Author: maleghast (Page 22 of 35)

“So let me get this straight, you are going to walk into his office, shoot him in the face, take the USB key from computer and walk out?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit risky? I mean won’t his people hear the gunshot? Even if they don’t, isn’t there a good chance someone will find his carcass and raise the alarm?”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t we talk about alternatives? Maybe a diversion and I go in to steal the USB key covertly, you know go for the subtle approach?”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean ‘Nope’?”

“I mean, nope.”

“I give up, you have a deathwish, not to mention the psychosis that planning to casually murder someone suggests. Good luck Paden, I can’t be a part of this. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, spat at his feet and pulled the brim of his hat down. He remained silent for just a few more seconds and then;

“Ok then. You’d best scoot.”

“I can’t persuade you to leave the cold blooded murder then?”

“He killed my wife, my mother and my dog. Shooting him once in the face is kind compared to what I’d like to do to him, you know?”

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She watched him, sitting on the edge of the bed as he always did, buttoning his shirt and then tying his tie. There was always a point, as he put his street clothes back on, at which he became all business and the man that she had been getting to know each week for seven months went away again.

She had always wondered if this was the way that her regulars rationalised that they were visiting her when their managers thought that they were playing squash or golf, or dining a customer or meeting a prospect to try and close a very different kind of deal. She knew that she had her own tricks, her own mental sleight of hand that helped her forget that she was not just having sex because she wanted to.

She was not developing feelings for him; that had happened once when she started out, but she learned from that experience. She had been hoping that he would make it easier on her, allowing himself to be happy with what he was doing. Just smile at her before he left, instead of the cold face that offered her the cash…

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He was leaning over the rail of the balcony when she came out of the shower. Though she was just barely wrapped in a towel, wearing only her necklace, she wandered to the door and ran her finger down his back. He turned and put his back to the rail, back against it.

“Ah, there you are. Come here.”

He smiled as she started to walk towards him, and reached out to take her hands. She let the towel drop and clothed herself in his arms. He nuzzled into her neck, planting kisses between her nape and the lobe of her ear, and then he whispered;

“Do you like the town of my birth then? The Rome that never quite was, this odd little town in Provence?”

“You were born here in Avignon? I did not know that!”

He spun her to face him, grasping her upper arms in his strong hands. He allowed himself a moment to look at her body, to appreciate the perfection and then his eyes came to rest on the key nestling between her breasts on her necklace. He kissed her, wrenched the key from its chain, and flipped backwards over the rail.

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This Ficlet was inspired by Thom Ryng’s suggestions of a key, Avignon and a kiss as item, place and activity from the Wednesday poll on my Livejournal.

She tried to focus on the comforting tones of Radio 4 as she picked her way through the wardrobe that had stood unused for five weeks. She had walked up to it so many times, but in the end she had not been able to even open it before.

“The Prime Minister today answered questions…”

It had been a good idea to leave the radio on loud enough that she could hear it in here. When he was around there had always been the sound of the Home Service, as he had enjoyed calling it; at least since the kids had moved out and taken their ‘dreadful noise’ with them. Truth be told she missed their music almost as much as she missed him insisting on the radio…

She steeled her nerve and reached in for the first hanger.

It was his grey Harris Tweed. The one he had bought to still have a smart daytime jacket after he retired. It seemed a shame for it to go straight to the Oxfam Shop. For a moment she wondered if her soon-to-be son-in-law would want it; he was quite smart. Certainly her own son, Gerald, would not have any use for it.

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“Rick, you’ve been staring at that thing for twenty minutes. It can’t be that interesting!”

Rick flinched, his attention broken for the first time since he had started counting the pendulum’s swings twenty-one minutes before. He sighed; clearly Don was not going to give him long enough to work it out tonight.

“I nearly had it. If you hadn’t interrupted me I might have got it in a few more minutes.”

Don shook his head and smiled a wry, indulgent smile;

“Rick, if you want to know what pattern Taylor encoded into the damn Chronophage why don’t you just ask him? He’s probably bursting for someone boring enough to ask him.”

“Don, do you think that I would spend thirty to forty minutes every day counting pendulum beats, by the minute, at different hours of the day and night if Taylor was telling people who simply asked? It’s his big secret! Come on, let’s get a drink.”

As they slouched away a shadow moved and then gave birth to a slight man who did not look even remotely as though he belonged in Corpus Christi College.

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This Ficlet was inspired by the front page of Wikipedia for the 22nd of September 2008, in English. The Article was from teh “Did you know…” section from the 22nd of September 2008 and concerned The Corpus Clock, also known as the Chronophage; you can find out more here.

