Tag: Contemporary

Flash: N is for Noise

Erin Penn
Photo 102105844 / Victorian Kitchen © Stuart Andrews | Dreamstime.com

Clatter woke Abigail from her sound sleep. Below stairs, laughter and shouts passed between people, footfalls and dropping boxes pounded the floor. She took her time to roll out of her single as her brain caught up with reality, letting dreams drift away and remembering where and who she was. Still a servant, always a servant, she thought looking around her small dusty chamber. Abigail picked up her housecoat, wrapping it around her nightclothes and tying off the belt, before heading to the first floor down the narrow flight at the back of the sprawling manor.

The main floor was bedlam. Small children running about, a father yelling at a much larger boy to help his mother. Standing to one side in the modernized kitchen, Abby took the time to count the young ones. Three in all, in step-stool fashion of a little over two years apart. She approved of the new house master for not pushing his wife harder. Her guess is two, five, and seven, plus the sixteen- or seventeen-year-old boy who hadn’t come into his manhood muscles yet but seem to be stretching his height up quickly. A woman, as tall as her husband and showing more gray than him, carried a small box against her expanding belly marked in big letters – FRAGILE AND I MEAN FRAGILE – to set it on the area where the icebox used to be before returning to the house front.

A family.

The last owners were there just to change things. While she approved them getting rid of the heavy carpeting and ghastly colors the previous owners had installed in the seventies and eighties, when the two men had decided to destroy and replace the heart pine floors under the carpet instead of sanding and refinishing them, she chased them off. It did mean the fancy electrical was only half-installed, and the plumbing still didn’t run up to the third floor, but those flippers had no respect for the bones of her home.

“Mom!” The boy shouted, staring directly at her from the butler’s threshold. “Mooooom!!!!” His voice cracked as it went higher.

Abagail jumped a little. “You see me?” she whispered. It took a lot of energy to manifest during the day, so she wasn’t trying to be visible.

The boy nodded, while the pregnant woman ran up behind him.

“What?” she asked, huffing.

“Ghost.” The young man stayed on the threshold, but pressed to one side so his mother could stand beside him.

The woman’s eyes narrowed, clearly studying Abigail, making the ancient servant stand taller and retighten her housecoat belt.

The new house mistress asked, “Are we going to have a problem?”

“No ma’am.” Abby shook her head.

“I will protect what is mine.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Where is your space?”

Abby gulped debating. It wasn’t like a search wouldn’t show it, but did she want this woman to know right now?

“Where is your space?” The mistress said in a firm voice. “Don’t make me ask a third time.”

Abby dropped her eyes to the red tiles, nodding, before pointing up the back staircase.

“You will take me and Malcolm to it.” The woman touched her son. “Go tell Jonathan I want to look around upstairs before we get the furniture tomorrow. He’ll be glad I’m not trying to clean anything for a while, then come back here immediately. You need to learn this.”

“Yes Priestess.” Malcom took off running.

Smiling, hoping to get on the new mistress’ good side but not knowing how much the woman could see at the moment, Abby commented, “Your son seems to have only one speed.”

The woman chuckled, rubbing her belly, “All of them. Either full steam ahead or sleeping.” She stepped off the threshold and entered into the kitchen fully, going over to the box she brought in earlier.

“I helped the nanny back in the day.” Abby took a step back into the shadows of the stairwell, where she knew she manifested stronger. But she didn’t push energy into being visible, not yet. She didn’t know if the witch priestess would let her stay, and she might need energy to fight later. Abby would not go quietly; it wasn’t as though there was anywhere else to go if the woman tried to eject her. Having always been a willing and quiet servant since she landed on America’s shores, and measuring the strength of this woman’s personality, Abby didn’t think she would win, but this was her home. She would fight to stay by word or ghastly deed.

Although Abby knew she didn’t have it in her to harm the baby inside the woman, so her options were limited if worse came to worst.

The woman pulled out a half candle embedded in a disc candle holder with a finger loop on one end so one could carry it around without having wax melt down onto your fist.

Brass candlestick holders were a common sight during her living years. Abby smiled, then started gnawing on her bottom lip as the woman waved her hand over the candle and it lit. A warning, that show of power, and the candle a tool now that fire was added. Abby did not like that at all.

Setting the candle aside, the woman pulled out a necklace with three small stones attached to it and placed it around her neck. She pulled out a second necklace, this one with a large metal charm and set it aside. Moving other things around, the woman finally settled on pulling out one ring and placing it on her right thumb, then closed the box and muttered a word to reseal the cardboard. When her son returned, he immediately crossed the kitchen to his mother’s position and put on the amulet she had set aside, then picked up the candle.

