One more finished ...

I've now finished yesterday's story, set in Noo York, a criminal pursued by a female cop.  Now for todays attempt.

The Pool Hall King

Friday night, holed up in the basement of O’Malley’s bar.  Corner of forty second and second, rock music blasting from next door.  Dark corners contrasting with the flood of light over the pool tables.  A smoky haze in front of the bar as punters drink the night away.  The weekly pool tournament in full swing.  Only five guys this week, on a good week maybe up to twelve or fifteen.  Five bucks to enter, winner takes all, poor pickings tonight.  Keeping a low profile after last week’s bank job, waiting for my pay out.  That guy shouldn’t have tried to be a hero, what else could I do?

Stuck in a murky one room apartment on the Lower East Side, watching TV all day and making a couple of beers last all night in backstreet bars.  Into the final of the pool, no sweat.  These guys don’t realise I used to be a pro.  Usually one or two hookers hanging round, ready to make a play for the winner, and his winnings.  Since I crashed out here three weeks ago, I’ve cleaned up every week.  What else can you do?

First week the blonde one chatted me up after the semi-final.  Older than the other girls, maybe thirty something, taller, longer legs shown off well in her short red skirt.  Difficult to see in the dark to see her face clearly, but pretty for a hooker.  Twelve guys that week, a sixty dollar haul.  Bought her a drink; she followed me back to my place, only charged thirty bucks.  Boy, was it worth it!  Called herself Lola, but I guess that wasn’t the name she was born with.

Second week there she was again, loitering in the shadows.  Only six guys showed up for the pool, but it was like taking candy, again.  As soon as I sunk the eight ball Lola was by my side.

‘Hi big boy, looks like you’ve cleaned up again.’

After I’d bought us both a beer she took the rest of my winnings.  The money didn’t seem to matter to her.

Last week she never showed, thought I’d lost my touch.  Another poor turnout for the pool, twenty five dollars winnings and five of those were mine to start with.  Just on midnight as I walked downtown to my block, she appeared from a shop doorway across the road.  She was stalking me now!  Having bought a round of drinks for the guys I only had ten bucks left, but she was happy with that.  How had I managed to find the cheapest hooker in town, who didn’t look as though she’d been hit by a tram?  Afterwards we chatted, she was more inquisitive; wanted answers.  Where was I from?  What did I do for a job?  How long was I staying?  She left about three in the morning, said she needed another couple of tricks before she turned in.  

Before the pool kicked off tonight I was watching the Nick’s game on TV in the bar.  The news headlines in the break; they’re interviewing one of the NYPD cops about the Bronx bank robbery and shooting.  A blonde female cop; DI Marie Tomkins, a mean looking broad, but it was definitely her.  Winning tonight was tricky, I had too much on my mind. Looks like I’ve got to head west in the morning.  Catch a train to anywhere away from here.  No sign of her at O’Malley’s tonight, hope she doesn’t come round later.

Midnight back at the apartment, ten minutes and my stuff is packed ready for take-off in the morning.  I can’t sleep, too many nightmares.  I keep the revolver under my pillow.  All quiet outside, not much traffic.  Outside I hear footsteps … heels clicking … woman’s footsteps.  I clicked off the safety, swearing that if she showed her face here tonight, my room would be the last one she ever entered.

Catch Up

First of all a catch up from yesterday. I am not twitterate so unable to post a tweet, but have written one all the same.  Using the 'shame' prompt, this must be my first tweet!

Really it wasn't me, I couldn't hurt you. It was an accident, you'll soon feel better, it won't leave a scar. Jasmine, I'm sorry. #shame

Magnetic Poem

Not enough time or planning for today's 2000 word  story.  But love the prompt, passion and obsession, will have more time tomorrow.  So here is my 100 word randomly generated poem.

I hold his hand there through sweet language,

Come, my pink goddess will listen near,

Then touch as gentle angel tear felt,

But must love in the morning charm by full,

When she ask, do you devote with spirit?

Share all, bread & chocolate are always favourite,

Best time at fun is under sun,

Be true and grow if two join at heart,

Could she ever fascinate?

Find nice song, give it hope,

Did you keep glad?

