Write what is underneath good intentions

Claire bundled up her bathrobe and took two steps back. It couldn't possibly be Andrew at the door. She watched the shadow of feet shuffle back and forth and with belated courage took a slightly longer look through the peep hole.

It wasn't Andrew. It could have been him but 30 years younger and taller.

She quickly ran back into the bathroom and yelled: "Who is it?" No answer.

Claire sprinted as quietly as she could back to the bed and her awaiting "go bag" and placed the gun in the pocket of her bathrobe, then with some presence of mind she put her shoes on, walked to the door, made sure the privacy latch was on and put her foot down squarely so the door would only be able to open a few inches.

"Room service?" she said as she opened the door.

"Mademoiselle Newton. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Hendrick Booten, Andrew's son. I wish we could have met under better circumstances as my father had only the utmost respect for you."

Claire was at a loss. Hendrick's brown hair had a slight curl to it, his dark gray Armani suit was immaculate. His shoes seemed to have just come from polishing. For the eccentric shabby sheik that his father had been, it was obvious that Hendrick had grown up with money and knew how to keep up appearances.

"I see you are not dressed for receiving guests. May I give you some time to freshen up? I understand your flight was long but we have urgent matters to discuss. May I invite you downstairs to the bar in, say twenty minutes? Would that be enough time?"

She realized she was staring. "Twenty? Certainly. I will meet you downstairs."

"Very good. Tot ziens"

He turned and strode down the hallway. She closed the door and ran back to the eReader to look up as much as she could about Hendrick for the next fifteen minutes. Only child, never married. CFO of an entity that ran a number of non-profit hospitals around the world but seemingly to focus on locations in the bottom 10 GDP countries.

On paper he seemed to good to be true and the fact that his smile could melt a glacier certainly didn't hurt. She didn't trust him for a second.

Write About A Stranger At A Crossroads

Ok, we are franticly packing to get out of town. Gotta get rid of this dog who is losing her mind right now. I swear she freaks every time we pull out the suitcases. Also trying to pack everything needed by two kids who are totally useless in the whole process. Ever seven minutes they appear with yet another large stuffed animal they just cannot live without. The whole time I am eyeing the clock watching our planned departure time come and go. It's a race against the clock that I just can't seem to win.

So, in an attempt to keep my sanity, I will be saving this prompt until my return! Have a great weekend guys....

The Smell of Air in Winter

"Look Mommy!  I can blow smoke!" my daughter called out gleefully, puffing great cloud of condensation into the cold air.  I smiled down at her upturned face.  Her cheeks were pink and her nose red with cold but she didn't seem to mind.  Her small hand was slipped in mind and I gave it a squeeze.  Enthralled with this new development, she slipped my grasp and ran ahead, puffs of smoke billowing behind her.

Even though the sun was shining, it was definitely winter.  The sky was a sharp blue that bounced light off the frozen dew of the grass.  I took a deep breath and felt the cold frozen air singe my lungs.  The air smelled crisp and spicy.  Following my daughter's lead, I watched as my exhale made a cloud of wispy white.  I vaguely knew the mechanics of it all.  Warm air full of water particles hits the cold outside and contracts, dispersing water particles or some such reasoning.  I shook my head and smiled to myself.  The technical aspect was so dry and boring.  Much easier to believe that I was....part dragon.

"Mellie!" I cried and caught up with the huffing little girl in front of me.  "Do you know why you can blow smoke?" I asked her.

"No mommy."  Her face scrunched up in thought.  "Why?"

"Well, it's because your great great great grandmother was part dragon.  She was a snow dragon you see.  So on very cold winter days, our dragon blood wakes up and we can puff smoke just like she did," I explained very seriously into a set of wide, delighted brown eyes.

"Ohhhhh," she whispered, a stream of smoke floating from her lips.  I watched as her forehead creased and she asked me,  "Why was she part dragon?"

"Hmmm, well, that's a long story.  Here, give me your hand and I'll tell you the first part on our walk, ok?  Long long ago, your great great great grandmother lived in Montana.  Do you know where that is? No? Well, it's way up north and it gets very cold in winter.  Kind of like today only much much colder..."