“Now, dead one, please.” The woman wave her hand upwards as she crossed the room to the plain wooden stairs.

“Mind the fifth step.” Abby warned.

“Malcolm?” The woman pressed aside letting her son wave the candle over the step. There wasn’t room on the narrow treads for him to pass, but he could bend over with the grace and dexterity of youth to examine the board in question.

“It’s cracked, mother.” The boy bent on one knee and placed a hand on the wood. “Has been for a very long time. Dry rot underneath.” He closed his eyes, humming. “The stairs are no good.” Malcolm looked up at their guide. “Not if you have any weight, but I don’t think the ghost knew that.”

The living woman’s gray-green eyes narrowed and Abby sweated. “I didn’t realize, I’m so sorry mistress.”

The priestess nodded slowly. “Very well.” She reached down and petted her son’s brown hair. “Is it possible to reach your space another way?”

Sagging, grateful for the reprieve, Abby said, “I’m on the third floor, so I think you can go around the front and get to the second floor. But the third-floor front does not connect to the third-floor servant area. You will need to get on these stairs at the second floor and I don’t know if upper flight will be any better than these.”

“They’re not.” Malcolm said. “The house was made from heart wood, oak and pine, some elm, except for these crappy stairs.”

“There was a fire in the kitchen in the fifth year, and it ran up the steps killing the servants and taking out the nursey. They replaced the stairs with these for the new hires.”

“Ah.” The woman nodded. “And you’ve been here ever since.”

Abby flushed, realizing she just explained her death and wondered what type of power that gave the witch. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I guess my visit will wait until another day.” The mother nodded at her son, and they retreated down the steps. At the bottom, the woman reach out two fingers and snuffed the wick. “Put that away please Malcolm.”

Abby drifted down following them, carefully stepping over the fifth tread even though it did not matter for her.

A small vulgarity came from where Malcolm was swinging his hand back and forth. He looked over at his mom, a blush rising up his neck to inflame his face, before he managed even quieter words over the box and it opened easily.

“We will talk more later, Miss,” the mother said. “But for now, I think we can share the house.”

Abby shook her head, and the witch frowned until Abby amended the statement. “I think we can share a home.”

Coming over to stand beside his mother, Malcolm exchanged a look with his priestess before he said, “Yes, we would like that.”

“Subject to further talks,” the mother added, running a hand over her belly, her voice softening, “but I could use the extra eyes with my crowd.”

A masculine voice came from the butler’s closet area, “Lizzo, is it okay to come in now?”

“Yes my love,” Elizabeth said, watching her husband enter the room, carrying their youngest on his hip.

Jonathan looked around the room. “Who were you talking to?”

“Just the house ghost,” the witch said, before looking over at Abby, “ghosts?”

Abby shook her head and held up one finger.

“Ghost.”

Noticing the two-year old focused on her, Abby wiggled her fingers at the baby witch who giggled at the attention and buried her head against her father’s chest.

“Okay,” the early thirty-something master of the house shrugged acceptance, “so the house is haunted.”

“Yes,” the older woman said.

Abby, now she had talked with the priestess, judged her new mistress to be just past her second-score birthday. The child in womb would likely be her last, maybe one more. Six was a strong magic number.

“But I think in a good way.” The witch leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. “You chose a good house.”

“Thank you mistress.” Abby said, exhaling slowly.

(words 1,656; first published 4/16/2023)

Series: Under Contract

1. N is for Noise (4/16/2023)
2. Q is for Quicken (4/19/2023)
3. Y is for Yield (4/28/2023)
4. Z is for Zzzz (4/30/2023)

Flash: H is for Hand

Erin Penn 2 Comments

Photo 116242 / Overflowing Briefcase © Jackie Egginton | Dreamstime.com

Mature warning: Dirty language and sexual play between married couple

For A-to-Z visitors: My site has erotica on occasion but hasn’t had any for quite some time. While visiting others, I ran across a spanking blog and remembered I always wanted to write a spanking scene. Feedback is welcome. Most of my blog posts deal with writing; if hard(ish) erotica isn’t your cup of tea, check out another letter of the alphabet. Thanks for dropping by.

Now onto H is for Hand.

