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section7mfu2017-02-25 12:59 pm
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Short Affair Challenge - Huddlescombe Society for the Prevention of Moral Turpitude - February 13th
Prompts: Shake / white
Word Count: ~700
Note: What was meant to be a few sentence opening to this week's prompt took on a life of its own. It worked well as a late entry for a previous challenge. I hope to continue the original story idea, a bit less floridly, on Monday.
Mrs. E. J. Harriman of Huddlescombe by the Sea, her beady eyes glinting with curiosity, paused to observe the taxicab that pulled up in front of the Wollecott Grand Hotel. “Gerald!” she bellowed, as her terrier yipped frantically and strained at his leash.
The rear door swung open. Haltingly, with labored movements, two men climbed out of the taxi. They stood on the public sidewalk, unashamed of their dishevelment, squinting resentfully at the pure rays of late morning sunshine. A martial gleam blazed in Mrs. Harriman’s eyes. She scooped up Gerald, gathering the terrier to her ample bosom, and marched upon the strangers.
“Disgraceful,” she cried, rolling the Rs for emphasis. Two pairs of eyes, sunken and red-rimmed, turned to her in alarm. “How dare you return at this hour, reeking of perfume and liquor, flaunting your night of debauchery for any decent person to see.” Her strident tones echoed around the street and provoked Gerald into another round of furious yipping.
The fair-haired reprobate, his thin frame wasted by riotous living, pressed a hand to his head and glared back at her. "Madam, kindly silence your dog before some decent person does it for you.”
Mrs. Harriman clutched the terrier protectively to her chest. With a strangled yelp, Gerald’s barking ceased.
“You—long-haired degenerate.” The gold band on his finger winked in the sunlight. Her bosom heaved, and her terrier whined. “Scoundrel. Carousing through the night, steeped in alcohol and pleasures of the flesh, while upstairs a sweet, innocent young woman paces the floor, weeping, wringing her hands, waiting for your return.”
He dropped the tell-tale hand to his side and flexed his fingers. “You are mistaken. There is no young woman, weeping or otherwise, awaiting me.”
“So she’s left you, has she? Driven away by your unfaithfulness and cruelty.” Mrs. Harriman pointed one plump finger at the wastrel and then shook it at the sky. “Why, if she had murdered you in your bed, I for one would have stood by her.”
“Have you met my friend Napoleon?” He gestured to his dark-haired, dissipated confederate, who had been watching their exchange with a perplexed grimace. “Midnight assassinations by homicidal females are his area of expertise.” His lips compressed into a thin white line. “And also the reason for our present condition.”
"You're going to dine out on that for weeks, aren't you?” the aptly-named Napoleon asked from the side of his mouth. He smiled rakishly and attempted to ingratiate himself by a show of interest in her terrier. Gerald growled, baring his teeth at the proffered hand, and the Corsican Monster quickly withdrew his unwelcome advances.
With the daylight searing his pale eyes and sallow complexion, the blond blackguard took advantage of her distraction and retreated into the hotel. Mrs. Harriman fixed the remaining rascal with a basilisk stare.
“Believe me, dear lady, I have learned my lesson,” he said, employing a silver tongue which had undoubtedly led many an unsuspecting maiden to her doom. “All that glitters is not gold. Never judge a book by its cover. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.” The brunet bounder revolved around her and backed his way toward the hotel doors. “They that sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind. Those that sleep with dogs will rise with fleas.”
At this last piece of insincerity, Gerald leapt from her arms, barking hysterically. Faced with such retribution, the cowardly cur scrambled back across the threshold and slammed the door closed. The terrier hit the glass with a squeak, but rallied valiantly, scratching and yipping in righteous anger.
Even a black-hearted miscreant could not fail to be moved by such a heroic defense of womanhood and doghood alike. He offered Gerald a small salute before withdrawing into the lobby.
Mrs. Harriman tugged on the leash and pulled the terrier away from the door. “Come, Gerald. We must go home. There has been a shocking decline in the clientele of this once-respectable establishment. I will write a letter to the Huddlescombe Despatch immediately.”
