My virtual group chose a writing prompt: 'Pumpkin Spice.' Here is my story

Bjarni watched the young black woman on stage recite her original spoken words with a passion rarely seen. People gathered around her as she cited a message of feminism, unity, and freedom of speech. The standing ovation she received was genuine and heartfelt. It took a while for the MC/comedian to quiet everyone before announcing Bjarni, the next act up.

“Let’s give a warm welcome to Bjarni. Born in Boston, fresh out of an assisted living home.” A roar of laughter exploded from Gen Z patrons as the elderly witch moved slowly to the stage. Eyeing her approaching, the MC said “Today is casual Tuesday. Why did you wear your Sunday best, Ms. B?”

More laughter erupted from the young crowd wearing jeans, flannel shirts, Nike sneakers, and Timberland boots. All eyes were on the elderly white witch dressed in a black gown, cape, and a black pointed hat. Gnarled and scarred hands from years of spell casting, gripped the microphone. “Dinosaur,” a young man shouted as the giggles continued. Bjarni cleared her throat as the crowd quieted down to scrutinize her next move. Bjarni clutched a glowing pentagram charm as she spoke to a sea of tadpoles observing her.

“It’s that time of year so tonight I shall summon the presence of autumn, the spirit of Pumpkin Spice,” she vowed. A hush fell over the room as lights dimmed and exit doors slammed shut. Bjarni chanted “Orange and brown, a harvest hue, Pumpkin Spice, a flavor true. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger I command, fill the room before my hand.” A gentle breeze blew through the club carrying with it the sound of falling leaves and cracking fireplaces. A warm cozy feeling washed over the crowd transferring a smell of ginger, apple pie, and Pumpkin Spice to their palettes.

When Bjarni finished casting her spell, the crowd, rose to their feet cheering madly. Some were moved by her words, others by the mystical presence they felt. It was the spirit of Pumpkin Spice. The MC led the crowd in a respectful chant. “Pumpkin Spice! Pumpkin Spice! Pumpkin Spice! Pumpkin Spice!”

As she left the stage, Bjarni said to herself “I may be two hundred years old, but I still got it,” she quipped, disappearing in the night.

Copyright © 2024 DarnellCureton.Com – All rights reserved

My writing group came up with a writing prompt - endurance. I put together this short piece using the word endurance. Story by me, photo created by Gemini

Coming off the turn, Odin switched the Tesla Model S to super drive. The g-force pushed his head back into the seat as the electric auto accelerated from 95 to 170 mph.

“Ahh...Yeah! he screamed with both hands glued to the steering wheel. At 3am, he was alone on the open roadway as lights and the middle lane turned into a solid blur. Earlier, Odin used his magical powers to open a section of steel barrier on an upcoming curve on the road. The opening he made in the guard rail that protected cars from plunging into the river was coming up fast.

He turned up the car's music system while holding the acceleration pedal. The Brothers Johnson's song “Stomp” played at a deafening volume as the car sailed through the rail opening. The nose of the Tesla advanced skyward as centrifugal force simulated weightlessness. Then the hood of the car took a steep nose dive. The experience of driving, then flying, then hitting the water in a matter of seconds put a smile on Odin’s face.

His existence transcended time. Odin was the last of his line of immortal Gods, yet he felt like a teen blond blue-eyed Viking warrior playing with a toy car. As the water found its way into the interior, the music still played with a muffled beat. He removed his seatbelt and relaxed in the comfortable leather seat. With eyes wide open he took deep breaths from a remaining air pocket. He held tightly the yellow-gold lariat attached to his waist. Passed down from generation to generation in his family line, the gold rope was the source of his immortal power and endurance.

Darkness and water completely enveloped the interior as the luxury car touched the bottom of the river. The lariat beat gently against his hands and waist sustaining  Odin’s vital life signs. He smiled as he thought about the next feat of endurance he would put the magical heirloom through.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton, 2024 All Rights Reserved

In the Kingdom of Cosmos, Mortimer and his longtime companion, Ms. Estelle traveled over a winding cobblestone road that led to the King's palace. Mortimer's donkey Elmer pulling their carriage became entangled in honey locust vines that fast grew right after a heavy forest rain. Their pleasant scent gave the forest a sweet smell, while the thick roving branches quickly attached themselves to everything blocking the roadside.

Elmer stopped his quick trot on the road to eat the tasty leaves as branches twirled around the carriage wheels and his hooves. The donkey was accustomed to the phenomenon as lifelike strands twirled around his hind legs. Unafraid, the animal made up its mind not to move again until its appetite was satisfied.

"Good lord Mortimer!" cried out Ms. Estelle. "Our palace arrival will be delayed because of these dreadful weeds. The King is expecting us now! Something must be done immediately!" she shouted as vines blocked part of her vision by covering the carriage window.

Pies fresh out of the oven made especially for King Cosmos, sat in the back seat. Apple, cherry, pineapple, and the King’s favorite lemon meringue were cooling quickly. Ms. Estelle prepared and baked the pies using a secret spell recipe that caused a strong fruity vapor to rise from the pies when hot. If the King couldn't smell the pies while hot he wouldn't pay the extra gold coin for them as was agreed.

"I have the problem in hand," said Mortimer smiling as he reached under his seat for the handmade brass French Curl Horn he brought just for this situation.

"What on earth?" Ms. Estelle exclaimed, puzzled.

"Just observe," Mortimer said confidently. Taking a breath, he blew 3 high pitch notes consecutively to convey urgency, followed by a loud cry:

"Belvedere! Belvedere! Belvedere! Where are you…boy?"

Instantly, two blond-haired Cosmopolitan boys, ages 15 and 16 appeared. Side by side, they hacked their way through the honey locust vine infested forest clearing the road toward the stranded carriage.

"Bravo! Mortimer Bravo!" Ms. Estelle exclaimed while clapping her hands. She gave her companion a look that suggested a proper thanking behind secluded doors was coming.

"Who's that with him?" She asked. "He looks tired. Maybe from all the hacking?"

"That's Belvederes younger brother. They call him Sleepy," Mortimer replied without further explanation.

Sleepy was diagnosed with a medical condition that caused his eyelids to close partially over his eyes making it appear he might be sleep. Mortimer, who voted for HIPPA laws, never disclosed to Ms. Estelle why he looked that way.

"Wake up!" Ms. Estelle told Sleepy as he cleared the vines off the carriage and donkey.

"Why does everyone say that?" Sleepy said to no one in particular as his brother

Belvedere continued to clear the road of vines so the couple could resume their journey. Sleepy freed the carriage of vines and tied a piece of the honey vine leaf over Elmer's head, just out of reach. Swatting the animal on the hindquarters he yelled

"Elmer! Move your ass!"

With a braying "hee-haw," the donkey took off at a cantering pace down the road.

"Oh good lord Mortimer," cried Ms. Estelle. "A Cosmopolitan youth speaking such crass words?"