The overpowering orange scent of the industrial strength hand soap took the edge off of Deb’s exhaustion. She was getting too old crawl spaces, as her electrical apprentices and journeymen continued to remind her. Direct them, boss them, teach them: they tell her. But sometimes, the only way to figure out the old houses is get into the dirt and grime. Closing her eyes for a moment, she sorted through the rest of her day now that she was home. Make dinner, something microwave like normal, toss the containers and wash the silver wear, curl on the coach with Aubrey for the news, check in on Facebook to see how the kids are doing and TenMax for the grandbaby, then off to bed to start the cycle all over again.

After turning off the water, Deb shook her hands and wiped them on a work towel. Is it good for another day? A quick sniff said no, so she made the trek to the laundry closet. While in the back of the house, she heard garage door open. Aubrey had arrived. Late like usual; they were working her husband to death.

She came to the bend where the door into the garage led into the kitchen-dining room area to welcome him back. He dragged himself into their house and dropped his briefcase inside the door, enough folders shoved inside to prevent it from closing. It was going to be another night of him in bed with piles of paper. At least he was home. Standing on tiptoe, Deb pecked him on the cheek, before asking “Burritos or kung pao?”

Aubrey swayed a moment, blinking. “Oh, um, what was that again?”

“Burritos or kung pao for tonight,” Deb asked, “or pizza, but that will take thirty minutes for delivery.”

“Oh, I guess that first thing.” He meandered over to the eating table and dropped his heavy frame into a chair, leaning forward with his hands covering his face.

“Burritos then,” she said. Just a couple minutes in the microwave the package said, so she cut a vent and shoved it in. “Salad?”

“Whatever.”

“Tough day?” Deb opened the fridge and pulled out the precut salad bag. Taking one look at the slimy mess, it got yeeted into the garbage. “No salad.”

“Meth raid by the cops had four kids in the house,” her husband muttered behind his hands. “We spent the day finding fosters. Then a meeting where they announced another set of cost-saving measures. I think I’m assigned to get the court-ordered separations for the children, but it might be Harry. It’s in the paperwork I’m finishing tonight. Oh, and Harry got the promotion.”

“What?” Deb spun around from where she was watching the microwave do its thing. “But you been killing yourself, doing all those extra hours, been there longer.”

Aubrey sagged back on his chair, his tie sliding to the side of his belly, his jacket flopping to either side. The steeper side of middle age wasn’t as kind to him as it was to her. At least her job gave her exercise instead of stress and coffee. “I asked around, Harry is younger, more powerful, dynamic, confident. True management potential.”

“Lazy, snide, sexist,” Deb ticked off things she personally had observed when the legal support team had come over for after-hours work at their home, since they were the only ones with enough space, “but a champion brown-noser. He would make a good union rep.”

Aubrey barked a laugh. Her husband knew what level of esteem she held the local union officials.

A ding had her plating the burritos and sliding them on the table. Before sitting to join him, she remembered to grab the salsa out of the fridge. Hot for her, mild for him. Tonight his heartburn will be acting up. He was going to pull apart everything he said and did for the last three months, since the Webster announced his retirement.

Deb watched as Aubrey pushed his food around his plate. Over fifty, with an extra hundred pounds, the only saving grace was being well over six foot. She remembered when the extra heft was all muscle, but the broad shoulders had sunk under the weight of years to settle around his middle, filling up cheeks and chins. A permanent stoop pressed his spine, bowing his head. Where had her dynamo gone?

Likely the same place as her brat. How long has it been since she sniped at him? The twins? Matilda slowed things, but the twins dug the grave and buried everything that was them as a couple to be parents. What had she used to call him?

“Well, if you aren’t going to eat, Daddy-o, ain’t no need for you to be sitting here.” Deb stood, grabbed her empty plate and his half-eaten one, and took it to the kitchen area – shoving his into the fridge for later and hers in the sink.

Aubrey, slow on the uptake, still exhausted, blinked. “Wait, what?”

Placing a hand on her hip and thrusting the generous curve to one side, Deb curled her lip. “Whatever for Daddy-o? Why should I wait for anything, old man?”

“Old man…” Aubrey raised his eyes from the table, looking at his wife.

Having his attention, she reached behind her head and pulled out her hair band holding her braids back. Grabbing one, she drew it in front and undid the bottom rubber band, unweaving the braid, adding an extra three inches once completely down. Then Deb did the same with the other, before tossing her head to the side, with a flounce of hair. “I calls it as I see it.”

“Brat,” her husband whispered.

“You can’t call me that,” Deb stamped her foot.

A smile creeped across his mouth. He said firmly, “Brat.”

“No, no, no,” Deb shook her head, her wavy hair flying, “You can’t call me that.”

