Your Horse is Mine #fiction #atozchallenge

Orrin Crear worked as a stable hand at a ranch that produced champions. He had a gift for choosing winners. Bookies paid him money for tips on horses.

 “Crear was always right.” They said.

Cash Dakuten was a breeder who travelled the world looking for the best. One foal in his stable was born with a deformed rear foot. He ordered Orrin to put him down. Instead, Orrin signed paper and paid two-dollars for the cripple. Orrin named the colt Tripod. Each day he would walk Tripod then after cooling him down he’d massage his foot and rub Hyjonda Conqueror’s root on his leg. At night he would pray to Saint Lazarus.

“Don’t you worry none, just let Saint Lazarus do his work,” Orrin purred.

As a yearling, Orrin started trotting Tripod. In another three months, Tripod was cantering. At By the end of the season, he was ready to run on the track.

“He rides like the wind. I shouldn’t say anything, but your hoarse is the spitting image of the one Cash Dakuten’s got. He finds out you got him, he’ll be down here to steal him from you,” Phil the jockey warned.

“I bought him fair and square from Mr. Dakuten for two dollars on the barrel head. I got a bill of sale signed by him. He can think what he wants. Tripod ain’t for sale!” Orrin said.

“I heard last year he goes down to Brazil and buys two horses different from salt and pepper. Zeus is four years old and won no race he’s been in. He earned seven hundred and change the first year he runs. I hear Cash buys him for twelve hundred dollars. The other horse he buys named Jupiter, a world-class sprinter. A winner of seven out of eight this year. He lost by a nose to Starlight, the Pan American Champion his last time out. He plunks down eighty-five thousand dollars and has both shipped back here. The thing most people find odd is those horses are identical.”

That night Cash was on a ship headed to New York. He sent a cable to Ziggy Franks, a has-been trainer who gets a Western Union Check for Ten thousand dollars. Franks hooks up with a multi-millionaire named Justine Calloway, who lives in Bayshore, NJ. He arranges the sale, sight unseen for two-hundred and fifty thousand bucks. They shipped both horses to Calloway’s farm. The night both horses arrive, Jupiter dies of croup. Before they report it to the insurance company, they whisked away Jupiter to the dog food factory. Calloway collects on a two-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policy.”

What happened to the other horse… Zeus?” Orrin asked.

Part two of story tomorrow: Zeus

This is a month long journey with the A to Z challenge. Each day the letter is the prompt for my short stories themed: “Thirty Ways to Kill …”

And keep on the lookout for my upcoming novel – “Lifeblood of the Dragon.” Lifeblood is set in the seedy alleys of post-war Los Angeles. The morgue is full more often than not. Cameo appearances by the well known gangster Mickey Cohen and his goons.

Vegas #atozchallenge #fiction

I’m Andy Kali. I work as a bartender on the strip. I like my job; tips are great and the people are mostly…

 To the right of my station is the Craps table. If you like people watching, Craps is solid entertainment. It’s a simple game – really. You put down money it goes away; you play it safe you may come away with some bills in your wallet. If you’re an adrenaline junkie, you can make all the crazy bets you want. And if you think you can win, you might be right, but the gods of luck rarely make that happen.

There are customers who play hard and make bets that would bankrupt small countries. One such gambler is Texas oilman Johnny Quinn. He’s a giant of a man at six foot seven He makes bets, throws the bones and wins. He whoops and hollers. He hits us for over hundred-grand a week. I’ve learned that the fastest way to get the attention at the casino is by being a Johnny Quinn.

One girl who works here is a floor server who fills in at the coat-check. She’s the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. Her name is Jayna Lau.  Her coal-black, straight hair cascades down her back and her dark brown eyes are captivating.

One night she stopped by my bar on her break to pick up a coke. I was glued on the action at the table.

“Hey! Who does a girl have to kill around here to get a coke?” She snapped.

“Sorry, I said. I guess I get caught up in the tables,” I was caught off guard.

“I’d keep my eye on that shit-kicker if I were you.” She pointed to the big guy.

“Why?” 

“He’s too lucky. He’s hit sevens on his first toss of the bones every time. There’s a 6.2 to 1 odd that he’s going to hit a seven. He hits a seven every time on his first toss,” she said.

“I don’t know enough to know what to look for. Where’d you learn so much about the game?” I asked.