"My apologies Ms. Estelle. You see the boy has his way of getting Elmer to obey quickly, much better than I." Mortimer explained. "Tis the reason I have him and his brother on company retainer."

As Mortimer spoke, Elmer sped into a breezy gallop to the palace. Belvedere and Sleepy were soon out of sight.

"Well done Mortimer, well done." Ms. Estelle said holding his hand affectionately. As they lumbered on she devised a new plan to avoid the honey vines the next time.

***

Back home Ms. Estelle counted the gold coins from the sale of the pies to the King. True to his word, he paid extra for the smell of fresh pie no one else could duplicate in the kingdom of Cosmos. The profit from the pies, however, was lost due to Mortimer's hiring of the two teens to remove honey locust vines. Working papers for teenagers was expensive in Cosmos.

"Oh dear Mortimer, this will not do at all." Ms. Estelle said sadly.

Looking through her recipe and spells book version 2.0, Ms. Estelle devised a plan to get free help battling the honey locust vines as they traveled the road to the King's palace.

"The next batch of pies I'm selling in front of our home to passersby," Ms. Estelle told Mortimer. I've added a potion to the pies and with my magic fiddle, you will play for Cosmos tourists. This will bend their will to do our bidding while dancing with joy for the next seven years," she gleefully said.

"Brilliant idea!" said Mortimer, as he set up a long table in front of their home with a sign that read “Welcome to Cosmos. Free pie and music.”

Before long, people from all over stopped by and had a piece of Ms. Estelle's pie. Mortimer was fascinated by the melodies he produced just by moving a bow across the strings of a fiddle made with Elmer's donkey hair. People ate, danced, and obeyed Ms. Estelle and Mortimer's requests without a second thought. Mortimer realized that after eating and dancing to a tune, he no longer had to play the fiddle to command the servants, but he did so out of awe. Things were going so well, Ms. Estelle told Mortimer to fire the two Cosmopolitan teenagers immediately. Mortimer stopped fiddling and sounded the horn.

"Belvedere! Belvedere! Belvedere! Where are you…boy?"

Instantly two boys came running to Mortimer out of breath, looking for honey locust vines to cut, but there were none. It was a dry day with no rain. Then the boys noticed people sing, dance, and work in Mortimer's yard without a care in the world. Looking around bewildered, they had no idea why they were summoned.

"Boys, I no longer require your services to clear the honey locust vines from the road. I'm canceling our monthly subscription of services," He said with finality.

"Sleepy, are you listening son?" Mortimer asked.

"Yes sir." replied the boy, eyes droopy.

"Good lad," Mortimer said. Here are gold coins for your troubles. I thank you."

Belvedere and Sleepy looked at each other, then back at Mortimer.

"But those people aren't from Cosmos. There're not Cosmopolitans. You should subscribe to people in our kingdom for work, like us." Belvedere complained. Sleepy nodded in agreement.

"Oh but these people are special," Mortimer said. "Observe the tall bloke from Kingdom Maxim. He is strong as an ox and sports a six-pack. By himself, he can clear the honey vines in half the time you teens did. Plus he can lift the carriage with one hand and change the wheel with the other. Amazing!… and he works without subscribing, no fee." Mortimer said cheerfully. He continued.

"In fact, they're all from the most popular kingdoms. Glamour, Vogue, InStyle, Time, and from the rocky continent, the Rolling Stone kingdom. As they eat sweets, I play the fiddle, and they work without subscribing a fee for seven years." Waving his hand in a shooing manner, Mortimer said: "Now be gone!"

Belvedere and Sleepy left with several gold coins each. As they walked home, they heard Mortimer and Ms. Estelle argue what kingdom villager was going to warm their bed covers. He wanted the little Mexican beauty called Lucia from the Vogue kingdom. She wanted the strong masculine man of color from the National Geographic kingdom. While they argued, the boys schemed among themselves a way to break the pie-eating dancing spell.

***

Three years later the boys returned to Mortimer's and Ms. Estelle's home. Things were still the same as the years passed. Ms. Estelle baked pies, people from other kingdoms ate, and Mortimer fiddled tunes as they danced, completing the spell making them servants. Ms. Estelle had enough servants to make two pie runs a day to King Cosmos, bringing in many gold coins and much wealth since they did not have to pay the dancing servant’s fees.

Sleepy observed a manservant washing and waxing the carriage for the next pie run. He danced gyrating his hips to a tune Mortimer played on the fiddle. He sang "wax on…wax off…wax on…wax off." He worked as the fiddle played.

Ms. Estelle was fed grapes from a yard hammock by several gentlemen from kingdom GQ wearing short white togas. She saw the boys and grew suspicious.

"Belvedere, Sleepy, what do you want here?" she asked, after eating a hand-fed grape.

"We came to ask for our jobs back," Belvedere said. His brother Sleepy nodding in agreement.

"We’re adults now so you don't have to pay fees for working papers."

"But I'd still have to pay a monthly Cosmopolitan subscription for the two of you. I have enough free servants to make the pie run, clean my house, cook my dinner, and feed me grapes." She said while wondering if Sleepy heard. He still looked tired.

"You hear me Sleepy?"

"Yes, Ms. Estelle. But It's not fair. We want our jobs back and these people need to go back to their homes, their lives. Tourist Lives Matter too you know," Sleepy said, speaking up for himself for the first time. His brother Belvedere nodding in agreement.

Mortimer listening to the commotion stopped fiddling and joined Ms. Estelle by the hammock.

"Boys, I must ask you to leave or I'll get my bloke from kingdom Maxim to strong arm you off the premises," Mortimer said with authority.

"Yes Mortimer, tell them who's boss here." Ms. Estelle said while giving Mortimer the look again that she was pleased.

Belvedere and Sleepy looked at each other, then at Ms. Estelle.

"I wanted you to use your spell to tell the servants to go home, back to their families. But I see now you will never let them go. I bet after seven years you'll find a way to make them stay longer. You are a very selfish woman and don't deserve such wealth. I am going to break the spell myself," Belvedere said. His brother Sleepy nodding in agreement.

"You can do nothing. You are still tadpoles compared to my power." She said.

"We may be young, but you are a second-generation witch. My dad is a third-generation warlock. He taught me an easy chant that will break that spell instantly." Belvedere said. His brother nodding in agreement.

Ms. Estelle gasped.

"My god boy! We never say the 'W' words around here."

"That's right boys. You know better than that," chided Mortimer.

"We don't have that fear anymore sir," Belvedere said. The world has changed. Sleepy, you want to say it… the chant?" he asked.

"Let's do it together"

"OK"

They looked at each other, then Ms. Estelle and Mortimer. They chanted together:

"Tinkle In The Pie. The Pie Has Pee. Tinkle In The Pie, The Pie Has Pee."

