Writing, writing, writing

Fantastic, smooth writing session this afternoon: 2007 words. More like this, please!

Short Fiction: The other side of the wall

It seemed too easy, he thought, then stopped himself before the refrain “a little too easy” to enter his mind.
She’d never seen him this relaxed. It worried her. She was worried a lot.

He slammed the hammer against the brick and mortar. More in frustration than focus. She sighed. His shoulders slumped.

“I know,” he muttered, the hammer limp in his hand. With his free hand, he wiped his forehead. He placed his sweaty hand against the wall and leaned on it. “I know,” he repeated.

“What if I go back to the car and get…” she trailed off.

Get what? He wondered. We’d brought everything we thought we needed. We were wrong, that’s all there is to it: we were wrong.

“Time to leave,” he said aloud. He began dropping the tools into his North Rim backpack.

“Leave? But, we’re so close! We can’t leave!” She wailed.

He finished packing the tools. He dropped the pack and turned toward her. He put his arms on her shoulders. She knew he would’ve taken her hands if she hadn’t tucked them under her armpits.

“We and the wall are out of harmony. We need to leave to restore the balance.”

There was a time not too long ago when she’d thought his Zen sayings cute, if not wise. This was not one of those times.

“No. You listen. We need to break through that wall. We need to break open Box 24A and steal the stock certificates. We must break open Box 762C and steal the jewelry. We will break open Box 9821B and steal the cash. You remember the cash? Clean, untraceable and all ours. All two million dollars of it.” She paused. “That will restore the balance.”

He’d struggled with this dichotomy before. Monks lived in abject poverty, begging for their subsistence, growing more and more bhudda. Yet he was called to this. This wasn’t begging. It was stealing. He was good at it and he really did feel more and more bhudda as he stole. In the act, he was at one. He was aware. The more difficult the score, the more complete his zanshin.

She sat fuming at him. Looked at the pack, shoved him aside lunging for it.

“Just let me. You sit there and zone out.”

It was true, he thought. The more difficult the score, the more enlightenment possible.

He grabbed the pick from the pack, picked a spot on the wall, set his feet and started swinging.

Short Fiction: Tall Drink of Water

“It was here a second ago!” She swept papers to the side, a lamp fell to the floor and broke.

“Look, let’s not make this such a big deal…” He began, but she interrupted like she always did.

“Damn it, we’re not leaving until we find it. You could help me, you know,” she glared at him now, hot with passion, “instead of standing there like an idiot!” She resumed her angry searching.

He shrugged, took his hands out of his pockets. Took his jacket off, set it down in the leather recliner. He walked over toward the desk. Keeping it between them, he asked, “So, where did you have it last?”

She stopped, he held his breath. “That’s it? That’s the best you can do? That’s some fucking help!”

“Listen,” he started, she looked at him. “Where would you like me to look?”

“I don’t know – somewhere – wherever – just help me find it.”

He poked at the magazines sacked on an end table, swept his gaze across the knick-knacks above the fireplace, perched on the shelving. He sighed, started lifting up couch cushions.

Drawers slammed, his wife sighed loudly then stomped up the stairs.

He set the couch cushions back into place, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two fingers of Glenlivet into a heavy cut crystal glass. He looked at it then splashed another heavy pour in the glass.

“Bitch,” he said to himself. He was startled to hear it come out of his mouth, so he said it again, “Bitch”. He was just warming up when her footsteps cascaded down the stairs.

“Henry!” She yelled. “Did you check the downstairs bathroom?” Her voice dopplered as she approached.

He swallowed his drink in one gulp and set it carefully on the shelf. “No, didn’t check there. Will, though, soon as I’m finished here.”

“Never mind, I’ll do it.” Her heels clattered past toward the kitchen.

“I’ll bet she took it with her,” he said quietly.
“I’ll bet she has it,” a little louder.
“She took it with her,” now almost yelling.

“What?” From the kitchen, down the hall, her voice lost none of its grating edge.

The liquor had hit his ears, buzzing them. He felt confident and knew it was the alcohol.

“She took it after we fucked.”

“What?” Rattling the junk drawer, slamming cupboard doors shut.

“She’ll probably bring it back this weekend, when she sleeps over.”

“Have you found it yet?” Her sharp heels sparking down the hallway towards him.

“So I wouldn’t worry about it,” he concluded as she entered the study.

“Well, that’s easy for you to say,” she snapped, “it’s not your wedding ring that’s lost.”