With a little help from my friends

Lenore squealed the tires of her sedan taking a sharp curve. Accelerating through the apex she drove straight for the Angels Trumpet covered wall surrounding Vivian’s complex. In the front seat, Pauley braced for impact, doing her best to brake from the passenger’s side. Stan, pressed back into his seat, covered his face with both arms.

The car slammed through a hidden gate in an explosion of yellow blossoms, and splintered wood.

“Damn, Lenore!” Pauley was the first to recover. “A little warning next time.”

Skidding to a stop at the rear entrance to Vivian’s house, the trio exited the car in unison. Having popped the trunk with the latch under the dash, Lenore raced to the back of the car as Stan opened his gun case, tossing each of the women a weapon.

“We can forget catching them by surprise,” Stan said, grabbing extra ammo clips. “Where to first Lenore?”

“The noise not slow Sampas down,” Lenore slid back the chamber on her Glock, satisfied with the loud click. “They will hunt Vivan and Danela until we stop them.”

Pauley tucked her clip into the back of her pant’s waistband, then made sure her own Walther p22 was loaded. “I told Viv to get into the house crawl space. We need to find her, now.”

Stan filled his pockets with extra clips and followed the women to the back of the house, each searching for signs of Tomas and his men. Their urgency ruled out stealth, rushing forward with little regard for giving away their arrival.

Making their way around the house, Lenore led them toward the entrance beneath the porch. Peering under the railing Pauley saw the back door off its hinges, the jamb shattered by gunfire. Grabbing the back of Lenore’s shirt, she also turned to Stan getting his attention.

“They’re in the house,” Pauley’s voice a fierce growl. “Lenore and I will go in, you follow the lattice around to the basement opening. Look for Viv.”

Lenore and Pauley backtracked to the stairs while Stan moved around the edge of the house. Entering the kitchen, one after the other, the women stayed in a crouch, moving carefully, and this time quietly.

Seeing Marco’s lifeless body on the floor, a red bloom at his temple, Pauley scanned the living room from behind the settee. Lenore, knelt by the stairs, listening for movement above them.

Holding up two fingers, Lenore pointed the barrel of her gun toward the ceiling, telling Pauley Tomas’ men were on the second story. Slipping around the banister, Lenore stayed low, her gun held ready but tight to her side. Pauley followed, her back to Lenore.

Inching up the stairs, the women were hyper-alert. Still running on her adrenaline high from her earlier hit, Pauley tingled with anticipation. When Lenore reached the top of the stairs, she signaled for Pauley to follow her down the hall to the last bedroom.

They could hear the two men rummaging through the room, tossing the mattress and trashing the closet. Peering around the door frame, Lenore could see where each man was, and motioned for Pauley to stay low. On either side of the bedroom doorway, the women remained silent, but a charge of electricity ran between them, as if they were linked in thought and action.

From her position, Lenore took aim at the man in the closet, and Pauley bore down on the one rifling through an armoire looking for valuables to steal. Holding up three fingers of her left hand, Pauley folded each one slowly into her fist. Firing from her knees, Pauley’s kill shot severed her target’s spine. Standing at the same moment, Lenore fired over Pauley’s head, hitting her mark between the eyes as he turned toward the first shot, her bullet ricocheting around inside his skull. Both men hit the floor at the same time.

Before the two Sampas took their last breath, Lenore and Pauley were running for the stairs, hoping to find Vivian and Stan before Tomas did.

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

A father’s right

He sat on the curb, legs bent so he could rest his elbows on his knees. A freshly fired pistol, now unloaded and its clip removed, lay on the sidewalk beside him, but out of reach.

Dressed in clean jeans, his most comfortable pair of running shoes and the red plaid button-down his wife always complimented him on, he looked like an average, middle-aged man. Except for the blood spatter hidden in the pattern of his shirt, and flecks of crimson dotting his face, he could be the guy next door.

His cell phone buzzed, but he ignored the noise. The last number he called was showing on the caller ID, but he had nothing left to say to the person on the other end. He said it all minutes before:

“I need a police officer and ambulance at 1212 Caster Street. I just shot someone.”

He was sure his target was dead, but he requested the ambulance just in case. He wanted the other man dead, hoped he was, but another bullet would only make the situation worse. He made his point already, anything more was unnecessary.

This was his last act of hopelessness. All his complaints, all the emails and voice messages, the notes left on her windshield, even hospital photos of ghastly injuries weren’t enough to get anyone to help. If the legal system wouldn’t stop the abuse, then there was only one option left.

When he finally came to trial for the murder of the man he claimed was physically and psychologically tormenting his daughter, neighbors and friends asked the inevitable questions about why he did what he did.

What gave him the right to take the law into his own hands, to act as judge, jury, and executioner.

In her opening statement, his attorney answered:

“Desperation had given him authority.”

Inspired by T.H. White’s “Once and Future King”
“Desperation had given him authority”

Favorite mistake

A slight wind was blowing, and thick clouds kept the sun concealed. A mix of grey tones was the only delineation between the sky and the park walkway.

Having rained the night before, small puddles dotted the lawn. Paquin ambled through the wet leaves, breathing in the petrichor, wishing she could bottle that ‘after the rain’ scent.

Several small tables were spread out in a well-manicured clearing. At each, two men sat facing each other, a chess set and timing clock separating them. Paquin frowned slightly at the sight. She had hoped the rain would dampen the benches too much, and keep the wood pushers away. The time was now, though, so she couldn’t delay her plans.

