Authors Chapter One, An Anthology

1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62287-294-7
Verlag: First Edition Design Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Wasserzeichen (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 100 Seiten

An anthology of short fiction with stories diversified as its authors: from battlefield reality to suicide intervention, historical non-fiction to crime family escapades, foster care horror to heroes’ journeys, a breadth of tales to hold interest and capture attention. Readers encounter a range of talent to make them cry, laugh, reminisce and astound.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Authors, Various

Leseproben

Sweet Justice
By Diane Barker   “You won’t hurt him, right? I’m not looking to seriously hurt him.” It’s always a difficult decision, and they look for that final reassurance before committing. They always do at this point. “No, Mrs. Carlisle. Your husband won’t suffer any long-term physical harm. Our goal is to make him think twice before considering outside activities. That is why you came to us, correct? We approach it as a learning experience—every course of action has consequences. We work to make the risks of engaging unacceptable. While we don’t guarantee the outcome, we do have a proven record of deterrence.” “And he won’t be suspicious?” “No. Your husband will never know. Our firm is very discreet. We have all the background information we need, so there’s just the matter of payment.” Business concluded, I made a note in the file, deposited the cash in the safe and called Vivian into the office. “A celebration is in order, partner. Mrs. Carlisle is client 100.” Popping the cork on a bottle of 1990 Dom Perignon, I poured two glasses. “A toast to all the Mrs. Carlisle’s of the world. Long may they reign.” “A toast!” Vivian echoed as our glasses clinked to our success. “Can you believe we made it? And it’s because of you.” “Us, Viv. We’re a team.” I handed her the file. Vivian finished her drink. “I have to get to work now,” waving the folder as she left. “Another Mrs. Carlisle awaits.” I poured myself a second glass and sat back in the oversized leather chair that was my first indulgence when we began our enterprise. Who’d have guessed an innocent, off-hand remark would be the beginning of our new venture. One that included the rich, suspicious housewives married to the men with whom we were all too familiar. The concept was so simple I wanted to kick myself for not thinking of it sooner. Let’s face it, the majority of males only have one thing on their mind; using their divining rod to seek out testosterone affirming sources of moisture. Notice the plural sources. It has been my experience that, for a majority of them, one moisture source is not enough. They may have an established mineral rich spring (MRS) that fills their basic needs, but over time the rod will start pointing in the direction of other watering holes. Meanwhile, the MRS has become accustomed to things just as they are: an oasis paradise of neighboring MRS with which to associate, a steady source of enrichment they come to rely on and, most importantly, off-spring, which help secure the bedrock. All of which is jeopardized if the rod moves on to a younger spring. With so much at stake, the charade is played by both parties. Rod: “I have a meeting with clients. Big deal to close.” MRS: “What time will you be home?” Rod: “Not sure. These deals can be tricky. Might be a late night so don’t wait up.” MRS: “It better be worth it.” Rod: “Always is.” Eight out of ten times, the MRS knows the deal. The rod might even suspect so, but not likely. Rods think they’re so slick. As one of the alternative watering holes a rod seeks when the home spring runs dry, I’ve had my share of divining. But not until Vivian’s series of mishaps did I put two and two together. * * * It all began on a balmy Friday evening in late September about five years ago. I called it quits for the week after pulling another all-nighter. Too wired to go straight home, I headed to The Bungee. It was an off-the-beaten-path haven for those of us who celebrated happy hour at eight in the morning. The four women at the bar were the regular crowd for the hour, though they’re not considered regular by professional standards. Unlike those of us who viewed our profession as a way to earn a living—with an eye on someday getting out—these women enjoyed the work, incorporating their own particular style and talents. Take Terri, petite in stature—almost midget status—who was a favorite of johns with a Gulliver fantasy looking for a Lilliputian. We called her Mother Theresa, not because she had the face of an angel but, because for her, sex was a religious experience. It would take her less than three minutes to peak, all the time calling on the almighty. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” We figured it was her Sunday school training. Then there’s Ride ‘Em Rhonda, a bossy redhead particularly fond of the fine art of S&M. Her trademark was the spiked black leather dog collars she wore around her ankles. They were employed during the climax of her favorite scenario, the Cowgirl and the Bucking Bronco. With a thirty-three inch inseam, she’d clamp her legs around the guy and ride him like Man of War, spurring her way to ecstasy. “I love to hear them scream; it enhances the whole bucking experience.” Next to Rhonda was Evelyn, known as Energizer Evelyn. She was six-foot tall, not a natural blonde and had the stamina of a cross-country runner. That girl could go for hours bouncing up and down like a child on a pogo stick. “I’m like the battery bunny, except I don’t keep going and going; it’s more like….” You get the idea. Last, but certainly not least, is Princess Poc-a-hot-ass, professionally known as Cheyenne. She claims to be of royal Native American descent, but no one knows for sure. Rumor has it she was adopted by a middle class Jewish family from Brooklyn, who named her Cheryl. She must have had some wilderness ancestry, however, because even in the dead of winter, she would strut her stuff in full feathered headdress, donning a barely there, bikini style outfit made from faux animal skin with wampum beads strategically hanging off her breasts. She was a favorite of those with a tickle fetish. Quite skilled with the feathers. Made many a grown man cry. At the other end of the bar was a mousy brunette I didn’t recognize. I took a seat in the corner booth, not to be unsocial, but to put my feet up. Six-inch stilettos are murder on a coccyx. Ed, the bartender, greeted me with my usual—a shot of bourbon with a black coffee chaser. “Tough night, kid?” He served the drinks. “You look like hell.” “Yeah. Long.” I downed the shot. “Who’s the newbie at the end of the bar?” “Don’t know. Some kid. Came in ‘bout an hour ago. Been crying in her beer ever since.” He went back to the bar with the empty shot glass. Savoring the first sip of Ed’s special brew, snippets of conversation filtered though. Rhonda and Evelyn were reviewing the evening’s transactions and came up with a few minor procedural changes to their business model. Evelyn decided on a policy not to do girl-on-girl anymore; she needed to work with a joystick. Rhonda’s resolution was to stick with clients who had the capacity for speech. “Something’s missing when they can only scream in sign language; it’s just not the same.” At the end of the bar, the mousy brunette ordered another beer, with a side of conversation. As Ed put the mug down, she began crying, spewing the usual I-don’t-know-if-I’m-cut-out-for-this-but-I-don’t-have-any-other-choice crap. Ed removed the towel from his shoulder to wipe up the spilled beer and tears. Based on the look on his face, he wanted to shove the rag down her throat. Yeah, sister, we’ve all been there. I glanced around the bar; not much sympathy going around here, not even from Ed, who usually looked out for us like the dad we wish we had. The relaxation that started its journey through my tired body was stalled by the plaintive whines, loud snorts, and nasal moans from the corner of the bar. My kingdom for some quiet! Catching Ed’s eye, I held up five fingers, indicting an offer of $50 to anyone silencing that lamb. Ed nodded to the others to handle the situation. Evelyn accepted the challenge; she went to the kid, put her arm around her heaving shoulders and whispered something in her ear. Good old Ev. She still has a heart after all this time. With the situation under control, I re-focused on my aching feet, leaning over to give them a quick rub. Relief was short lived. I looked up from my toes to see two skinny legs in a mini skirt standing in front of me. “Evelyn said you’d work with me.” It was at that moment I was reminded of the saying about no honor among thieves. While muttering a hex on their private parts, I glared at each of them as they sat there snickering. With any luck, my comrades would start itching before their glasses were empty. “Stop sniveling and sit. You got a name?” “Susan. But I’m thinking of changing it to something sexier, like Monique. Anything French is sexy. Or maybe Vivian, you know, like in Pretty Woman. I kinda feel like her.” “Yeah....