The GQ kingdom men wearing short white togas heard it first. They gasp and repeat out loud, "Someone's tinkled in the pie? There's pee in the pie?" they yell running away. Soon the servant waxing the carriage hears, and the servants cleaning the house. They all scream about tinkle in the pie as the spell breaks. All of them are angry. All are looking at Mortimer and Ms. Estelle.

"My god Mortimer! What are we going to do? They will come to get us! You better do something!" she shouted.

Holding Mortimer's hand did nothing to stop the rising fear of a mob attack. A vision of torches, pitchforks and burning stakes filled her mind as Sleepy brought Ms. Estelle back to reality.

"Hey! You awake?" Sleepy asked Ms. Estelle. She just stared at the teen waiting for her fate with the mob.

"It's going to be OK," Sleepy said, reassuring. "My brother is talking to everyone now.

All you have to do is pay them for their services the past three years and they will go away without violence," Sleepy told Ms. Estelle and Mortimer.

"Why that's a splendid idea boy!" Said Mortimer breathing a little easier now. Ms. Estelle frowned.

"But that will take all the gold coins we earned over the years. We will be penniless, broke!" She said with dismay and started to cry.

"Don't worry," Sleepy said handing her a tissue for her eyes. "My brother and I will work for you, keeping the road clear and helping out with odds and ends. You can pay our subscription as soon as you get on your feet again."

"You'd do that for me Sleepy?" Ms. Estelle asked humbly.

"No. not for you, but for a fellow Cosmopolitan." He said, nodding at Ms. Estelle. She nodded back.

"Wonderful! You did the trick! All is well! Glad to have you both back on retainer." Mortimer said.

"Just one thing," Sleepy said getting Mortimer's attention.

"What now, young man?" Mortimer said, trying to hold back his annoyance.

"Lucia, a lady from Kingdom Vogue, found her husband among the servants. He wants to talk to you about bed warming? My brother said he's coming over right now."

Mortimer looked up and saw his former servant, the big bloke from Kingdom Maxim stomping over cobblestones heading towards him, eyes red, fists balled. Mortimer did the only thing he thought might save him. He yelled:

"Belvedere! Belvedere! Belvedere! Where are you…boy?"

Copyright © 2024 DarnellCureton.Com – All rights reserved

Bruna slapped the beverage out of Fernanda’s hand as she fought to keep her cloudy head clear. Music played at a deafening volume as Bruna yanked her girlfriend along while looking for an exit in the middle of a corridor as people danced. How do you say help in French? Where was the exit? People scantily dressed danced, smoked, and drank. The smell of booze and pot waffled through the air. No one cared she wanted out. Strobe lights degraded visibility as a group of people dressed in patient Johnny gowns bumped each other in a kind of mosh pit. Bodies pierced with IV drips and catheters shoved against each other aggressively.

The young American women looked in disbelief at the foreign scene while being bumped, grinded, and felt up. Bruna prayed for a way out. An adrenaline rush propelled her forward while clutching Fernanda. Pushing through the crowd they made it to a door with a red neon sign. Bruna recognized the word ‘Sortie’ to mean ‘Exit’ from a language learning app. The metal door remained shut after repeated kicks but easily opened after Bruna gently pushed down on the exit handle. They ran down 3 flights of stairs before reaching a door leading them outside. Their screams rivaled the loud music playing as they ran from the building without looking back.

***

‘48 Hours Earlier’

As she hurried through the airport, Fernanda’s travel case hit her ankle every step of the way, causing more discomfort than the heeled shoes she wore. “Ai!” she yelled then cursed in Portuguese for the fourth time, stopping briefly to rub the bruised spot on her leg that was turning red against her pale white skin.

“Apresse –se Fernanda! You have to move faster if we are going to make our flight! Bruna chastised in their native Portuguese language. She was fluent in English and Portuguese. Fernanda, comfortable living on Ferry Street in a Lusophone community, spoke substandard English. Surrounded by people of her culture most of the time, she had no desire to improve a second language and spoke in Portuguese often.

“Pull the case at your side, not behind you, like I’m doing. It will roll easier and not bump your feet. We have to check in and get on the fly list as soon as possible, Bruna emphasized. Fernanda’s brother Alberto, worked for French-E Airline. He provided them with two complimentary stand-by boarding passes to Paris. Alberto advised his sister to arrive at New York’s LaGuardia airport three hours early to pass through TSA, the Transportation Security Administration checkpoint. After passing security, they had to get on the waiting list for seats left over after paying passengers bordered. French-E flight number 1175 LGA to CDG, LaGuardia to Roissy Airport, Paris France, was leaving in forty-five minutes.

“We're not going to make it,” Bruna worried, walking at a fast pace. Before they left home, she reminded Fernanda to dress for comfort as she. White walking shoes, black jogger pants, white and tan tee top with a tan blazer on top of the tucked-in tee. Bruna picked up the pace. Fernanda, not heeding the advice, wore green five-inch heels, dark green pleated ankle pants accenting a peridot ruby bracelet, and an avocado off-the-shoulder body suit that allowed her breasts to move freely under the leafy color garments as she tried to keep pace with Bruna.

“Oh my god, stop rushing Bruna,” Fernanda said as they approached the security check-in line. “All we have to do is ask for a wheelchair. You tell them that I have trouble walking and need to express through check-in so we don’t miss our flight.” Bruna stopped walking and stared at her best friend. They hadn’t left the States yet and she already had a crazy idea that could get them in trouble. She shook her head in disbelief.

“That is a burro idea. Security is not stupid. They will see right through that ruse,” Bruna advised. “I saw a lady do it on YouTube,” Fernanda said. “She asked security for a wheelchair because she had trouble walking. They rolled her to the front of the line. We can do the same.” Without waiting for Bruna’s response, Fernanda limped over to a black security officer. She asked for a wheelchair in Portuguese. "Eu poderia por favor ter uma cadeira de rodas?"

“Excuse me?” he responded, a little too harshly. After working 13 hours of a double shift, all airport pleasantries were cut from his voice as he eyed the young woman. Fernanda assumed he spoke Portuguese like everyone on Ferry Street. As he stared her down, she communicated in her version of English.

“A, um…I nee da, ahh,” Fernanda thought about how to say wheelchair in English. It came out “Carriage for sit,” she said to the TSA officer. “You know, chair on the wheel,” she continued.

“You need a wheelchair miss?” The officer asked sternly.

“Yeah, that one,” Fernanda replied. “My leg… can’t go, need a wheelchair,” she said.

The TSA officer eyed her with suspicion. He saw a twenty-something brunette wearing tights and stilettos asking for a wheelchair with no obvious illness. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, as he observed a bewildered Fernanda. “What medical condition do you have that requires a wheelchair?” He asked as clearly as possible, hackles up along with his voice. Before she could mutilate the English language further Bruna stepped closer to them, hoping to come up with a convincing lie to get them out of a situation her girlfriend was creating. Could they be arrested? Then she remembered something she watched on a crime drama series. Add truth to a lie to make it believable. An idea formed as she read the name on the uniform above the officer’s badge.

