Smoldering Ink

Time for a Friday Flash, prompt courtesy of the 500 Club. If you want to play, the prompts are here. Here’s my contributory flash for this week.

RED LIGHT SPECIAL

The last thing Flynn wanted to do that day was another love spell. It was cheap work, he thought, flavored with desperation. And the thing about love spells- if you needed one that badly, they wouldn’t really take, which meant repeat business with irate customers.

He eyed the man standing in his workshop, hat literally in hand. Flynn didn’t mind the ugly ones- that made sense to him. It was when they were lookers, that was when the bells started to ring. This guy, with his slicked black hair and brick-smashing jawline was the sort his secretary Eunice called a “three-hole punch.” Vulgar little fairy, that Eunice. Made him laugh, though.

“You the tincturist? Thought you’d be a woman,” he said, his hair glistening in the light. Nice.

“Flynn.”

Brylcreem  offered to shake. “I’m-”

Flynn gave his hand a pump and dropped it like a greasy banana peel. “Don’t tell me.”

“Sorry.”

Flynn waved it away. “Here’s the deal. Sometimes it lasts a lifetime. Sometimes a night. Depends on whether the recipient is subconciously willing to love in the first place.”

“Either way, it’s fine by me.”

“So you know. No refunds. Now, I need to ask a few questions. So. Man or woman?”

Bryllcream sneered. “Woman.”

“Approximate weight?”

“One-ten, maybe.”

“Human?”

“Yes!”

“Occupation?”

“What?”

“I need to know what she’s around, so we don’t get a bad reaction. Industrial chemicals, stuff like that.”

“Oh. I don’t know. She goes to school.”

“Trent U?”

“Something like that.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

“Age?”

Brylcreem’s eyelids flickered. “Eighteen.”

“You sure? This is not for minors.”

Another flicker. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Shit, thought Flynn, one of these. No good reporting the guy- cops don’t care, they think it’s all bullshit. And if he refused service, Brylcreem would just go score off some other tincturist.  So, a Red Light Special it was.

Flynn pulled two vials off his back shelf and slapped them on the counter.

“The blue is for her. The red one, that’s for you.”

“Me?” he licked his lips. “I thought-”

“For you. Right here. Right now.”

Brylcreem looked at Flynn.

“Hey man, you want her or not?”

“Cheers.” Brylcreem drained the red in one gulp. “Tastes like raspberries.” He tried to put on his hat and collapsed. His eyelids fluttered and sweat beaded on his forehead as Flynn crouched next to him, the blue vial in his hand.

“What was that?” he croaked.

“I call it, In Morte, Veritas. So, how old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

“You snake.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it.” Foam frothed at his lips.

“No, you won’t.”

“Please,” he said, reaching for the blue bottle. His heels began to kick the floor, rat-a-tat-tat.

Flynn stood and pressed the RECEPTION button on his phone.

“Yeah boss?”

“Get me Rusty. Bulk trash pickup.”

“Jesus, Flynn. That’s the third this week.”

Behind him the drumming stilled. Flynn sat on the edge of the counter and lit a cigarette. “I know, sweetwings. But I’m a bad, bad man.”

A slightly tardy 500 Club Entry. Of course, while it’s true the prompts do go up on Thursdays, it’s never too late to play.

CLICK CLICK

Jenny never liked the color red. Red smelled like squashed tomatoes, like the breakfasts the College of London cafeteria served. Poached eggs in slimy clear-white umbilical blobs, cold toast, red red stewed tomatoes. Blood sausage. The sort of food that chased you down corridors in your dreams.

It made her think of Quaztl. Quaztl was one of those people she used to give a free pass, on account of his being very good looking and also his not giving a fuck, not that he would ever say that. Quatzl didn’t make those sort of announcements.

Jenny sat alone in the cafeteria,  notebook at hand, and Quaztl would sit across from her. He’d slice the blood sausages down their center and splay them, revealing their red-purple jelly hearts, before winking and licking the grease from his fingers.

“Stop being creepy, Quaz.”

“I am not the one who calls this breakfast. Look around you.” his voice dropped to a whisper. “We’re surrounded by perverts.”

“You’re being a prat.”

“Prat. Nob. Bunghole.” He waved his fork. “The British are a creepy people. Pale skin. Lorries and crisps. Worms for breakfast.” One of his knees thumped the table. Quatzl was a constant leg-wiggler, a perpetual motion machine.

Jenny gave him a Stern Librarian look. “What do you want?”

“Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“I’m hungry. For some real meat.”

