Weather in the Tries: Coolish to Cold. Honest. Trust me. 

The Assassin:

I thought I’d share a short piece of fiction that I sold a few years ago to Flash Fiction Online and have also published in Writing Women and my book, The Bride’s Gate and Other Assorted Writings. The book is available from my publisher at https://www.cyberwit.net/authors/lenora-rain-lee-good and from Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/dp/818253772X. If you have a favorite brick and mortar store, take the title and ISBN to the store and they will happily order it for you. ISBN 13: 978-81-8253-772-9

Anyhow, I thought you might enjoy a sample of my fiction. The Bride’s Gate and Other Assorted Writings contains this story, and more. It also contains some short memoir pieces and some poetry. So far, all the reviews have been 5 stars. Please feel free to add to it. My publisher is going to post it as an ebook. If you want an ebook, please check your normal source and feel free to contact the publisher.

The Assassin

Fiction

I crawl to the crest of the hill and slowly raise my head enough to see the other side. The wind blows in my face bringing the laughter of the men in the campsite below, the smell of their cooking. If I can smell their camp, they cannot smell me.

 Fools. They think their hideout is safe and stand too close to the fire. There are no out-guards only the two armed men who stand and face the fire instead of watching the meadow and forest beyond. No one looks up the hill in my direction. If anyone attacks, they will be blind when they turn away from the fire.

With slow deliberation and great care I raise my night scope to check the area below. I avoid the campfire, or I too will be blind. Five men. There should be six. I listen and I watch. I hate this part of the job. I hate this job. All of it. I want to retire but, in this business, there is no retirement.

Ah there he is. The sixth man. He walks into sight from behind a rock zipping his pants. I chuckle. More than one man has lost his life while taking a leak; kilts make a lot of sense! I’m only paid to assassinate the one but taking all six will be just as easy. Easier because I won’t have to go down and risk being caught. Collateral death happens.

I lower the night scope, load and attach the grenade launcher to my rifle, sight on the fire and wait until they are all near it. I do not have long to wait they are careless and soon all huddle around the fire for warmth. They drink their booze and laugh too loud. The two guards come closer to get food. At least they aren’t drinking. But it doesn’t matter. I aim at the fire. I squeeze the trigger. I watch as six men—six brothers, six fathers, six sons—hurl in tiny unrecognizable pieces all about their campsite. I wonder if any but the wolves and scavengers will find them?

I go back down the hill. I lope at an easy pace to my waiting vehicle. I dream of the home cooked meal that awaits me when I return. I do not think of the six men again.

I try to figure out how to retire. I hate this job.

***

I walk into the employment office. I tell the sweet young thing behind the desk with the nameplate Angie I want retraining. She looks up my record and laughs.

I tell her for the umpteenth time I want to retire. She laughs. Again. There is no sympathy in her laughter. Or empathy in her eyes; she is a hard, cold bitch.

She knows she is safe from me. She knows that I, a trained, skilled and bonded assassin can only kill those for whom I have a valid state-sanctioned contract. All my contracts go through her. Most all my contracts go through her.

I squeeze the ampoule of poison into her face. The shock causes her to inhale the odorless and fouled air. She laughs, thinks it a joke—a bit of assassin humor. She will die in two hours, probably while at lunch. I turn and walk out of the building. I don’t know why I had the contract on her or who bought it; all I know is that it was legal and sanctioned and for once I almost like my job. She was a nasty piece of inhumanity. I smile as the door closes behind me.

***

The smells of dinner waft through the house. Marie always makes my favorite after a contract is complete—meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy. For dessert she’ll have brandy and chocolates. It’s my comfort meal.

I water the flowers in our bedroom—bright, perfumed, and alive. I see movement in the door. It is Marie. She smiles, “Dinner is almost ready.” She opens her arms wide, and I walk into her enveloping embrace. God, how I love this woman!

“It’s time,” she whispers, and I feel her mouth, soft and yielding on mine, and then I feel the pain and the terrible cold. Marie, also a licensed, bonded assassin, knows I hate my job. I fall to the hard floor, whimpering. Marie holds me in her arms until the pain stops… 

***

“Angie?” Marie yells, “Angie! Will you help me get this old fart into his bed? He fell out of his chair again and splattered his meatloaf dinner all over the floor. Call an aide to clean up the mess, will ya? And don’t slip on the chocolate pudding. Shit! What a mess these old geezers make.”

About this story: Old geezers love to tell stories, and to them, they are all true. At least at the time they tell the story. This story was originally published by Flash Fiction Online, https://flashfictionmagazine.com/blog/2016/11/27/the-assassin/ November 27, 2016. A recording, by the author, was published in the July 1, 2021 newsletter, Writing Women at https://writingwomen.substack.com. 

Photo of the Week:

Entertainment:

Television: Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nothing. 

Books: I’m reading Artificial Intelligence: A Guide for Thinking Humans by Melanie Mitchell, which I’m actually enjoying. At least so far. I got all the way to page 2, and no math. Yet. 

I’m also still on The Glass Constellation by Arthur Sze. It’s a hardback book, which means it’s heavy and it’s over 500 pages of poetry. I’m about 2/3 of the way through. I’m loving his style, his word usage, I think I am once again in literary lust. Have even written one long poem (7 pages) based on some of his poetry styles. Mine isn’t as good as his, but by golly, I’m learning something. Our styles of writing are also different. I don’t want to write like him, I want to write like me, but use some of his ideas.

Quote of the Week:

“Writers and politicians are the same—paid, professional liars. Oh, I lied, writers aren’t paid.” —unknown

And so we have made it to another Monday. I would do my best to guilt you into buying a copy of my book, but then I’d feel guilty. Look at it this way, it’s only what? the price of 3 or 4 lattes? I don’t know, I can’t afford lattes, let alone books, but you surely can. Can’t you?

Sammy Brave Dog wants summer back. He’s not a fan of cold. At least he snuggles at night. 😉