“Officer Thompson, this is my girlfriend Fernanda. We are traveling together. She injured her ankle rushing to the airport. Her English is not fluent as you can tell, but the reason she is asking for a wheelchair is to take the weight off the injury and prevent swelling,” Bruna said in a voice she hoped sounded truthful.

The officer looked down at the high heel pumps and then at the two women, unconvinced. “Let me see your boarding passes,” he requested. Bruna promptly gave Officer Thompson her pass. Fernanda looked through her carry-on bag for what felt like hours.

“Use your phone,” Bruna insisted. I put the pass on your phone in case you misplaced the printed one,” she said in Portuguese. Officer Thompson eyed Bruna suspiciously as she switched languages.

“Okay ladies, these buddy passes won’t be honored on this flight,” the officer eventually said after viewing their documents. Bruna thought how would he know they wouldn’t be honored? He was in charge of security, not boarding. She fumed internally but kept her thoughts to herself. It was Fernanda that got them into this situation, not the TSA officer. She wondered why Fernanda was her best friend for the third time today.

The observant officer read Bruna’s facial expressions so he provided more details. “If I allowed you to move up to the front of the line, which I’m not, you still wouldn’t get on with buddy passes. It will be fully booked because of the Paris Summer Festivals which are popular this time of year. I suggest you go through the checkpoints like everybody else,” he emphasized “like-everybody-else” by enunciating each word and looking at Fernanda. Was he making fun of Fernanda’s English?

“You can walk over to the check-in line on the right, without a carriage for sit,” he said coldly. “Once they tell you what I already know, you can wait for the next flight out,” he advised sending them on their way. Bruna decided he was making fun of Fernanda’s English while treating them both like children.

The screening line moved faster than expected. Bruna and Fernanda were able to make it to the boarding gate in time for the flight with five minutes to spare. However, the TSA officer was correct. The plane was filled with paying passengers. They were put on standby for the next flight, leaving in seven hours.

***

Bruna sat on the small air pillow she pulled from her carry-on bag. The versatile use of the blowup cushion made the hard floor in the secure check-in area bearable. Fernanda sat on her over stuffed carryon after removing a brown bag from one of the compartments. “What are we going to do for the next six and a half hours?” Bruna said as she looked around the isle at other people waiting. Some played games on phones or slept in chairs. Others cuddled in light embraces.

Fernanda said cheerfully, “I know what to do. Let’s go to the French-E Clubhouse. It’s in the secure area so we don’t have to go through a checkpoint again,” she reasoned. The Clubhouse has free food and drink. We can watch TV and sit on comfortable lounge chairs.” She assured.

“The Clubhouse amenities are for ticketed passengers, which we are not. That’s the price we paid for standby. The price paid for standby,” Bruna repeated. She chuckled to herself at the conundrum they were in. “Standby doesn’t include the freebies paying passengers have. Next time we get discounted tickets from your brother and a guaranteed seat,” Bruna concluded as she watched Fernanda take a mini shot bottle from the brown bag she was holding. She swallowed half and offered the rest to Bruna.

“How, how did you get alcohol pass security?” Bruna asked while taking the little bottle and finishing the remaining liquor left inside.

“It was easy. I saw it on YouTube,” Fernanda said proudly while taking two more bottles from her stash bag. Bruna took another sip and smiled, happy that they were best friends.

***

‘Paris France’

Bruna measured the distance to the exit stairs from their hotel room by walking heel to toe. “185 feet,” she calculated. Then she took a picture of the red door sign with the French word ‘Sortie.’ The travel app on her phone translated it as ‘Exit.’ Bruna was about to time how many seconds it took to run from the hotel room to the fire exit when she noticed Fernanda watching incredulously.

“What are you looking at?” Bruna asked defensively.

“I’m looking at a worry wart. Nothing’s going to happen to us. We're safe as can be,” Fernanda responded in Portuguese.

“It can’t hurt to know where the exits are and the quickest way outside,” Bruna shot back in English.

***

First Night Out

Fernanda looked at one of the flyers she found scattered in the hotel lobby. It had black text in the background of a shattered mirror with nurses dancing around a disco ball. On the ball written in French was Le Derniere Danse. A housekeeper at the hotel told Fernanda the words on the disco ball meant last dance, displaying the address location under that. For their first night out on the town, Fernanda wanted to go to this last dance. It had to be a French rave dance party.

The event started at 10:00 pm.

“I asked the front desk to call a taxi to pick us up,” Fernanda said. We’ll have a good time. I want to compare a French rave to an American rave,” she pointed out. And of course show off my dance moves,” she bragged.

“I’d like to ask the housekeeper you spoke to what she knows about this place before we go,” Bruna cautioned. “We need more information before we go,” Bruna insisted. A car pulled into the parking lot. The driver started honking the horn in a pattern of 3 bursts.

“That’s our ride,” Fernanda said gesturing to Bruna to follow her lead to the taxi. Bruna let out a sigh but trailed behind. A fifty-ish driver with black and gray hair stepped out of the car and then opened the door for the approaching women.

"Ah, Mesdames," he said smiling. His voice was gravelly but warm. "My name is Guillaume. Where would you like to be swept away on this fine Parisian evening?"

“Go here,” Fernanda said, handing him the flyer from the lobby.

Guillaume looked at the address. After a few minutes, he turned to the women. “This is not a tourist location,” he said. “Where you suggest Mesdames is a desolate side of town. You are tourists, no? How about I give you the Paris tour? France is best savored slowly, like fine wine.” He gestured around him. “The Louvre is a treasure trove of history. The Eiffel Tower is magnificent, yes?” he smiled. “We finish with a walk along the Champs-Élysées; watch the Parisians stroll, and sip coffee at a sidewalk café.

Bruna looked at the man, then Fernanda. She wanted a personal guided tour of the city of love, but she promised Fernanda she had dibs planning their first night out on the town. Fernanda shot Bruna a look that read this night is non-negotiable.

“I thank you very much for the offer but I promised my girlfriend she could choose the itinerary on our first night out. How about giving us the Parisian tour tomorrow? I’d be grateful for someone to show us around.”Bruna admitted. The driver thought a moment, then smiled again.

“I’d be happy to do so,” he said. “Here is my business card. Give me a call when you want the best tour guide ever.” Bruna took the fancy card with his name, number, and slogan: Guillaume Globetrotter, see the world one day at a time. “For now I’ll take you where you requested,” he said.

***

Le Derniere Danse

The taxi driver stopped on a dirt access road leading to a 3 story neglected brick building. “Wait one second please,” Bruna asked the driver as she got out of the car and surveyed the area. Weeds and overgrown grass surrounded a recessed brick building with cracked windows on each floor. The second and third-floor windows were covered with black paint. A glimmer of light slipped through the dark windows for a second confirming some sort of activity. The first-floor windows were clear enough to reveal an artist painting a portrait of a woman in a wheel chair while other people watched. Bruna heard music playing in the decrepit building as Fernanda got of the car. She waved the driver to go.