“Mmmm.” Jenny clicked the cap of her pen. The feel of the pen’s button catching soothed her. “I hear they’re serving spaghetti tonight. That always comes with meat.” The uni’s version of sauce was ground mutton gravy.

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

“Can’t hurt what you don’t have.”

“Come on, Jen-NY. Let’s go to Hampstead Heath. It’s not raining.”

“All the way out there? That’s like two line transfers.”

“Just one.  Come on, there’s only a week left before term’s over. You want to spend your entire trip inside?”

“I thought you wanted to eat?”

“Over it.” He bounced. “Maybe some Mr. Whippy.”

Tottenham Court. The area outside perennially under construction. Northern Line to Orange. Jenny watched the city flashing by, swaying. Quatzl draped an arm around her and read a battered paperback. She could hear his stomach growl.

Once at Hampstead, Quatzl bounded along, enthusing over every bush and tree. There was a particular woods he wanted to show her.

“Trees are massive. Ancient. It’s amazing.”

“Glad I brought my notebook.” She pulled the pen out of the spiral binding and clicked it.

The wood was dense, quiet. The sunlight filtered through the tree canopy, speckled rays of light into shadowed ground. Roots rose from the ground, tangling in knots that rose higher than Jenny’s head.

“It’s like a cathedral.”

“I’m so glad you came,” he said.

He turned to her and she thought he was going to kiss her …lips? Cheek? Throat. She screamed as his teeth tore through her skin, dropped her notebook. Blood ran down the front of her shirt.

Jenny’s thumb jammed the top of her pen. Click click. She swung her hand and stabbed him in the eye. He  shrieked, staggered away from her. She ran. Out of the woods. Out of the dark. Meadows. Paths. Joggers, who stumbled when they saw her. Dog walkers who screamed- how she was bleeding, and running, and running, with nothing behind her.

Jenny never liked the color red.

For this week’s 500 Club, I decided to revisit one of the scenes in my novel, The Iron Key, retelling it from one of my favorite secondary character’s point of view. If you want to take a crack at one of this week’s writing prompts, hop on over and go to. After all it’s only 500 words!

IN YOUR CLOAK

“War is good to us though, eh death priest?” the merchant said, “Not like those fools.” He nodded at the next table, packed with Highgardean soldiers playing dice.

“Indeed,” said Wil, tipping his glass.

The merchant toasted him. But the minstrel at his elbow was silent, his eyes following some movement across the room. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Wil turned his head in pretence of ordering another drink, to see what had distracted the man.

Sahrel stood a few paces away loading a plate of pork, her stunning profile clear from Wil’s table. A strip of chestnut hair gleamed at the crown of her head, the rest spilling into a black knot at the nape of her neck. Wil ground his teeth. If she was so hungry, why hadn’t she sent down one of the others? It didn’t matter if anyone saw them.

Nob the innkeep was also watching her, his black eyes hawklike in his piggy face. He moved to block the stairs. Sahrel took a step in Nob’s direction, froze as she saw him waiting.

Wil slipped his hand to the knife at his belt.

“Any news from El?” the merchant asked him, oblivious.

“Men still die. We still take them.”

When he glanced back, Sahrel had vanished. His fingers slid from the hilt as he returned his attention to his tablemates. The merchant flinched at the look on his face.

“Beg pardon, I didn’t mean to pry. Please, allow me to refill your glass.”

The minstrel stood. “Excuse me, good sirs. The music of the ether is beckoning.” He drifted towards the front door, looking about him as he walked.

“He always spouts such turdery when he’s drunk,” said the merchant. He banged his fist on the table. “GIRL!”

The serving girl burst out of the kitchen door, looking harassed. Wil gave the door a thoughtful glance.

“Another round for me and my friend,” said the merchant.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Wil pushed back his chair. “I’m going to see to my horse.”

***

The night air was cool on Wil’s face. The sky was overcast, a smell of rain on the wind. Wil paced around the side of the inn, keeping to the shadows.

Sahrel stood in the garden behind the inn, the minstrel gripping her arm.

Wil drew his knife. Lord keep me in your cloak. He moved in.

“You are confused.”

“No, I do know- You’re a concubine. You’re-“

Wil clapped his left hand over the man’s mouth, holding his head steady. With his right he sliced open the minstrel’s carotid artery.

Blood sprayed Sahrel. She gasped and jerked away, wiping frantically at her perfect face.

Wil held his victim tightly as blood pumped out. The minstrel flailed, squealing against Wil’s muffling hand.

At last he went limp. Wil dropped the body.

Sahrel blinked at him, blood caught in her thick eyelashes.

“Happy?” he said.