“China. I used to work at the Big Six casino in Macau. I dealt the Baccarat and Craps tables. In China, if they suspect your cheating, they take you into a back room and mark your face or cut a couple of fingers off. If they catch you cheating, they’ll take you on a tour of the South China Sea and toss you overboard.” She smiled.

“Sounds like a rough game. I’d like to get a spot at the table as the dealer. But I don’t know enough about it yet,” I said.

“You rake in more money in tips as a bartender. If you tell me your name, maybe I can teach you craps, and you can teach me how to make a drink,” she winked.

“Andy,”

“Jayna, she thrust out her hand and gave me a smile that made me melt. What’s your schedule look like?”

“Mornings free, Saturday is my night off.”

“Me too. I’m a full-time student at UNLV.  I’m on holiday break. Let’s hang out on Saturday,”

“I’m all in,” I smiled. “What’s your major?”

“Entomology,”

“Ants?”

“Close, insects. I’m fascinated with arachnids and scorpions.”

“Promise me you won’t bring any of your specimens on Saturday.”

“Most of them aren’t any near as dangerous as you think. A scorpion only uses venom to capture food. The venom neutralizes prey and starts the digestion process. ”

“If it’s all the same, I’ll carry my Benadryl.” 

“There are spiders and scorpions that are so toxic, you’ll croak before you can take your Benadryl,” she smiled. “Here’s my phone number.” She walked away.

I watched her glide across the floor. She glanced back and caught me watching her.

Saturday took long coming. Jayna showed up at my door and looked great.

“You told me you wanted to learn how to play Craps.”

“I do. I think being a dealer at the table would be exciting.”

“The excitement wears off somewhere around the hundredth game. Then it’s just a job. I can teach you in a couple of weeks.”

“Sounds like I have a lot to learn.”

“I’ve been watching your friend play. He cheats.”

“How does he do it?”

“Not every player cheats alone. I think the dealer is in collusion with him. Every time he wins by throwing a seven. He cheats one time after thirty throws. That’s when he makes big bets.”

part 2: Winning Throw

This is a month long journey with the A to Z challenge. Each day the letter is the prompt for my short stories themed: “Thirty Ways to Kill …”

And keep on the lookout for my upcoming novel – “Lifeblood of the Dragon.” Lifeblood is set in the seedy alleys of post-war Los Angeles. The morgue is full more often than not. Cameo appearances by the well known gangster Mickey Cohen and his goons.

many thanks to my editor: Leslie Moon aka Moondustwriter

Bouquet of Unfaithfulness #atozchallenge #fiction

 Dolores had been married to William Fletcher for ten years. She seldom lost her temper but her rage once resurrected was like the fury of a Scottish ghost. William was a reserved man exhibiting occasional spells of passion. This lack of real love was annoying, but Dolores never complained.

 Dolores, out of boredom and in want of a child, would take long walks in the countryside. One bright sunny day, she saw William picking a bouquet of wildflowers. She blushed and ran home hoping that it might lead to an afternoon lovemaking. Willian returned to the cabin several hours later, exhausted, and ambled off to bed.

 Two weeks later, Dolores watched William picking another bouquet of wildflowers. He seemed to have a cheery disposition and a spring in his step. Staying out of sight, she followed him up the lane to a widow’s cottage. The widow accepted the flowers, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Dolores sat on a log heartbroken, trying to think about what she was going to do. The more she thought, the angrier she became. She called her childhood friend Molly Figgins, who still lived in Scotland.

 “Hello,” a mild, high-pitched voice came over the receiver.

 “Molly, this is Dolores in America.”

 “Is anything wrong?” Molly asked.

             “I need to hear a friend’s voice from home.”

 “Is William well?” She asked.

 Dolores could feel the heat of anger boiling in her blood.

 “Aye, he and his mistress are just fine.”

   “A scoundrel!” Molly spat.

 “Aye, I discovered his indiscretion today.”

 “What can I do to help?”

 “Remember when we were girls and we used to read the poetry of David Mallet?”

 “Yes, I do. I remembered you were always fond of William and Margaret.”

 “Aye, I remember too. I must admit missing Corn Cockle the most.”   

 “Do you have a garden?”

  “Aye, a bonny one. If I say so myself.”

  “After a travesty like the one you just experienced, nothing will set you straight faster than a reminder of Scotland. I’ll pop a package in the mail. It should be there within a week.”

  “I appreciate your friendship as always.”

  “It’s the least I can do to cheer up my best friend.”