“Girl, I can call you what I want.” Aubrey stood, slowly, like a mountain rising from the ocean to the sky. “Come here.”

“No!” Though the shout was defiant, Deb took a hesitant step back.

Aubrey’s shoulders drew back, displaying his broad chest. Sure, the weight soften all the edges, but her husband still did all the yard work around the house and helped out with Habitat for Humanity at least once a month, carrying lumber while she worked the electrical for needy families. Under that fat, the muscle remained and his chest, while not displayed to its best because the lack of visible abs, doubled-back in her memories to the monster of a man he once was, and would always be in her thoughts, held at bay by love and kindness.

“Come.” Aubrey pointed to the linoleum in front of him, his voice growling. “Here.”

Deb curled her lips. “Make me.” The petulant whine mimicked a thirteen-year-old perfectly. Having raised three of them, she was quite proud of the improvement from the last time she bratted.

“Don’t make me come for you.” Her husband dropped his hands to his belt. He sucked in his belly, then deliberately untucked the tang through the buckle. The leather whispered out around his body through each belt loop.

Licking her lips, Deb considered what was about to happen.

Aubrey wrapped part of the long belt around his hands, doubling the leather, then snapping it together.

She jumped. “Now hold on, cousin.”

Aubrey had taken a step forward, but froze at their safe word. Deb couldn’t believe that after thirty years it came back so easily to them both.

“Brat, what is the issue?” His voice changed from the deep rumble to all business.

“As much as I would love the belt, I’m not sure I’m up to it yet.”

He nodded. “I can understand that.” Aubrey’s lips tilted, “But you are going to be spanked.”

“No doubt.” Deb shivered, and her husband’s eyes dropped to her breasts. She looked down, surprised to find the nipples visibly distended through her bra. “But let’s keep it to hands tonight. We can work up to paddles and leather another day.”

Aubrey raised his eyebrows, and his voice dropped in pure satisfaction. “Another day?”

Deb nodded. “Yeah, why not? It’s not like we are going to wake the kids anymore.”

“An excellent point.” He tilted his head to the side, “I will like that.” He smiled at her, and she beamed back. “Now, where were we?”

The woman drew in a deep breath, nodded her agreement to them restarting the scene, and shouted at him, res-stomping her feet, “You aren’t the boss of me!”

“Oh, that is what you think,” Aubrey slapped the leather belt on the table, before reaching out a hand quick as a snake and grabbing her wrist. “I’m not only your boss, I’m your master.”

Deb shivered for real at that proclamation. The words dug down through years and years of housekeeping and childrearing to the woman she once was, looking for a master to her mistress. A partner, which he had been since the moment they met, but also a power. Ying and yang together. His yank had her sliding across the floor, to fall across his lap.

“Not in this lifetime.” She proclaimed, while squirming to help him pull down her pants.

As soon as her khakis slid below the curve of her buttock, he popped her lightly. “Be still.”

“Oh,” she responded with a startled voice. “How dare you!”

“Oh, I dare.” Aubrey rubbed a hand over both cheeks, studying them. They were larger, more broadly spaced than the last time he spanked his wife. “These cheeks of yours need to be as rosy as those bratty lips.” He smacked the right side again, the one with the mole hidden under the soft arc of her derriere. He adjusted the curve of his hand to catch air, then popped her a third time, this one resulting in a moan from Deb and a perfume he had forgotten in the years of paperwork he had been buried under.

“I…” Deb gulped, “no, don’t daddy-o.”

“Are you going to stop being a brat, little girl?”

She kicked her legs in response, moving the pants lower. “I’m not a little girl.”

He smacked her twice on her right cheek. “You are a brat.” He said and then switched sides and released three rapid hits in succession on the other ass-cheek, the final swat hard enough to leave a handprint.

“Ouch!”

Aubrey started rubbing her reddening rump, making his wife moan from her newly sensitized skin. “But, I was also wrong.”

Deb bit her lip, was it time for another sarcastic response? Yeah, it was. “What else is new?”

Another few swats made her breast tingle as each hit pulled her against his legs, stretching her shirt against her nipples, dragging fabric. Her ass was completely warmed.

“Nothing, because you are not only a brat,” Aubrey ran one finger down her rear, following the crack, then dipped into her slickening honeypot, “you are a slut, and you know what I do with sluts?”

“I bet a big daddy-o like you fucks them.” Deb perked up. “Right up against the dining room table.” Had they ever done that in this house? On this table?

He pressed a second finger into her channel and rotated.

