#SwiftFicFriday W84 – Vote!

#SwiftFicFriday W84 – Vote!

Another prompt, another round of great stories to choose from. Check the stories out below and vote for your favorite!


The Call

The call comes early.
I’m sleeping.
Or was.
I get the punch.
Her randomly levelled arm indicating…do something.
I glance at the clock.
5: 23 am.
I could let it ring.
But maybe someone has died.
That gets me every time.
I am such a slug.
What choice do I have?
And she has volunteered me anyways.
I’m a goner.
I pick up the receiver.
“Yup?”
“Meeester Blake?”
“Whose calling?”
“Are you Meeester Blake?”
Can he see my eyes roll? There are so many other ways I would like to be spending my morning.
Twiddling my thumbs, come to mind.
Or still sleeping.
I can’t place the accent.
It could be from anywhere.
Whoever he is, the world’s his oyster.
And I am his pearl.
His shiny object.
I feel myself start to glow with his anticipation.
“Could I take a message?”
“Are you not Meeester Blake?”
I parry with, “I may be.”
“Meester Blake, a relative of yours, a distant relative, Meester Harry Watkins Blake, has named you a beneficiary of a consider sum from his estate. I need to confirm that you are indeed Meeester Conrad Blake.”
This does give me pause.
I have been warned about calls like this.
Still, I’m awake, mildly curious and it may be worth a moment of my time.
“I am,“ I confess to my morning intruder. “I am he. “
I’ve called myself HE. I’ve never done that before.
“Then, Meester Blake, you have inherited $245,300.00.”
“Excellent,” I say, and there is loud pinging in my noggin, a niggly notion that such a specific amount might be on the level. “When can I collect?”
“Most soon, Meester Blake. One small detail…a matter of death taxes to be paid…”
I’ve had my fun.
“Ciao, baby,” I say and hang up.

300 words by Bill Engleson (@billmelaterplea)

Caldwell Keller missed the moment the dim dive bar emptied around him. His first thought was that he was slipping. His rocks glass was getting low. Maybe the whole crowd had been Agency all along. He hadn’t been the only one drinking, but their sweet ass boss lady wouldn’t begrudge her agents a drink. Their work was hard.

Click. Click. Clink.

Think of the devil. Caldwell’s shadow peered around their corner table at the approaching pink-haired woman. Her purposeful heeled steps were punctuated by strikes of her gilded cane. The grey-haired drifter remained oriented on his glass. He was relieved Aphrodite didn’t bring her diemaco.

“I have a job for you.”

She stopped before Caldwell. He inclined his head to the chair across the table and downed the rest of his drink. Aphrodite sat and the bartender reappeared only long enough to deliver fresh rye on the rock for each of them. Definitely an agent.

“Always better than being the job.” Caldwell savored the aroma of his whiskey like it made any difference what he was drinking. “What is it this time?”

“Have you heard about the situation on the moon?”

The senior agent sipped her whiskey coolly. Caldwell raised his eyes to meet hers. There was no way she missed his shadow’s shudder.

“How could I have heard about something like that?”

The trick was not to blink. She opened by offering him a job. That meant the job was more important than digging into his business. Aphrodite relented.

“We’ll provide transportation to the target for you and whatever team you can assemble. You’ll each be paid your usual fee, plus a bonus to you for each team member you recruit.”

“Kill or capture?”

“I doubt even you can capture a god.”

“A god? Seriously?”

“Close enough.”

298 words by David A Ludwig (@DavidALudwig)

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