 A week later, a small parcel arrived at Dolores’s door. She opened it and found a bag of dark seeds and a pair of rubber gloves. An hour later, she had mixed the seeds with a large bag of birdseed, and poured the mixture into the feeder.

Springtime arrived. A new aqua marine wildflower no one had ever seen bloomed in the grassy fields around the cottage.

  It wasn’t long before William noticed the beautiful blossoms growing along the path to his mistress’s bedroom. William plucked an enormous bouquet and presented them to his lover. That night, Willian did not return home. On his second day missing, Dolores reported his absence to the Constables. Four days later, the postal delivery officer described a foul smell coming from his mistress’ hut. The patrolman found the two of them lying in each other’s arms. The Detectives believed it was a suicide pact between the two lovers. No one noticed the garland of Corn Cockle in the vase on the nightstand next to the bed. As sure as the grim ghost came from the east of Scotland, the birds ate the birdseed and deposited the seeds in the fields. Agrostemma Githago was the most poisonous wildflower in Scotland. Human contact with the stems, leave, or flowers would cause imminent death.

This is a month long journey with the A to Z challenge. Each day the letter is the prompt for my short stories themed: “Thirty Ways to Kill …”

And keep on the lookout for my upcoming novel – “Lifeblood of the Dragon.” Lifeblood is set in the seedy alleys of post-war Los Angeles. The morgue is full more often than not. Cameo appearances by the well known gangster Mickey Cohen and his goons.

many thanks to my editor: Leslie Moon aka Moondustwriter

Sennacherib’s Tomb #atozchallenge

My name is Al-Salaam. I live in a village that was in Assyria; now it’s north of Mosel in Iraq. Over one-hundred generations of my family have served the Assyrian Guard. I have sworn an oath to protect the tomb of King Sennacherib, who built his kingdom in Nineveh. Anyone who knows about Nineveh knows that it was reclaimed by the desert centuries ago.

“The King’s crypt is deep beneath our land.” My father would remind me. “It is our duty to protect it with our lives.”

 My father died last spring and I am the last of the Assyrian guard.

“The Wraith of Kings protects the tomb!” My father would say as he retold the history.

When I was a boy, he would remind me that the very captain who fought the Medes and Babylonians murdered the king. He then carried the body to the vault and sealed it. Before the Babylonians caught up with the captain, his remaining army made a blood oath to protect King Sennacherib’s sarcophagus.

“They killed the Assyrian guard; my great, great, great grandfather was the only one to escape.” I finished the narrative.

 Archeologists were always nosing around and I knew it was only a matter of time that ISIS would arrive to destroy this protected spot.

On the night of the waning moon, in a year predicted by astronomers, I opened a leather bag that contained a powder that, when ignited, opened a portal.  

“Please, reveal what it is I am to do.” I inhaled the smoke .

 After a few moments, I opened my eyes and saw the wraith.

“I am Atenagoras,” the ghost stated. “You have summoned me?”

“I’m Al-Salaam, the son of Salam. The spirits foretell the enemy will plunder the king’s tomb.”

“In two days, they will arrive. Tell them the tomb is full of gold. The guardians marked the entrance with the mark of Sennacherib. Resist as long as you can. If you provoke them, it will lead to your death,” Atenagoras warned.The specter whisked away.

I wept. “My family’s sacrifice was for naught. I’ve given up everything only to be beaten and murdered.  My birth-line will cease and all the army has preserved will be stolen.”

I gathered my courage and waited. I was a warrior and I pledged to die fighting. The noonday heat caused me to slumber. When I awoke, it was to the sharp edge of a knife against my throat.

“I am called Junaid. I demand that you show me the gold!” Junaid hissed.

“I will tell you if you don’t kill me,” I begged.

“It’s Allah’s will. If you lie, I will stake you to the desert and watch the jackals feast on you.”

“Under the carpet,” I said with steel grey eyes. “and down many stairs there is a marker with the king’s seal on it. Underneath there is more gold than in all of Egypt! But you must beware…”

“What you scoundrel?” His knife caused beads of blood to encircle my neck.