“Oh, god,” slipped out in a groan from Deb. While they still had sex a couple times a month, they hadn’t done anything like this since … since the twins were born. “don’t stop.”

“I don’t plan to.” Aubrey stood, lifting her easily. It wasn’t that she was small, but that he was just that much bigger. Her husband manhandled her over the table, putting one chair under her weaker leg for extra support. “Stay put.” He said, pressing her down hard against the maple-wood surface.

“What, where are you going?” She asked, trying to twist around as she heard his footstep hit the living room carpet. She couldn’t move really well, with her pants and underwear halfway down, and, besides, she was fairly positive he would be coming back to give her a fucking she would remember for weeks, so she didn’t move from position. Before she felt totally abandoned, he was back, placing a pillow on the chair seat beneath her knee and she sighed in relief. Then yelped as he smacked her bottom.

“Better, it was fading to pink.” His hand moved to the other side for some more swats. “Yes. There it is. The perfect shade of red.” Aubrey dragged his hands down her legs, removing her pants and panties completely along with her work socks. Her hardened-toed boots, no steel for electrical workers, were in the garage since she didn’t want to track dirt in the house. His large male hands then cupped her buttocks and squeezed hard enough to hurt.

… and yet not hurt.

She groaned as he lifted her higher.

“Ask for it.” He ordered.

“Are you kidding me?” Deb mouthed off.

“Correction,” Aubrey’s voice graveled like their driveway. “Beg for it.”

“No.”

He slapped her hard on her posterior. “Say: master fuck me.”

“In your dreams.”

“Oh, we haven’t even started on my dream.” He spanked her again. “Beg.”

She heard his zipper lower. Behind her, she felt his member rub over her heated skin and down, close to where she was ready to receive him. “I …”

“Words brat. I want them.”

“Fuck me. Fuck me hard. I want to cum until I scream.”

He withdrew his dick and slapped her butt a few more times.

“Say please.”

She waited as he lifted her again and lined his penis with her entrance, breaching it, but not  fully entering. Her womanhood wept at the stimulus of the promising threat.

Leaning forward, to whisper in her ear, because he was that much bigger than her, “Beg. Say: master fuck me.”

Deb tried to shove back, to get him inside her, but he held her easily under his weight, as he always had been able to. “Please,” she whined, not sure if she was still pretending. Sweat pooled on her brow.

“Please….” Aubrey whispered, blowing on an ear.

“Fuck.me.master.now.please.pleasepleaseplease.”

He slammed into her hard enough to move the table, pulled out, and did it again. Sheathing himself completely. Her spanked ass stung as his flesh met hers, the slapping sound as loud as his previous spanks.

“More!” she shouted.

He took her at her demand.

Having slid from under the light fixture in the center of the dining area with each energetic pounding, the table hit a wall before he came hard.

She had screamed her release twice before he had finished.

As she melted into the dining room table, Deb heard him raise his zipper. He reached over her, then the leather belt dragged over her body – from her scalp, the soft leather slithered down her neck and spine and across her ass until the end fell off her body to slap the floor. She listened as he gathered it up and put it back through his pant loops.

“Now brat, I seem to remember you liked to shower; the lotions still in the medicine cabinet?”

“Um, hummm.” Fuck, when had she gone nonverbal?

Aubrey lifted her and carried them to the primary bedroom and their attached bath.

***

Deb stumbled into kitchen in the morning to find Aubrey making scrambled eggs instead of being off at work. She was running half-an-hour late herself, but there was enough setup work at the site, she really didn’t need to be there for another hour. Going to where the table had been moved back to its normal position, she found the pillow still on one of the dining room chairs and sat down gingerly on that chair.

Aubrey watched smugly as she lowered herself down, sighing.

He slid a plate of eggs and fruit, with a fork in front of her, then returned to the stove, cleaning up the morning cooking. Hot tea whistled in the kettle, moments afterwards, it was in front of her with honey and creamer added to perfection.

Gods, she forgot how much she adored him in aftercare mode.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked, as he pulled her hair until her head tilted back for him to kiss her thoroughly.

“I love you,” she muttered against his lips.

He pulled back, his eyes sparkling, and rubbed a thumb against her lips. “Love you back.”

“We need to do that again,” her eyes searching into his, looking for the wounded soul she knew still lurked, “soon.”

“A weekly date?” Aubrey smirked, “Maybe one with a weekend recovery so you don’t walk funny in front of the guys.”

“Oh, you think you are that good?” She smiled as he stepped back.

