Next round of the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction Challenge. Prompts this time round were Genre: Action and Adventure / location: shooting range / Object: Full-length mirror .

Synopsis: An orphaned daughter uses the sword of her father to seek revenge.

The candles flickered, their reflections danced on the steel of her blade setting it alight. The breeze caressed her skin and stirred her long dark hair, she closed her eyes and cleared her mind. Her father had taught her to fight with this sword, just as his father taught him. He told the story of how his Sofu had come to America with only the sword and his recipes.

Now the bakery and its recipes were gone, and the sword would be the tool of her revenge. Pushing back the sadness that clawed at her heart she stood and blew out the candles. There would be time to mourn later.

~*~

Knowing that the sword at her back would never make it through the front door unnoticed she climbed the fire escape and entered through a second-floor window. The building had once been a shooting range. When the Yakuza moved into the neighbourhood last year, they turned it into an exclusive club; shot-up silhouettes left to decorate the walls like sinister bunting. The false ceiling had been removed, leaving the gangway on which she now walked hidden by lights and air-conditioning pipes. The gun check was now a bar where a full-length mirror adorned the wall, fronted by expensive bottles of sake lined up like soldiers. Below her, a throng of bodies danced to pulsing music.

In the corner, a plush booth sat like a throne from where Billy Yen reigned over his little kingdom. Publicly a fine upstanding businessman and citizen, privately a crime lord and to an unlucky few, a murderer. Handsome and confident he lounged against the crushed velvet, two beautiful women draped on either side like fur coats, laughing at a private joke. She crouched on the gangway and scanned the crowds, picking out five bodyguards. Angry looking men, all conspicuous amongst the revellers, the bulge of automatic weapons showing under their suit jackets. Marking the place of each opponent, she inhaled the smell of sweat and alcohol and stepped off the platform.

The crowd gasped and parted as she landed with cat-like grace, knees bent to absorb the impact and one palm to the floor to steady her. Straightening, she met their awe with a glare and drew her blade. They stopped staring and began to run. She headed for Billy Yen.

The world around her slowed as instinct and training took over, time experienced in movement and sound. Large hands grasped at her through the screaming crowd as the first member of Billy’s goon squad lunged for her like a fool. Her sword swung high then arced down, severing both his hands. The music stopped and his roar of pain rushed to fill the void, followed by the percussion of gunfire. She pushed on through the thinning crowd.

Darting to avoid the second gunman, her petite form nimble and graceful in contrast to his brutish fumbling. A practised slice from navel to nose put him down. She spun like a dancer, sword glittering in the multi-coloured lights before arterial spray from the throat of number three coated her face like war paint. She let her momentum carry her forward to meet number four with a rapier thrust to the gut. Blood flowed across the polished floorboards and she knew he wouldn’t live.

Pain seared through her as a bullet tore the cartilage of her right ear, stumbling as a second hit her shoulder. Gritting her teeth she ran at the shooter, weaving to avoid a further hit and finally, ducking beneath his gun hand. She dropped into a slide and kicked him hard in the right knee with both feet. The crunch of bone filled the air as he fell and his gunfire ceased. She shivered with delight and repulsion, rising to pierce his heart with her sword. All five bodyguards were down.

Solitary applause echoed in the deserted room as time resumed its normal pace. Billy Yen sat much as he had before, unfazed by the drama. The two women were no longer laughing. Pain radiated through her body, but she stood steady and poised. She looked to the women and offered two words; “Get. Out.” Billy didn’t blink, arrogance blinding him to his imminent death. The women fled.

His voice flowed through the silence, soft and lilting, untouched by the gore that surrounded them. “Impressive, perhaps you should work for me rather than…” He gestured to his fallen men, eyes lingering over the one still alive who whimpered as he tried to pick up his hands.

“I’d rather eat pig vomit.”

Billy glowered, patience lost. “What do you want, girl?”

She rolled her eyes, arm sweeping to gesture to the carnage. “Surely you’ve caught on?”

He leaned back, unconcerned. “Yes, yes. For my life. What do you want in return for my life?”

“You think you can buy me?” She swallowed the rage that rose within her.

He remained calm. “Everyone wants something,”

“Hayashi Kafu.” The name tumbled from her lips, yet no flicker of recognition showed in Billy’s eyes. Hatred knotted in her stomach. “You don’t even know his name?”

“Understand girl, I am a busy man, and I deal with many people.” His tone was nonchalant.

“He was my father!” She yelled. “Your petty thugs beat him for ‘protection money’, all five of them. Then you murdered him.” A tear betrayed her shattered heart. She dashed it away. “You beheaded him!”

“You seem confused.” His tone mocked her “I’m a businessman. I…”

Her father’s katana sang one final time. The look of surprise on Billy Yen’s face would have been comical, but for the macabre fact that it now looked up at her from the table while his body still lounged in its seat.

Turning, she paused to wipe the blood from her sword and scoop up the severed hands. She caught sight of herself in the mirror she bowed to her reflection, honour restored.

My round one submission for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge.

Prompt: Mystery, art museum, butter knife

I’d looked forward to lunch all day. Toasted focaccia layered with Spanish ham, a crumbling of goat cheese and dots of chopped peaches. Lastly a sprinkle of rocket and then a drizzle of balsamic-honey glaze. I knew it would be perfect.

