I didn’t kill him. He was already dead.

The room was pitch black when I awoke. I fell asleep leaning against the back of the door. My shoulders tingled with pins and needles as my circulation returned. It didn’t help much. With my arms restrained like they were, it was nearly impossible to take a full breath. My head swam as my eyes adjusted to the dark. The sparks and flashes of dust motes and retinal artifacts disoriented me. I felt awash in a sea of teaming life where there was only darkness.

The power had been out for a couple of days, from what I could tell by the dim glow that ebbed and flowed through the wire mesh glass pane in the door. There was no real way to be sure though. Time was elastic for me at the best of times. These days? Well, let’s just say things are different.

The room was hot, stale and reeked with my own sweat and stink. And his as well, I suppose. I shot my foot out to kick him. It landed with a wet thud. In some ways, I was thankful for the dark. The air exchangers were out, but there must have been some venting somewhere. I heard my breathing grow frantic again, so I closed my eyes against the murk and did the breathing exercises that Doctor Goodwin taught me. She was my favourite. She always smiled at me. At least she did when she had a face. Bastards.

We were in group session when the arse fell out of the world. Doctors Goodwin and Meier were running the show with a stuffed bear as a talking stick. Barry, Emma and Hughie had all gone first. It was only me and Haley left. I was getting bored and antsy with Hughie’s crying and whimpering. I could tell Barry was too. He started rocking back and forth. Haley got up and walked around her chair clockwise, then counter-clockwise humming a nursery rhyme. Meier had to get up and guide her back to her seat. Man, these people were nuts.

Goodwin got a buzz on her cell. She glanced at the number and excused herself to take it. I watched her shapely legs swish away with approval. “I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,” I mused. Then that damnable bear was stuffed in my face, blocking my view. Hughie shook it like a rattle. I wanted to punch him. That was probably why I was in restraints.

“It’s your turn, Eddie, ” said Meier. “Do you have anything to share this morning?”

“Fuck you.”

Meier shook his head and bent forward to scribble in his chart. The bald spot on his head looked like a tantalizing target. Goodwin came back and put her hand on her colleague’s shoulder. She then handed him a note. His glasses fell from his face and dangled around his neck on the chain that would later facilitate his untimely demise.

The double doors at the back of the ward burst open. I watched a small crowd of dishevelled people break in to the room. They were all bloody and tore up, but moved with a swiftness I wouldn’t have thought possible. Immediate pandemonium erupted as a melee of gore and violence swept across the room. I was frozen in shock as I witnessed the escalation. Goodwin was tackled by three assailants who started eating her pretty face. Barry vomited all over his pyjamas, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t make it out of the circle. I don’t think any of them did.

Meier and I clambered over and around each other trying to get out the south door. I threw my body against the press bar and fell through. I started to panic and yell as I couldn’t get up. I was still bound in the jacket. Meier, wide-eyed and bleeding, helped me stand and we bolted to the cell block to hide.

I didn’t realize until later that he had been bitten.

(http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts/youre-only-crazy-if-you-say-youre-not)

I climbed the back staircase of my grandparent’s old house. The layers upon layers of white paint adorned the railing and casings. They were only slightly dulled by a thin layer of dust that was everywhere. The oil range in the parlor room and the unpaved driveway made the fight against grime a losing battle.

I’d been up and down these stairs countless times. We used to spend summers here back when Gramma and Grampa were alive. I remember the smell of paint and wallpaper paste, mingled with a hint of mold. The aged smells of an elderly home made the air thick with memory.

The oiled wood floor creaked as I padded my way to the master suite. Gramma’s room first, then Grampa’s at the end of the house. His rifle that used to stand in a corner waiting for errant deer to raid the garden, was now stowed in a lockbox downstairs. The view of the garden was still the same even if it was years since a garden was ever planted.

I looked at the building drafts I found. They were from when Grampa’s grandfather built the place. There was supposed to be another room where the garden window was. I didn’t understand, any more than I could figure out what a clutch full of old documents was doing in the back of a trunk, in the garden shed of all places. I was rooting around for some hand tools. Grampa used to make his own custom gardening implements.

The most unfortunate fire that claimed my parents a few months ago put me in a dark frame. Amid the ruin of their lives, I discovered they left me this place. Well, to my sister as well, but she’s been incommunicado for almost two years. God, I was pissed at her. There was no way to let her know about Mom and Dad. Her loss, I guess.

