There was just enough light in the darkened room for Kendra to notice something was not right. She knew every piece of furniture in the room by memory right down to any marks from the years of ownership any piece may have possessed. She pulled her flashlight from her belt and shined it around the room. Nothing seemed amiss, but she could not shake the knot in her belly that screamed there was. Her right eye squinted slightly as she turned the flashlight off. Just as the light went out, she caught movement. She stepped into the room and put her back to the door. Her heart raced. This was the moment for which she had trained. Tonight, she would catch her first thief.
Kendra closed her eyes, allowing her other senses to take over. Her ears, trained to pick out the smallest sound, kicked in with ultra-sensitive hearing. Soft footfalls crept across the carpet. She turned her neck in the direction of the sound and let her sense of smell take over. Natural body odor was difficult to mask, even though every thief tried. This thief was sweating, the hot, sticky kind produced from a combination of adrenaline and nerves. This thief was no novice yet Kendra detected a hint of hesitation, too. This thief was no pro, either. Satisfaction creased Kendra’s thinking. She refused to let that satisfaction show on her face. Instead, she pulled the door open just enough for her to pass through yet stayed within the darkness. The door closed with a soft swish. The thief let out a soft sigh of relief, just loud enough for Kendra to pinpoint his location. He stood near the grand painting of the homeowner’s wife. Kendra knew within moments, he would pull the painting from the wall. The soft clicks of the combination lock of the safe being turned confirmed her instincts. The thief would have his prize in minutes if he successfully broke the code.
She tiptoed quickly, silently across the room. At the same instant, she heard the safe opened, she wrapped her arms around the thief and wrestled him to the ground.
“Lights!” she said. The overhead security lights came on. A gasp of dismay left her throat as she recognized the soft brown curls. She could not see his face, but she did not need to. She knew his scent by heart. It was her brother. He rolled over as a single tear escaped down her face. It splashed on his black cotton shirt, leaving a wet spot in its wake.
“Damien!” she said, more remorse in her voice than she wanted. “Oh, Damien, why?”
He tried to push her off him, unsuccessfully. His blue eyes looked into her brown ones. “It was all your idea.”
A piece of paper stuck out of his shirt pocket. A small tug pulled the paper free and she recognized the numbers on the slip. She looked at him with disbelief. It had been better when he had been hidden. A slick smile crossed his face.
“Are you really going to let me go to jail?” Damien said. “You’ll go, too. The code to the safe is in your handwriting, after all.”
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, ~k gave me this prompt: There was just enough light in the darkened room for Kendra to notice…(feel free to change the name)
I gave Steph this prompt: It happened at a Bingo game.
This is also prompted by this week’s Master Class assignment which came from the 4th line of the 144th page of Douglas Adams’ The Long Dark Tea-time of the Soul which was: “It had been better when he had been hidden.” We were to use the line in a 4th position. It is the 48th sentence, and the 4th line of the 7th paragraph.
I always welcome and appreciate honest feedback. Please share your thoughts in a comment.
This story, Master of the Dance, is originally published on My Write Side.
image courtesy of dalbera (via Flickr Creative Commons)
She winced as she caressed her ankle anxiously, the sound of the dance instructor’s voice a hammer in her head.
“Walk it off! This is no time to give in to pain!” He said.
There was never time for pain, for rest, or for anything but dancing. Even when her slippers fell apart at the seams, her toes bloody and bent from constant pointe, he expected her to dance.
“Success doesn’t come to quitters,” he quipped.
She wasn’t a quitter. She was a hater. She no longer wanted to dance, no longer cared about being the Prima Ballerina. She was tired of being swans, of having to set the example and starving herself. She wanted to eat. She wanted to date, get married, have babies, but she was always exhausted.
Today, she hurt her ankle. Her pirouette was perfection, but she’d come down from her brisé volé wrong. Something crackled within her leg. The dance master refused to bring in the doctor.
“You are above this. Pain is your friend,” he said.
Anger colored her vision crimson. No matter how hard she massaged, her ankle refused to move out of the odd angle it had frozen into. She applied pressure, only to collapse on the dance floor. She reached up, anchoring her weight with the barre, and tried to stand. Curses filled the air as her ankle buckled from underneath her.
“Walk it off!” He said.
She grabbed the barre with her other hand and spun on her good leg to face him. “What do you think I’m doing?” she said through clenched teeth. She hobbled toward him. “Did it occur to you that I could, in fact, be hurt?”