Alas, it was gone. A blue handled butter knife, a brown smear of glaze on the blade, the only clue that my glorious creation had ever been here. My stomach gave a mournful rumble.

I was late to lunch today. Tourists had caused a ruckus in the Religious Arts room while I was doing my rounds. I thought about who would have been for lunch, my suspects.

First, there was Susan. 5’5” of the pretty brunette. She specialized in art restoration, and I had been half in love with her for the last two years. She was sweet and always smelled of vanilla, but was she also a thief?

Next, there was Charlie. Nineteen and whip thin, he studied art history and lived with his mom. His summer job was answering questions for the tourists in the Baroque rooms. He was a nice kid, always ready with a joke for me.

Last, there was Norma. She was a plump and quiet woman in her early sixties. She said little but saw everything. She worked in the information booth, surrounded each day by marbled athletic perfection and blank aristocratic stares. Come to think of it, on my way past earlier I heard soft humming coming from the break room. Norma hummed all the time. I headed for the sculptures hall.

I could hear her humming before I rounded the corner. Her plump curves stretched the cotton of her uniform to the very limit, I leaned against her booth and tried to keep the tone light.
“Hi Norma, how’s it going?”
She turned to me with a cool glare. Lips pursed tight she hummed her response in the way only women of her age could “Mmmhmmmm?” Sweat prickled my scalp under her steady glare. The gurgling of my stomach filled the silence. “I didn’t eat your sandwich,” she said.
“What?”
“I saw your little empty container.” She gave a rich chuckle, “Security Dan can’t even protect his own sandwich.” She guffawed, and it echoed around the hall, bouncing off the marble. Norma was not a woman who told even the whitest of lies. She was not my thief. “Saw Susan in there.” She offered.
“Thanks,” I muttered and headed out.

I spotted Susan as I passed Scottish Artists. She flitted around giving instructions in her melodious voice. Seeing me, she stopped and smiled. My heart melted.
“Hi Danny, you coming to guard me?” She turned the wattage up on her smile. My stomach grumbled its reply.
“I was just wondering, have you had a chance to get lunch?”
She pulled a face. “Yep. It was disgusting, but I’m pretty sure I’ve lost weight.”
I remembered, Susan was two weeks into a 30 day cleanse. She had been awful to everyone for the last week and a half. Yesterday she had miserably dipped her knife in hummus and slathered it over a cracker. Without a word of conversation for the whole half hour, she had angrily repeated dip, spread, and munch.
I couldn’t believe sweet Susan was a sandwich thief. “Did you see anyone in the break room?”
She thought for a moment. “Charlie was leaving when I went in.”
“Brilliant, thanks!” I left her with an awkward pat on the arm.

Hurrying along halls lined with pastoral scenes I thought about Charlie. Lunchtimes always made him miserable. His mother made him lunch but everything that woman made smelled like dog food or week old tuna, sometimes both. I imagined being him. Seeing the horror that waited in the fridge and then… my sandwich. Of course he would eat it. My stomach growled agreement.

Footfalls ringing against the hardwood, Charlie turned to see if there were any tidbits on Rubens or Rembrandt that were needed. He started to raise a hand in greeting and then faltered. He knew I was on to him. “Everything alright Mr. Newton?”
“How was lunch, Charlie?” Brow furrowing he struggled for an answer.
“It was fine?”
“Fine?” I crowded towards him. “Your Mom make you something good?”
A flush of red turned his ears scarlet. “Oh god Mr. Newton, please don’t tell her I threw her hotpot away. She’ll be so upset.” He waved his hands uselessly in the air. He had eaten my sandwich, and all he worried about was my telling his mother?
My stomach made the grumble of all grumblings. Then, I heard the answering roil from Charlie. A sad empty gurgle, not the happy rumblings of a digesting tummy. I took a step back. “It wasn’t you. You didn’t eat my sandwich?”
Charlie furrowed his brow even further. “Your sandwich? No, sir. I wouldn’t take another man’s sandwich. That’s just plain wrong!” I nodded my agreement and realisation dawned on Charlie. “You’re hangry Mr. Newton!” he exclaimed.
“Hangry?”
“You know, angry because you’re hungry.”
I laughed. I apologised for my accusations with a handshake and turned to leave. “If you don’t mind me saying, I saw your sandwich. You’d have to forgive a hungry person for eating it. It looked delicious.”
I gave a wave.

Out of suspects, I headed back into the break room with seven minutes left for lunch. Filling a cup with water, my eyes strayed to the knife that bore the traces of the crime committed against me. Charlie’s words came back to me. I saw your sandwich… couldn’t blame a hungry person….
I pulled the top from the bin, wanting to be wrong but knowing what I’d find. Her happy smile, so different to the previous day. Using that butter knife to smear hummus on crackers, the offending food now all heaped in the bin. Susan wasn’t hangry anymore.

What better way to get into the flow of things? Simply hurl myself off into the deep end and be open to criticisms and teachings of people in the same kind of dingy as me and hopefully gain insight and wisdom from those commandeering their own tanker in the same waters.

So I entered.

A 1,000 word limit to all stories which must be submitted within 48 hours. Each entrant receives three prompts.

A genre: This must be the main theme of the story

A location: This must be the main location

An object: Must be somewhere in the story, but doesn’t need to be intregal to the plot.

Easy right?

Round 1. Mystery in an art museum with a butter knife.