Kelly Washington's Blog: Small Fiction, page 6
May 18, 2013
Another excerpt
Rahda has to return to the old city to have her tablet replaced; and she meets a very sexy technician. In the scene before this one they can't keep their hands off of each other, so this excerpt is "after" the good part.
================
Dev watches me from his small bed as I dress. His eyes are heavy on me and for some reason it makes me feel guilty. A fuck and then run. It isn’t fair of me and I know it. But a person in my position does what she has to do. Even if that means ten minutes of mindless, extremely hot sex with a man with a huge—.
“I’ll get your tablet ready,” Dev says and climbs out of the bed in one swift movement. The smell of sex permeates the room. “When do you need to be back at the Palace Skyscraper?”
I tilt my head and my fingers stumble as I fasten the last button on my shirt.
“I never said I was heading to the Palace.”
He laughs. “I’m not dumb, you know.”
His back glistens with a small sheen of sweat. When he turns in his chair he has a tablet extended in his hands. The communicator tablet is small, black, and its skin thicker than my previous one. Once I touch it, a numerical keypad materializes on the screen.
“Choose a password and make it good. It’s programmed to your personal algorithm, too. If someone else touches it, it will stay blank.”
I nod, intrigued. “A two-way authenticator, then?”
Dev grins with pride. I have the feeling that he developed the technology.
“Pretty good, right? Every one has their own mathematical formula based on body temperature, finger prints, stress level and a couple of other data points, and it makes it extremely reliable as a token authentication for devices, doors, whatever. Once you enter your password, bam, your identity is verified by a virtual handshake from the host server and the information on your communicator tablet is encrypted.”
I type in twelve digits for a password. Then I do it again for verification. The screen comes to life, but the colors are muted and dim and I have to squint to read the small font. I see several message icons from the Grandfather materialize in the center. Some of the worry I had about not seeing his messages evaporates. I look at Dev’s door expectantly.
“What else should I know?”
He looks at his door and then back at me. An expression clouds his face. I notice it, but his confused look doesn’t make sense.
“You must maintain contact with it in order to make it stay active,” he says quickly, his voice lower. “The nanosecond you stop touching it, it goes inactive and you’ll need to log-in again. Plus, during the token authentication stage—when you touch it—if it determines your stress level is too high or too low, it will not authenticate.”
I make a face at him. “So if I’m about to die and I need to get a message to the Grandfather, I’m shit out of luck. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Stop being so morbid, jeez,” Dev smiles. “It can tell the difference, okay? It’s mostly a deterrent should someone force you to activate the communicator tablet. So, where’s your broken tablet at? I can use it for something else once I fix it.”
I groan at the stupid move at not bringing it with me. Normally I’m smarter than this.
“Not here,” I say to keep from saying where it really is. Devdan Osta’s one intelligent person. I wonder what he knows about me or if he’s trying to extract information. Sex is usually a good way to open someone up. It wouldn’t be the first time a personal pleasure servant was used for more than pleasure. “I’ll bring it next time I’m here.” I move to his door. “So, I guess I’ll see you later.”
“That’s it? You’re just going to leave?” There’s an undercurrent of urgency in his voice. Suddenly I feel like there’s more going on here than meets the eye.
“And what would I stay for? I have a job to do.”
Dev cocks an eyebrow and I see that his sex is erect again. He’s back to being a innocent charming personality again. Something that won’t fool me again. I smile at the genius of it all.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks with a sexy smile.
Then it dawns on me. “You wanted to keep me here. Why? Do you have sex with everyone?” The last part doesn’t anger me like it might most people. The man can have sex with whomever he wants. I really don’t care.
His smile vanishes. “It’s not what you think. I was only trying to help you.”
“That makes absolutely zero sense. How does detaining me help me?”
“‘Detaining’ makes it sound so boring, doesn’t it? And what we did was anything but boring, Rahda, but here’s what changed my mind about letting you walk away,” Dev turns around and deftly hits a few keys on his terminal. A green text message pops up. “Five minutes after you knocked on my door, this message alert came up on my screen. It was broadcast to all the terminals and to the guards, too.”