A proud proprietorship of their mutual relationship shaped his features, stealing her air with the confidence he emitted. “Oh, I know I am.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Deb laughed. She reached for her tea, took a sip, and sighed contentment. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” He glanced at the microwave clock, before returning his attention to her. “Are you good?”

“Very, very good.” She took a bite of the scrambled eggs, which had been peppered precisely to her tastes. “These are brilliant. Thank you.”

“Don’t do the dishes.” Aubrey ordered. “Leave them in the sink, and I’m bringing home pizza and a movie tonight.”

Deb smiled “Yes … master.”

“Brat,” he said as he reach down to pick up the overstuff briefcase from where he dropped it last night, before striding into the garage, shoulders back and spine straight.

(words 2,933– first published 4/9/2023)

Flash: C is for Cute Meet

Erin Penn 4 Comments
Image from the Interwebs – shopping site, items no longer available (Note, I found this AFTER I created Jennifer and her description. Very, very happy to have found it.)

The beagle came out of nowhere, and the driver couldn’t serve in time. Even slamming on the brakes on the high-end Mercedes wasn’t enough; the weight and speed of the car versus the weight and the speed of the dog played out in a tale as old as inertia. The black and brown hound tumbled several feet, but the driver was out of the car and running toward the bitch before she came to a stop. He rolled over the female dog, who snapped at him weakly.

“What the fuck, man?” The passenger yelled after he stepped just out of the silver car and leaned on his open door. “We’re on a schedule!”

“She’s still alive!” The driver shouted back. He risked another bite to see the tag on the tacky sparkly pink collar. The front named the dog Princess, and the back gave an address. The driver looked around and the nearest house number matched. He lifted the twenty pound dog easily and started jogging, gently, to the building with a fenced backyard.

“Robert. Robert!” The passenger yelled, slammed the door, and started running after him. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to save her.” Robert said, ringing the doorbell.

The other man said from the bottom of the steps.”But the job–”

“Can wait.”

“No, it can’t.” The other man shuddered when Robert turned his black eyes on him. “I mean, the boss…” The words trailed off when the door opened.

Inside the door was a slip of a woman, five two in her pink sparkly crocs, a wife-beater shirt hanging half-way to her knees showing the nipples of her small breasts which needed no bra for support, and pink camo legging. Her curly black hair was pulled back in a ponytail high on the back of her head, and her heart-shaped face lacked any makeup. She blinked seeing two huge six foot plus men, in black and gray suits displaying broad shoulders and muscled chests well, with close-cropped hair cuts, at her doorstep. The latino one held a dog. Her dog.

“Princess!”. The woman opened the door instantly.

The man carefully moved the dog so the woman had more access to the dog’s face. “I’m so sorry. I … she just came out of nowhere.”

“She was in the back.” The woman shook her head, her ponytail swinging. “Nowhere near the road.”

“Do you have a vet?” Robert asked.

“Yes … no.” The woman caressed the dog carefully. “I … after the divorce. Well, I’m behind on the bills.”

“Princess needs to go now if you are going to save her.” The man said, walking toward the twenty-year old junker of a pickup truck in her gravel driveway. She trailed behind him and opened the passenger side. The incredibly tall, strong man laid her badly injured dog on the seat. Then he pulled out his wallet, fingered through a few cards, and handed her a gift card. “This still has about two thousand on it. That should get you started.” Next he handed her a white business card with his name, Robert Smith, a phone number, and an email. No company name or other details, about as bare bones as a business card could be. “Call me when you get there, and let me know how it goes. I will pay for everything.”

“Thank…thank you.” She looked up, her brown eyes meeting his black eyes. “I…I need to get my keys.” She ran inside.

Robert secured the dog as much as possible, and then walked around the car to open the driver’s side while waiting for her to return.

His companion continued to fume on the lawn, staying close to the action but apart from it. “Tick tock, we are missing our window.”

“One more word and I will end you,” Robert dead stare backed his words and his opposite shut up. “We will get there. We will get the job done. But this is first.”

The woman ran out of the house, slamming doors behind her, a big padded pink purse slung over her shoulder and keys in her hand. She climbed in the truck, stroked her pet once before turning to close the door, but Robert was in the opening.

“Promise you will call.” He stared at her, willing her to answer in the affirmative.

“I will,” she promised.

“I may not respond immediately.” Robert stepped out of the opening, “I got a meeting this morning, and it might run into the afternoon.”

“It better not.” The other huge man muttered.