He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering momentarily on her ankle. “Nonsense. Take ten and stretch it out. You are better than this.”
Disgust wrinkled her face as he turned back to the three other students in the room. Gingerly, she worked her way down the barre until she reached the bench. Her back on the bench, she propped her ankle on the barre, her foot pointing and relaxing with precision. The pain started to subside. She sat up and stretched her arms to meet her toes, feeling the muscles of her thigh expand. Three more times she stretched until she felt her shin loosen and the pain disappeared. Holding the barre again, she testily flattened her foot to the floor and lifted her other leg behind her. Her ankle trembled but didn’t collapse. A smile lit her face.
“I’m ready,” she said, joining the others in the centre practice.
“Welcome back, Sophia,” he answered, a matching smile on his face. “I knew you could do it.”
Revulsion flickered behind her congealed smile. Her body followed his instructions effortlessly although her mind was elsewhere. Scarlet flashed behind her eyes each time she looked at him. She was finished. Today would be her last dance. He just didn’t know it yet.
Sophia stretched on the barre patiently as she waited for the last student to leave. A ten-pound weight was curled up in her fist.
The Master strode over and stood next to her. “Let’s have a look at that ankle, shall we?”
She dropped her leg to the floor. He bent over, his fingers whispering along the sides of her foot. His touch burned her skin and she swooped down with her fist, the weight making contact with his skull, once, twice, three times until he collapsed on the dance floor.
“Never again will you enslave another. Your time as Master is done. I’m free!” She hissed as her legs, in perfect chassé, moved away from him.
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I’m linking up with Write On Edge this week. The Write at the Merge prompts were the Degas picture at the top of the post, and a quote from Ayn Rand:
It stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there’s someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master.
I always welcome and appreciate your honest feedback. Please share your thoughts in a comment.
Elizabella looked at the portrait behind the bar with longing. The lone ballet slipper with the single lace elbow-length glove and the strand of pearls dangling from the shoe created a feeling of nostalgia she wanted to forget but did not dare to. So much had happened that day, and she still did not know what to do or, most importantly, the answer to the questions that surfaced to her mind. Her mind refused to understand why she had not been there. No peace came from knowing she should have moved to New York but let selfish desires rule her decision instead. She wanted answers but had no clue how to find them. All that had nothing to do with the picture itself, but because of what the picture contained, it kept the questions burning. It reminded her of Mirielle, and, truth be told, connected her to her sister.
Mirielle, her twin sister.
They had shared almost everything growing up but passions. Mirielle was a diva, a prima ballerina since the first time she pointed her toes at the tender age of two. Elizabella was a bit more boyish, preferring rough, rugged sports like baseball to prancing around on a stage. The difference worked well for them. At least they did, until two years ago when the twins split for the first time. Mirielle went to New York, hopeful to find her destiny on a stage. Elizabella stayed back in their hometown in the Midwest, took classes at the local community college, and worked part time as a bartender for a local pub. They existed together, yet apart, secure in the knowledge that the other was out there. They had also promised to call each other at a certain time every night.
Until the night when the phone did not ring. No one answered on the other end either.
A second night passed without talking to Mirielle.
By the third night, Elizabella began panicking. Even when Mirielle was at her busiest, she always made time for her. A knot formed in her stomach. Dread filled her soul. Something happened, and it was not good. After five days of missed phone calls, her phone rang and she knew.
“Hello?” She said quietly.
“Is this Elizabella Sempling?” A masculine voice asked.
Trepidation filled her senses. “Yes, this is she.” She squinched her eyes shut and held her breath.
“My name is Dan Jones. I’m a detective with the New York police department. I am investigating a crime. You’re listed as the next of kin for a Mirielle Sempling. Is this correct? Do you know Mirielle Sempling?”
His voice held authority and she exhaled. Tears rushed over her eyelids as her breath escaped. “She…she is….my twin…sister.” She asked no questions, only wished to delay whatever this man had to say. A soft sob flowed from her throat.
“I’m sorry. I need you to come to New York and identify her body. How soon can you get here?”
************
Grief stricken, Elizabella raced from the airport to the police station. Detective Jones met her at the reception desk and took her to the morgue. She said nothing along the way, still wishing to prolong the inevitable, and still holding out hope that the detective was wrong and it was not Mirielle lying on a cold slab in the morgue. She shivered thinking about it. The detective must have noticed it because he too remained quiet as they moved.