Receive at faith, get soul on sky, belong,

Think lift me here, been by kind gift

Want little and tell not which need.

Lost

I thought this would be easier with more words, but just a different type of difficulty.  I'm pleased with story, worked out almost as I expected.  A mystery and exactly 640 words.

LOST

The final rays of sun sank below the dark clouds on the horizon. Orange bled into vermillion then deeper still to purple with a glowing streak across the rippling water.  Martha sat on a spiky tuft of grass watching the sunset, sharp blades attacking her pale white bare legs.  Six days he’d been gone now, tomorrow Sunday, a week without him.  The disc dips below the water line as darkness descends, slowly she forces her legs to push her up, kneeling a moment she says a silent prayer. 

‘Let him be safe, he knows that I love him.’

Carefully she picks her way back from the shore, up the narrow uneven path.  Back on the road, no traffic, no streetlights.  A short walk to the old fisherman’s cottage she calls home.  The heavy wooden door creaks as she opens it and again when it closes.  The reassuring metallic click as the lock is turned.  A haven of peace.  Her hand reaches out for the light switch on the small brass lamp.  His chair still empty, his musky fragrance still hangs in the air; she breathes it in; a living reminder.

In the corner she looks at her easel by the small window.  Subdued light gives the canvas a monochromatic quality.  The yacht on the lake, the hills grey in the background.  She lies on the couch, her mind filled with conflicting thoughts.  Memories of yesterday, hopes and fears for tomorrow.

She wakes to the cold morning light drifting in.  Bleary eyed she makes her way into the bedroom, climbs into bed and wraps the heavy blue blanket around her cold and tired limbs.  Hours later, a heavy knocking on the door.

‘What time is it?  Who is it?’

Martha jumps up and hurries to the door.

‘Good morning Martha, gosh you look as though you’ve just woken up.’

Ruth, her old school friend who now runs the village café.

‘I thought I’d see you in church this morning.’

‘Oh … I forgot … its Sunday, sorry Ruth. Come in and I’ll make us a drink.’

Ruth sits in his chair; Martha in the kitchen, kettle boiling on the stove.

‘How are you my dear?’

‘I feel as though I’ve lost a part of me.’

The room falls silent, the grey stone walls offer no warmth; the ash and embers of the fire lie still and cold.  Martha’s seascapes decorate the walls, her life is water, but now the vessel is empty. 

‘Maybe he’ll return one day, there’s always hope.’

Martha stares into the blackness of her coffee, a solemn tear escapes and slowly trickles down her milky white cheek.

‘He’s gone, I know.’

Ruth’s words of comfort have all dried up, nervously she looks at Martha’s pictures for inspiration.

‘The sea can be such a lonely place, the wind, the waves, the sun, the rain.’

‘I love the sea, I could never leave.’

‘But you could make a fresh start, a new beginning you have your paintings.’

‘I can only paint the sea, it is a part of me,’

‘You could paint the hills and the valleys.’

‘Ruth, the sea is blue, I am blue, I can only paint blue!’

‘You can come and help me out at the café.’

‘No Ruth, my place is here.  If he returns how will he find me?’

Martha opened the door to look out at the landscape.  The winding road up from the beach, past her house to the village two miles distant.  The long grass swaying gently in the breeze.  Today the sky is cloudy, grey and overcast to match Martha’s mood.  All is quiet, not a car in sight.  Movement in the distance, she strains her eyes to see.  A dark, lonely figure walking towards her cottage.

‘He’s back, he’s back!’ Martha shouts running down the path and onto the road.  

Going Home

Today's 'story a day' in 100 words.

Late at night, dark, lonely.

Refreshing smell of recent rain.

Eerie yellow glow of streetlights.

Creepy, sleepy edge of town.

Deserted platform, cold and bleak.

People chatting outside station.

Does ticket machine take plastic?

Has train been cancelled? Will it be on time?

Waiting for a lift, waiting for a bus.

Taxis in a line, engines revving, diesel fumes smelling.

An evening with friends; drinks with colleagues;  choir practice.

Late from work, finished evening class.

Suitcases, briefcases, handbags, rucksacks, carrier bags.

Talking on mobiles; can you pick me up?

Yes, I’m at the station; ten minutes, great.

Everyone going home.