Robert sent the larger, even taller, white man a dirty look, who stepped back in what looked like fright to the female, then the guy turned back to the her and talked to her in a gentle, earnest baritone with a very light southern accent. “But I will respond. Whatever you need. All bills. I got it. Okay?”

She nodded. And he closed the door, retreating as she pulled out of the gravel onto the paved highway.

“Really, man, don’t kill me, but what the fuck was that about?” The other man followed his companion as they returned to their car.

Robert shook his head in frustration. “I don’t kill by accident.”

***

The southern sun had warmed the late spring morning chill into a simmering humid boil by the time Robert and his backup had completed their task and switched out the stolen car at the chop shop their employer had a contract with, for a less noticeable, but equally powerful car.

Robert turned the phone off airplane mode, texted the boss the job was done, then flipped to view messages, of which there were precisely none. “She promised,” he said, shaking his head. “No news is good news, right?” He looked up at his companion. “Or do you think she lost my card, John?”

“I doubt that.” John smirked. “That woman needs a sugar daddy, if only to help with the dog.”

“I don’t think she is the sugar daddy type.” Robert said walking over to modified sedan. “Not that I wouldn’t mind her sugar, but she looked rugged.”

“Girl was ninety pounds, when she carried her purse.” The other man chuckled. “Rugged is not a word I would have used.”

“And that is why the boss hires me, not you for these things.” Robert turned out of the parking lot and drove back toward their home city along state highway they used before.

John rolled his eyes, but shifted to face his companion. At the end of the day, Robert was better at this particular aspect of their job and any and all hints actually did help. “Teach me, oh wise one.”

Robert looked at the slightly older man, their ages only three years apart, making sure the sarcasm was respectful, and then answered. “One, she didn’t break down crying. Two, she first looked out the window before opening the door and the screen door was locked until she opened the door.”

“Wait, she hadn’t locked the pickup truck.”

Robert frowned, considering. “Good job picking up on that.”

“I’m learning.” John said. Nearly twenty-five in a business where one didn’t get old, but one got dead really fast without learning.

“It turned over easily, but all the seats were split, likely a new engine.” A mile passed, trees stood shoulder-to-shoulder raning from new buds, to bright green leaves, to deep green of the early bloomers well into their summer leaves beside the winding paved road. “Maybe the lock is broke?” Robert gripped and released the wheel “I’ll need to ask. Always good to find out reasons for things, because other people might have the same reason and you can use that to your advantage.”

“Anything else for the rugged woman who a stiff breeze might blow away?”

“She defined her challenges without making excuses. Accepted help – that is never easy. And reacted to the plan, adding her own steps, to get the outcome needed.” Robert then smiled. “Her nails were painted, but chipped. Her arms showed leaned muscles. Her outfit …”

“The mix of pink and masculine.” John supplied as the younger man trailed off.

“Yeah,” Robert growled a bit, “it was hot.”

John eyes whipped hard from where they had drifted to the road to study Robert’s face as he drove. Hot was not a word he would have chosen for that overly girly-pretending to be hunter camouflage, but to each their own.

“Oh, and she had a concealed carry in the purse, a rifle rack on the back of the pickup, and a gun box under the seats.”

Now John nodded. He could see how that would get Robert perked, especially if he liked pink camo leeching onto skinny legs. He preferred his women more bountiful and less deadly. “I didn’t get close enough to see everything in the vehicle, but I should have noticed the gun rack.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“Do you think it is the ex?”

“No, the spacing was for a smaller rifle, one more suited to a woman’s strength and shoulders,” Robert said. “That, and it had little pink deer heads on the medallions junctures.”

John blinked. “They sell gendered rifle mounts?”

“They sell gendered everything, including desk accessories to hold filing folders.” Robert replied, “At least rifle kickback, shoulder structure, and arm length make sense. Filing folders and ink pens is just pushing it a step too far in my opinion – selling ‘male’ pens as sturdy and ‘girl’ pens as cute – asinine.”

A laugh broke from the passenger. “Yeah, I’m with you on that one.”

Robert’s phone rung. He had four standard rings; nothing anyone would pick up as unusual, but this one was for unknown callers. Quickly he picked it up and swiped up and put in his ear piece, “Hello.”

“Hi,” a woman’s voice said with a quiet sob caught in the throat. “I’m trying to reach Robert Smith.”

“Smith here.” Robert shook his head. “Robert. Is everything okay?”

“No, … no.” Her voice got smaller. “The surgery didn’t work. They gave her … gave Princess something to help with the pain and I got to hold her until … until…”

“I’m so sorry.” Robert murmured.

