Prompt:
#10.1: "Avelyn's Masquerade"
“Oh my!!”
I grinned at the way Avelyn stared
around the meager apartment like it was a castle ballroom. She
certainly looked dressed for one. She insisted on a crushed-velvet
evening gown, complete with a bustle the same size as me, and a huge
ostrich feather pinned in her hair, sweeping over her brow like an
antique fascinator.
“This place!” she gasped. “It is
magnificent!”
We were already jostling shoulders with
the guests, and getting weird looks over Avelyn’s bustle. She
reached into her purse and pulled out—not even kidding—a
long-stemmed pince-nez.
“What marvelous people you know in
your native land of Brook!”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s BrookLYN,
and it’s a city—well, smaller than a city, actually...” I
sighed. “You know what? Never mind. Just try to keep a low profile
okay? I don’t actually know all these people, but—“
“Jessica!” Avelyn trained her wide
brown eyes on me, magnified by the pince-nez. “You mean to tell me
we have trespassed on the property of strangers?”
“No!” Things were getting so quiet,
I could hear the house music. “Just shush, okay? I know a couple of
these people—that’s my friend Mason, who invited us, and Terry,
whose apartment this is.”
Avelyn squinted at them through her
glasses. “Flat,” she declared.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, in London, where I lived with
Old Glory, he called these places Flats.”
“Yeah, well, here in Brooklyn we call
them apartments. So stick with that.”
Avelyn calmed down once I got her a
paper plate of hors d’ouvres, though she was rather intrigued by
the potato chips (“Not at all like the chips Old Glory would share
with me!”) and there wasn’t water to drink, so the poor thing had
to settle for tonic water. (“How does one expect to swallow when
the drink seems to climb back up to the mouth?”)
After a few, blissful, Avelyn-free (and
therefore near-normal, if I’m being honest!) minutes, she scurried
herself across the room and plopped on the leather sofa next to me.
“Jessica, may I ask you something?”
I sighed and prayed for patience.
“Girls wear jeans all the time; leggings are pants, and pants are
not underwear. Those two are not wrestling, and no I am not going to
explain what they are actually doing—“
“What on earth?” Avelyn went from
confused to horrified very quickly. “Jessica, my query has nothing
to do with any of those things!”
“Oh.” I sat up, drained the last of
my punch and asked, “What is it?”
“I only wanted to know why that
gentleman was wearing a mask.” She pointed to one of the loiterers,
hanging out on the fringe like they so desperately wanted to be
there, but weren’t sure where or how to begin, and would likely
spend the rest of the night trying to figure that out.
I frowned. “He’s not wearing a
mask, Avelyn.”
She was still squinting at him. “Yes
he is! A great big—oh!” She lowered the pince-nez, still staring
at him. “Well, I suppose only I can see it. Here.” she handed me
those prim little glasses.
I peeked through. Sure enough, the
guy’s face was almost completely obscured by an ornate Carnivale
mask. Without the glasses, he looked normal.
I stared at the funky lenses. “What
the heck?”
Avelyn grinned, tapping her nose
thoughtfully. “Through those lenses, the metaphorical becomes
literal.”
“The mask is a metaphor? For what,
exactly?” I still couldn’t get the image out of my head.
Avelyn smirked and cast me a wink.
“It’s my job to find out. Meanwhile, why don’t you help me by
finding someone who can help us unmask this man?”
I brushed chip dust on my jeans. “How
am I supposed to do that?”
“Use the glasses, Jessica. Look for
someone else who seems more than they are.”
Cryptic much? But then, that was
Avelyn.
I lifted the glasses and directed my
attention to the other partygoers. What I saw next defied all
semblance of comprehension.
>>>>>>>>>>>
Prompt:
#10.2: "The Stabbing"
The cloaked figure waited on the
rooftops. He counted the paces of the guards below, waiting for the
perfect moment.
3... 2... 1...
Zero.
He stepped noiselessly off the ledge,
letting his body drop from the parapet onto the narrow balcony.
Ten seconds.
He carefully manipulated the handle on
the bay doors in the configuration he had practiced so many times.
Up, left, cross, up, down, right.
The latch clicked and fell out of its
position.
Four seconds.
He slipped through the clear glass
doors in the same moment the guard came around the corner in the
courtyard below. He suppressed the urge to give the man
the one-finger salute. It wasn’t as if the guard would see it,
anyway.
He slipped into the shadow of a
decorative column, closing his eyes to picture the precise layout
from the practice runs he’d rehearsed forward, backward, upside
down, inside out, and blindfolded. His sure footing allowed him to
draw his knife and focus on the goal: the massive, canopy-shrouded
bed at the end of the room. He eased as smoothly as a whiff of smoke.
Soon, his people’s liberty would be at hand. Soon, the price would
be paid for the traitorous dealings of the monarchy. Soon...
Now.
He pulled aside the curtain only far
enough to admit his slim frame. He let it fall, blocking out the
light and snuffing his view of the still, slumbering form on the bed.
Closing his eyes and whispering a silent prayer dedicating this
strike to the Fates who had blessed him with fortune thus far, he
wasted no more time, but used both hands to drive the blade home.
A confused, gurgling grunt of surprise,
muffled by the pillows, was the only response she gave before her
life ended. By the time anyone found her, she would be long-stiff,
the fluffy, delicate sheets drenched and stiff with her blood. It was
done.
He slipped out of the curtain, taking
no less care about his steps than he had before. He reached the door
in record time, waiting to ascertain the placement of the guards.
5, 4, 3—
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The voice chilled the blood in his
veins. How? Why? When?
A cough sounded behind him. He needed
to turn around and continue the conversation face to face.
Except one of those faces should have
been dead.
He stared in horrified fascination as
she watched him from the bed, toying with the murder weapon in her
hand.
Had he—No! There was the rip in her
nightgown, showing the tiniest bit of skin. Dare he ask the question?
Would she answer, or would she kill him back for attempting to kill
her? He certainly didn’t have any sort of magical healing
properties or restorative immortality to protect him!
She chuckled at his fear. Sauntering
forward, still holding the knife, she leveled it so that the blade
just barely rested on his throat.
“Tell me something,” she said
softly, fingers playing around the rip in her clothes.
“Was that supposed to hurt?”
All of his practice, all the intel he
gathered—all of it came crashing down because he never factored in
a target who couldn’t die.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Did you enjoy those stories? Tune in every Friday for more "Flashes of Inspiration"!
#1: "The Castle" --> #2: "The Lady and The Bard" --> #3: "The Stranger With The Suitcase" --> #4: "The Shrine"/"The Visitor" --> #5: "The Secret Cove" --> #6: "Office Rescue" -->
#7: "Zatri's Fate" --> #8: "The Old Man" --> #9: "The Secret of Stormwylde"
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