“There is an ancient guardian who protects the tomb. I have seen him once but I have heard…”

This is a month long journey with the A to Z challenge. Each day the letter is the prompt for my short stories themed: “Thirty Ways to Kill …”

And keep on the lookout for my upcoming novel – “Lifeblood of the Dragon.” Lifeblood is set in the seedy alleys of post-war Los Angeles. The morgue is full more often than not. Cameo appearances by the well known gangster Mickey Cohen and his goons.

many thanks to my editor: Leslie Moon aka Moondustwriter

check out other great writers at the 2022 A to Z challenge

The Other Woman #fiction #murder

A black Jaguar with dark tinted windows was parked in the underground garage of a downtown London office. The chauffeur was standing in front of the car, smoking a cigarette. An attractive, twenty-something stepped off the elevator, looked around, making sure she wasn’t being watched.  She made a beeline for the Jag.

The chauffeur scanned the car park, looked at her and gave a slight smile.  She opened the rear door, and without saying a word, stepped into the rear passenger compartment.

“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice,” Basil said.

The woman shook out her long blond hair, leaned over, and kissed him.

“I hope you have missed me as much as I’ve missed you,” Devon flashed a wicked smile.

“I’d like to talk to you about that negatives you found. Where did you say you found it?” Basil asked.

“In the hallway of my flat,” Devon frowned.

“From the size of the negative, it’s from a Mino; that’s a spy camera. It looks like the bungalow where we stayed in the Maldives,” Sir Basil coughed.

  “Basil there’s only one explanation.  I found the negatives on the carpet outside of my lodger’s makeshift darkroom.  I noticed him searching on his hands and knees looking for something. When I asked him what he was looking for, he told me he’d lost a screw from his glasses. He declined my offer to help.”

“Where did you say he was from?”

“South Africa.  I’ve known him all my life.”

“I’m going to ask a friend to make some discrete inquiries. There may be more to your friend Stephen than meets the eye.”

“He’s a nice old man. Promise me you won’t do anything rash,” Devon looked worried.

“If he’s taking photographs of me, he’s angling on blackmail. Then, darling, he’s not a nice old man,” Sir Basil said. “I hope my wife doesn’t find out.”

“I just don’t want you to hurt him is all—.”

“And you’re sure he hasn’t hinted at anything?”

“No, I can’t think of anything,”

“Then we’ll have to wait for him to make his pitch.”

“I need to see you,” she said, moving next to him.

“And I you.” He smiled.

“I’d better get back before I’m missed.” She leaned over and gave him a passionate kiss.

“I’ve got an appointment with the foreign minister. Let’s plan to have dinner at my club on Thursday.”

“I’ll make sure I’m free. Ciao baby,” she winked.

Basil watched her as she intentionally sauntered for his enjoyment. The elevator door started to close. She gave him a little wave.

The driver asked, “Where to Minister?”

“Let’s stop at a discrete phone box. Something’s come up.”

“Right away, Sir Basil.”

*

Tomorrow’s end to the story: A Walk in the Park

This is a month long journey with the A to Z challenge. Each day the letter is the prompt for my short stories themed: “Thirty Ways to Kill …”

And keep on the lookout for my upcoming novel – “Lifeblood of the Dragon.” Lifeblood is set in the seedy alleys of post-war Los Angeles. The morgue is full more often than not. Cameo appearances by the well known gangster Mickey Cohen and his goons.

King Moon and the Uncursing #atozchallenge #flashfiction #K

“If I may ask, what do you think you’re doing?” Geno pensively asked.

“We found a wagon!” John said excitedly.

“I can see that. It’s a Gypsie caravan. I knew the family who owned it. The caravan was looted and they were murdered… by Nazis,” Geno said sadly.

“I almost forgot,” John showed Geno a walking stick.

A look of shock came over the old man.

“Where did you find this?” Geno asked seriously.

“I walked outside to stoke the fire. I’ll admit, we’d never havfound this wagon if the stick didn’t lead us here. Something’s hidden inside, it rattles.”

“This staff belonged to my dear friend Sasha Wojtyla. He had three daughters who lived with him in this wagon. I can’t imagine the horrors forced on them by the Nazis.”

“Why is ‘Help us, Ana’ carved on the staff?”

“I made the staff for Sasha on the birth of his first child. I made the staff out of Elder. On Sasha’s bequest, I placed seven leaves of Vervain, powdered eye, dried tongue, and powdered hearts from a wolf, a salamander and 3 tree swallow’s. I charged the staff with a protection spell. It protected them from illness, but I’m afraid not the Nazi’s.”

“What was it doing in your backyard?”

“Sasha gave it to my son when his wife Catarina was sick, he may have thrown it from the wagon to hide it from the Nazis.”

“What do you plan to do?” John asked.

“We must search the area for anything from the wagon. If we find anything, we’ll return it and burn all of their belongings.”

