Orange Crush

Round Two story for NYC Midnight CWC

Genre: Fantasy (gulp)
Location: submarine
Object: an orange


“Orange Crush”
Manfred always fell for the wrong witches.


“This is ridiculous. I can’t die this way.”

Manfred wouldn’t let himself believe that this was his fate – waiting for the acidic pulp inside an orange to corrode the metal shell of his tiny submarine and burn him alive.

And yet here he was.

The sub was already leaking in spots. Trying to patch them, a few minor burns proved what Manfred feared. Vianca’s spell had not only shrunken their bodies, but made their skin and organs hypersensitive.

Manfred knew there were other ways things could go. Should the sub remain intact, he might simply die of starvation. Nobody knew where to find him, and provisions had already run out.

He didn’t want to think about the third option. If ingested by one of the Royals, the storm of stomach acid would eat the sub’s sheathing in a matter of seconds. As nauseatingly sweet as the orange’s pulpy, acidic flesh smelled, at least it gave him some time.

--

Manfred had met Vianca at Helena’s, a tavern famous throughout the coastal regions for its bottomless bisonette bowls. Bisonettes were a lower species bred primarily for food. A smaller, tastier descendent of the long extinct bison, bisonettes had no discernable form of communication, had been proclaimed soulless (and delicious!) by the Royal Council and were easy to raise and process on the harsh coastal land. Before long, there was a Helena’s on just about every corner of every district.

That night, Vianca had seemed impressed with Manfred’s hearty appetite and came over to say hello. But her latest actions made Manfred realize just how little he knew about her.

“Maybe I just had sucker written on my forehead.” He cursed his luck. Falling for another goddamned witch.

On their third date, most of which was spent in bed, Vianca told Manfred about a vision she had.

“Madame Chancellor will lead all of our local species into extinction. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. She may not do it with evil in her heart, but it WILL happen.”

Over breakfast, she shared her plan with Manfred, revealing a crate of beautiful green apples on the counter.

“Aren’t they something?” Vianca held and admired them like they were fine jewels.

“Are those real?” Plant-based fruit was extremely rare, and had become a luxury of the super rich.

“I pulled some strings. We’re going to deliver these to the Chancellor. Once she eats them, we can begin to control her decisions.”

Vianca asked Manfred to procure a submarine and position it just off the coast near the Royal Grounds. He was well connected for a mortal, and in an age where sorcery had long trumped military might, finding a vacant submarine wasn’t that hard. In a week’s time, Manfred had the vessel in place, and under his command.

He assumed the sub would be used as a base, for surveillance. So he was shocked when Vianca, with no warning, shrunk the submarine and them along with it, maneuvered it up and out of the water, and glided through the air toward the Royal Palace. Vianca gave a hearty laugh at the success of this complicated spell. But as this new, tiny air sub zipped through one of the Palace’s open windows, Manfred began to panic. He grabbed Vianca by the throat, thinking she had tricked him into some misguided suicide mission. She struggled to steer the vessel as best she could, through the long Palace hallway and into its dining room.

Just seconds from impact, she shoved Manfred hard, and broke free of him, but in doing so, missed her target. Instead of landing on the surface of one of her own apples and coming to rest, they saw a flash of orange, then found themselves crashing and slicing through thick layers of pithy white tentacles, and sinking into a blinding, pulpy swamp of sticky sweet orange. The sub’s power failed, and they were left in dark silence.

--

Many hours passed. In the sub’s dark, cramped quarters, Manfred barely recognized Vianca. Not because of the darkness, but because her face was so sunken. She was dying. Vianca had not braced for the impact of the sub’s crash. Her internal injuries were severe, and her powers useless. All her bravado was gone.

She whispered.

“Manfred, I have something to tell you. I am the Bisonette Witch.”

In the early days of the bisonette feeding frenzy, a witch had appeared before the Royal Council, claiming that bisonettes did in fact have a language, were an Upper Species and needed freeing from their fate. News of this witch spread quickly. She had lived among the bisonettes, she said, and would translate on their behalf. The Council denied her claims, and dismissed the witch as a kook.

“Wait, you’re a witch, AND a vegetarian?” Manfred hung his head, disgusted.

