Prompt 4

The Work Place

Seth Thomas

#18 Corneliusstr. Frankfurt a.Main. Only half a mile from the Alte Oper, and settled in the shadow of glass corporate giants such as Die Deutsche Bank, Commerz Central, and Die Deutsche Bahn. The sun is still on the rise, and the shadows of skyscrapers still stretch from Innenstadt all the way to the satellite communities of Höchst, Griesheim, and Eschborn. Paved arteries, veins, and vessels are already pumping away. Pushing life through the city. Sleek black and silver Mercedes intermixed with goateed bike messengers, and men in CandA suits exit the Bahn’s while mothers with strollers climb aboard. You don’t notice at first, but as you caterpillar along with all the other cars you feel something. It vibrates. Like the opening chord of your favorite rock ballad it resonates inside off you with something familiar yet foreign. You begin to wonder, but just then your Czech coworker, Michal Hansel honks his horn and begins shouting at a electrician who decided to park his car in the lane. Whatever you felt is still there, but by now you’ve already forgotten it. So you continue to look out the window. Completely unaware that the city has accepted you. Completely ignorant that you have now accepted it too.

Hansel circles the building three times before a parking spot opens. It looks like a smart car was there before us, but you’re already five minutes late and Hansel beginning to mutter under his breath about losing the reserved parking spot. You try looking up the street for maybe a better spot, but Hansel already has the car in reverse and begins packing the nine passenger Leiferwagen into the spot with all the skill of Mary Poppin’s handbag.

You’re still two blocks away, but the day is nice and despite Hansal’s mutters about being late neither of you bothers walking any faster than if you were early.

The Office, used both as a proper and generic noun, sits on the corner. It’s flowered windows, and painted sills merge innocently into the surrounded townhouses. A secret business, known only by the small plaque on the door which reads:

2. Etage: Kirche Jesu Kristi

3 Etage: Finanz Beratung Gmbh.

4. Etage:Deutsche Amt der Stadt.

5. Etage: Deutsche Amt der Stadt.

The same sign is posted in the elevator, but the buttons for the fourth and fifth floors replaced with locks. You wonder what goes on in the Official Offices of the German State, and even open your mouth to ask Hansal about it (he knows these things better), but are stopped by a man in a sleek pinstripe suit. He runs through the glass doors with outstretched arm shouting “Haltet den Aufzug.” Hansal holds the elevator for him. A short exchange of danke and bitte takes place before the man turns his back to you and places a futuristic looking key in the lock for the fourth floor, and turns it. The elevator door closes, and for some reason it skips the second floor (as always), and goes straight to the fourth floor. Both you and Hansal inconspicuously crane your necks to catch a glimpse of the mysterious secret floors, but all you get is the friendly smile of the secretary before the doors slide shut.

Two floors lower you unlock the double glass doors and walk into The Office. It’s no larger than a small apartment. A single hallway maybe thirty meters long is all the guide you need to find two offices, an empty conference room, storage, a kitchen, and the Office of President Webb. All the lights are on except President Webb’s. Hansal doesn’t waste time anytime taking of his jacket. In three simple movements it’s hanging on the coat rack. He also has his computer booting up, and is already pouring a bowl of Müsli before you have an arm out of your coat.

“Is that you boys?” the voice is sweet and warm, like a freshly baked batch of cookies calls from the second office. Your stomach grumbles.

“Yes Sister Cole” you call back before hanging your coat next to Hansal’s. You go boot up your computer, pausing to look at the picture of a smiling brunette taped to the monitor. Does she still look like that? The question goes unanswered. No point in questions with no answers, and you grab the mug sitting next to the keyboard, and head to the kitchen, squeezing past Hansal with a mouthful of Müsli. ………….. and due to a rapidly dying battery/attention span this prompt goes unfinished.

Prompt 3

Fundamental Argument

NOTICE:

THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS CLASSIFIED INFORMATION. IF YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LEVEL 8 SECURITY YOU MUST BURN THIS, AND ANY OTHER DOCUMENTS ASSOCIATED. IF NOT YOU ARE SUBJECT TO PROSECUTION UNDER STATUTE 127 OF THE CODE.