Keeping to the edge of the clearing, she slid into the shadows of the forest canopy to find her favorite scrying bowl. To an outsider, it appeared to be an ordinatry birdbath. Yet, a closer inspection showed precious silver and intricate scroll designs under the green patina. Filled with rainwater from spring’s first shower, and the last leaves from winter, it was ideal for divination.

She took a cursory look over her shoulder, and in her haste, forgot a cloaking spell to shield her from prying eyes. From the amalgam of leaves and rain she pulled a simulacrum, lifting it out of the bowl to seek its counsel.

“What strange alchemy is this?”

A slight wave of her hand, and the effigy slid under the wet leaves.

Without turning, she calmly addressed the intruding old-timer.

“It is not alchemy. You did not see anything amiss. It was simply a distortion of light and shadow.”

She heard the shuffle of feet through wet leaves. Glancing back, she saw the elderly man return to his chess match, but his younger opponent remained outside her purview, a knowing smirk playing across his face.

Returning his smile, she would later tell their children this day was her favorite mistake.

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Alchemy [noun \al-kə-mē\] 3: an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting

This week’s Studio30 Plus theme is “a favorite mistake”

Small bouts of bravery

Bravery doesn’t have to mean risking your life. Bravery can mean dropping to your knees to take a serendipitous photo of a violet blooming through a sidewalk crack, and not caring who’s watching.

The Trifextra Weekend challenge is: 33 words of advice

The sun on my face

Grey, lackluster skies are thick with regret. Rain and tears both threatening, my emotions and the weather mirroring equal measure of melancholy.

The energy I expend withdrawing from the emptiness of my room is Herculean. Cocooned in my isolation, I’m comforted by the predictable trivialities of what my life has become. Living in the world terrifies me.

My journey takes me far away from these fears, far from the pervasive and oppressive anxiety. The sun on my upturned face is a warm, loving caress on my skin. The gentle breeze, a mother’s kiss.

One step, one day at a time.

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

Submitted to Skywatch Friday, Season 6: Episode 39

*Photo venue: Fort Pickens, Gulfshores National Seashore, Pensacola, FL

Personal Pequod

His gruff persona was as iconic as the lighthouse standing vigil on the knoll above the marina. If you were in the harbor when he returned from a voyage, you would spy him at the helm of his boat, greasy ball cap shoved down over his bald pate, his eyes barely visible. His characteristic oil cloth Grundens, slick with ocean spray, snapped to his chin.

The aroma of crab pots, emptied of their bugs and stacked on the starboard side of the deck, entice a squabble of gulls, cawing their discontent over having no morsels to steal. Life-preservers, once bright safety orange, now faded to a dull vermillion, serve as dock bumpers.

The enigmatic captain was the epitome of Ahab, and his trawler, his personal Pequod. His Moby wasn’t a Great White, instead the monster he chased after was unknown to even him. All he knew was he longed for the sea, that he only felt at home in deep water.

He stayed in port only long enough to sell his catch, and take on supplies. His family stopped coming into greet him long ago, so long that no one remembered he was married. His wife would tell strangers she was a widow and her children fatherless, true enough it was.

When he died, few mourned his passing. The absence of the caricature of who he was, noticed far more than the real person he was. His legacy, a plaque at the local fishing museum and a meager display of his handcrafted lures, was all that remained of his life.

Submitted to WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge. This week the theme was to “snap a photo of something that is iconic to you… write a story using your picture.”

This week’s Studio30 Plus theme is “If I were to do it all over again,” and/or “Orange.”

*Living on the Gulf Coast of Florida, near the “The World’s Luckiest Fishing Village,” crab traps are as ubiquitous, and iconic, as seagulls on the beaches.

Until proven guilty

The room was uncannily hushed when we filed into the jury box. The thrill of serving on a high-profile case was tempered by being in a position of public scrutiny if we screwed up the verdict.

For the first two days, we heard testimony from specialists and hired experts. Without our binder of documents, it would have been impossible to understand all the legal jargon.

The defendant was finally scheduled to take the stand, and the gallery was filled to capacity by the morbidly curious. News pundits were predicting a brutal cross-examination from Assistant District Attorney Bonnie Post, a woman on a campaign against domestic violence, and for her boss’ high-backed leather chair.

Looking uncomfortable in his suit and tie, the defendant kept nervously tugging at his tight collar. When answering questions from his attorney, he leaned awkwardly toward the microphone at the witness stand, until the judge told him he didn’t need to move.

After an hour, Post stepped up. The hatred she felt toward him was palpable.

“Do you feel like a man when you push her around?” She wasted no time in her attack. “Do you beat all your girlfriends?”

The judge fielded objections from his attorney on nearly every question the ADA posed.

“Why did you try to kill the victim?”

“I didn’t try to kill her,” his voice rising. “After I made it rain at the restaurant, throwing all her whore money back in her face, she came at me.”

“She’s nearly half your size, you expect the court to believe you felt threatened?” Post added a condescending chuckle to punctuate her question.

“Her size didn’t matter,” bringing his volume back under control. “A knife can kill big people too. I pushed her to get away from that switchblade. It wasn’t the first time she tried to cut me.”

Unbuttoning his shirt, he revealed crisscrossed pink scars on his chest, evidence of prior attacks.

“Women aren’t the only victims of domestic violence.”

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Rain [transitive verb \rān\] 3: to take a lot of money in bill form and toss it up in the air.

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Diane gave me this prompt: Do you feel like a man when you push her around?.

I gave Julia Mae this prompt: Interpret the quote however you want, and you don’t have to use the actual quote: “The present was an egg laid by the past that had the future inside its shell.”–Zora Neale Hurston