stan and Pauley removed the dead bodies from Millicent’s house as she directed them to the fire pit she and Pauley built.

“Lenore, will you stay out here with me?” Millicent watched as the flames took hold, flickering and raising a plume of white smoke. “We need to talk before we say our goodbyes.”

Stan and Pauley walked hand in hand to Lenore’s dented car.

“Millie wants to go to Morocco,” Pauley leaned against the fender, watching the other two women at the bonfire. “I think that’s a good place for her. Far enough away, but still cosmopolitan enough. I want to go too for a little while. Maybe check in with Gail and Butch.”

“You’ll come back to New York, right?” Stan sat on the car hood.

“Of course,” Pauley leaned in close, putting her arm around his waist. “It’ll be good to have Lenore there too. You’ll need the extra help, since I’ll want to take an extended leave… in a few months.”

She left her last words trail off.

Stan turned to stare at her, then drew her in for a celebratory kiss.

Where you belong

I had to leave. When the world became too small for us both to exist in, I knew it was time.

You asked for space to think in, to find out who you were and where you belonged. I already knew. You belonged with me, and I belonged with you.

That space was suffocating me. The emptiness without you crushed the life out of me. Not seeing you, not talking with you, not tasting you, was like being drained of my humanity.

I survive far away from people now, on my own. Existing only to sleep and dream of you.

Inspired by “Ho Hey” by The Lumineers

Past imperfect

If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.” – Buddha

Confess your imperfections, write them on a wall for all the world to see. Use big, bold strokes, in brutal black paint, where it cannot be ignored. Admit to every flaw, every shortcoming. Reveal your darkest lies and faults.

Yet… leave it unsigned.

Watch as the world passes by, watch as they read your words and see your images. Listen as they speculate about who is the author of these admissions, listen as they speak the names of those they believe are guilty.

Yet… you are not among the accused.

No one recognizes you. Only you see these perceived failings.

The 100 Word Challenge is to tell a story in only 100 words. This week’s theme is ‘Wall’

Inspired by the Studio30 Plus prompt “Imperfect“

Resume normal

The scene below unfurled in slow motion. Pauley felt like she was running through quicksand, unable to get down the stairs fast enough. Tomas’ gun aimed at Stan’s head, his finger on the trigger, and she knew she was useless to help. She cried out, but Tomas never flinched. That was until Vivian came out of nowhere, like an avenging angel. A really pissed off angel.

She had seen the results of Vivian’s ministrations, but never witnessed her in the act of killing someone so up close and personal. Still, she couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more than Tomas.

By the time she and Lenore made it down the stairs, the struggle between Tomas and Vivian was over. Pumped full of lethal toxin, Tomas succumbed to the poison quickly, but not so soon that he didn’t realize who was responsible. While he still had breath, Lenore walked over to him, and with a well-placed foot kicked him hard enough to crack ribs. Her last act of defiance was to spit on her former boss, “Podridão no inferno!”

Pauley helped Vivian to her feet, torn between making sure she was not injured and running to Stan, overwhelmed by how close he came to being shot by Tomas.

“Are you hurt?” Pauley asked her friend, but was looking to Stan.

Stan tucked his gun back into his waistband, then held out his arms and slowly turned to prove there were no bullet wounds.

“I think,” Vivian grunted as Pauley guided her to a chair. “She was talking to me.”

Pauley sat in a chair beside Vivian, and began to shake. “You two are killing me. I can’t take all this drama. What happened to just doing a job and walking away?”

Lenore walked over to Stan, and the two calmly watched Pauley and Vivian.

“Did you take care of the other two?” Stan asked Lenore, ignoring the drama unfolding between Pauley and Vivian.

“Si, Pauley and I worked well together,” Lenore kept looking over at Tomas, as if he would rise from the dead. “You and Vivian not so much.”

Stan chuckled at Lenore’s assessment. “I can guarantee, we will never work together again. You and I, though, need to talk.”

Pauley kept touching Vivian, as if trying to make sure she was still there. “Where’s Danela?” Suddenly realizing the young woman was gone.

“I told her to run to your car, and hide there until I finished your botched job,” Vivian tried to sound dismissive, but held Pauley’s hand against her arm.

Pulling out two more chairs, Stan offered one to Lenore, then sat at the kitchen table with the other women.

“We can’t stay here,” Stan said, tapping the top of the table to get Pauley and Vivian’s attention. “And, you aren’t safe in Sao Paulo, Vivian. You have to decide what you want to do now.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Vivian said, straightening her blouse. “I was beginning to really like it here.”

*Catch up with the adventures of Pauley and Vivian, beginning with “Dead Money.” The second chapter in this week’s installment is “Machine Gun Blues,” written by published author, Lance Burson.

Cornflower fields

The cell is all I know. Brick walls on four sides, and a single window at floor level my only source of light. I’ve lost all track of time, not knowing the passage of days, only counting meals. Does the gruel come twice a day, once? Does it even matter?

It’s difficult to tell if I am alone in this gulag. I hear noises that could be from other cells, but are so inhuman I don’t want to think about what has become of my fellow prisoners.

The guards who patrol the grounds don’t speak to us. I haven’t heard another’s voice since I awoke on the cold, damp floor of my cell.

I once tried to recite all the songs and stories I knew, trying to keep a tenuous hold on my sanity. I stopped speaking aloud when I no longer recognized the sounds as words.

The memories faded, the libretto lost in the echoes, and I gave up, surrendering my mind to the darkness.

My only refuge is sleep. In my dreams, I am unbound. Running joyfully across open fields of cornflowers. Soaking in the sun and fresh air, breathing in the heady sweetness of freedom. I wake sobbing, not wanting to leave that reality.

Is this cell, this ungodly prison, my the actual dream? A recurring nightmare, and that field of blue is my true life? It’s so hard to separate the two. My nightmares have become less harsh. I spend it curled up in a corner, hiding from the cries from outside, trying to empty my mind of chaos so I can return to my place in the sunlight.

One day soon, the nightmares will finally end, and I can stay in the field, weaving wreaths of blue for my hair. Perhaps today will be that day.

Inspired by Christopher Moore’s “Lamb”
“That’s all I remember“