Hi, All,
I hope everyone is enjoying their weekend so far. I am happy to say that I dove back into writing... YAY! It's been over a month since I wrote a single word on my current WIP... Thanks to my good friend, Denise Covery, I never would have even considered writing a 1940's film noir novella. I had written a flash fiction piece for an entry for the Romantic Friday Writers. It was this piece that started me the ball rolling and six entries later, I have a good start for a full novella.
Denise has now revamped the RFW and the Write ... Edit ... Publish ... blog was born. Each month Denise chooses a prompt. This month it's "MOVING ON"... How appropriate. Especially after my demise of last month. I am certainly moving on from my accident and feel more like myself each day.
If you haven't visited Denise's new
blog. PLEASE DO. I'm sure you'll enjoy the other entries and perhaps you'd like to join in the fun and hop along with us! You can post anything from poetry, photos, flash fiction or whatever strikes your fancy.
Here is my September entry. Many of you are familiar with the story. If you'd like a bit more back story click
here for last month's entry. I hope you enjoy it... Tell me what you think.
The Palace Grill’s marquis barely penetrates the dim, charcoal sky, as the northwest winds sweep the downtown streets with the debris of once colorful autumn leaves.
All but one booth is empty. A flamingo pink polished hand raises a steaming cup of joe. Rosebud lips pucker and blow, sending vapor curls into an unsuspecting jukebox. A tinny click resonates and another selection begins to play. Rosemary glances at the shimmering, Lady Gruen curvex watch positioned strategically on her wrist.
The bell tinkles at the door and her eyes shift to a dumpy figure hidden under a policeman’s cap. With his head down and eyes averted , he trudges toward her. Leather soles squeak to the beat of Francis Craig crooning Near You. Each step quickens Rosemary’s heartbeat.
A gloved hand reaches inside his coat and pulls out a crumpled envelope. Rosemary extends her hand and grasps the letter. Silence louder than a sonic boom deafens her.
“Thank you, officer.”
He tips his hat, turns, and leaves.
Rosemary stares at the envelope in her trembling fingers. Why didn’t he come? Breathing deeply, she frees the note and drops it onto the table, smoothing out the wrinkles.
Only seven words ink the plain stationary.
In a flash, Rosemary slides out of the booth. She crams the paper into her pocket book, gathers her coat and suit case, and bolts to the door.
Dozens of headlights reflect off chrome bumpers streaking uptown. Rosemary flags a bright yellow, checkered taxi. The brakes grind to a stop. A moment later, a rumpled driver steps onto the sidewalk. Cigar ashes drop inches from Rosemary’s feet as he snatches the luggage and loads it into the trunk. He pulls the door open and stomps around to the driver’s side.
Rosemary slips into the peeling vinyl seat and gasps. A thick haze of cigar smoke suffocates whatever oxygen is present. She winds down the window and her lungs seer from the crisp outside air.
The cabby turns his head and another ash drifts close to her feet. “Where will it be, lady?” His eyes wander to her exposed calves and slowly work their way up to her face.
Heat radiates through her cheeks, tinting them with a hint of ruby. She clears her throat. “Chicago Air Park.” She is thrusted back into the seat as the taxi peels away from the curb.
* * *
Thick fingers drum the weathered desk as smoke rings curl into a caterpillar-like state. Haunting, bloodshot eyes read the same letter for the hundredth time. What can she possibly say to me? She’s a murderess. She’s lucky I don’t arrest her on the spot for Marty’s death.
He tosses the note into the gunmetal trash can. “I should go. Hear her side of it.” He slouches back into his desk chair and tears at his thick, raven hair. It had to be self defense. Marty was no alter boy.
The smoldering cigarette invites him to take another drag. Inhaling, his lungs fill. Slowly, like steam engine exhaust, the smoke escapes his throat. The minute hand on the clock continues to tick. Each click magnifying the urgency. He snuffs out the butt. As the smoke clears, the hour hand sweeps into the Ninth position.
By the next tock, he is gone.
A black and white pulls in front of the Palace Grill. The fedora hat nearly lifts off his head by an unanticipated gust of wind. He slams the door, takes a step, and nearly falls. He loosens the tail of his coat, rushes inside, and surveys the scene. A family of six sit a circular booth in the back corner. A young, teenage couple share a malted in the smallest booth. And other couples and families fill most of the remaining tables, but no Rosemary.
He steps to the counter.
“What’s buzzin cousin?” the waitress asks.
“Have you seen a blonde, young girl alone, earlier?” he asks in a gruff voice.
She eyes the detective like a hawk ready to devour its next meal. “She’s long gone, honey. But I get off in fifteen minutes.” She snaps her gum and winks at him.
“Did she say where she was going?”
The waitress didn’t answer.
“This is police business. You better tell me everything you know or I’ll run you in for questioning.”
Her face flushed. “All right, honey. Don’t flip your wig.” She snapped her gum again. “All I knows is, she had luggage with her and she was dressed pretty spiffy. I’d try the airport if I was you. That gussied up dame wasn’t goin on no bus or train.”
“Fine. I’ll check the airport first.” He turns on his scuffed wing tips and heads out the door.
A hazy moon beams through starched clouds on this All Hallows evening. Each one filled with icy flakes anxiously waiting to dust the streets of Chicago with its crystalized beauty. No longer do the winds rend. Only a quiet chill permeates the air, as two automobiles streak southwest toward the same destination.
Polished chrome wings reflect bright, incandescent rays on a single cinder runway. Frost lives in the brown-black vesicles, glinting fragments of starry light. Two figures appear and position a staircase in front of the aircraft door.
Scantly dressed passengers cloaked in furs and overcoats wait inside the lobby. Only one more passenger is expected. A checkered taxi parallels the curb. The door opens. Rosemary steps out onto the sidewalk and rushes inside. The cabby drops her luggage at the curb and is gone in a flash.
The porter joins Rosemary a moment later. She hands him a bill and smiles. The young man pales. His freckles more noticeable than ever. “T-Thank you, miss.” His voice cracks.
Rosemary nods.
An enormous stack of Louis Vuitton suitcases and trunks roll into sight. Rosemary glances at the tragic valise next to her and pulls the veil from the hat over her eyes. The porter lifts her bag and adds it to the top of the tram.
“Ten minutes to Boarding for flight 223 to Miami,” blasts from an overhead speaker.
The elegant group of seasoned travelers gather and stroll merrily to the the gate. Chills run down Rosemary’s back. It’s time. My life will never be the same. She inhales and checks the seams in her silk stockings. She squares her shoulders and takes her first step.
“Rosemary.”