Frank crouched on the top of the wall, bunched up against the cold, blowing warm air into his balled hands. It was two degrees below, and most people would have considered that sitting around in Washington Square Park was not a sensible choice to make. His reason for being there made sense to him, at least, but that is not saying a lot.

About another half an hour passed before they arrived. Enlow came first with his trolley, filled with loose leaves of notepaper, covered in his scrawlings. He nodded to Frank and took a seat at one of the concrete chess tables; he stared quietly at the board inlaid on the top. McCreedy arrived only a minute or so afterwards. He did not acknowledge Frank as he took his place opposite Enlow. A stark contrast to the shambling, stooped form of James Enlow, Charles McCreedy was tall, slim, well dressed and clean cut.

Frank stepped down from the wall and reached into his jacket, bringing out a small ebony box. He stepped up to the table, and began laying out chess pieces from the box.

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“Hello there Cliff, come in and close the door would you?”

There was a chill in the office, and I was not used to the deputy head asking me to close the door when he wasnted to talk to me. He motioned towards a chair and placed a coffee down on his desk in front of me.

“How have you been getting along, Cliff?”

This felt for all the world like a pre-amble, but I was in no mood to rock the boat; if he wanted to ease in then I as going to let him.

“Fine, thank you for asking. This is the good coffee, Harry, what’s going on?”

He sighed and his shoulders dropped. I could see in his eyes that he was not pleased to have to talk to me about whatever was coming; that he was annoyed to be put into this position, whatever it was, rather than directly with me.

“Cliff, there has been a complaint against you. Can I ask you a personal question?”

I nodded

“Cliff, do you take nude photographs in your spare time?”

“Yes Harry, why?”

“One of the parents has found out that you do and is planning to tell the local paper unless we fire you.”

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“Didn’t you ever play Billy Goats Gruff when you were a kid?”

The incredulity on Harry’s face would have made her feel even more ridiculous if she had not seen this level of excitable but inherently ironic disbelief from him before. He loved pretending to be amazed that she, having grown up in a completely different country and speaking a completely different language, did not have a common experience of childhood to him.

“Not once. Should I have?”

A large smile spread across his face;

“Oh yeah, you should have. You know looking across here at this beautiful old bridge, I’m thinking that we ought to play; right now, right here.”

With that he started to throw his leg over the wall. This was good, even spontaneous until she realised that she still did not have the slightest inkling what the game that he wanted to play was all about; any moment he was about to be over the wall.

She reached out and threw her arms around him, pulling him back and distracting him with a kiss

“Tell me how to play, and where are you going?”

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This Ficlet was inspired by the following image:

Photo by Wolfgang Staudt (on Flickr) you can see the photo’s page here.

Joel looked up from his seat and smiled to himself as he took in the scene of genteel carnage in front of him. All around the stage there were little clumps of champagne flutes and empty champagne bottles. Here and there ashtrays appeared, not overflowing, but clearly well used. Off towards the back of the stage a table was still silently offering finger sandwiches and crab puffs. It had been a fantastic closing party.

Eight months before he had invested some of his inheritance in Karl’s play. Nothing prepared him for the lessons he learned along the way about how little he actually knew about the theatre. Seeing a lot of plays and organising university productions of Oedipus Rex and Cabaret was not even close to experience it turned out.

Against all the odds it had worked. There had been a good deal of luck along the way. Discovering Lottie for the female lead, getting unusually good notices from the Times. Now he was a theatre producer. There was no doubt; his first London production had closed in profit.

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“Mr. President? We need you to make a decision sir. Sir?”

This was the first time that he had been put in this position. President for all of two and a half hours, the oath sworn in the Oval Office what seemed like mere moments after his friend, the former or indeed late President was pronounced dead. The Chief of Staff and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs were standing on either side of the CIA Director, the Resolute Desk between them and him.

He could hear the ticking of the clock that the Swiss Prime Minister had brought for Ted. The stewards had not yet cleared the Oval of Ted’s personal things. God; Rosemary would still be at the hospital, but his kids were up in the residence. He looked up. The three of them were still there.

“Jim… Is there any scope for a non-military response here? I don’t want it to seem that what happened to Ted led me to over-react.”

The Chief of Staff put a hand down on the desk.

“You need to do this, Mr. President.”

Mr. President, that just did not sound right; at least not this way.

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I forgot to do the Wednesday Poll – I offer this instead…