To: Agent White

Current Alias: Jeremiah Johnson

Concerning: The package of previous concern.

Intelligence has informed us that the package lost in Venezuela has been located in your vicinity. You are to retrieve it at all costs. Exercise caution as Rogue Agent Black is believed to be involved and is linked with the disappearance of three other agents. All intelligence related to the job is located on the following papers. Commit them to memory and burn before seeking to complete the job.

Agent White flipped the through the following pages. The intel was thorough. It looked like the crows back at HQ had done their jobs this time. A fact that made A. White smile inside. Operations hinged upon Intel, and he had seen many ops go south simply due to a lack of intelligence. Glancing over the papers one more time Agent White smiled to himself. This should be easy enough. He folded them into thirds and stuffed them back into his jacket, before picking up his binoculars and continuing his observation of the old town house across the street.

The building was three stories, and every window was framed in iron bars. Nothing to surprising given the neighborhood. The bottom two floors were occupied. Silhouettes with cromagnum foreheads paced by the windows, the tell tell shadows of gun barrels pointing over their shoulders. The top floor was completely still however. No lights, no sounds. It was possibly an attic, but a feeling in his gut told Agent White that the top floor was probably the most dangerous. Everything matched up with the briefing, given a few minor details, and for the past eight hours nothing more that the routine changing of guards disturbed this hidden fortress.

Agent White crawled backwards from the rooftop where he’d lain for the better part of an afternoon. Soon as he was sure that he was out of sight, he stood up and with soft steps ran to the fire escape ladder. The ladder dropped down to an alley way that opened into the street. With the movements of a skilled surgeon he cut his way from shadow to shadow. Each step, stop, and duck already programmed into his mind. It was no wonder that the guards didn’t see the ghost that slid across the street and into the alley beside their house.

The alley was dim, shaded on both sides by multi-storied walls. It ran straight back about fifty meters before coming to a dead end. Trash cans, and old crates were pushed randomly against the walls allowing a small stream of gray water to trickle down its center. In short, controlled movements Agent W made his way from cover to cover never taking his eyes off of the alcoved door near the end of the alley. It looked like nothing more than a dark spot on the wall. Purely unnoticeable, and probably would’ve stayed that way except for the single guard that leaned against the door. The burnt orange glow of his cigarette floated a few feet above the ground, rising every so often to the guards mouth. Each draw pulling more light from the cigarette, illuminating the guards face with shadows. He’d take a few drags, and then let his hand fall. The cigarette falling back to a barely noticeable burnt orange.

Agent W.’s pistol moved from holster to hand in one fluid, memorized motion. Without slowing his pace, he raised the sights up and with two silent puffs of air the guard fell to the ground. A few more steps and Agent W had two fingers on the guards neck. His pulse was weak, but in a few moments that would no longer be a problem. Still, precautions were everything in this line of work, and in a few short moments the guard was laid under a pile of trashbags, and his gun dropped in a dumpster and the clip tossed into some bottles. Next came the door.

Oddly enough it wasn’t locked. A light tap of the pistol and it slid open on greased hinges exposing a tiny guard room. A wooden chair pointing towards a small security monitor was the only piece of furniture. Apparently they weren’t wanting anyone getting too comfortable. Beyond the chair stood a door. A large heavy metal door with no handle. A closer inspection showed it could be opened by some sort of key, which was found in the guards flak jacket. The key slide into the lock, and with a quick jerk Agent W. was rewarded with the grating sound of metal on metal. Large bolts could be felt as they pulled back and dropped into fittings built inside the door. The door was heavy, even as it glided inward Agent W. still felt it’s weight under his hand. A good push and anyone on the other side would be crushed.