“It’s not … well, I guess it kind of is … but you didn’t mean to … and you did everything … you didn’t even have to tell me … could have driven… I’m mean.”

“Lady, it’s okay.”

“Jennie, Jennifer actually, Jennifer Tate, no, Jen Kirk – I changed back to my maiden name last month.” The voice continued to break. “I’m still at the office. The vets. They say I have to pay to get the body, or cremate it, or I … I don’t know…”

“Jennifer, where is the vet?” Robert looked over at John, who squirmed in his seat. A detour was in order.

(words 1,801, first published 4/3/2023)

Flash: B is for Bear

Erin Penn 8 Comments

Photo by Adrien Tutin on Unsplash

“Get back to nature” the Fakebook advertisement appeared beside Jordan’s feed after she had hovered over a series of posts from some old school acquaintance-friends who up-bragged about their European backpack summer. At forty-six with her two kids off at college, the deep forest picture made her stare longer than it should. The green, the dark, she could feel the crisp autumn biting her ears as she shuffled through the image in her mind. It wouldn’t be lonely surrounded by all those trees.

“Witchy Wonder Time” floated from the bottom of the ad to the top. The animated cycle ended with fancy green and golden lines growing into words: Live your best life. An easy to remember link remained at the bottom throughout the ad.

Jordan put her computer to sleep and ignored her phone, blinking from two spam callers. Dishes, the last set from the kids coming by for Labor Day, needed doing, then seven months until Easter, spring break, before she would see them again since both of them separately were doing trips for the winter holidays with friends. Last year nearly killed her during the dark months after her youngest went off to his freshman year.

The sinks filled with hot sudsy water on one side and clear water on the other. Rubbing the water that splashed on her face with the back of her wrist, Jordan sighed, then submerged the glasses into the hot water.

If only she could work, but after years of taking care of her grandparents, her parents, her husband’s parents, and her husband as well as raising her two children, she had no work experience. Attempting fast food last year surrounded by teenagers had been embarrassing; being chastised by an eighteen-year old child for not filling out her time card correctly had sent her into a crying jag for two days. It wasn’t like she actually needed to work after inheriting from the parents, since both her and her husband had been only children. Still, having a reason to get out of the house would have been nice.

“Be careful with the knives,” she muttered before reaching for the first sharp utensil, submerging it, washing it, and putting it into the clear water. She washed the nine knives individually, then picked up the group and moved them into the drying rack. “Next up, plates.”

Getting back to nature would be out of the house. Could you imagine her backpacking across Europe? With the blisters, foreign languages, and people she had no understanding of. Spending her kids inheritance. That would be a nope.

But a simple, local camping trip? Would that be enough to get through the long months alone?

A “Witchy Wonder.” What is that about? Dancing in the woods around a campfire?

“Live your best life.”

Well, getting the last of the pots done certainly wasn’t Jordan’s best life. It had been her life, always had been her life, but not her best life.

She rinsed out the sinks and wiped them down, leaving the dishes in the drying rack to be put away tomorrow. The last day with more than one glass and plate for 206 days. … unless she let things build up. But since dishes was something to do, they got done every day just after the morning doomscroll on Facebook to see if her kids posted anything overnight. They never did after her last check when she finished watching the late news.

Jordan returned to the computer and woke it up. She typed in the link that seem to have burned itself into her mind. Witchy Wonders trips … wasn’t exactly a camping trip according to the site. For a small fee, about the cost of a new four-man tent, a witch would transform a client into an animal. Fascinated, Jordan dug deeper. Using the old “curses” techniques, modern witches transformed client into an animal with specific release requirements to release the curse.

The testaments, which recorded reactions a lot more unique than the normal “it was great” and “I highly recommend”, sung praises of spending a day as a frog, a weekend as a dog, and a week as a crow.

The disclaimer portion of the website stated some lingering affects of the animal choice could impact the personality and body; a list of most common reaction was provided. Sharper nails after being a cat, and those who had been horses nearly universally took up jogging after time in the pasture.

Further instructions included, the client must arrange for a situation of safety for their animal during their nature time. A final bit mentioned forms related to the release requirements.

A pop-up appeared in the bottom-right for instant messaging chat customer service. “Hello, my name is Jennifer, I see you have been on our site for six minutes, would you be interested in talking to a live representative?”

The cursor blinked once, twice, thrice.

Jordan typed, “Yes.”

And that is how she spent most of the winter as a Bear.

(Words 834, first published 4/2/2023)