The elevator doors swished open with a creak as they landed on the basement level. The hallway beyond the elevator was not dark, but a few of the fluorescent lights overhead flickered as if they were about to lose power. This created an ominous atmosphere that left dark corners in every direction. Elizabella shivered again and pulled her wool coat closer, as if it was a suit of armor that could protect her. The detective placed his hand gently on her back between her shoulder blades protectively and she felt gratitude rush through her.
“I’m sorry. I know this is a bit…horror movie-ish, I suppose.” The detective chuckled softly and a slight smile found its way onto Elizabella’s face. There was no squelching the lump inside her bowels, however.
“It is a bit unsettling. This whole having to identify a body combined with this atmosphere…if someone were giving out trophies for the creepiest real life situations, I think this would win hands-down,” Elizabella said.
“I agree with you. It is very unsettling, even for me, and until the moment they are found, most of them are strangers to me. I’ve met some fascinating people along the way, but I’m always sorry for the circumstances we meet under.” The detective paused long enough to push open a set of double metal doors lined with black rubber strips. He held one of the doors open. “This way, please.”
Elizabella stepped through the doors and found herself surprised. The morgue did not look the way television had trained her to think it did. A woman in a white jacket sat behind a desk, a pair of eyeglasses holding back her golden brown hair like a headband and an out-of-place smile attached to her face.
“Hi, Dan.” She said, rising from her seat. Fondness dripped from her words. “What can I do for you today?”
The detective turned to Elizabella and said, “This is Dr. Johnson, our resident ME.”
He turned to Dr. Johnson in the same manner and said, “Susan, this is Elizabella Sempling. She is here to identify that body we brought in from the park yesterday.”
“Ah, yes. Such a pity, that one,” Dr. Johnson said as she turned her back to them.
She walked forward, her heels click clacking on the hard linoleum floor as she went. She crossed the room and stopped in front of a silver cabinet with a single row of three drawers. She opened the centermost drawer and slid out the tray. A body covered with a sheet laid on it. The doctor waited patiently for the detective and his guest to be ready. Elizabella sniffled and despair etched its signature in the lines of her green eyes and full mouth.
Dan turned to Elizabella expectantly. “Ready?” He asked.
Her eyes closed and she nodded. The sheet removal cast a soft breeze against her skin. She inhaled slowly and exhaled quickly, audibly. Her eyes opened slowly as she breathed. The tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks as she saw the familiar jawline, recognized the slightly crooked nose–the one she accidentally broke when they were five. Her face crumbled as she took in the various shades of purple that colored Mirielle’s skin, yet she held her poise. She closed her eyes again, willing the vision to go away, wishing that all this were nothing more than a dream. A wail filled the silence and she realized it came from her. She watched the doctor quickly cover Mirielle back up and slide her back into the black hole beyond her feet. Pressure on her arm made her feet move, but she was no longer aware. A fog settled over the edges of everything within view, and she allowed the detective to lead her away.
When the fog cleared, she found herself sitting in a chair next to a desk. A man she did not recognize sat behind the desk. She felt her body ripple and his head turned her way.
“Are you okay, Miss Sempling?” He said. His voice was as kind as his eyes.
Elizabella looked around her before answering. “Where is Detective Jones?”
“He got a call and had to step out. My name is Detective O’Hara. Can I get you anything?”
She looked at him blankly, soaking in his appearance. His black hair was peppered with silver streaks. Crow’s feet marred the corner of his soft brown eyes, chasing away the illusion of youth he had otherwise. Realizing her throat felt dry and raw, she asked for a drink. He came back with a bottle of water and set it down in front of her. Tears traced new paths down her face as she remembered why she was there in the first place.
“What happened to my sister?” She asked in a subdued voice.
Detective O’Hara paused for a moment. She could tell he was considering his words carefully. “Did Detective Jones tell you nothing?”
She let her eyes fall to the floor. “I…I don’t remember. I don’t even know how I got from the morgue to this desk.”
“I see. You must understand that I am not handling your sister’s case. I have limited information. All I can accurately tell you is that she died of an overdose.”
Elizabella frowned in confusion. “An overdose? That’s not possible. My sister was a dancer, preparing for her second show on Broadway. She would never use drugs.” Her fingers twisted around the bottle of water until it crackled. “She’s always been anti-stimulant. Pain was her friend, she said. It was the only way she knew she was doing it right. She would never, ever do drugs. Not even for recreation.”
“I’m sorry; I don’t have any more information. Since it is an active investigation, they must believe there was some foul play involved. I can assure you that all the detectives working on the case are doing everything they can to solve it.”