My parents never came here after my grandparents died, and we were almost forbidden to visit. Not outright, of course, just redirected. That was Mom mainly. It was a talent of hers. She always seemed to get her way. You could be adamant in your view, but once she started talking, that was it.

Grampa’s room wasn’t empty. In fact, everything was remarkably preserved. Even the scent of pipe tobacco and Old Spice lingered faintly. His clothes and bedding were still here and even though they felt old, they were undamaged by time and a parade of damp cold winters. It was like he was still here. A shiver danced up my spine as I passed through a cool spot in the otherwise humid room. 

There was an odd arrangement that caught my eye. A magnifying glass, old razors and a shaving brush were placed in a circle on the sideboard table. Under it was a yellowed note in my grandfather’s loopy cursive.

“Jamie,” it said. I jumped at the sight of my name. “You have found a secret, haven’t you?” 

The conversational tone was strange and I looked around me, spying nothing. My grandfather continued. “Stand at the window and recite the following aloud. Don’t dally, mind you.”

I was certain it was just me, spooked or not, so I took up the note and did just as it instructed.

“Hidden days and secret nights,
Flights of fancy and magic sights.
Time to laugh and dance and play,
Welcome to The Land of Fae.”

The frame of the window shone with a brilliant and comforting warmth that felt like nothing else I could describe. Perhaps it was pure love, both of lustful bent and of familial bond. It was fond memory and kindness all in one. 

The window was gone and in its place stood an archway. Gone was the garden that my grandfather guarded. Gone were the dusty roadway and the stubby pines. The brook was still there but it was transformed. Where there had been dust and rock, there was now a verdant wooded glade bisected by a vibrant laughing brook. The sounds of life, barren before, rose in a melodious chorus to Nature’s tribute.

“Welcome to the Greenway Glade, brother. Welcome home.” My sister spoke as she came across a stone bridge over the brook. “It’s time to embrace your true inheritance.”

Speechless at the sights before me and the astonishment of my resplendent sister’s return, I walked through the archway into the glade and my new life.

( http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts/the-hidden-room)

What lies beneath the painted mask?
A heart of black, a soul of glass?
Sharpened teeth and rotted tongue,
Come on kids, let’s have some fun!

A peel of white and rubber nose,
The stink of sweat and watery rose.
Wriggly things in frenzied hair,
Come on kids, into my lair!

Magic cast and belly laugh,
A blade, a rope to cut in half.
Bright green eyes and reddish smile,
Come on kids, and stay a while!

Chuckle, chuckle, bone and knuckle,
Glove and fist, belt and buckle.
Beg and plead, kneel and pray,
Come on kids, it’s time to play!

Worm and squirm and shouts of pain,
Quiet now, it’s all in vain.
Relax, relax. It’s time to go.
Come on kids, enjoy the show.

(Danny’s Redemption - Part 4)

“Okay, kids. Hugs and kisses another time” said Seamus. “Open the case, Mary.”

Mary squeezed Danny’s hand and broke their moment of closeness. She shivered reflexively. Danny also felt the loss of heat as the rain washed away her scent. Danny stayed in place under the wary glare of Harry and Gillis. Neither man had drawn their weapons, but he didn’t feel comfortable with challenging them unarmed.

Seamus carefully unwrapped the brown-wrapped package and handed the graphite alloy lockbox to Mary. Plain in appearance, it was heavier than it looked due to a lead lining. Seamus surmised that the latch under the combination lock could easily be snapped, but risking its contents warranted a softer approach.

“Open it, Mary. Johnny and the gang won’t be far off.”

Danny’s mind raced, his blood hot with tension. He knew this wasn’t going to go as planned. There were about to be at least six guns and as many hotheads here at any moment. Seamus had filled him in on what was at stake, and the pretense of his double-loyalties evaporated. The Company simply could not be permitted to recover their research. Mary was given a death sentence by poor genetics. So was Seamus. He was an old man, she was not. That made Danny’s priorities easy to calculate.

Mary’s hands grasped three of the six vials from the medical transport container. The glass was thick and tempered, but the slightly bluish compound inside warmed her hands. Mary allowed herself a brief, thin smile. She was a gifted nuclear biochemist. The Company eagerly recruited her to develop their so-called “super soldier” serum. She had diagnosed her condition long before she uncovered the secret love of Seamus and Bert. It wasn’t much of a stretch. Any immune advantage would give her more time. This was perfect. This was a cure. She embraced her grandfather. “Thank you. Good luck.”