“Why?”

“It’s our tradition. We must remove nothing from this wagon. An unspeakable curse will befall anyone who violates this edict,” Geno warned. “This is why all the Nazis died.”

“I found these a few meters from the caravan. What are they?”

“Glossopetrae! Serpent tongue stones. They dispel misfortune and illness, some use them as oracle stones. Place them on the floor of the wagon, quickly!”

Geno lit some small twigs on fire as he prepared to set the wagon alight.

“What are you doing?”

“I intend to destroy the wagon and its contents before night fall.”

“There’s some elegant stuff in here. You don’t want to destroy it, do you?”

“The sun is hiding behind the mountains. Tonight, is Saint John’s Night. All spirits visit humans, either to help or to harm them. The sanctity of this burial site must be safe. We will only live if we burn this wagon. We have no choice, we must do now it!” Geno’s voice cracked with fear.

“You don’t really think—”

“The revenant will come! If certain rites don’t get respected, the dead will return. They cannot make the journey to the other world. They will bring many múle.” Geno watched the wagon burn. Walking over to John, he snatched the walking stick and tossed it into the pyre.

“Hey! I found that,” John said.

“And I am returning it to its rightful owners.”

The stick burned an radiant blue color, and in seconds, it vanished.  A firefly hovered above where the wagon had been.

“It’s King Moon!” Geno gasped in fright.

The green glow became brighter and brighter. Out of the light, the spirit of a man holding a flute clad in silver appeared.

He waved the flute over Geno.

“A great wrong fixed. Your curse is removed,” King Moon said.

We watched as Geno turned into a firefly and flew into the light. The light disappeared, taking with it Geno’s spirit.

This flash fiction is part of a month long journey with the A to Z challenge. Each day the letter is the prompt for my short stories themed: “Thirty Ways to Kill …”

And keep on the lookout for my upcoming novel – “Lifeblood of the Dragon.” Lifeblood is set in the seedy alleys of post-war Los Angeles. The morgue is full more often than not. Cameo appearances by the well known gangster Mickey Cohen and his goons.

check out other great writers at the 2022 A to Z challenge

Black and Gray #B #atozchallenge #crime

“I should not be here.” The guy who was solid muscle clenched his fists. ” I’m a patriot for Mother Russia. They ordered me to crash flight 1285. Your FBI are idiots they couldn’t find how I did it. The government convicted me on circumstantial evidence alone.”

I knew I wasn’t the only one who wanted this guy gone.

“If I make drawing, would you make a tattoo?” Schmeka slurred his English.

“Show me what you want. We’ll do it after breakfast.”

I spoke to Woody and told him Schmeka’s tattoo was arranged.

“Okay, I’ll hook you up with some special ink.” Woody winked.

 He delivered a vile of black ink and six pairs of grey latex gloves. “I swear you must wear the gloves and don’t get the ink on you.”

“What’s in it?” I asked.

“Carbon and gonyautoxin,” he said. “And I’ll throw in a quart of some very brutal Pruno. That should help him sleep.”

“Gonyau—toxin—whatever the hell that is?”

“Shellfish Toxin. The most lethal poison known to man. Untraceable. Just.068 milligrams will do the trick. He’ll die in his sleep.”

“Why don’t they just serve him up an order of clams?”

“He’d have to eat too many. The amount of toxin in the bile ducts are minuscule.”

“So, That’s why the tattoo.” Now the reason they transferred me to a Federal Prison made sense.

“You’re catching on. I’ll stand guard while you give the stamp to Schmeka. In case the Feds ask questions, I’ll be a second witness.”

“Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

“Yeah you do a good turn for the Feds they never forget.”

“Tomorrow, Schmeka is going to give me a drawing.”

“Any foreseeable problems?”

“Plans change,” I smiled. “Make sure the Pruno is strong enough to stun a hippo. I’m going to stamp a black lip mark on his neck.”

“The kiss of death. Nice touch,” Woody smiled like a Cheshire Cat.

“Come to my house, you can stand look-out while I stamp him.”

“Deal, I’ll bring my crossword puzzle—.”

“Don’t bother, it won’t take that long.”

“After the job’s complete, give me your gun, ink, and anything connected with the procedure. I’ll dump it.”

“Thanks, I’m going out to the yard and playing handball.”

“We shouldn’t be together. I’ll head up to the dispensary and hang there.”

The morning of the tattoo. I got up and looked at the picture of my brother in his dress blues.