Write About the Weight Of Sleep

I open my ears.  Is that even right?  I mean, you slowly open your eyes when you wake but that isn't exactly a true statement.  For me, the first thing I'm aware of when I start to wake is sound.  My eyes are still closed, my mind drifting in dreams, but my ears?  They wake first.  Sounds of reality filter in.  I'm not even aware of it at first, these sounds of real life.  My mind is busy tripping about unconsciously and does not like to be disturbed.  I'm first aware of sound because my dreams change.  My mind tries to trick me back into sleep.  It incorporates the noise, tries to meld the sounds of reality seamlessly into my unconscious but it never can.  The bird song that suddenly arise in my dream is too piercing and lifelike.  The rain that falls has an insistency only found in reality.  My ears are open even if my mind is fighting to stay closed.  Sound brings me forth.

As I fight off the weight of sleep, following my ears, I notice my body.  The heaviness of my legs, the angle of my arms, the tickle of my hair across my face.  My mind catches up with the moment and begins busily ticking through the tasks of the day, all the dreams and visions tucked away neatly.  It's always my eyes that wake last.  Lazy things, they prefer to remain asleep for as long as possible.  Long after my ears are listening and my feet jiggling, my eyes at last open.  Although I have been awake for quite some time, my eyes seem to define the process.

"Slowly, her eyes opened, and she woke," reads the line in a novel.  But I know the truth.  It isn't the eyes that bring me forth.  It's the ears.

Slowly, my ears opened, and I wake.

Nothing Lasts

Server crashes are an anathema to writing... -nuff said.
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Tybalt was crushed between two short but extremely squat spice merchants in the back of the annex when he heard his name called again.

"Tybalt son of Ulf, step forward, your leige demands it."

The only thing Tybalt wanted at this immediate point in time was to run back to his farm and pretend that none of the past week had happend. He had never asked for anything remotely like this back home. His only wishes since he had been old enough to wish had been a healthy ox to help him plow, good rains for his field, and maybe an orange each year to celebrate the height of Sarnay, but even that had seemed like an extravagent expense. "Nothing lasts" his father had told him.

The crowd began to murmur. "Who denies the king an audiance?" The palace was full, not just of courtesans, dukes and nobility but dignitaries from across the 9 kingdoms. Merchants had travelled for days knowing that their purses would be lined by nobility trying to out do one another. There were more people in the annex to the palace than Tybalt had ever seen in his life, even at the height of market day.

"Excuse me." Tybalt said meekly, trying to shoulder his way past the merchants. The soaps and perfumes were making his head hurt and his eyes nearly water. While he was a full two heads taller than the merchants they stood their ground glaring at this dirty intruder. One of the merchant's wives covered her face with her fan, eyebrows knotted in disgust at his presence.

"Don't waste the court's time peasant, the King is waiting for a knight. Not a flea ridden sack of potatoes with rocks for brains."

Tybalt thought of leaving right then and there. He didn't belong here. The king could keep his title. He could keep his throngs of sweet smelling people.

He turned to leave the annex. This was simply too much for him. He'd make up a story for his mother about how nice everyone at the palace had been, since she had been too sick to make the journey to the castle.

Sunlight and freedom were only a few steps away, his back to the spectacle when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Wrong way son, the King is this way."

Tybalt's shoulders slumped.

"I also thought we said to dress for the occasion. Never mind this will have to do."

Tybalt, Son of Ulf looked down at his tunic. His father's best tunic. He had thought it appropriate since his father had served in the King's army. Looking down at the faded colors it hit him that the arrow holes through the sleeves, the small scorch marks on the back didn't hold the same stories for those around him as they did for the boy who heard his father tell them. He suddenly felt quite foolish as he shuffled behind the Man-at-arms towards the king. The crowd grew silent as he walked past them. He hadn't had any money for makeup or wigs. He had traded three chickens for a hot bath three days prior.

"Head up boy. Shoulders back." The man-at-arms whispered to him. "That's it. When we get to the throne you will go to one knee and swear allegiance. Do you understand?"

Tybalt nodded, impressed that the man beside him had the power to part the crowds of people just by moving through them. "Yes sir." Tybalt said, trying to remember all the words to the allegiance.

By that time Tybalt and the Man-at-arms, Gwain was it? It had been a very hectic week with many people coming and going, had reached a large clearing of people. The throne sat atop a diaz ten feet above the floor. Glints of mica shown in the polished granite steps.

"There you are boy, go to the end of the carpet and kneel. I'll be by your side shortly." Then in a powerful voice the Man-at-arms called "Presenting before you sire, Tybalt, son of Ulf, hero of the Wheat fields. He has come to swear his allegiance my leige."