“So little time,” said Seamus, his meaning as mixed as his emotions. “You need to go, maid. Flee.”

She returned back to Danny and handed him the vials to put in his jacket. Her hoody wouldn’t work. Dammit. She spoke quietly to him. “Can you ride?” indicating her motorcycle.

He nodded and laced his hands around the back of her waist and kissed her. “I always wanted to do that”, he whispered. For the second time amid the chaos of the moment she smiled. Danny idled the bike as Mary climbed behind him. It was her turn to embrace as gunfire erupted with a deafening roar. The Company arrived on the scene without any hint of subtlety.

There was no time for helmets as Danny revved the engine and took flight. They hadn’t gained more than a few kilometers when he felt Mary’s grip slacken and her bodyweight shift. He struggled, but couldn’t keep the bike up.

“Mary!” he shouted as the world rotated and tumbled in a spray of mud and rock.

(Danny’s Redemption - Part 3)

Mary wasn’t a big fan of waiting either. She paced the concrete floor of the rail supply shed at the abandoned container dock. The side of the shed was open to the elements, so while she was dry, the rain teemed and mixed with the salt spray of the small, deep harbor. Seamus instructed her to wait here, but he’d been gone for more than an hour.

As the sky darkened with the strengthening storm, Mary felt the temperature drop. She folded her arms, thankful for the thick hoodie she wore, but chastised herself for forgetting her shell. She was accustomed to being better prepared than this. It could be worse, she almost opted for more feminine attire. Jeans and sneaks were the better call.

She stopped wearing a path through the cement, stood at the waterside edge of the shelter and regarded the sea absently. The scent of petroleum and creosote mixed with the briny air that was not altogether unpleasant. It was the smell of growing up and desperately escaping in this dying town. Even though she’d been gone for nearly a decade, there would always be a draw.

It was a week since she left the package with Grammie Bert, its contents only temporarily safe, or so she thought. The Company still pursued her since she lifted her prize from Research. Johnny was probably furious with betrayal, the pretense of their illicit relationship laid bare for the sham it was. She didn’t stick around to witness the fallout. She had her own pursuits, and so did her employer. Time was in short supply. She flushed briefly with anger and self-loathing.

Seamus’ gaudy ride pulled up with a soft squeal of wet brakes. The family idiots, Harry and Gillis, stepped out and hauled another man out of the vehicle. Seamus came last in his quiet way of confident grandeur. Mary’s focus rested on the one person she wasn’t expecting, a shine of recognition lit her eyes. This did not go unnoticed by Seamus.

“Danny?” she said, not quite believing that he was real. She knew he worked for the Company. Frantic to keep control, she pieced together what was happening. They sent Danny to find her and recover their property. Seamus got wind from an anonymous call that they were making a play at the post office. Her grandmother was in danger, so she pleaded with Seamus to interfere. He was only too happy to oblige. She should have known better.

“Bert’s dead, Mary.” Danny broke free of the brothers’ grip as she stumbled. Seamus steadied Harry’s free hand from reaching his clutch. Let them have their moment.

Danny caught her and held her by the shoulders. He lowered his head to make eye contact with her, looking for a sense of her emotional state. She surprised him with her resilience. He let her go and took a half-step back.

“I’m ok, “she said. “I think I already knew. I felt it.” She pressed a fist to her stomach. “Was it Johnny?”

 “I think so. What’s going on, Mary? What do you and Seamus need with Company research? What kind of game are you playing, girl?”

“This is no game, Danny.”

(http://www.writerscarnival.ca/prose-prompts/)

(Danny’s Redemption - Part 2)

The stitch in Danny’s abdomen screamed at him. It’d been a very long time since he sprinted like that. He made it to the within sight of the family home, his home now, but it didn’t look right. He was certain that with the Company’s men behind him, the only thing in front would be the other party crashers to avoid, the Family, likely Harry and Gillis. He was a little too freaked for their bullshit today. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees, the sweat dripping off his nose as the sputtering rain started to blow in.

He really had no business being in the double-agency game, but he saw no other way out. It was really the nature of deep undercover work. The Company had inserted him in Seamus Flannigan’s organization with the expressed purpose of dismantling his circle of trust from within. What they hadn’t foreseen was that Seamus was on to him right from the start. Danny didn’t figure that out until it was too late and he was in too deep. As the Flannigan’s cleaner, he had far too much blood on his hands. In short, he was compromised.