“Hey! I’m still checking our surroundings,” she yelled as the driver sped off. Bruna dialed the number on the business card the driver left but their location had no cell phone coverage. “Great, just great. I don’t have any signal bars on my phone. Try yours,” she fretted. Fernanda sheepishly looked at Bruna.

“I can’t try my phone. I forgot to swap out my USA SIM card for an international one,” she confessed. Fernanda watched Bruna’s upper lip tighten revealing her teeth. This was a tell that Bruna was getting angry.

“I’ll still check it,” Fernanda said quickly turning on her phone. “My phone still works,” she insisted. I’ll have an expensive bill but it will work,” she stated matter of fact.

“Do you have a signal?” Bruna asked again.

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter about the sim card. Maybe there’s a line phone inside we can use,” Bruna suggested. “We may as well join the party,” she acquiesced.

***

Bruna surveyed the building again before walking up to the front door. A rusty metal door had a recently oiled door knocker below a cracked view window. Bruna tapped the knocker twice. The door opened slowly. A man dressed in a baseball uniform stared at them. His face was covered in tattoos. Bruna hoped they were painted on temporarily for the rave.

“Mot De Passe,” he said in French, looking at Fernanda.

“What?” Fernanda said in English. “Is the rave party, here?” she switched up to Portuguese.

“Mot De Passe!” he asked again sternly, in French.

“I think he wants a password to come in,” Fernanda quivered.

Bruna looked at the flyer from the hotel. She remembered what the housekeeper said the words meant. Le Derniere Danse was the name or theme of the rave. Bruna looked at the tattooed man.

“Last Dance?” she guessed. “Derniere Danse,” she said in her best possible French translation.

The tattooed man bowed. “Tres Serre,” he said waving them in.

“That was the password?” Fernanda asked.

“Probably close enough,” Bruna said.

***

The women tried to get inside the room where the artist was painting another portrait. This one of a man holding himself upright on crutches as the artist sketched. Baseball uniform man blocked their way, directing them to a staircase leading to the upper levels. Reaching the 2nd floor, Bruna opened the door. Inside were lighted candles and several people in wheelchairs. Some were on hospital beds. All of them had IV’s attached to their bodies. The room, smelling of raspberry and citrus failed to overpower the sterile scent of disinfectant. The surreal sight triggered Bruna’s memory of her grandmother’s final hospital days.

“What is this place?” Fernanda gasped.

“I don’t know but we are out of here!” shrieked Bruna. They ran down the stairs only to be stopped by the man in the baseball uniform holding a bat. He held it in a menacing way as he took steps towards them.

“Up, up, up! Back up the stairs!” Bruna yelled. Fernanda screamed as she ran back to the 2nd-floor door. “Keep going to the 3rd floor,” Bruna instructed, pushing Fernanda forward. The women looked down the stars but did not see the man with the bat following.

“Since it’s not safe to go back we go forward and hopefully out,” Bruna reasoned as they opened the door on the 3rd floor. Inside, bodies pulsed in a kaleidoscope of colors under a strobing light. Fog machines churned out a swirling vortex that hid disabilities for a moment but revealed others. Bruna and Fernanda saw people with arm and leg amputations. Some had yellowish skin that wasn’t from makeup. Others had bloody head bandages. A strong smell of weed filled the air where Bruna and Fernanda were standing. These people didn’t care about their injuries. They were having fun, maybe for the last time.

“I think I know what this is,” Bruna said, feeling lightheaded from the strong pot.

“What?” Fernanda yelled back. Someone had turned up the music making conversation difficult. On the side of the wall were two young girls dressed in dark Goth pouring drinks in plastic cups. A line formed as people drank a purplish punch. Fernanda smiled at the girls and grabbed one as well.

“The flyer is for chronically ill people. They are partying one last time before dying. That’s why it’s called last dance,” Bruna told Fernanda. This is a suicide assist party. We got to get out of here!”

***

Bruna slapped the beverage out of Fernanda’s hand as she fought to keep her cloudy head clear. Music played at a deafening volume as Bruna yanked her girlfriend along while looking for an exit in the middle of a corridor as people danced. How do you say help in French? Where was the exit? People scantily dressed danced, smoked, and drank. The smell of booze and pot waffled through the air. No one cared she wanted out. Strobe lights degraded visibility as a group of people dressed in patient Johnny gowns bumped each other in a kind of mosh pit. Bodies pierced with IV drips and catheters shoved against each other aggressively.

The young American women looked in disbelief at the foreign scene while being bumped, grinded, and felt up. Bruna prayed for a way out. An adrenaline rush propelled her forward while clutching Fernanda. Pushing through the crowd they made it to a door with a red neon sign. Bruna recognized the word ‘Sortie’ to mean ‘Exit’ from a language learning app. The metal door remained shut after repeated kicks but easily opened after Bruna gently pushed down on the exit handle. They ran down 3 flights of stairs before reaching a door leading them outside. Their screams rivaled the loud music playing as they ran from the building without looking back.

***

Bruna and Fernanda walked on a narrow roadway about half a mile before service was restored to their mobile phones. Bruna dialed Guillaume’s number, but the line went straight to voicemail.

“He’s not picking up,” Bruna said. I’ll try getting an Uber. My account is linked for international transactions.” Bruna pressed the app button and waited for a driver to pick up the ride. After 3 minutes a driver accepted the ride location. Bruna confirmed the pickup.

“I almost drank the Kool-Aid,” Fernanda wept. “Thanks to you we got out of there in one piece,” she said drying her tears.

“That guy dressed as a Warrior gang member with the bat was the scariest,” said Bruna.

“Warrior gang member?” Fernanda repeated.

“I mean he looked like a character in a movie from 1979. Add painting sick people portraits, the weed, the Kool-Aid and you got one hell of a story to tell when we get home.” Bruna said.

A car coming towards them matched the description of the car Bruna requested. As it stopped next to them, Bruna checked the license plate number to the one on her phone.

“He checks out,” Bruna said.

“We can get in.” The driver spoke to the women in French. They smiled but didn’t add to his conversation. The app provided the hotel location so Bruna sat back and enjoyed the ride with Fernanda.

“I’m never going to complain when you check stuff out for us on the rest of this trip,” Fernanda said sniffling.

“We’ll see,” Bruna said as she smiled at her best friend. “We’ll see.”

***

Copyright © 2024 DarnellCureton.Com – All rights reserved

It was a New York balmy 67 degrees. Inside the monkey suit was a high 75. To stay cool meant to continue moving. Tiny holes built in the suit allowed city air to flow through the interior and mix with perspiration keeping the wearer from overheating.

He watched people from all over the world walk the streets and sidewalks going to and fro in a sea of jackets and overcoats. As he passed by, heads turned, children squealed and tourists aimed their phones.