Tybalt took that as his cue to begin.

"I, Tybalt, son... Son of."
"Speak up!" someone yelled from the gallery. Tybalt's cheeks reddened.
"I, Tybalt, Son of Ulf do pledge my allegiance to King..." Tybalt stopped again. King who? What was this king's name? He had grown up with King Ardus but he was an old man, then there was that brief time when the King's brother had taken the throne, and Tybalt had never known his name. Then there was this king. King... King... There was a rustling beside him and Gwaine was kneeling next to him quite closely. Barely audible Tybalt heard: "King Maran, and in pledging my allegiance to my leige I will do whatever I can to protect King and country..." Tybalt, feeling the part of the fool mimiced the words Gwain passed to him without listening to them. What seemed like ages later the King finally stepped down and stood before him.

"Tybalt, son of ulf. Hero of the wheat fields, protector of my daughter at the ambush of lance's crossing. I hereby declair you Sir Tybalt the Wheat knight. You are granted full priveleges and rights as any knight of the realm. Please stand and receive your medal."

Gwain stood. Tybalt, by this time was so flustered he hadn't heard anything the king had said. He was dimly aware of Gwain subtly pulling on the right shoulder of his tunic. He rose, head down looking at the floor like a man being sentenced to the gallows.

"Smile, this is a happy day." Gwain whispered.

"Sir Tybalt, you may make three requests and I will grant them." the King said. "What would you like? Money? Lands?"

Tybalt was taken aback. No one had said anything about this when he was told to arrive at the castle on this day dressed in his finest.

"Go ahead, Sir Tybalt, name it and the prize is yours." Gwain said.

"Um, thank you sire. I do not need, nor expect anything sire."

"Modesty becomes you sir knight, but you must want for something?"

Tybalt scratched the back of his head, aware of every eye in the hall staring at him. Or rather he was aware of every eye in the hall staring at each imperfection of his tunic, each patch of dirt that hadn't come off in the bath. The fact that he had one shoe and one boot (the best of each set) on.

"Hurry, son, as for anything!" Gwain whispered.

"Ummm, might I have a new ox then?"

There was silence. He'd asked for too much. He knew it. He should have just asked for new shoes.

"An ox? Sir knight?"

"My Sybel is getting on in years, so another ox to help her would make the work go faster."

The corner of the king's mouth upturned in bemusement.

"Get this man a herd of oxen then, no fewer than two score. Next?"

Tybalt's knees nearly gave out. That was more ox than in his entire village. How would he feed and water them all? But if this was how it worked...

"Might I get some help then to dig a new channel from the river to my pond so I can water the ox? With your highness's generosity, my.."

The king's smirk continued. "Gwain?"
"Yes sire?"
"This man harkens from abbenathy correct?"
"Near enough so sire."
"Weren't we needing to find someone to steward gull ridge with its eel pond and the river fork? If remember so the fields there were also in need of some tending."
"You are correct sire."
Tybalt knew exactly where the king was talking about. It was only a 1/2 day walk from the smithy, the inn and the stables of his village.
"Sir Tybalt, would you and your future family accept, instead of the offer of labor for your farm, be willing to manage and maintain gull ridge? The manor there needs some repair but you appear to have craft enough to restore it well."
Tybalt felt Gwain's arm steady him as he nearly swooned. The fields alone at gull ridge take a day to walk across, not including the forest, the river and the eel pond. The manor was two full stories. Definitely in need of repair but it had nine rooms!
"And what is your last request, sir Knight?"
"Might I have a word with our new Knight?" Gwain asked.
"Certainly, but make it quick we have much pressing business to contend with."
Gwain took Tybalt aside.
"Think carefully sir knight. This is your final request..."
Tybalt could barely keep his mind from reeling. What could he possible ask for that could compare to this?

His father had been right, be it his innocence on the farm, or the tranquility this trip to the market had started out as. Nothing lasts.

You Woke Up And Found Him Gone

As soon as I woke, I knew something was wrong.  It was as beautiful Saturday morning.  The sun shot a ray of light right across my face at 9:26am.  I opened my eyes, rolled over to see the clock, and muttered, "ah shit".  Harrold was gone.