Detective Jones spoke from behind her. “We are absolutely doing everything we can. There is no evidence that she was doing drugs at all. All the marks and bruises on her skin tell a story. We need to figure out what that story is.” Sorrow framed his eyes. “I’m sorry again, Miss Sempling. Thank you for coming. I will call you when your sister’s body is released.”
*********
Elizabella looked at the picture behind the bar. The lone ballet slipper, the single lace glove, and the strand of pearls reminded her of her sister. Fresh tears slipped out, and her heart began aching anew. She looked at the glass in her hand. The bokah lights faded in the background as she raised it for a refill. The fingers of her other hand toyed with two small red capsules resting within her palm. It had taken her a couple of days to secure them. “Pain Killers” was the street name for them, and promises of numbness flowed behind every sale. She had wanted more, but they refused to sell more than two at a time. The rules were explained during purchase– do not mix with alcohol; do not take the open the capsules; do not take more than one at a time. The penalty for rule breaking could result in death. She understood.
She stopped toying with them and placed them on the white cocktail napkin beside her refilled glass of wine. She swatted at the tears wetting her face and looked at the picture once more before closing her eyes. Mirielle danced behind her closed eyelids, a smile on her unmarked face, and laughter spilled from her lips. They spun together in a circle, faster and faster until their hands slipped from each other’s grip and they fell, laughing, to the green carpet of grass beneath their feet.
“What are you waiting for?” Mirielle said, her face once again twelve, the best year of their lives. Childish laughter echoed between the trees that surrounded them.
Elizabella smiled. She opened one capsule and poured the contents into her glass. She could feel a lightness taking over her body, filling her soul with peace. She split the second capsule open and dumped its contents into the glass. She refused to let her thoughts wander, choosing, instead, to let Mirielle fill them. She sighed then drank from the glass, emptying it in four gulps.
As her eyes closed, Mirielle reached out to her. Hand-in-hand they started walking toward the edge of the tree line.
“Born hand in hand, died hand in hand.” She said with her last breath. “Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
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I’m triple dipping this week, but only for two writing memes. I started this story last week when the first Picture It and Write was still up (the ballet slipper picture at the beginning of the story) and the new picture (the one at the bottom) given out yesterday gave me the story’s direction.
This is also a Master Class production, with the ending line being our prompt from Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume this week. You have until 6 pm EST tonight to get your story in. What are you waiting for?
I am always looking for honest feedback. Please share your thoughts on this, and any story, in the comments section.
She said she loved the train. In the next breath, she said she loved me. Odd that we were on the wrong side of the train to catch it. If she really loved the train, she would have made sure we were on the right side, but we weren’t.
Look. I’m getting repetitious already.
She had that effect on me. Momma always said to be careful with the four-letter words. Use them to make an impact she would say. Corrine used four-letter words a lot.
I don’t think she always meant them.
Momma would say she was bad but I couldn’t help having feelings for her. She was pretty, though some might say she was a bit on the plain side. Besides her bad habit of using four-letter words, she was nice enough. She liked helping other people. She’d helped that old couple by the train get across the tracks.
She said she loved the train.
Why didn’t she stay on the right side to catch it? Why were we standing here on the slippery cobblestone embracing? Didn’t she realize her weight pulled me forward, making balance quite the task?
Love.
She loved the train. She loved me. Which is true, which is false? Are neither true? Could both be false? Momma always said to be careful with four-letter words. Use them to make an impact, she would say. Corrine used four-letter words a lot.
I don’t think she always meant them.
Momma says people who waste four-letter words are bad. Not worth the ground they walk on, she would say. The ground was so slick.
Letting go was the easy part.
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For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Michael gave me this prompt: “People say they love a lot of things, but they really don’t. It’s just a word that’s been overused.” -Bob Dylan
I gave Katri this prompt: headache, shoes, season, an hour, and a garden.
I am also linking this up to wordpress’s weekly writing prompt. This week we were given the picture above as our inspiration.
As always I welcome honest feedback. Please feel free to share your thoughts in a comment.
It’s time to restart the Fab Four Fables my friend Eric Storch of Sinistral Scribblings started last month. This time it was my turn to start. I will tag one of 3 others-Eric Storch, David Wiley, or Shannon Potts–at the bottom of this post, along with the rules we are following this time around.