Possible salvation came from the most unlikely of sources. Johnny Paternao was a Company man if there ever was one. Danny’s grandfather mentored both Johnny and Danny before a stroke took him out, leaving the two young men at odds. Danny ended up with the Irish mob assignment and Johnny picked up a career fast-track with the Company’s research arm.

It was hard to ignore the temptation put forth by Johnny. Wear a wire and collect a package. Finish Seamus’ empire and be released from contract with the Company. Seemed simple enough, but it was disconcerting that Research, and the Company for that matter, was loitering in his home town. There was more to this story but he didn’t care at the time. He agreed to play the game again, knowing outright that it was a devil’s bargain.

He looked at the brown-wrapped package that Bert gave him before Old Hell broke loose. The old gal was likely dead for her efforts. Thank you very much for serving your country, Roberta. It was clear that Seamus had declared war. Whatever this package was, both parties wanted it. What didn’t make sense is what Mary’s role was. What kind of trouble was she mixed up in?

Danny felt the barrel of a gun pressed to his back. Harry said, “Danny, you’re getting’ soft.” Shit. Harry accompanied him to a familiar black stretched SUV that approached. They got in and Seamus handed him a towel from across the seat.

“Did you think it would be this easy, Danny-boy?”

Danny didn’t answer. He knew the old man well enough that the question was rhetorical. He vigorously dried his hair. Harry handed the package to his father, then shouldered his sidearm. It wouldn’t be needed at the moment. This was a time for palaver. Or sermon, depending upon Seamus’ current disposition.

Danny looked at his watch. It was not even mid-morning and already shaping up to be one long day. He let out a huff of breath that he didn’t realize he was holding and relaxed his shoulders. He waited.

(http://www.writerscarnival.ca/prose-prompts/)

“Hello. Wish Fulfillment Department, a division of Hopes and Dreams Incorporated. Welcome to our Customer Care Centre. Please listen carefully to the following options so that we may best direct your call.”

“If you wish to make a wish, press 1, and you will be transferred to ‘Genies and Leprechauns’. If you wish to cancel a wish, press 2, and you will be directed to ‘Devil’s Bargains’. If you wish to wish for more wishes, you may hang up now.”

“You have selected ‘Devil’s Bargains’. Please stay on the line and your call will be answered by the next available representative.”

“Please stay on the line. Your call is important to us. Did you know that you can monitor your Wish Fulfillment in real time using our new web portal? There is also an app for Wish Fulfillment available in the App Store.”

“Thank you for holding. All our representatives are busy at the moment helping other Wishers. Your call will be answered in sequence.”

“Hello, this is Nate. What is your name and age, please?”

“Timmy. I’m 8.”

“Well, Timmy. What can we do for you today?”

“I want my sister back. I made her disappear. She’s gone, and mom will be home soon. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Oh I see. I’m looking up your file now. This was a Square Nickel wish. The cancellation policy for a wish like this is clear. You have to trade an object or creature of equal or greater value to get your sister back. Do you have anything you wish to trade, Timmy?”

“I don’t know. I just want her back. I’m scared.”

“Don’t worry, Timmy. I’m just looking through your Life Manifest. You’re pretty young, so there isn’t too much to choose. Let’s see. We have your new bike, your tabby cat or your mom. You can choose to trade any of these things for your sister. You also have the ‘Self-Sacrifice’ option, but I really don’t recommend it.”

“My kitty scratches me, but she’s my best friend. I love my bike. You can’t take away my bike!”

“So you’ve chosen then, Timmy? Your sister or your mom?”

“I want my sissy back.”

“Thank you for calling Wish Fulfillment, a division of Hopes and Dreams Incorporated. Have a nice day.”

(http://www.writerscarnival.ca/poetry-prompts/)

Saturday mornings were never complete without the obligatory yard sale run. We’d hop in the family beater and dash from trailer to trailer all over the park to look at other people’s cast-offs. We rarely found anything truly of value. More often, we’d just take someone else’s junk to live on our lot for a while. Then we’d have our own sale. It was a somewhat closed system with the cycle continuing as if there was some kind of perpetual motion machine behind the curtain.

The people who went to these sales were a closed and insular community. All the usual faces, all the competitive bartering, and, inevitably, all the usual arguments. From time to time, things would devolve into fisticuffs, but mostly Saturdays were civilized. We kept whatever passed for decorum in a park peopled by blue-haired old folks and rednecks.