===
Rahda Plesti, female, human. Five feet seven inches. Medium build. Brown hair. Green eyes. No visible markings. Reward offered. Wanted for questioning. DNI. Take into custody immediately. Alert security with code 0235P if found, seen, or detained. End of message.
===
I read the message five times and I still do not believe it.
DNI. Do not injure. Well at least they didn’t want to kill me.
Why would the Grandfather want me detained when I was just with him? Part of me hopes that he isn’t the sender, or the person that authorized it being sent out. But the other part of me—the part that recognizes that he never sent me that physical note, he wasn’t concerned that I hadn’t received his other messages, nor did he seem remotely interested in seeing me today—realizes that it must be true.
“You are a bastard. Are they on their way, then?” I ask Dev, but I never take my eyes off the message. The timing doesn’t work. That message came twenty minutes ago. They would have been here by now.
“I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I’m not proud of, but I’m not such a cruel lowlife that I’d turn you in. You must be doing something right if your people are after you,” Dev says with a grin. I focus on how he said your people, as if the old city isn’t his origins. “Besides,” he points to another part of the screen, “I sent them this after I saw the message.”
===
Code 0235P, subject spotted near Guard Post 17, entering blue spike forest two minutes ago. End of message.
===
Messenger, authenticate yourself. Over.
===
Code 5T04J. Over.
===
Nothing further required. End of transmission.
===
“Someone else sent a message, too, and it was erroneous. I was able to see it before it was deleted, but the sender reported that you were last seen on Cascades trail heading south toward the mouth of Hades Rocks. I don’t know what’s going on, well, I have an idea of what’s going on, but you need to know you have friends here, Rahda.”
I nod and questions invade. My first question is why would the Grandfather want me detained? For what purpose? He already knows I’ll come running the instant he calls for me. Unless he thinks I know something that I shouldn’t know, which obviously I don’t. My second question is why is Dev helping me? What does he want? I’m not important. But my job is.
“Why are you helping me?”
His hand is on my shoulder, a kind gesture, and his eyes implore mine to understand him.
“Why would I not help you? We want the same thing.”
He has no idea of what I want. No one does because even I don’t know what I want from one minute to the next.
“And what is that?” my voice is a whisper.
Dev doesn’t answer me, not right away. Instead he throws on clothes and quietly opens his door, checking the hallway both ways.
“I’ll tell you when we get to where we’re going,” he says after he shuts the door.
Even after everything that’s happened, it now occurs to me that I didn’t think about how I’d get back to the Palace Skyscraper without being seen. But there’s no way in hell that Dev is coming with me. He seems to be able to read my mind.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going with you. My absence would be noticed,” he grins at me over his shoulder as he puts on boots. I can think of one part of his body that would be severely missed. “But there’s another way out of the old city.” Dev shuts down his terminals, grabs something from under the desk, and motions for me to follow him.
I don’t question. I don’t see how I have much of a choice. I tuck the tablet into the back of my trousers, against my skin, and follow him out into the hallway.
April 27, 2013
Short Excerpt
Rahda is waiting to kill Lord Jaucey, but her love interest isn't in on the plan and below is some of their conversation.
===
“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice whispers immediately into my ear.
I jump about ten feet. Then I punch the person in the chest as hard as I can, but intensely regret it. The stitches in my shoulder rip open.
“Ouch!” the voice says good naturedly.
Roland!
What the—? I swallow hard, the gulp burns my throat as my heart wants to pound its way out of my body through my esophagus.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I hiss at him. Then I get stupid mad. “You followed me! How dare you!”
This explains the feeling I had of being watched.
He sits down beside me, rubbing his chest through the shirt. That’s when I notice he isn’t wearing a fabriskin robe or anything to cover his face. Just plain old clothing. As if he’s nothing special.
