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Stream of consciousness Sunday: The Accumulator, part twenty seven…

I wonder in which direction Linda G Hill is going to take us with her prompt for today’s SoCS post, so that we can discover what happens next in this continuing story. Let’s find out together, shall we?

” “man.” Use it as a word by itself or find a word with “man” in it. “

Hmm, easy enough…

The Accumulator, part twenty nine.

Scene: The darkened interior of a parked car at night. It is two weeks later.
There is a man behind the wheel of the car, dressed in dark clothes and a black woollen cap, he is studying the house across the street through a pair of compact binoculars. 

As he lowers the glasses and studies a folder on his lap, we barely have time to wonder who he is before the picture is replaced for a few seconds by;

and we have our answer.

The director now provides us with a mini backstory sequence, introducing us to this unexpected new character, who…

…checked the time and shifted in his seat, trying to ease the ache in his back as he reviewed what he knew about this latest, desperately urgent job they needed him for, and right when he’d managed to schedule a couple of weeks off to unwind and play a bit of golf, too, so it’d better be really bloody important, or somebody was going to be getting an unsanctioned visit when they weren’t expecting it.

It wasn’t like he needed the money or anything, he was doing quite nicely thank you very much, but saying no to The Department, no matter how exemplary your service record, was never a good idea and “retired” usually meant something far more terminal when it came to severing your contractual obligations with them.
So Carlisle maintained a cordial relationship with his unofficially former employer and carried on a perfectly legitimate career in private security, on the understanding that, should the need ever arise for his services, he would return to work as a sub-contractor for the duration of the job, subject to the usual terms and conditions, of course.

He didn’t usually bother about the “big picture” when he was called in to do these last minute rush jobs; he’d just turn up, eliminate the sanctioned target, clean up if that was part of the job, make a nasty mess if that was required instead and dispose of anything that needed disposing of.
Then he would go back to his comfortable life in suburbia, fleecing stock brokers for extortionate security consultations, raking in easy money fitting burglar alarms for paranoid golf widows, sheltering in their gilded cages while their fat cat husbands screwed around with their secretaries.

He’d heard some crazy shit about this job on the grapevine and you would have needed to be deaf and blind to miss the news of Felix Braithwaite’s horrific death at the hospital, so Carlisle didn’t think a few sensible precautions were a bad idea, before he went strolling in there and found something he wasn’t equipped to deal with.

Frankly though, he thought all these rumours about strange powers and secret projects was just so much bullshit, to distract the authorities from whatever The Department were really up to. A good story for the papers to get their teeth into, some sensationalist opium for the sheeple, a sleight of hand trick, nothing more.

Still, people who he wouldn’t generally credit with much in the way of imagination had told him things you would need a lot of imagining to come up with, stuff you’d think was stupid if you saw it in a horror movie, so he’d have to play it by ear.

*****

Patrick allowed the edge of the kitchen blind to fall back into place and turned to look at Cathy, who was watching him with an anxious expression.

“You’re right, yes, there’s somebody parked a little way down on the opposite side of the road. Can’t make out who it is, but it doesn’t look like the police to me.”

Cathy looked even less happy at this news than she had been when she’d noticed the car earlier.

“Well we know what that means, don’t we?”

“Yes, they’ve finally managed to track us down, we need to get ready to move.”

“That sounds like a very good idea, mind if I tag along?”

Patrick and Cathy both spin round in shock at the sound of the voice, coming from the door to the living room.

“Don’t look like that, I’m not going to bite, aren’t you going to offer me a drink before we go?”

Howard Grainger, aka Subject:Beta, grins cheerfully at them from the doorway, as the screen fades to black.

***********

To be continued (using next week’s prompt)…

#SoCS

Pingback to Linda G Hill.