I can count on one hand the number of Saturday mornings I have been able to sleep in over the last two years since Harrold entered my life.  That number would be four.  More precisely, the last four.  I rolled upright and threw the top sheet off of me.  My back sagged and I rested my elbows on my knees, head held up only by the strength of my hands.  "Shit," I mumbled again for good measure.  A quick peek over the edge of my bed confirmed my worst fears.  Harrold's bed was empty.  He was officially loose.  Not for the first time, I thundered down the stairs muttering curses.  I grabbed my big baggy red sweater, slipped on some beat up flip flops, and grabbed my phone and a Slim Jim as I headed out the sliding glass door.  My back yard edged up to an open field.  It was an amazing view in the evening as the sun set over the blanket of Sweet Anne's Lace and clover but right now, I would have given anything for a fenced yard.  A path lead through the field and I slowly shuffled down it, casting about for any sign of my dog.

In actuality, he wasn't my dog.  He was my roommate's dog.  Only my roommate had moved out two years ago and somehow Harrold had stayed behind.  I stubbed my toe on a large rock and hopped about for a while, a string of curses flying free in the morning air.  "HARROLD!" I yelled in frustration.  I knew he wouldn't answer but it sure felt good doing it.

Harrold was a dog in only the roughest sense of the word.  Four legs ending in soft paws, lolling tongue, and big brown eyes.  His parentage was anyone's guess.  Some lab, maybe a touch of pitbull, and something else that made him big.  Really big.  Probably part hog given the way he ate.  Luckily, he was a sweetheart most of the time.  Only lately, he had figured out that the back sliding door was busted.  Using his canine wits, he had managed to sneak out every Saturday morning for the last month to go visit the Barkley's about a mile and half away.  They had a sweet little lab that Harrold was in love with.  Unfortunately, she didn't want anything to do with my brute.  I figured the Slim Jim I had in my pocket would do the trick.  And once we were home, I was heading into town to get a new lock for the door.  No more excuses.

By now, most of my morning grogginess had worn off and I was actually beginning to enjoy my stroll.  The field hummed with insects busy doing their buggy things, the wind ruffled the weeds and flowers, and birds darted overhead.  In fact, there were quite a few birds circling above me.  I was just processing that thought when I dipped into a small valley and found Harrold.  He was rolling on his back, smearing himself with something that smelled just awful.  As I ran toward him, I realized that he hadn't found the carcass of a dead animal.  He had found the body of a person.  A very dead, very smelly, person.

"Oh Harrold," I whispered as I reached him.  My eyes were watering from the smell and I had to pull my sweatshirt up to cover my mouth and nose.  Harrold grinned up at me, tongue lolling happily from is large and drooly mouth.

"Oh you dumb dog.  What have you done?" I backed off and dug out my phone.  The Slim Jim fell from my pocket and Harrold pounced on it.  As he was occupied with trying to wrest the meat from the plastic, I dialed the police and waited for the line to be picked up.  I had a sinking feeling that my Saturday trip to town would have to be postponed for a while.

Nevertheless It's Still Summer

Victoria sighed and looked across the field.  Who knew if you failed Phys Ed they would make you take it in summer school?  Nevertheless, it was still summer.  If she had to be here she could, at least, make the most of it. Victoria rolled her sleeves higher on her shoulders and tipped her head back into the sunlight working on her tan.  Her ear buds piped a steady stream of music into her ears and she mindlessly nodded her head in time.  Between the sunlight and the music, she didn't see Mr. Johnson come out onto the field.  In fact, she didn't notice him at all until his shadow fell over her reclined form.

"Ah, Miss. Benson.  Imagine finding you here,"  he said, swinging his whistle over his head.  Mr. Johnson was famous for his whistle.  He wore it everywhere.  PE class, track meets, even school dances.  Last year the seniors had stolen it as a prank.  Mr. Johnson keep the entire class on trash duty for 18 days until it was silently returned to his desk.  He never said a word about the incident, but most kids had a healthy fear of that little pierce of metal.

Victoria raised her sunglasses and squinted up at her teacher.  They had raged a silent battle all year long.  Mr. Johnson required PE dress; Victoria refused.  Clearly, her presence at the track in mid-June, wearing the hideous PE shorts, signaled her defeat but Victoria had decided not to go down without a fight.  Her shorts were cut off and frayed, covered in Sharpie hearts and names.  With her shirt tied high, she looked more prepared to hit the poolside than the track.