Title: Dying to See You Genre: Thriller
Hazel didn’t care there was no return address on the pristine white envelope. She opened it with excitement anyway. The only mail she’d received of late despite the ad she’d placed in the paper several weeks ago consisted of bills she couldn’t pay and coupons to restaurants she couldn’t afford to dine at, so when the unmarked white envelope addressed to her arrived, she did a little dance right there at her mailbox.
Her body quivered a little as she slid an unlined piece of paper from the envelope. The folds in the paper were crisp as if it was folded with precision. Whoever had sent it had meant it especially for her. She felt bubbles of giddiness float through her chest. She opened it carefully, not wanting to disturb the crispness. A soft musty aroma drifted from the open page, enchanting her nostrils, and taking her mind off the letter for brief moment as the vision of a dashing young man filled her mind. Her heart began beating erratically, evidence of a crush developing on this mysterious figure. Her sigh chased the fantasy away, and her eyes returned to the letter still waiting in her hand. My Dearest Hazel, Please meet me at 1973 High Street at noon tomorrow. I’m dying to see you.
In Highest Regards,
She paused. Where the print of the letter was neat and legible, the signature at the bottom was not. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make out a single letter of the name at the bottom.
Doctors have such sloppy handwriting, she thought. She didn’t bother wondering why a doctor would be reading the want ads of the hopelessly unlovable to begin with. Instead she pressed the letter to her nose, drinking in the smell of his cologne, and spinning around the room until she collapsed on the couch dizzy with glee.
The day couldn’t pass by quickly enough for Hazel. She tried knitting. She tried watching television. She tried to engage her few friends on Facebook. She took a walk around the neighborhood, even stopped for a short while to watch the children play at the park. She went back home and grabbed some bread, stopping only once to pick up the letter and press it to her nose again, before going back out to the pond to feed the ducks. She stopped by to check on old Mrs. Butters and engaged in a lively chat with Mrs. Butters’ granddaughter, Chelsea, who was visiting from abroad. By the time she returned home, she was exhausted and it was still only 7:00 pm. She made herself a simple salad for dinner, added extra bubbles to her bath, and curled up in her large four-poster bed with her favorite book and Mozart on CD to help her drift off to sleep.
She awoke to the warm rays of the sun on her face and the serenade of robins in the pine tree outside her window. She picked up the letter from her side table, now tattered and torn, clenched it to her breast, and inhaled deeply to catch the fading scent of the cologne. She closed her eyes and let her daydream take over again, drawing her into a world of rainbows and sunshine with a tall, dark, handsome, and doting man. The white picket fence surrounded a creamy yellow house with white shutters. Two tow-headed children ran out the white door carefully dressed, the girl’s ponytails bobbing as she chased her brother down the sidewalk, one ribbon askew and ignored. Her dedicated husband pulled into the driveway in his white Lexus at precisely 6:00 pm, gave her a peck on the cheek, and sat down to his still hot from the oven supper. A secret smile was exchanged between them as he moved to the living room…
The musical chime of her cellphone brought her crashing back to reality. She sighed wearily as she picked it up.
“Hi, Julia.” she said.
“Hey, Hazel. The girls and I are going to the lake and we want you to join us.”
“It sounds tempting but I’m going to pass.” She worried that revealing her lunch date to Julia would somehow jinx it, so she said nothing.
“Why? You haven’t hung out with us in weeks. Did you start a new job or something?”
“Or something, yes. Anyway, I really need to get ready to go. Thanks for the invite. I’ll check in when I’m done and see if you are all still there later. Bye.”
Two hours and twenty minutes later, Hazel was ready. She blew a kiss to her cat and locked the door to her apartment. She took one more look at the map before logging the address into her GPS. She was delighted when the GPS revealed the location to be one of the hottest new diners in town. It would be the longest twenty-minute drive of her life. Saying a quick prayer for light traffic, she pulled out of the parking lot and began her journey.
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THE RULES:
1. No one will be privy to the story until it is posted.
2.The next person won’t know who they are until they are tagged, when the post goes live.
3. The person publishing the most recent part must adhere to the following:
choose the next person to write the story
keep the title and stay within the genre provided
provide an image of their choice at the top of their post that relates to their piece
the story must continue as a whole and not combined with any other prompt or meme
4. There is no word count or time limit.
And in this spirit, I tag Shannon to write the next piece.
Thanks for stopping in! I welcome and appreciate your feedback. Please share your thoughts before you leave.
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, ~k gave me this prompt: There was just enough light in the darkened room for Kendra to notice…(feel free to change the name)