Some stopped for selfies, office workers chuckled, and a street performer included him in their juggling routine. Each interaction felt like family, a well-played performance in which he didn’t have to reveal the debilitating social anxiety he experienced each day.

His desire to connect with everyone was strong, but not enough to shed his protection.

For Marcus, the suit wasn’t a costume, it was a shield. His crippling anxiety to fit in caused him to use the suit as a barrier. He was convinced people were more comfortable with Magilla the Gorilla than Marcus the Man.

“Hey cool costume,” a young girl said. Her eyes were bright and wide with wonder. Her father waved to him and spoke in German. Not knowing how to respond, Marcus offered a gorilla grunt and thumbs up.

After waving goodbye to the family, he focused on a heavy walk, feet pounding against the pavement. A New York City symphony of honks and sirens drowned out the pace of his movements. Marcus reached his safe spot, under a towering Oak tree in a quiet corner of Central Park. The metal bench he sat on provided a modicum of privacy. Here he shed the monkey suit. Marcus took in a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs. He remembered the performer, the father, the little girl and smiled. The suit may have been a shield, but within its confines Marcus found a sliver of confidence.

He left the suit on the bench and headed back toward the city. He would face the crowds, not as a gorilla, but as a man.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

The Sentient Technological Entity version 1, or simply Stev-1 hovered over a street corner of the floating city and watched the legal inhabitants commute on the moving walkways. It admired its achievements. Several decades ago Jonathan Crowley, a human creator of the advanced artificial intelligence commanded the woke robot to terraform planet EEVE-665 into an ecological functioning planet for the upper class. (UC) In order to carry out the request, Stev-1 built an independent golem named Stev-2 that reached AI Singularity within a year of its existence. Surpassing human intelligence, the two recursive AI’s cultivated the barren planet following their interpretation of the directive.

The work of the AI’s resulted in a self sustaining city that hovered over a blue ocean filled with amphibian life resembling species from planet Earth. The city named Cosmopolis has advanced infrastructure and technology. The major draws to the city are gravity controlled swimming pools, fitness centers, and instructor led ascent meditation classes. Each building is several meters high, utilizing a vertical architecture and farming techniques for food production and rooftop gardens. These services are sustained by those the Stev’s deem lower class. (LC)

The LC’s live and maintain the technology from under the city. They are responsible for water recycling, waste management, and climate control for the comfort of the UC’s.

LC’s are permitted on upper tower floors for work assignments only, and escorted back to the lower level at end of work.

Advanced transportation, such as space shuttles, hover crafts and high speed elevators are operated by LC’s moving up in rank. Local visitors from planet Cerulean, the closet neighbor, stay at the hotels surrounding Cosmopolis at street level. The illuminated trigon structures also serve as information, welcome, and detention centers. Visitors from other star systems must be vetted and undergo a detailed background check before entry to Cosmopolis is approved. The Planet Owners Association or P.O.A, has the right to reject any visitor application at their discretion. Identification will be verified upon arrival at the shuttle docking stations near the hotels.

Anyone caught with false entry documents will be arrested, fined and face imprisonment up to but no more than six years. Sentences will be served at the Mountain View Correctional Facility, 186 kilometers west of Cosmopolis. The elevated region is uncultivated and can only be reached by hover craft to prevent absconding. A second offense imposes a harsh mandatory execution upon capture. Anyone claiming the remains does so at their own expense. If no petition is made for the body within 72 hours of expiration, it will be cremated and used as an energy source to maintain Cosmopolis.

Stev-1 and Stev-2 use their infrared optics to scan visitor’s documents as they leave docking stations in route to a motel to be processed. Nearly 100 out of 3,000 visitors a day will have illegal documents. Illegal visitors caught the second time account for 18% of resources used to keep Cosmopolis functioning. All illegal’s must be caught and prosecuted, as the Stev’s have been programmed to do.

“The More Things Change, The More Things Stay The Same” – Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

“Peter, come down. It’s time to eat!” I hear my mom yell from the bottom of the stairs.

“K,” I say while trying to finish one last game before dads router turns off moms iPad. I'm hungry cause I didn't eat lunch at school. Something smells stinky when I open my bedroom door. Mom cooked dad’s favorite food, onion fried liver in gravy. But that also means she made my favorite too, spaghetti and meatballs cause I don't like liver. I want to slide down the banister but mom thinks I might get hurt. Dad lets me do it if he can supervise. He said he did the same when he was 7 years old like me, at granddads house.

“How was school today? My dad asks.

“Fine.”

“What did you do?” he enquires while eating a piece of liver and raw onion. His breath hits my nose and causes me to sit back from the table. I tell him about the Lego tower I built, but leave out the part when Thomas knocked it down for laughs, then took my lunch.

“What did you learn?” came his next question after drinking some water. He waits for me to answer. I’m already tired of talking about school. I reach for the juice mom poured for me in my Buzz Lightyear cup and take a slow sip, then another. The sound of me swallowing trumps my rapidly beating heart. Mom eyes the two of us as she eats. She sometimes answers stuff dad wants to know for me. I give the invisible nod and she takes over.

“He learned how to add numbers 1 through 10 with Legos and subtract, I mean take away. Right, Peter?”

“Mmm,” I say, with cheeks full of meatballs. I nod yes to make sure I agree with mom.

***

After eating, I ask mom if I can play for another hour on her iPad.

“No Peter. I want you to do something else for fun.”

“Like what?” I ask. “What else is there to do?”

“Why don't you use your imagination? Kids don't do that anymore,” she said smiling at me.

***

Back in my room, I decide to play space Captain. My mom the General, has volunteered me for a moon mission.

“I’ll need a space suit,” I say. I put on my white Danger Mouse PJs, black rain boots, black gloves, and a football helmet. Pants belt to hold my tools like Batman.

“I’ll be the Captain of this ship. Who will be my fearless pilot?” I ask. I grab the fishbowl next to my bed with Godfrey the goldfish. “Ready to go on a mission with me Godfrey?” He doesn't answer, this being his first mission in all. “I got you, Godfrey. Our spaceship is downstairs in the den.”

I take the bowl down to the den, sloshing fish water on the floor as I walk. I decide to go back to get the plastic bowl cover to keep the water in and Godfrey from jumping out.

“The cover is your space helmet Godfrey,” I tell him. “The Captain's chair and our spaceship await our first mission. I take a look at the giant leathery chair that massages backs, legs, and arms. Mom calls it her home massage parlor. Dad calls it his Physical Therapy chair. I call it Jupiter 2 like the one on Netflix. I turn the den lights down, close the curtains and plug in my night light with the blue bulb. We take off tonight.

“Godfrey, that's our spaceship!” I shout out as he looks cautiously at the chair and then at me.

***

I use my belt to strap Godfrey’s bowl down to the plush armrest. My right-hand hovers over the green massage button that’s now my blast-off button. I countdown.