“I know you can hear me, Ernie. Big brother is going to put the hurt on the asshole that murdered you.” I placed the trash bag of Pruno under my bed. While I was at breakfast, Schmeka chugged the entire bag on an empty stomach. When I returned, he was docile as a baby. I buzzed a black set of lips on his neck. I left the con sleeping. In less than ten minutes, his heart stopped; he never felt a thing.

Two hours later, I returned to my cell and found Schmeka dead. The staff held an inquiry as to the cause of his death. A week after the investigation, they transferred me to the Federal Detention. In days, I was out-processed.

In my property, I found an address for Long Beach, CA. There was a photograph of a building that was purchased in my name, a city permit for New-Future Tattoo LLC, and a bank statement. I had one-hundred thousand dollars in my account.

I received a registered letter from my attorney. It said that I won my appeal; I was now a free man, and they expunged my criminal record like I’d never killed my sister’s tormentor.

Everything is fine. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. My inmate sense tells me that someday the FBI will show up at my shop needing another favor.

Lifeblood of the Dragon (in final edits) is set in post-war L.A. Lot’s of crooks, lot’s of corruption, plenty of trips to the morgue… Cameo appearance by Mickey Cohen.

It’s a month of great writing. Check out the writers at A to Z.

Avarice #Atozchallenge #2022 #flashfiction

In 540 A. D there’s a tale of a village along the sharp foothills of Kashmir, where the sheer Himalayan mountains jut to the sky. Many have accepted as a reality that the 2,500 km mountain range are the cathedrals of the Gods.

This story is about the legendary kingdom of Bandish.

Prosperity had blessed Bandish for over five hundred years. Caravans of camels or elephants were a common sight as the village was a major trading hub that reached northern Asia to southern and eastern India.

The wealth had attracted Mongol bandits. Door and window frames were gilded with gashes from blunt swords or the points of arrows. They had been defeated too many times. The only present danger now was the sporadic gang of bandits that would stealing someone’s wife.

A wise, benevolent ruler named Fa-Hsien lived in the center of the city. He had never taken a wife and was childless.

“A bandit by the name of Akbar has entered our kingdom. My scout reports a large army is with him. How will we address this difficulty Fa-Hsien?” The general of the army inquired.

“Your scouts will follow his movements. Do not enter into battle.” He looked out towards the horizon. “Speak to no one of this. He has many spies in the castle, and in the village,” Fa-Hsien warned.

 “As you desire, sire,” the commander replied.

  The Magi consulted with the King. “The bandit Akbar will come on the southern wind. It is a very ill omen. He has built a powerful army. He craves your kingdom,” the Magi said.

 “Akbar and I were boys together. He was always covetous of other’s possessions.”

  “Which is why he steals from others. Now he wants what you have.”

  “What he covets is what is most valuable to me. He thinks it gives him power.”

The King sent a message to a trader of women. The message simply read, “I require a wife.” 

The messenger delivered a small gold box, only to be opened by the procurer.

When the messenger returned, he told the King, “In three days, a special woman who can supply your particular needs will arrive.”

The village buzzed with excitement. “The King is going to take a wife.”

On the third day, the procurer entered the town in a wagon with a large cage on the back. Inside was a beautiful, raven-haired woman dressed in dirty clothing.

“Who is this woman?”

“She’s a witch.” Some replied

“She’s the mistress in the arts of pleasure, ” others stated.

“She has been given as a gift from a mighty astrologer.” One claimed. “She draws Magik from the Gods.”

The King announced “In two days, we will celebrate my wedding.”

His bride, Sita, purchased many items she would use for the King’s spell. “I intend to return the king into a youthful prince. He will need it if he wishes to be my lover,” she said with a wry smile.

No one knew anything about Sita. The men fantasized about the woman.

“They have been in their wedding chamber for over three days.” The people remarked as they walked by the palace.

“My subjects thank you for welcoming Sita as my queen.”

No one heard what the king said they were all too shocked. The King was thirty years younger than he had been three days prior.

The next time the King emerged from his bedchamber, he was in his early twenties.

“If what you say is true, I must have this woman,” Akbar said. “I will have my spies in the castle steal her and bring her here.” he smiled, thinking of what was in store for him.

The next evening, six men kidnapped Sita from the castle. They brought her to the enemy camp and presented her to Akbar.

“As my wife, I will give you twice your weight in gold,” Akbar promised.