"Hello Mr. Johnson," Victoria said with a sweet smile.  "I'm so excited to be here."

Mr. Johnson grunted and turned back to the equipment room.

"Ryan, can you bring out those hurdles now?" he called behind him.  He turned back to Victoria but her eye was caught the young man who stepped out into the sunshine.  He had several metal hurdles hanging off his shoulder and was carrying a duffle bag in each hand.  Victoria sat up as he approached and slipped her glasses down on her nose so she could scrutinize him unobtrusively.  He had to be in college. She thought he was pretty cute until he stopped before her, dropped the duffle bags and smiled down at her.   The boy was gorgeous and Victoria was smitten.

"Miss. Benton, allow me to introduce you to my son, Ryan.  He'll be helping me out this summer.  Ryan, this fashion plate is my star student, Miss Victoria Benton, who is going to go change into regulation dress for this class right now," he finished, pointing back toward the changing rooms.

"Pleasure to meet ya," Ryan said, extending a hand and pulling Victoria to her feet.  "My dad has told me all about you," he added with a sly grin.

Victoria felt a blush rise in her cheeks and she ducked her head, letting her hair fall along her face.  A small smile tickled her lips

"Perhaps this summer wasn't going to be so bad after all," she thought to herself as she made her way back to change.

It Was A Family Story

She came by boat with her sister.  The voyage from Japan had been long and hard.  They had never traveled so long by boat before and Jae had struggled with terrible sea sickness.  Now, the Hawaiian island of Oahu had been sighted at last and the sisters leaned over the prow of the ship watching the island emerge from the horizon.  Sumiaye worried the black and white photo between her hands nervously.  All she knew of her future husband was contained within this image.  He would be waiting for her at the harbor.  She looked over at Jae who was as pale as a ghost and so thin after the long journey.

"You take it sister," she said, handing over her photo to Jae.  "Get off now and I will travel to the next island in your place."

Jae smiled weakly at her older sister with relief.  The two girls solemnly exchanged husbands there on the prow of the ship and Jae disembarked first, using the worn photograph to locate her new husband among the crowd.  Sumiaye traveled on to the next island, memorizing the new face on the picture in her hand.  She was surprised when she disembarked.  The man who greeted her was years older then the one in the photo but she said nothing.  There was nothing she could say.  She was well aware that her face did not match the photo he held, a photo of her younger sister.  She would work hard labor in a sugar cane field, sleep on a red dirt floor, bear three girls, and leave them motherless after succumbing of tuberculosis when they were still young.  Did she ever wonder what happened to her sister?  How her life would have turned out to if they had not switched pictures there on the prow of the boat?  My great grandmother was a Japanese picture bride.  This is my family story.

Another 2fer

And I'm almost caught up!

The prompts for this post:

Taking an unfamiliar road

Write about changing clothes
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The seatbelt sign winked off and the cabin was suddenly awash in a din of business and reassurances as cell phones came to life. Claire waited until everyone had filed out until she stood up, massaging her calf muscles and takng her time to ensure that she had packed up everything in the away kit. There was part of her that was trying not to panic about taking a gun through customs. She had decided to omit it on the customs claim form before touchdown. Plausible deniablity had been its own entire course at the academy.

Claire picked her way by the cleaning and flight crews and took a deep breath on the jetway. There was no one holding up a sign for her. No one in a dark suit and sunglasses speaking into their cuff that "the eagle had landed." She was almost disappointed after her sendoff. The air had a weight to it when she breathed. Aside from the tang of jet fuel and carpet cleaners the humidity was almost palpable and the jetway walls were warm to the touch. She had taken off her blazer by the time she reached the top of the ramp.

Again, she had a slight pause to look around the masses. Again she was dissapointed. No one with a sign, no one to greet her. With rising trepidation she headed towards customs. Each step she tried to stand up a little straighter, shoulder a little more back. She was CIA! She had her passport, her conceled weapons permit her clearance credenctials and could probably produce a letter of introduction from the eReader if she really had needed to. She just hoped that customs agents in Europe were more what? Lax wasn't the word. Free? Again she broke out in a cold sweat trying to explain the gun. What did she need a gun for anyway? Forensic accountants rarely, if ever, needed firearms and if they did then the situation had definitely gotten out of her realm of experience.