Vianca continued.

“We were going to become the Chancellor, take her body over, and free my bisonettes.”

Manfred’s stomach instinctively growled. “We?”

“I needed help, Manfred. My powers can only do so much.”

“I see that now. So were you just gonna kill me once you’d taken her?”

Even in the darkness, Manfred could tell that Vianca had looked away, ashamed of the truth.

“What about those apples you gave her?” He was desperate, reaching for a shred of hope.

“My spells won’t have the effect we could have had, inside her. I’m afraid we’re much like the bisonettes now. Waiting to be eaten.”

Inside the pungent pulp of the orange, Manfred tried to ignore the smell of citrus and death. He silently cursed Vianca and wracked his brain for a new idea, any solution he hadn’t considered.

Outside the thick walls of the orange, someone else was thinking too.

The chef at the Royal Palace eyed the enormous bowl of fruit on the dining room table, wondering what to serve with the bisonette rolls that were just coming off the fire. The answer came just as his gaze rested on an unusually large orange.

“Mimosas.”

Friday’s Child

This is my second submission for the NYC Midnight Creative Writing Championships.

Assigned Genre: Drama

Location: Deli

Object: Cork

Friday’s Child
A family secret reveals hidden strength from an unlikely source.

As her father tore the foil from the bottle’s neck, sent its cork sailing across the store, and filled the families’ glasses with its bubbly golden liquid, everyone cheered, and Madeleine realized how alone she was.

She missed her mother more than anything. Someone had said once that Dad was the looker, and Mom was the personality. She should be here now, making this right. Mom was open with her emotions and didn’t worry about appearances the way Dad and Elena did.

She had died on a Friday. Maddie remembered because Dad hadn’t wanted to close the shop. Fridays were their busiest day. It was the day people went out for lunch, and when everyone stocked up on the meats, cheeses and whatever else they might indulge in over the weekend. As much as he wanted to honor his wife, his responsibility to the town was what would carry him forward now. It was her sister Elena who suggested they close the shop early. Dad had looked at Elena that day as though she held the key to all of their survival.

Now, many Fridays later, Elena and Anthony had announced their engagement.

Anthony’s father was the store’s primary supplier. Anthony had started making deliveries there when he was sixteen. He and Elena began dating immediately.

It felt to Elena’s father as if their union would seal the store’s success. They were a perfect couple, both with dark, Italian features. They would no doubt have beautiful babies.

While the two families mingled, Maddie wandered over to the corner oak table, crouched under it, and tucked the cork into the pocket of her apron. She thought of her dog Buster, who had chewed off and swallowed half the cork from a wine bottle and almost died at the vet’s office. She and her mother had held hands in the waiting room.

A shifting of feet made her turn. Anthony had wondered away from the party and now stood behind her.

“Are you saving that for something?” His voice always sounded mocking to her.

“What? No. I just…someone could choke. The dog…” Maddie was flustered.

Anthony wasn’t interested. “Never mind that. Listen, we’re cool, right?

Maddie thought “cool” was the last word she would ever use to describe how they were. But she didn’t know what else to say. She gave the barest nod she could muster, and moved past him carefully.

She would not let her mind wander back to that horrible day, and instead, breathed in the store and all of its amazing aromas – cured meats, cheese, marinara, pesto. These were the smells of her childhood, and her mother.

She loved the store. And though she wasn’t as polished yet with customers as Elena, Maddie took enormous pride in her work as sandwich maker.

She loved their construction, all the wonderful layers. The shock of yellow mustard as it glided across fresh sourdough. The geometry of sliced salami, arranged so each slice overlapped slightly with the previous one. The swift, precise cut that divided a sandwich into perfect halves. Each two-minute masterpiece was a small gift to the lunchtime masses. And the masses came, day after day. It was a powerful feeling. Madeleine rarely felt in control of her life. She had mild dyslexia, and struggled with virtually every subject in school. But when she was making a sandwich, or even releasing a perfect ice cream scoop sized portion of her mother’s homemade potato salad onto a sandwich plate, everything fell into place.