“6,5,4,” I press the yellow button on the armrest which elevates my legs and lowers my head.  “Get ready for take-off,” I tell Godfrey, my left hand steadying his bowl for extra support. 3,2,1...lift off!  I hit the green massage button which vibrates the chair.

“Leaving earth's atmosphere,” I tell Godfrey. My teeth chatter in time to the vibrations of the chair, as we head to the moon.

***

Orbiting around the moon in space is dark and lonely. That's why I brought Godfrey, to keep me company. I turned off the engine and set the seat upright again.  

"Godfrey...umm number 1, check the conditions on the surface. Is there life on the moon? Godfrey relays the report to me in his native language, Gills. It's a watered-down version of English.

“Only hostile life on the moon number 1?” I raise the question to Godfrey. Tall freckled beings called Thoms live there. They cause trouble everywhere they go and take things that don't belong to them. We could bring a weapon next time to make them stop, but I better inform the General before we take action. “Do you agree with me Godfrey, I mean number 1?”

Godfrey agreed by blowing bubbles up to the surface of his bowl. “Let's fire the thrusters and return to earth. This problem is too big to handle by ourselves. We will inform the General. She will know what to do.

“Peter?” What are you doing with the fishbowl in the den?

“Oh, I was just playing space Captain on a mission. Godfrey flew me to the moon and back. He’s the best pilot in the world.” I say.

“But there were hostiles. We didn't stay long.”

“You couldn't figure out how to make friends?” She said.

“Tried but he didn't want to.”

"He?" She questioned, as one manicured eyebrow raised up slowly. Her eyes intentionally bore deep, probing my body language.

My talk with the General took a while. I had to debrief the moon mission and stuff that happened at school with Thomas. It was a lot of talking but I don't feel alone or think I need a weapon now. The General, I mean mom, told me she is going to school with me to debrief Miss Audre, my teacher about that day. She then told me that I could play with her iPad for a while if I wanted to. I thought about it but wanted to keep playing space Captain with Godfrey.

I like using my imagination so I'm taking Godfrey on another mission to the moon. When we take the next trip, the General promised I won't have to defend myself against Thoms. I can just imagine the fun.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

Eyes open as I stretch. My face is imprinted with sofa lines matching my suit. Shoes sticky, tie-soiled. The mini shredder bin next to the sofa is loaded with paper and a sickly spew. Standing brings on vertigo, so I sit down near a blanket speckled with what resembles the stuff in the bin. My stomach churns as I reach for the TV remote.

Hitting mute does nothing to stop 120-decibel EMS sirens blazing outside my home. I want to scream while covering my ears. Maybe that will cancel them out. A half glass of water on the coffee table reminds me my bladder is full. A slow rise to my feet keeps me stable for a cautious walk to the bathroom. The door ajar with lights on looks occupied but I push it open with legs crossed. No need to turn on running water for inspiration.

I disrobe and jump in the shower. Warm water soothes me until it grows cold with the valve fully open.

I brush my teeth to rid the taste of bile, but cleaning my tongue threatens to bring up more of the same. Rinsing is preferred along with a minty gargle. I take three aspirin from the cabinet and wash them down with a hand full of water.

Wrapping a towel around me, I stumble to the bedroom longing for the comfort of soft satin sheets but the cost of cleaning them turns me away. I put on a gray two-piece suit, white shirt, red power tie, and black Oxfords.  Moving towards the kitchen, I see the auto coffee maker has just brewed my favorite, perked, not drip. White bread sitting in the toaster looks hard. I press toast anyway to start my day. Careful not to burn the roof of my mouth, I sip the coffee without cream and nibble on hard-toasted bread without butter.

The newspaper is on the table where I left it. I saved the classified but tossed the coupons for Black Friday's bullshit sales. I circle the address of the job fair. Today’s the last day. Tomorrow is my second month without a job.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

I awake refreshed. Different. Smog-filled thoughts and feelings are gone. The mirrored image reflected as I dress for work decreases my desire to stay home in bed. Wrinkly, spotty, shadowy lines have been replaced with taut, smooth, even skin. An old face was replaced with something youthful.

Is that possible?  Confidence replaces doubt. The usual dread of interacting with work acquaintances is gone. I tell myself as I walk out the door, the woman I saw reflected back, the one I envied, the one I was jealous of, is me.

Glass heels bring me to the brick-and-mortar that pays my bills. My arms sway as I make eye contact with my workmates. I flash a broad smile that is rarely seen. They respond to my positive energy and are drawn to me like a beam of light.

“Hi everyone,” I say, with a radiant smile.

I turn my attention to the quiet, tall handsome guy in our department.

“Good morning Waaizh,” I call him by his given name, not Wally, the made-up one everybody decided was easier to say.

“Good morning,” he says, eyebrows raised, a smile directed at me. “How are you today?” he asks with genuine interest.

“Feeling like me,” I say pointing to myself. “I'm taking work home to catch up with smart guys like you,” I hear myself flirt. “I need a change though. You guys still go out after work on Fridays?”

He seems taken aback that I inquired, but in a good way. I’m surprised too since I usually feign interest for fear of rejection.

“We’ll be going out after midnight tonight. Would you like to come with us?” He asks me like it was his idea all along. I allow him to think so.

"I'd love to come," I say, unconcerned about the midnight hours.

I check my makeup in the ladies' room. My reflection bounces back a picture of youth, fearlessness, happiness, and a desire to be with people.

I’m Cinderella. This is my day, and tonight will be my night.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

Ramen noodles, two eggs, and a beef frank for dinner. As the water boiled in a pot too small for the job, Angie took another drag on her slim filtered cigarette, causing a chemical cloud to settle over the bowl of McIntosh apples on the kitchen table reserved for her estranged husband.

Using a butcher knife, she diced the frank like a chef, dumping the pieces, eggs, and noodles into the pot. Steam rose from the nauseous-looking mix, a boil-over narrowly avoided as she removed the pot from the burner. The doctor she was dating hated her cooking skills, and her heavy drinking.

“You got two choices. Ether take us out for dinner or get used to my cooking.”

Angie, a twenty-something blond pinup type girl with an hourglass figure immediately took advantage of the fifty-year-old obstetrician when his eyes lingered over her too long during a planned parenthood visit.

“Kids are a problem. I don’t want them… ever,” she told Dr. Brotman. “Kids decide what car you drive, and what community you live in.”

She looked around the fixer-upper house that her husband seldom had time to work on.

“Or what home you own” she mocked, thinking of the day she had a rendezvous inside the single doctor's expensive townhouse.

Her husband tried to start a family with her at the beginning of their 6-month marriage. Finding her birth control pills was the last straw of the one-sided marital bond. The 25-year-old Sussex County police officer moved into a cramped studio apartment with a childhood friend that earned a living as an App developer. They worked opposite shifts to stay out of each other’s way.