“And if I refuse?” Sita asked.

“Wild stallions will pull you apart,” Akbar said.

“Then I have little choice. As I am soon to be your wife, I will need to have someone to prepare the potion I gave the king,” she gave Akbar a sultry smile.

“I will send a trusted member of my band to gain the items you request,” Akbar promised.

“My new husband should take a long rest,” she teased.

“Why?” he asked.

“You’re going to need all your strength before we’re through,” she said over her shoulder as she walked into her tent. Her guards, overhearing the conversation, looked at each other, wishing they could be young and viral again.

The wedding ceremony was prepared. Sita was weighed and was given the gold. Sita was given the powders; she chanted over a cauldron over a massive fire. After the wedding ceremony, the newlyweds retired into the tent. While Akbar’s men waited for the honey-moon to cease. Each of his band snuck up and retrieved a cup of the magic elixir.

The next morning, Akbar and his band of cutthroats were dead. Sita loaded all her gold and returned to the king’s side. She promised to stay with the king. The king’s two secret teenage-sons would continue to be her lovers.

This is the beginning of a month long journey with the A to Z challenge. Each day the letter is the prompt for my short stories themed: “Thirty Ways to Kill …”

And keep on the lookout for my upcoming novel – “Lifeblood of the Dragon.” Lifeblood is set in the seedy alleys of post-war Los Angeles. The morgue is full more often than not. Cameo appearances by the well known gangster Mickey Cohen and his goons.

check out other great writers at the 2022 A to Z challenge

The Molt #fiction #crime #revenge

 

On Monday, I checked the mailbox and to my surprise the thing I coveted had arrived. During the Covid-19 pandemic, I had volunteered for an experimental procedure, a method to convert my body into a virus-proof machine. There were only two downsides that the doctors could think of.

First, there were no guarantees that it would protect me from the virus. I was okay with that. The second issue was also the most controversial. There was a certainty that the procedure would alter my DNA. This procedure was so radical it was going to reshuffle the helix of my DNA, making me hyper-resistant to any disease.  Dr. Wendel Fulbright was the master-mind; I would have to report to his lab in Lima, Peru. Where he could conduct the tests away from the prying eyes of the FDA or the AMA.

The Doctor said there were going to be some notable changes in my body because of the procedure. First, I would appear to be younger by approximately fifteen years. Testing on lab animals (which is now what they are doing to me) showed that I was going to be healthier, younger. Even my fingerprints were going to change. It was like a snake molting an old skin.

Anticipating the procedure (months prior), I had a pint of blood removed from my body. I had plans for this liquid. Next, I had to find the whereabouts of the man I abhorred more than any other, Dr. Ishii Shiro. Dr. Shiro was the Joseph Mengele of the Pacific Theater. This monster murdered my father during the second world war. I found out by searching through freedom of information documents that my father was a prisoner held by Shiro in Unit 731. The Japanese Bacterial Factory at Ping Fan, Manchukuo. On testimony from the other doctors, my father was exposed to Bubonic plague. He was the subject of experiments on Biological Weapons conducted at the camp. Dad’s body was destroyed in the camp crematorium to hide the evidence of its atrocities.

I had discovered that Shiro was going to be giving a lecture at the local Medical School. I would use this opportunity to assassinate the Doctor. The old me would leave old blood at the scene creating a to false trail for the police to follow.  Then the plan was to molt my old-skin and turn into someone that cannot physically be connected with the murder.

My weapon of choice was a rusty, ice climbing ax. Imagine a long arching hook for grasping the ice; the other side equipped with a well-honed, sharp point. Quiet, efficient, and deadly. I was sure Dr. Shiro would get the point.

The planned location of the attack was two blocks from the lab. The urban concentration would allow me to use the rooftops to aid in my escape. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop would allow me to cover the two blocks in seven minutes. Have the procedure and be a newly minted human being before the police conducted the investigation. I smiled at the thought of them chasing their tails.

I even chose the weather pattern; there would be an off-shore wind. I planned to remove my clothing and stuff it into a waterproof bag. The bag would be attached to a weather balloon. I’d stuff blood-soaked clothing into the bag and release the balloon into the off-shore breeze. It would carry it many miles out to sea. I would be a “altered” by the time it disappeared into the Pacific Ocean.

I traveled the route several times both day and night and knew it by heart. The only thing was to wait for the guest of honor to arrive. I hoped he was not too old to realize the work I’d put into planning his demise. I’m sure it’s more that he had put into my father’s.