Madeleine didn’t know she was pregnant. She hadn’t been feeling especially well, and had been vomiting some, but at the special school Madeleine attended, no one had bothered to explain some of life’s more complicated details.

She would learn soon enough.

A camera was flashing. Elena motioned Madeleine over to where she stood with their father. She instinctively brushed her hair back with her hand, thinking a family photo was happening.

“Maddie, we’ve just remembered the Dellbrook party. Would you mind finishing up their order? They want to pick it up in about 30 minutes.”

Back in the kitchen, Maddie tossed the cork from her apron pocket into a large glass jar on the shelf labeled “Corks for Charlotte.” One day, they’d make a birdhouse together.

She wondered if Elena would continue working at the shop once she and Anthony were married. Secretly, she hoped she would not. She loved her older sister. Elena had literally taught her everything there was to know about running the store. But the truth was, she wanted to scream and tell her what Anthony was. And she wanted to tell her Dad that she wasn’t as helpless as he thought, and that she was so much stronger than Elena. He just didn’t know it. Instead, she channeled her frustration into four perfectly crafted meatball subs, and wrapped them tight in thick white butcher paper, tied with a string.

As things turned out, Madeleine’s baby arrived on a Friday, stillborn.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Madeleine remembered how her father, and even Elena, had been more understanding than she expected. They seemed less shocked by her pregnancy than she was. Then again, their expectations of her had always been low.

Anthony never touched Maddie again, and she kept his secret. Not for him, but for the family. There had been enough grief to go around.

Still, when Anthony’s truck skidded off the road during a violent hailstorm a few years later, and she held her sister’s hand all through the funeral service, she secretly felt relieved.

And in the many years following, as she expanded the family business with hotel catering projects, and Elena quietly drank herself to death, Maddie took quiet satisfaction in showing her father that it was his youngest daughter, who took so much after her mother, that was the strongest after all.

On the day Maddie’s father died, she had her daughter Charlotte close the store early. But it was not a Friday.

Fatty tuna.

Genre: Comedy
Location: Auto body shop
Object: Chop sticks.
Word limit: 1000 words

Fatty Tuna
Two kindred spirits find love across a dirty boulevard.

I met Miyumi after the adult bookstore closed down. And yes, I know how romantic that sounds.

Most of the neighborhood was happy to see Night Shade go, my father included. Personally, I felt they provided a legitimate service, and having made a few late night trips myself across the boulevard, I found the place surprisingly user friendly.

Plus, as co-owner in our family business, my philosophy was “Pervs need their cars fixed just like everybody else, so why not here?” We never trademarked that line, but I had seen enough customers slink over to Night Shade while we fixed their transmission to know we had tapped into an odd niche.

Then, practically overnight, the dirty bookstore became a Japanese restaurant.

“What the hell is a bento box?” my father hollered from the sidewalk. Social grace was not his strong suit.

I almost said “Let’s hope the pervs like it.” But Pop lived in denial about our customer base. I wasn’t about to disturb his innocence.

“I have no idea. Let’s go try it.”

He grimaced. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself, old man.” I had skipped breakfast. I was going.

I crossed the boulevard into the afternoon sun. The owners had clearly invested more in signage and display than Night Shade, whose one small sign now leaned upside down against the parking lot dumpster. Behind it, a life sized in-store display had been flattened, awaiting the recycling truck. It featured an actress with enormous breasts dressed as a Vegas showgirl. Her outstretched arms seemed to be beckoning customers into the new restaurant’s parking lot.

In front, a string of red lanterns hung from a simple black awning. A freshly painted sidewalk sign advertised authentic Japanese specialties. And in the main window, still tinted dark for maximum discretion, gold-foiled letters spelled the name Miyumi.

Inside, the transformation was even more impressive. Fluorescent lights had been replaced with giant rice paper orbs that gave the room a warm glow. The indoor/outdoor carpet was gone, revealing natural maple floors. Small black lacquered tables dotted the room. A large glass display showcased colorful cuts of fish. And there, behind a small counter, sat Miyumi.

I blurted. “Domo. Arigato.”

Sometimes, in an attempt to be charming, dumb things fly out of my mouth. She smiled, in that obligatory “the customer is always funny” sort of way.