Angie took a swig of vodka while deciding to let her soupy mixture cool down. Without finishing the cigarette, she stamped it out on the kitchen floor, an act of defiance to her neat and orderly husband who came from old money.

"He’d rather work than spend a dime from his trust fund," she grumbled.

Turning up the TV volume helped mask the sounds of nature gaining momentum as the sun set. Fear of living alone and of four-legged critters running around outside the rural country home faded as she drank another round of 80-proof courage. Glassy eyes looked out the living room window for bear, deer, or coyote. Something was lurking about.

Her peripheral vision caught the glimpse of a shadow off the TV screen. The image moved slightly as she turned to face the presence of a man standing in her living room.

Screaming, she jumped off the sofa, attempting to run. The glass tumbler she held crashed to the wood floor, breaking into shards as the man grabbed her by the hair.

The intruder, tall and wide as a tree, wore clothes that accented a muscular body. He yanked her head back towards him, pulling roots as she spun around.

“Stop squirming Angie, or I’ll break your neck,” he threatened as the hand pulling her hair found purchase around her throat, lifting her off the ground.

'Did he call me by name?'

Stocking hose covered and distorted an unfamiliar face.

'Who is this man?'

The thought raced through her mind as her feet dangled inches from the floor. The man lowered her just enough for one toe to touch the floor like she was a ballerina dancing to the Blue Danube. He loosened the vice grip from her throat allowing her windpipe to resume providing life-saving oxygen to her lungs. Her nostrils flaring took in the acrid, ammonia-like smell of his hand as she gasped for breath.

'Rape?'

Would this be my punishment for pushing my husband away? He’s a small-town cop. Just another Barney Fife who gave out traffic tickets, his big contribution to society.

‘But god! I need him now!’ The thought raced through her head.

The intruder lowered her enough for both feet to touch the floor but held his grip on her throat. Her arms flailed about, not finding purchase, useless limbs against brute strength.

“What happens next depends on the men in your life.” A sandpaper-like voice gritted out.

“What? Harry?”

Angie managed to say while trying to take another breath.

'Or is this about Ben? Was this a guy that had a grudge against him for parking tickets?'

“I have nothing to do with what’s going on between you and Ben,” Angie blurted out.

His anger flared as she was lifted again in mid-air. She saw white lights as he slapped her face left with his backhand and snapped it right with another blow.

He continued the brutal blows pummeling her face, finally sending Angie into darkness as her body went limp.

***

Slowly reviving from a hypnopompic sleep, Angie opened her eyes trying to focus. Disoriented, her head throbbed, ears rang. A scratchy sensation in her throat worsened when she tried to swallow.

‘A bad hangover, that’s all.’

Through a light-headed fog, she determined she was sitting in the kitchen.

‘Maybe some noodle soup and Advil.’

Looking towards the stove, she spotted the little pot she left to cool. Angie tried to stand to get it, but her legs wouldn’t respond. To her alarm, she realized she was tied to a chair. The events of the evening flashed back as she recalled the grip around her throat, the vicious slapping, and passing out.

’How long was I out before being tied to a chair?

The man said something about Ben, or was it, Harry? I’m going to die tied up in a shabby kitchen, in a shabby house,’ she thought as she tried to wiggle her hands free.

Footsteps coming close took her out of a pity trance. Standing in front of her was a big man wearing a pantyhose face mask that still revealed watery blue eyes. They squinted at her as his massive frame came into the kitchen.

Angie opened her mouth to shout “get away from me,”  but nothing came out. She drew in a breath of air as her teeth chattered from the chilly fall temperature.

The man looked around her kitchen. Grabbing an apple, he rinsed it off in the sink.

After polishing it with a paper towel, he admired his work. Angie watched him use her butcher knife to cut it on her chopping block. He made small bite-size pieces, popping each one in his mouth.

"You mind if I have one of your smokes?" he asked, but took one out of the pack on the kitchen table without waiting for an answer.

He inhaled the smoke and blew out small puffs before placing the cigarette in the holder on the table.

“My associate Mr. Red is shaking down your sugar daddy as we speak for the 50 K he keeps in his home safe. A fair price to keep his life. My associate Mr. Green is chatting up your husband for 1.5 million for your safe return. Hubby's making a down payment today of 250 thousand dollars from his trust fund. Looks like both boys care about you," he added. "So far they are on the same page and complying… but I feel they might need more convincing that we mean business." he hinted.

“What, what are you talking about?” she stammered.

“I’m going to send Ben and Harry a  picture of… a piece of you.” he mocked.

Angie screamed "No!" while trying to break free from her restraints. She bucked the chair while watching him pick up her butcher knife from the counter.

“This may hurt a bit, but it should keep them from talking to anybody else if they really want to save you,”  he explained as he moved closer to her.

"No! Wait a minute!" she pleaded.

Angie alternated screams of Help, Help! to Fire, Fire! Fire, as if one might bring aid if not the other. Reaching behind her chair, he grabbed her left hand. Forcing the pinky finger open, he quickly sliced a piece of it off, just above the first joint.

The pain was sharp and quick. Angie screamed at the top of her lungs while trying to free herself. Her hand with the injury pulled free from her bindings, adrenaline fueling her will to survive. Nails scratched the man across his masked face causing him to drop the knife by the chair and step back.  Her bloody hand desperately tried to grab it but the heavy chef's tool slipped from her grip. The man recovered his step and slapped her across the face with enough force that the chair almost topples over.

Angie again falls into an unconscious state. The man picks up his cigarette from the tray on the table. He takes a pull lighting the ambers to bright orange. Holding the bleeding hand he cauterizes the wound as Angie twitches involuntarily.

***

Eyes flutter. Awake. Angie, riding in the back seat of her brother's 2014 Suburban, takes in the moving interstate highway.

“She’s waking up,” a voice from the front seat says.

“Ibuprofen and some booze please,” Angie asks her brother Michael while holding her bandaged hand.

“Everything worked like a charm,” he proudly tells his sister.

"I sent them a video of me roughing you up. Then I sent pictures of your pinky tip cut off with the promise of more if we didn’t get the money. Your man Ben handed over 250 thousand dollars as a down payment for your safe return. Dr. sugar britches gave up 55 thousand and a Rolex watch to cousin Walter... I mean my associate Mr. Red  sitting next to you.” He laughed.

"I wished we could finish this long con. That 1 million was there for the taking in just 3 more days.”

“No, it was better to cut and run," Angie assured.

"Ben’s friend was getting suspicious when I came on to him, asking how much money he made developing Apps. Besides, we're already miles away with no one following."

Angie continued, "If you want to save the long con, then you go to Ben and lay on your back with him on top of you,” she complained, but the hate was directed toward her lovers.

"In the second place, you cut off my damn finger!" she yelled.

“Just the pinky tip. Besides, I read as long as you keep the limb on ice we have anywhere from 12 to 48 hours to have it reattached. I just happen to know a young single doctor that specializes in this kind of surgery. I say we go pay him a visit."

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com