“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me, but I can see you have other plans,” he says and I can tell he’s smiling for some idiotic reason. “Um, so, what are your plans, exactly? Because this is an odd place to just hang out.”
I smirk knowing he can’t really see my expression. Or maybe he can. He lives in a dark, dark palace.
“I wanted to get as far away from you as possible and thought that your uncle’s house an ideal spot.”
“By watching him have sex with one of his servants?”
My eyes round.
“That’s a servant? He seemed so…” affectionate. I halt. I won’t let him change the subject. “Why are you here?”
His shoulders shrug.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Nothing’s obvious with you, Roland.”
“When it comes to you, I should be. However, I’m trying very hard to not be jealous right now. You’re in Jaucey’s bedroom, for christsakes, Rahda! What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Shhh! I think the water just shut off.”
“Are you wearing lipstick?”
“Are you deaf? I have a job to do. I said, Shhh!”
“I asked you once if you worked for my uncle and you played dumb,” his clipped voice cuts deep. “You better not be lying to me.”
“Or what?” I ask sarcastically. “Truth has no relevance in doing the right thing. If you think for one second that I’m actually working for Jaucey, then leave right now, this minute. You’ll just be in my way. But if that brain of yours is working and if you listened to what he told me earlier today, which I know you did, then think it through and know that I plan to remedy the situation before it gets out of hand.” It may already be out of hand, I think. “Otherwise, shut the hell up. As it is, you’re not exactly high on my favorites list at the moment.”
“You have a favorites list? Who’s on it?”
But I don’t answer. Jaucey and his lover step out of the bathroom, each draped in towels. The servant picks up a pile of clothes I didn’t see earlier and leaves the master suite without so much a salutation. I expected a longing look, but it never happened.
Jaucey saunters back to the bed, tosses the towel on the floor carelessly, and gets into bed. I take off my purse and hand it to Roland. I can hear his silent questions. Well, one question, What the hell do you think you’re doing? Carefully I disrobe, also depositing the clothing with Roland, who fumes even more with each layer of clothing that I give to him.
I know that this kills him. It’d kill me if in reverse. I have a notion that if he could get away with it, he’d haul me up on his shoulders and carry me away. He couldn’t get away with it. I know it. He knows it. Somewhere, deep inside of him, he trusts me. Even when everything in his heart screams Deceit! Betrayal! Bitch! he won’t stop me. And because of this I know he’ll never stop me from doing anything.
Even if it means freedom from him. Not being near him.
Even if it means that, as I walk away from him and slip into Jaucey’s bed, I destroy his heart a million times over, he knows that he never has and never will own me.
April 4, 2013
Jumbled
Reassembled and re torn
Into something unimaginable
Fierce
Pierce
Burn up like a fever, then
Reborn
Golden
Like new then cast aside
For something older, wiser
Alive
Old, then young, then
Nothing at all
Fall
Raw
Bring it all
Nothing at all
Dust and rust and hazy
Sunlight
Streaming through tears
Years
Years
Of a tormented plight
Put me away
Put me asunder
Remember a day
When I was your wonder
Of things best
Of things good
No more, no more
Jumbled into pieces
That won't fit
Into your life
That with me you quit
Gone
Gone
Gone
My soul is
Gone
November 8, 2012
Susurrus
I read a short story in Clarksworld today. Brooke Wonders’ EVERYTHING MUST GO. It is equal parts delightful, odd, somber, and refreshing. The point of view of the story is delivered to us from the perspective of the house at 1414 Linden Drive; its feelings about the family that inhabits it, their issues, and the neighborhood’s foreclosure epidemic.
However, I take issue with how I described the setting of this story. It is so much more than the sentence above. The setting is the plot of the story is also the main character is also the protagonist and is also the antagonist.