“Would you like a table? Or just a menu?”

“I saw your sign out front. How’s the bento today?”

She smiled again. She had beautiful teeth.

“I think you’ll like it.”

I gestured to the display case.

“This looks interesting.”

“My father buys it all.” She leaned toward me. “He’s a little high strung, but he knows his fish. Do you like sashimi?”

I stared, deer in the headlights.

Before I could lie, she took a pair of beautiful black enamel chop sticks, picked up a piece of plump white fish from inside the case, and offered it to me.

I knew if I tried to take the chopsticks out of her hand, there would be spillage or some other sashimi related disaster. It seemed there was only one way to do this.

As I opened my mouth, she placed the fish on my tongue.

I play back this moment in my head all the time now.

“It’s fatty tuna.”

Okay, not the sexiest line ever spoken, but I was hooked.

On sashimi. And on Miyumi.

We soon discovered we had tons in common -- both in business with stubborn fathers and both left motherless fairly young. Our conversations, and our mutual attraction, happened naturally.

Unfortunately, nothing came naturally between Miyumi’s father and me. To call our first meeting disastrous is an understatement. In my nervous attempt to find common ground, I complimented Tomo on how well he had transformed Night Shade. No sooner had I spoken than I realized that all my detailed knowledge of the former porn shop didn’t make me seem smart. It made me seem like a regular.

For weeks afterward, the only sound I heard from Tomo was his cleaver pounding hard into wood. It was hard not to imagine each slice aimed at my various appendages.

Miyumi assured me that Tomo would come around, and I just needed to be patient.

Since I also couldn’t imagine my father doing handstands over my new Japanese girlfriend, Miyumi and I tried to keep our relationship under both of their paternal radars.

So you can imagine my horror the day when, after one of our “secret lunch dates” I saw her father, in his starched white chef jacket and mine, in filthy coveralls, chatting away in front of our shop. They were a study in contrasts. As my stomach churned and I waited for the first punch to be thrown, my mind reeled at what on earth Tomo could be saying to Pop.

“I’m sorry about your boy’s pornography habit.”

Or maybe

“Please keep your grease monkey son away from my daughter.”

Fortunately, the conversation soon finished. Tomo crossed the boulevard, passing right by me. He didn’t have his cleaver handy, or I’m sure he would have waved it in my direction. Instead, he shocked me by looking up and giving me a single head nod. It was something.

When I returned to the shop, I found Pop reviewing some invoices in the back office.

“So…I saw you talking with our new neighbor.”

“The Oriental fella?”

“Pop, you have to stop using that word. Only rugs are oriental now.”

“I can’t keep track. He seems nice enough, though. He sure asked a lot of questions about you. So I asked him what kind of dowry he was offering. That shut him up.”

“Pop! I was embarrassed and irritated at the same time.

“That was a joke, son. Lighten up.” As he walked off, he added “Frankly, you could do worse.”

And just like that, with two, begrudgingly given, passive aggressive blessings, Miyumi and my secret relationship stepped out into the light.

NYC Midnight Creative Writing entry - round 1

My assigned genre was ghost story.
My location was a lawyer's office.
My object was a crowbar.



Haunted.
When a young man is called back to his hometown, he discovers the bonds of family are hard to break.



Uncle Lloyd’s office looked like a wild animal had ravaged it. The sheriff sat on the corner of the desk. I wasn’t sure if he would recognize or remember me, but he did. I dipped under the yellow tape carefully, as he motioned me in.

“It’s good to see you again, son.”

“Thank you. I don’t make it back often.”

“I can understand that. You didn’t exactly have the Norman Rockwell childhood.”

It was true. My parents’ fights were legendary. It rarely got physical, but the sheriff had visited our house on many occasions to break up the shouting matches.

“Do you know what happened?”

“Well, seems pretty straightforward. No sign of forced entry. I think somebody Lloyd knew wanted something in that safe. He wouldn’t open it, so they went to town on him. With that.

A technician was dropping a dark, thick crowbar into a zip lock bag. The carpet below was smeared with blood.

“They really tore the place apart. Looks more like someone venting some pent-up rage than a real search.”

The detective looked at me.