The old battle-axe Mavis O’Brien was out one week in her battered housecoat and filthy bunny slippers, her hair unwashed and unkempt. She was smoking a homemade cigarette as she tended to her rickety card table full of chipped ceramics, broken appliances and ancient Barbie dolls whose hair resembled her own. Dust, ash and the remains of many dead carpet beetles peppered her wares.

I was taking the tour on bicycle in an attempt to distance myself from my folks who were arguing with Jimmy Timmins a few lots back over a broken vacuum cleaner. I don’t know why. We didn’t own a lick of carpet bigger than a mat.

My pocket was bulging with coin burning a hole in my pocket since I scored at the bottle exchange, returning Dad’s empties. He took most of the coin as a rule, but I always managed to skim enough to make it worth my while.

Reveling in my freedom and wealth, I was giving the O’Brien’s ramshackle trailer a wide berth. I glanced over, compelled to bear witness to the train wreck. I noticed a small brown box that would be perfect for my hockey cards. The wooden box had no design or ornamentation. It had no hardware aside from a plain brass plate with an old-school keyhole. The box looked old and well-maintained. Made of maple and well-oiled, it was beautiful in its simplicity. Even as a kid, I appreciated craftsmanship.

“How much for the box?” I asked sheepishly, a little bit afraid of her.

She coughed and swallowed, clearing her throat of mucus and spittle. “Fifty-cents” she said.

“What’s inside?”

“Don’t know. I don’t have the key. Never did.”

I kept thinking about how perfect the box would be for my cards and figured I’d be able to break the lock and pry it open. I didn’t care if the lock ever worked again. The keyhole itself was cool. As I gave her a couple quarters, she grabbed my wrist with her wrinkled, bony hand. Her breath smelt awful, like an ashtray mingled with the rotting food of neglected dentures.

“The box belonged to my little brother. Take care of it.”

In the back of my mind, I remembered Dad and his buddies yakking about Bad Tommy O’Brien hanging himself in prison last year. Dorchester was not a nice place back then. It took the worst in men and fed it back to them. I looked at the box with a grim respect and then met the old bat’s gaze.

“I will. Thanks.”

Now, that was many years ago and I’ve since moved back to the park after my folks passed on. I was cleaning up their belongings, contemplating the yard sale to beat all yard sales. I came across a collection of my old things in the tin shed behind the porch. Most of the stuff was mildewed and ruined, but the wooden maple box was still there, unbothered by time and weather. I never could steel myself to open it. It just lay forgotten for all these years.

I wonder what’s inside?

(http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts/inside-the-old-box)

This is another follow-up to Sarah’s Call and John’s Run. I don’t think the reading order matters (yet). I’ll have to figure out where this going soon.

Mason’s cigarette burned idly away in the ashtray on his normally well-ordered desk. There wouldn’t be much left of the smoke before it was gone, and the same was true for Mason. His pulse slowed as blood seeped out from under him. He didn’t panic even as he felt the sticky mess pooling about his midriff. He knew the truth of things. No, it wouldn’t be very long at all.

The man he now knew to be Alan Maynard stepped over his waning body to rifle through the case files on his desk. Of course, what he was looking for was on top and open. Alan had no trouble collecting the photo hard-copies, confirming what he already suspected. Mason had caught him on camera. Both men had been tailing the same witness, an unassuming woman named Edie Parker. Mason’s motives were pure. John had called in a favour as he thought her to be in danger. Clearly she was. Mason and John had met with her last week when John was up. They told her of their plan to watch and protect her. They promised her she’d be safe. Who was going to do that now?

Edie was at the park yesterday afternoon with her daughter. It was a perfect sunny day. As he snapped pictures of the other parents in the park, Mason remembered thinking how special and vibrant a four-year-old can be. He was estranged from his own children after his marriage collapsed. It wasn’t likely that there would be any reconciliation at this point. Damn.

Alan was busy collecting the files, pictures, camera and flash drives. He tossed them into a wastepaper basket at the center of the room. He then put on an aspirator, took several cans of lighter fluid from his messenger bag and started dousing everything flammable in the small office. Mason regretted being a packrat as the smell of butane filled the room. His clothing received more than its fair share of the accelerant.

His assailant took a device out of the bag, a simple assemblage of blasting caps and a cheap cellphone. He carefully balanced it on a folded newspaper across the wastebasket. Alan turned to survey his handiwork and walked through his mental checklist. He nodded and smiled. Alan turned to the dying man and said, “so long, fucker.” Alan Maynard, heir-apparent to the empire, locked the door and left.