Word Count: ~700
Note: What was meant to be a few sentence opening to this week's prompt took on a life of its own. It worked well as a late entry for a previous challenge. I hope to continue the original story idea, a bit less floridly, on Monday.
Mrs. E. J. Harriman of Huddlescombe by the Sea, her beady eyes glinting with curiosity, paused to observe the taxicab that pulled up in front of the Wollecott Grand Hotel. “Gerald!” she bellowed, as her terrier yipped frantically and strained at his leash.
The rear door swung open. Haltingly, with labored movements, two men climbed out of the taxi. They stood on the public sidewalk, unashamed of their dishevelment, squinting resentfully at the pure rays of late morning sunshine. A martial gleam blazed in Mrs. Harriman’s eyes. She scooped up Gerald, gathering the terrier to her ample bosom, and marched upon the strangers.
“Disgraceful,” she cried, rolling the Rs for emphasis. Two pairs of eyes, sunken and red-rimmed, turned to her in alarm. “How dare you return at this hour, reeking of perfume and liquor, flaunting your night of debauchery for any decent person to see.” Her strident tones echoed around the street and provoked Gerald into another round of furious yipping.
The fair-haired reprobate, his thin frame wasted by riotous living, pressed a hand to his head and glared back at her. "Madam, kindly silence your dog before some decent person does it for you.”
Mrs. Harriman clutched the terrier protectively to her chest. With a strangled yelp, Gerald’s barking ceased.
“You—long-haired degenerate.” The gold band on his finger winked in the sunlight. Her bosom heaved, and her terrier whined. “Scoundrel. Carousing through the night, steeped in alcohol and pleasures of the flesh, while upstairs a sweet, innocent young woman paces the floor, weeping, wringing her hands, waiting for your return.”
He dropped the tell-tale hand to his side and flexed his fingers. “You are mistaken. There is no young woman, weeping or otherwise, awaiting me.”
“So she’s left you, has she? Driven away by your unfaithfulness and cruelty.” Mrs. Harriman pointed one plump finger at the wastrel and then shook it at the sky. “Why, if she had murdered you in your bed, I for one would have stood by her.”
“Have you met my friend Napoleon?” He gestured to his dark-haired, dissipated confederate, who had been watching their exchange with a perplexed grimace. “Midnight assassinations by homicidal females are his area of expertise.” His lips compressed into a thin white line. “And also the reason for our present condition.”
"You're going to dine out on that for weeks, aren't you?” the aptly-named Napoleon asked from the side of his mouth. He smiled rakishly and attempted to ingratiate himself by a show of interest in her terrier. Gerald growled, baring his teeth at the proffered hand, and the Corsican Monster quickly withdrew his unwelcome advances.
With the daylight searing his pale eyes and sallow complexion, the blond blackguard took advantage of her distraction and retreated into the hotel. Mrs. Harriman fixed the remaining rascal with a basilisk stare.
“Believe me, dear lady, I have learned my lesson,” he said, employing a silver tongue which had undoubtedly led many an unsuspecting maiden to her doom. “All that glitters is not gold. Never judge a book by its cover. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.” The brunet bounder revolved around her and backed his way toward the hotel doors. “They that sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind. Those that sleep with dogs will rise with fleas.”
At this last piece of insincerity, Gerald leapt from her arms, barking hysterically. Faced with such retribution, the cowardly cur scrambled back across the threshold and slammed the door closed. The terrier hit the glass with a squeak, but rallied valiantly, scratching and yipping in righteous anger.
Even a black-hearted miscreant could not fail to be moved by such a heroic defense of womanhood and doghood alike. He offered Gerald a small salute before withdrawing into the lobby.
Mrs. Harriman tugged on the leash and pulled the terrier away from the door. “Come, Gerald. We must go home. There has been a shocking decline in the clientele of this once-respectable establishment. I will write a letter to the Huddlescombe Despatch immediately.”
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