The line had mostly disappeared by the time she reached customs. She had stopped off at the restroom and grabbed a coffee, her luggange all in an attempt to appear nonchalant. Then, she put on her best smile and most courteous attitude.

"Do you speak English? Sprechen ze Doitch? Parles Vous Francais?"
"English please." Clair replied. The customs agent looked up from his computer monitor, looked at her from head to toe then went back to his monitor.
"Passport and return ticket please. Do you have anything to declare?"
"I don't have a return ticket yet. Here's my passport and no. Nothing to declare." He took the passport and began scanning its bar code.
"Are you here for business or pleasure?" She noticed he looked at her left hand when he asked.
"Business, thank you."
"How long do you expect..." He trailed off and began earnestly reading his monitor. After a second he looked at her and maintained eye contact.
"Ah, Ms. Newton, you are expected. One second." After a quick burst of Dutch into his walkie talkie, a young customs agent came to the podium and there was a brief exchange.
"Ms. Newton, please follow Arnold and he will see you to your rendesvous."
Arnold then said something that sound like "Vol me up."
"I'm sorry Arnold, I don't speak Dutch." She said to him.
"That is all right Ms. Newton, he doesn't speak English so you two should be fast friends. Volgende in de rij, Next in line, Suivant en ligne."

Arnold took hold of Claire's suitcase and began walking at a brisk pace through the airport she followed, her heels clicking on the cement walkways. After a few minutes they arrived at an office, the frosted glass door opened to reveal only one occupant. Claire guessed the woman was in her early fifties. She had shoulder length gray hair, her clothes were muted blacks and charcoals, a pair of ruby stud earrings and a glold chain necklace were the only sources of color in her wardrobe. With flat shoes on, she was still at least 7 inches taller than Claire. She was speaking on her cell phone in bullet fast Dutch and held up a silenceing finger when they came in the room. Arnold pantomied "here you are." and left the suitcase. He spun on his heel and closed the door with a quiet click.

A second later the older woman closed her phone with a snap and spun to fully examine Claire. She looked her from the shoes up a slight scowl creeping across her face. Claire stood up striaght and tried to flush the beginnings of jet lag from her mind.
"Agent Claire Newton? I am Inspector Mariela Hasbrouck with the KLPD, specifically I am one of the KLPD's liasons with Interpol. You may address me as Inspector Hasbrouck."
"Yes ma'am. And you may address me as Agent Newton, CIA forensic Accounting division. A pleasure to meet you." She held out her hand. Inspector Hasbrouck made no move to shake it. Instead she said, "I had imaged you taller." With a sigh she said "Oh well. I am to be your liason during the investigation. I will act as an interpretur and I will be able to make introductions for you, but I am not your chauffeur, or your secretary. Now if we could get you to your hotel I am sure you are tired from your flight and I am sure you have a lot of work to begin on tomorrow." She opened the door and began to walk with long strides down the halway. Quickly Claire grabbed her suitecase and followed after. A minute later they were in an unmarked sedan taking an unfamilier road from the airport towards The Hague.

Claire looked out the car window as they sped through the city then through farm land. She would watch bill boards and street signs zip by with far too many consonents in a row. She could feel herself beginning to drift off.

"So why were you chosen for this assignment?"
"I'm sorry?" Claire quickly snapped out of her daze.
"You're here to investigate the bombings. I didn't realize the CIA would send a forensic accountant to examine a bombing. As far as I can tell you are the only CIA operative on the scene."
"I knew one of the victims. We had worked together once."
"And the CIA flies you halfway around the world for that?"
Claire bit down on her tounge trying to decide how much of Inspector Hasbrouck's personality was lost in translation, how much was European and how much was just her general unpleasentness.
"Well the job needs to get done. You never know where the paper trail leads." She said trying to remain far more chipper than she felt. Mariela sneered.
"Which one of the victims did you know?"
"Andrew Booten. He and I had worked a case together in the Sahara a year or so ago."
"Is that so?" And that was the last Inspector Hasbrouck said for the drive. They arrived at a twenty story high rise hotel not far from the International courthouse.
"I will pick you up at 0700 tomorrow. That is seven AM for you yanks. Please be ready to go. I will take you then to the crime scenes and you can arrange travel from there. You can call me if you need anything else. Here is my card."
"Yes ma'am. I reckon I look forward to it. See y'all tomorrow morning." Claire said puting on as thick and as fake Texas accent as she could and rolling her eyes as she stepped out of the car.