“You wouldn’t happen to have the combo to Lloyd’s safe, would you?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve barely kept in touch.”

“Yes, how is it that you’re back here now?”

“Lloyd called me last week. Left a message. He sounded anxious to see me, but he didn’t say why. I tried to reach him, with no luck. Finally, I just decided to come out and see him in person. I still don’t know what he wanted. Tell me you’ll find the man who did this.”

“Or woman. We’re still waiting to speak with his assistant. She hasn’t turned up. Her folks said she was planning to go to the lake today.”

“You think she could do this?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. We want to talk to her. At the very least, she’ll be able to open the safe. She’ll also know what Lloyd’s been working on. Maybe she’ll know why he contacted you.”

“Right.”

“Well, no need for you to stick around. We’ll ring you at the inn if we find anything.

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

--


The moonlight gave Lloyd’s office an eerie glow.

She spun around in his swivel chair like a kid.

“Country lawyer.” She laughed. “Pompous bastard, that’s what Lloyd was. Just like your father.”

The dial of the safe clicked softly under my fingers. The door made a slight creak as it opened.

“Is it there?” Her chatter was making me nervous.

My father’s will. It left all assets to the young woman he had planned to marry.

“Go on, tear it up. Lloyd should have done it himself. You deserve whatever he had. Not her.”

“Mother…”

“Don’t lose your nerve now.”

“I know. I’m just…”

Suddenly, the door swung open and fluorescent light flooded the room. The sheriff didn’t seem surprised to see me.

“I didn’t realize anyone was here. Were you just talking to someone, son?”

I moved closer to the door.

“Just myself. And to Lloyd, I guess. I wish he could tell us what happened.”

Was my voice shaking? I saw the detective glance over my shoulder, to the open safe. Then his eyes locked back on me.

“I think you’re lying, son.”

My stomach tightened.

“I don’t think Lloyd ever called you.”

I began to shut down. Don’t say anything, I told myself.

“Tell you what. I’ll make this easy for you. I know about your Mom. Her death was not an accident. She was murdered after all, but not by your father. I know that now. Even after that woman gave him an alibi, we thought she was lying. It’s my own fault for not looking harder to find you. I guess I figured you had suffered enough, and you wanted to put this town behind you. But that’s not true, is it? You came back.”

“No.”

My voice sounded unconvincing, like it belonged to someone else.

“Where’s your father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re not alone there. I just got off the phone with the police in Abilene. He and his fiancé have been missing for three days. Where is he, son?

I looked up then, and there he was. Standing behind the sheriff.

“He’s going to put you away like he tried to do to me.”

“Shut up.”

The sheriff was on his feet and in my face.

“There’s no reason not to be civilized, son.”

I took a long, deep breath.

“You’re right. They’re in the back of my truck. My father. His girlfriend. Lloyd’s secretary. I’m sorry, sheriff.”

Before he could react, I sunk the letter opener deep into his neck. He staggered back and tried to reach for it, but the blood poured fast. He gasped, and fell back.

--

The sun was starting to come up.

“They’re gonna find you.“

Mother piped up.

“Leave him alone.”

“He murdered us, sweetheart. Did you forget that?”

“He’s my son. I don’t abandon family. That’s the difference between you and me.”

“I understand why you killed your Mother. She wanted you to be me. She was killing you slowly. Hell, she’s still killing you. I can even understand why you’d killed me. But you had no business….”

He trailed off.

“Lloyd pegged you years ago. I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“He did what he had to do.”

“Who’s talking to you?”

The tears came faster now. He was right. I would eventually be caught. But wasn’t I already?

“Sweetheart, you need to wash that sheriff’s blood off of you. And you’re gonna need money.”

“I know.”

I took the next exit, and found an all night truck stop. I parked in the back. There was an old box of tools up against the side of the garage. Inside, I found a crowbar. It was shorter and fatter than the other, but it would work. I slipped it into my sleeve, and made my way toward the diner.

Hi kids.

Hey, if you're looking for Steve and Jeff's eurasico travel blog, that's been relocated to:

eurasico.blogspot.com

this will be the location of my next project. whatever that might be.

any ideas? shoot them my way.

thanks.