The day finally arrived. I donned janitor coveralls and coated the water pitcher on the podium with a film of Ipecac Syrup. He’d immediately feel queasy and head for the bathroom. That’s where I’d be waiting. I know from trials that he’d start to get sick four minutes after his first sip of water.  I watched the monitor in the hall. I saw him take the first sip of water and pressed the countdown timer on my watch. I futzed around wiping the area down with alcohol, obliterating any fingerprints. He walks in and moves quickly to one of the stalls. I place an out-of-order sign on the door and lock it. I remove the ice-ax from the refuge container.

Walking up behind him, I asked, “Are you feeling alright?”

“I think so.” he says between heaves.

One double-handed swing strikes him in the base of the skull with the point. It sinks to the handle. It’s doubtful that seven inches of metal entering the brain is going to be comfortable.  It’s over in under a second.  I close the door, pour my donor blood around the body. I then negotiate the wheeled trash barrel to the doorway, lock the door and tape the “out of order” sign to the door and casually make my way to the roof.

Stripping off my disguise, I stuff everything into the bag and send the balloon on its merry way. Now a dash across the rooftops which takes me seven minutes. When I arrive for the treatment, I take two minutes to allow my heart rate to drop. I listen to the sounds of the city, not even one siren. I walk into the surgery, ready to become a new man. Five hours later, I continue my life after the molt.

A Reminder from Home #shortstory #caught #corncokle

Dolores Gillpin was married for 10 years. Dolores rarely got angry, but when she did, her rage could be described as the resurrected fury of a Scottish ghost. Her betrothed, William, was a reserved man. Even in the early years of their marriage, he would rarely display bouts of passion. She found this lack of physical love annoying, but she put up with it.

Dolores, out of boredom and wanting of child, would take long walks in the countryside. One bright sunny day she saw William picking a bouquet of wildflowers. Blushing and touched by the gesture, she hoped it might lead to an afternoon of lovemaking. When she arrived back at the cottage, she prepared for the anticipated romp. William returned to the cabin, several hours later, exhausted and sauntered off to bed.

Two weeks later, Dolores watched William picking another bouquet. She noticed his cheery disposition and the spring in his step. Staying concealed in the hedges, she followed him two kilometers away to a widow’s cottage.

Margaret answered the door, accepted the flowers, and passionately wrapped her arms around his neck.

Dolores was shattered. Sitting on a rock, as her heart broke, she tried to think what she was going to do. The more she thought the angrier she became.

Returning from the Glenn, Dolores called her childhood friend Molly Giggins who still lived in Scotland.

“Hello,” a mild high-pitched voice came over the receiver.

“Molly this is Dolores in America.”

“What’s wrong?” Molly asked.

“I needed to hear the sound of a friend’s voice.”

“Is William well?”

“Indeed, he and his mistress are just fine.”

“A scoundrel!”

“Aye, I caught him today.”

“How can I help?”

“Remember when we were young girls and we used to read the poetry of David Mallet.”

“Yes, I do. I remember you were always fond of ‘William and Margaret.’”

“Aye,   I must admit missing Corncokle the most.”

“Do you have a garden?”

“Aye, I do.”

“Right now nothing will set you straight faster than a reminder of your home. I’ll pop a package in the mail; it should be their within a week.”

“Your friendship is appreciated.”

“It’s the least I can do for a sister.”

 

A week later a small parcel was delivered to her door. She opened it and found a bag of dark seeds and a pair of rubber gloves. She mixed the seeds with a large bag of bird seed and poured them in the bird feeder. Within a month, springtime had arrived. A new flower that no one had ever seen began to bloom in the grassy fields around the house. A glorious, pink flower sprang from the plant.

It wasn’t long before William noticed the beautiful blossoms growing along the path to his mistress’s door. William plucked a large bouquet and presented them to his love. That night, William did not return home. On the second day missing, Delores reported his absence to the Sheriff.  Four days later, the postman reported a foul smell coming from Margaret’s cottage. The Sheriff found the two of them laying in each other’s arms. They believed that it was a suicide pact between two lovers. No one noticed the bouquet of Corncockle in a vase next to the bed. As sure as the grimly ghost came from the east of Scotland, the birds ate the birdseed and deposited them in the fields to bloom in spring.

Dolores smiled. Agrostemma Githago was the most poisonous wildflower in Scotland. Contact with the stems, leaves or flowers led to eminent death.