Prompt 2

“Go get your Father for dinner.” A simple phrase, but one that between the years of 4 and 9 I hated with all 82 lbs of my being. Mother, her back neatly sliced in two by apron strings, wouldn’t even turn away from the cutting board, oven, or sink. It didn’t matter all what she was doing when she asked. Every time it came the same way. She’d call my name, letting her sing-song voice have time to dissipate, before calling my name again. This time in a higher pitch, and coated with enough sugar to give Barney a heart attack. Why she bothered to ask a second time I never understood. I knew that she knew that I heard her the first time, but again Mother enjoyed doing things twice. When tying her shoelace, checking the locks at night, and even when placing the crust for an apple pie she always pulled out the the first attempt, and after rerolling the dough would once again lower the crust into the pan with all the precision of an Air Traffic Controller. Maybe the first time was her first draft. The uncut raw version of my name, and she didn’t feel complete until the pitch, tone, and love mixed into her voice had been edited, and remixed to suit whatever she needed from me. Who knows. I certainly don’t. All I know is that if the clock was anywhere near a quarter after five and my name was called twice, was that I would shortly be asked to fetch Father. A task that I never particularly enjoyed in my youth.

Father was always to be found in the rear of the house in a small attic apartment above the room. Mother referred to it as his ‘Study’, but Father never really called it anything. He just grabbed a few books, and with a nod of his head would grunt “Going to work, don’t bother me.” To me it was just the attic. That’s what it was. The ceiling stood no higher than six feet along the center beam, and down either side slide the ceiling until it reached the wall which stood a wholloping three feet high. Crammed into the rear corner was a desk. Our old lime green kitchen table to be truthful, but the steel folding chair and the black polished typewriter gave it the feel of a desk. Papers, imprinted by the pounding of keys, stacked on either end of the typewriters, and even more filled the cobwebbed boxes shoved under the table. Along either side were bookshelves, and like an overfilled refugee raft each book was crammed face to face with its neighbor. The room had a single window which showed out into the alley, but gauging by the brown leather throne my father loved to read in, one would’ve expected the green rolling plains of England, or possibly a glimpse at small café bubbling with night life. Not two metal garbage cans and the neighbors Mastiff curled up on the warm concrete. Just waiting for an unsuspecting student on his way home for school to get within a paw’s swipe.

Most noticeable about the room however was the sandy tan plank that ran right down the middle of the room. Everything, from floorboard to rafter, was stained dark. Mahogany, Cherry, No one ever told me what it was, but that plank stood out like the eye sore that it was. I once asked why he didn’t stain it like the rest of the room, or at least put a rug down so that the room didn’t look like a skunk turned in on itself. All I got was a raised eyebrow. My father, who had been standing on the very plank I was speaking of, simply looked down, then looked back at me, then back down. “Wouldn’t make a difference” he muttered, and began pacing back and forth along the length of the room.

Prompt 1

Writing Prompt #1

Where were you last night?

“Where were you last night?”

Victor lifted his coffee to his lips to avoid Martha’s question; letting the causticity of his favorite drink burn away the sewage that collected around his adam’s apple every night like liquid drano. God, it felt good. Black and strong, the good way. Victor silently relished in the sensation of warmth that sludged down his throat before pooling into the bottom of his stomach; where it continued to smolder like the ashes of a dying cowboy’s fire. Caught up in the sensation, Victor pulled the mug back to his lips, bit off another gulp of coffee, and wiped clean his salt and pepper mustache, without even remembering so much as a trace of the entire action.

“Where were you last night?” Martha didn’t even bother to interject her normal hmmph of disapproval at the fact that he’d ignored her first question.

The mug was halfway to his lips before he realized it was empty. Feigning an interest in the newspaper Victor extended his drinking arm out. His beggers mug held aloft. “Martha, some Coffee?”

Then came the hmmph, then roughly five seconds of silence, and then the familiar shuffle of Martha’s rose laced nightgown across the laminate. Victor was careful not to raise his head as his mug slowly began to gain mass again. Any sign of acknowledgement could destroy his entire ruse, and he might have to actually explain what had happened last night, and why it had been the nearly ungodly hour or ten o’clock before he’d come home to Martha, already long asleep. At the same time, ignoring Martha completely would result in him being denied coffee. It may not have been a razor thin edge he was walking, but it was an old rusty razors edge at least.