 

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Reblog: Whisper of Love

Completing today’s hat trick of posts from guest bloggers is BarbCT and a touching piece of flash fiction, from her blog Gallimaufry…

Gallimaufry

I wrote the following story for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner, a weekly writing challenge designed for both the flash fiction newbie and the more experienced writer. Interestingly, I recently came across the same picture and had saved it for future use as a story prompt. Thank you, Roger Shipp, for the push. It’s a good way for me to get back in the game here.

ffftpp-6-2017-door

Wynn paused before opening the door to the old cabin. He wasn’t sure he could do this. He had agreed to start renting the cabin to vacationers and that meant cleaning it up and getting it ready. But now he wondered if he had made the right choice.

Guin had been the love of his life. As he stood at the door memories flooded his mind of warm summer nights, winter weekends by a cozy fire, her bubbly laughter, and the silky…

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Reblog: Of Subdued Angels

Reblog: Of Subdued Angels

Reblog number two for today is a beautiful and romantic poem from Dhanya Nair, over at Quaintrelle Vibes…

Quaintrelle Vibes

My lips are colored
Sharp, red and glowing
And I sever anyone I kiss
With words that rip apart
I deepen wounds
With every lethal slash
And actions that change
Like dawn to day
So blindingly bright
I hope that you don’t fall
In form of shreds
For I cannot stop myself
From lashing out
Every time you get closer
And I know you shall be
Nothing more than nothing
By the time I’m done with you
And so I let you walk away
Let you to grow out of this feeling
You’ve grown in your heart  for me
One that only deserves light
So let it enter you
Every time you smile
For you’ve forgotten
What it’s like to do so
And you call it love
I am not what it’s supposed to feel like, my love
My angels might be dying
To come out and see you
But even…

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Reblog: Ash – Little Fears

Unable to locate a reblog button on Little Fears, I’ve had to resort to a link, (brilliant planning, I know) so please pop over and enjoy;

“ASH”

 

Reblog: Waiting on accidents

I like discovering new styles of fiction writing and there is something quirky and yet accessible about the way Stephen Baird spins a yarn.

Check him out with this post from his blog, Ordinary Handsome…

Ordinary Handsome

Me and Son Gundy are sitting in our lawn chairs, right here at the intersection of Yellow Road and St. Maggie’s. It is cold and it is snowing, and it’s only ten degrees. We lifted these chairs from Goodwill because no one was foolish enough to buy them. The manager – that would be Joe Bodine, him from over on Hiatt Street next to the old Courthouse – he helped us load them in the back seat, folded them proper so they wouldn’t get snarled. They’re decent enough chairs for when you’re sitting in the cold, waiting on accidents.

We pass a Thermos back and forth, and it’s filled with black coffee and Gram’s Special: two parts brandy and one part never-mind. We watch the cars slide through the intersection, brake lights flashing, but no pavement to grab hold because of the ice. The cars sometimes slide sideways, slide up…

View original post 168 more words

 

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Reblog: Chiromancy

Hello again, it’s time to introduce you to a new blog by two friends of mine. I’m going to give you two posts to start with, one by Todd and this first one by Dustin, I really hope you’ll enjoy their wonderful writing.

Ladies and gentlemen, Dustin Tyler…

Reflections from the End of the World

dustin story.jpg

By Dustin Tyler

I had a dream last night about red balloons rising over a beautiful skyline. I didn’t see them get released—they were just in-mid air and I was a silent observer, slowly following them higher and higher until we were past the tallest buildings and the sounds from the street below went silent. It was the most peaceful dream of my life, the most peaceful moment, and it was fake. Before I woke up, I tried to reach out as far as I could and grab just one balloon, but somehow, someway I knew I couldn’t. That’s how I knew that you would be gone when I woke up.

.You’re always leaving me. It doesn’t matter if it’s a warm summer night filled with lightning bugs and hope, or amid a bitter snowfall that blankets desire. I use only my elbows to get out of bed. The sheets…

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March of the Internet Nobody, day twelve: Poetry corner redux…

I didn’t have much spare time today, after writing this week’s SoCS post, but I did just find a few minutes to complete my Concrete poem, which I initially posted as a simple homage to Twin Peaks during last week’s Poetry corner feature.

I have now got around to the artistic thematic sculpting of my poetic tribute and here is is in all its nerdy glory.

 

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