Mason was alone and helpless. While he was quite used to taking care of himself, being unable to do so was not something to which he was accustomed. All that could be done was hope that John got his voicemail in time to save Edie and Sarah. He was in the middle of emailing the evidence package when Alan burst through the door. For the life of him, whatever was left anyway, he couldn’t recall whether or not he hit ‘send’.

It no longer mattered for Mason. He was finished. Amid the blood loss and the excruciating pain, tempered only by shock’s mercy, he forced his eyes closed and waited. The dreaded contraption made one chirp before Mason’s world went white hot, sending him to oblivion.

(http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts/the-man-in-the-park)

Martin slipped his battered old pickup into neutral and turned the engine off. Ol’ Trusty coasted behind the bluff and crunched on the gravel shoulder. He winced at the squeal of her brakes. He didn’t think that miserable old bastard could hear bugger-all anyway, but he ducked lower in the cab just the same.

As hot as it was in the truck, when Martin opened the door a weighty soup of hot damp air greeted  him. It had rained through the night, but the cloudless summer sky undoubtedly promised a stand-down later. He would make his move then. All the field-hands would be ensconced under a shady tree at the brook awaiting the call back to work. Boss Mikey would be living it up in the timekeeper’s shack, a fan and some wobbly-pops within hand’s reach. 

He’d worked here for-fucking-ever. He burned the finished fields, spread the seedling plants and tended the high-bush varieties year-after-year. He was good at his job. So much so that when the snotty nosed teenagers came by the busload to rake next month, there wouldn’t be a stringed off line that wasn’t a bright sea of blues. Blueberries were a hard business, but profitable. Especially when dim-wits like him were a-plenty.

Boss Mikey knew that Martin was a soft-touch and milked it.  Brutal verbal abuser and relentless taskmaster, Mikey whipped his team hard. It was paid slavery, plain and simple. Most of the hands just sucked it up and moved on as soon as they could. Martin was bright enough to know it was wrong, but not strong enough to change his fate. Boss Mikey exploited that nugget for all it was worth. It was the same day after day. Until yesterday.

The small plastic tub in the bed of the pickup hummed and vibrated in chorus with the insects hiding in the grass on the opposite side of the road. Martin picked it up and checked the bungee cords that kept it tightly closed. A sweet flowery smell wafted through the breather screen, disturbed by the new motion. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply the nearly intoxicating aroma. For him, it was the smell of payback.

He placed his precious cargo carefully in the knapsack and strapped it on his back. It would need to be secure for the slow approach through the tall grass of the fallow-grounds. It was important that no one saw him.

Boss Mikey handled him pretty roughly when he fired him last night. His arse still hurt from the boot-heel, but his bruised ego wore the pain of being torn apart in front of the other guys. Boss Mikey made sure everyone knew what he thought of Martin and his ideas. He said Old Man Rutledge wouldn’t be trying out any of Martin’s ‘trained bees’ anytime soon. Not on his watch. No-sir-ee. The crop did just fine as it was. Martin was an idiot for even suggesting it. There was no room for dreamers and fools on Boss Mikey’s gang. When Martin’s eyes welled up with shame, his tormentor canned him on the spot. Martin drove away, his truck weaving and wobbling down the road, kicking up dust. No one expected him to come back.

But he was back and when Martin reached Boss Mikey’s shack, it was as he expected. The stand-down was indeed in effect, and the shack was shut tighter than a drum to keep the cool in. The genny was running noisily. Boss Mikey was most certainly half in the bag and dozing off by now. Good.

Martin loved his bees, and they loved him. He quietly opened the tub and reached inside to grab a piece of comb, a small knot of his little soldiers coming along for the ride.

He worked swiftly and deliberately with his free hand so as to not upset the contents of his other. He quietly opened the door to Boss Mikey’s sanctuary and turned off the fan. He then placed the comb on at the bully’s feet and quietly backed away. Closing the door, he wedged a rake in the jam. The generator’s rattle and rumble did much to cover the commotion that ensued.

When it was finished, Martin calmly removed the rake and went inside. He collected his little instruments of retribution and returned them to the tub. He turned on the fan, closed the door to the shack and retreated to the safety of his truck. 

No one saw him drive off into the setting sun.

(http://www.writerscarnival.ca/poetry-prompts)