The blue-gray house at 1414 Linden Dr. is afraid of the dark. The foreclosure crisis hit its neighborhood hard, and in house after house, lights wink out and never turn back on. The house at 1414 waits for new families to move in, and sometimes they do, but more often than not the owners abandon their property. Linden Drive grows increasingly desolate, and 1414 clings to the warmth and safety of its inhabitants, sure that it is too well-loved to be left behind.
Each family member is given a name, or rather, a label and this is how the house identifies and describes them. The mother is Needle, the father is Glass, the son is Bird, and the daughter is Paper. I liked how their names were simple yet deep in meaning. The characters acted in accordance, though not because house named them as such, but because the family members were those things that which labeled them.
The daughter at fourteen is a folded-up girl of elbows, knobby knees and angles a which-way. She loves origami, late into every night creasing out birds of paradise, pagodas, sea horses, and lotuses that trip from her fingertips. … The house thinks of the folded-up girl as Paper, and loves her.
What is striking is that the house wants nothing more than preservation — to keep things as they used to be — but all that the house can do is watch and observe and somehow, though I’m not quite clear if I’m correct on this, make the rooms smaller. Is this to keeps its occupants more secure? I’m not sure and is part of the beauty of this story: it doesn’t tell me what I am supposed to think or feel. I interpret it however I want with each reading; and with each reading I find that I think a little differently about it.
At first I really liked house. It loves the family inside. But as the story progresses and the family implodes emotionally, mentally, and physically, I found that my impression of the house changed. It was possessive, dangerous, and unstable.
The house wakes in the middle of the night to a boot kicking through the safety wall of the stairwell landing. It groans through every vertical beam. Glass stands on the stairs, lamplight refracted through him casting whiskey-colored cracks across the house’s interior. Needle’s splayed against the banister, eyes rimmed red with crying, her lip split bloody.
The next morning, Glass spackles over the hole. The house, wounded, shrinks ever smaller. Does your room seem tinier than usual? Paper asks Bird one day. Bird nods, but they’ve gotten older and taller; they aren’t children anymore. The house is grateful for these excuses.
The family members literally, from the house’s flawed and emotional perspective, turn into the very objects that they were once loving labeled. The boy turns into a monstrous bird and deserts the house and the family. The mother fades into translucence before the girl wraps her up into a yarn mummy. The girl folds herself into a sheet of paper. It is only the father, Glass, and his actions that defy my theory: that the house has full control of this family. A poltergeist it is not. But a thread of connection exists between each family member and the house.
A yellow thread ties the boy to the house. The girl, having folded herself into one sheet of paper, still resides in the house as a note. The mother, Needle, whose fate is unclear to me, never leaves the house again; and the father, Glass, though he physically leaves before a lot of the strangeness settles in, it is his leaving that disrupts the balance of the house by leaving small, void-like, black-holes in his wake.
Glass’s exit left holes strewn everywhere—by the work bench in the garage, in front of the refrigerator, hovering over the couch in the den—and Needle keeps falling into them, a phenomenon that concerns the house. The teens generally avoid the holes, though they’ve accidentally created a few: Their dad has hidden bottles everywhere, and whenever they find one, it implodes into a new hole, reality warping around an empty center.
I found Ms. Wonders’ story provocative in a sense that had this story been told another way, say, from one of the children’s perspective, it certainly would not have had the same appeal to me as it does with it coming from an unreliable narrator.
And, like the title of this post, her prose, and story-telling snuck up on me in loud, surreal, yet susurrous manner.
November 4, 2012
As I Figure This Out…
I’ll mention that the crinkling noise erupting from a corner of my condo has me somewhat surprised.
Loud and static and crowd-attracting, the sound — ever present and building in anticipation — blinds my ability to deduce a coherent (or original) thought. Thus this post…
It is not an animal or insect or any other repellent creature affecting me.
It is a delightful child running amok, rubbing a once-crisp white sheet of printing paper over his head violently and in a wicked enchanting method as to distract me from a most important (though not as important as his) mission: this post.
Naturally, I ask you to bear with me. Naturally.
Small Fiction
- Kelly Washington's profile
- 38 followers