She checked in, went to her room and looked out from her window. The architecture outside seemingly only consisted of acute angles, from ancient castle spires and brick buildings to sleek glass covered rhomboids. Fifteen stories below people walked and rode their bicycles everywhere through the narrow streets. She snapped a quick picture of the Courthouse less than ten blocks away and e-mailed it to her boss. "The eagle has landed" she wrote.
A second later there was a reply. When did he sleep she wondered? It was four AM back home. She opened the e-mail: "LOL, looks hot. Be careful Newton."

Opening the closet she found a terry cloth bathrobe and slippers, she pulled them out and laid them out on the bed. Halfway through unbuttoning her blouse she flipped on the flat pannel TV that hung on the wall and settled for world news on the BBC channel. She set the remote control down, finnished taking off her suit and spent a second luxuriating in the comfort of the bathrobe. She could feel herself getting lost in just rubbing her toes against the fabric of the slippers when she snapped to, picked up the suit and hung it up in the bathroom. She turned on the shower, slipped off the bathrobe and inhaled the steam deeply, feeling the water wash away the grime of travel.

Almost an hour later she still had a towel wrapped around her head, bathrobe cinched at the waist and was trying to decide if she had enough energy to order room service and if so wheather it would be a simple salad or something with herring in it. There was a knock on the door.

She laid the menu on the table and got up quietly. "Just a minute" she said, aiming her voice into the bathroom so she could get a good echo going. She snuck up to the peep hole in the door and stole a quick glance.

There in the hallway stood Andrew Booten.

This Is What It Costs

I am using my master key to slide this post under the correct date.  It's good to be the king!
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Laila stood before her god.  The light that shone from its form blinded her, and she fought the urge to turn away.  After three weeks of trials, she had won herself an audience before Iano.  She would not flinch now.  Her exhausted thighs trembled as she knelt down before it.  The light seemed to intensify and engulf her.  Laila felt her tired muscles relax, the scraps and bruised that covered her body were gently healed under the benevolent glow.  The light seemed to enter her soul and Laila felt tears of joy seep from her tightly shut eyes.  She was truly at peace.  Her god was here.

"Rise my child," a voice sounded deep with in her.  Laila rose on legs that felt young and fresh.  She hastily wiped the tracks of tears from her cheeks but kept her head bowed in humility.

"You seek me and have found me," the voice resonated within her, "ask what you shall."

Laila took a deep breath.  This was the moment she had sought.

"I wish to do your work, oh great Iano," she began earnestly.  "I ask that you take my humble self and make me a beacon onto the world.  Use my hands to do your work, my mouth to sing your praises, my heart to love you.  Please great Iano, please make me one of your Chosen."

Laila raised her head and felt the glow on her upturned face.  She reached her arms out, beseeching her god, her whole body ready to be taken.

"Child, you ask much," the voice rumbled.  "The price is high for those who walk the path of my Chosen.  The  way is not easy and I cannot protect you from all that would harm you.  Are you sure this is the life you wish?"

"Yes!" Laila replied ferverntly.

"So it shall be," Iano intoned.   Laila felt a surge of power surround her.  The light grew harsh and bright and lifted her off her feet.  A sudden shock surged through her body, she eyes flew open in surprise, and her back arched as the current raced threw her.  It felt like an eternity but it only lasted a moment and then the light withdrew, leaving Laila limp and panting before a cold stone statue in a dark cave.  Iano was gone.  Laila began to shiver as the sweat on her body began drying.  She placed one hand before her and suddenly realized the cave was pitch black.  She fumbled to her feet and inched herself forward until she hit a wall.  Slowly, she shuffled down the cold stone, her eyes straining to make out a path under her feet.  She had no sense of time as she made her way out of the cave.  Her first indication that something was wrong was that the stone under her hands began to feel warmer and she could hear the shuffling of her horse ahead.  But still her eyes saw nothing.  She paused and tried to stifle the panic rising from her belly.  She could feel the fresh air on her face and hear the rustle of leaves before her.  Gingerly, she let loose a low whistle and heard Ella, her horse, trot toward her.  It wasn't until Laila felt a soft nose nudge her outstretched hand looking for a treat that she realized the price she had paid.  Gingerly, she raised her hands to her face and touched her now sightless eyes.  She was Chosen.  And she was blind.