Week Two: Write at the Merge Balloons and Nirvana Challenge

Write at the Merge was introduced last week, replacing the old Red Writing Hood format for prompts. This week we were challenged with a photo taken in Turkey of a group of hot-air balloons in the shadow of a setting sun, and the unplugged version of Nirvana's Plateau. The picture inspired my location this week, and the song lyrics made me think of a desert cemetery. Before you ask, no, I don't know why. I have no idea if that was the intent of the song-writer. I can't say I've ever really listened to Nirvana. That band wasn't on my list of "had to have".

This week I return to Ivy's campaign to rescue Mitch. We last met her at an art gallery in Washington, D.C. She's currently following leads and going on wild-goose-chases, discovering that this conspiracy cuts deeper than she ever thought possible.

I offer the following in response: A Phrygian Market

Hot-air balloons hung above the desert plateau against the Phrygian twilight, like ink-blots floating on orange vellum. Jet-lagged and out of her element, Ivy followed incomplete directions from her hotel through the park to the marketplace. Pausing in the lingering heat to catch her bearings, she compared her map to the mosque-dominated skyline. She double-backed a block and turned at the old cemetery, walking south beyond the planted dead waiting for resurrection. The marketplace appeared at the edge of a centuries-old apartment row; its banners bright as balloons against ancient masonry.

She wormed her way through the crowded bazaar booths, her lungs struggling to process the foreign air heavily laden with unfamiliar spices and body odors. Strange languages resembled nothing more than spoken gibberish to her ears. She felt like a pinball in an arcade game, jostled off shoulders and displays, alone in a sea of human kickers and slingshots.

“You like this rug? You want to buy this rug?” a monger blockaded her way with a red paisley carpet.

“No thank you,” she replied, barely registering the questions were in English. She tried to push by, but the man didn’t budge.

He forced eye contact. “You want to buy, Ivy Tanner.”

She stopped; a deathly chill gripped her soul. “You know me?”

There were large, toothless gaps in his smile. “We have mutual friends,” he whispered. “Perhaps you would prefer a green one?”

Ivy eyed him with suspicion. Every fiber in her being screamed trap. Still, she replied, “Or blue?”

He waived her inside his shop, “Yes, yes, come! I have more inside. You come pick. I give you good price.”

The world outside was locked away and she was ensnared in the stale darkness of the tiniest commercial threshold she ever crossed. “Look Pal, my embassy knows where I am. If I don’t return by-“

A humorless, inhuman laugh slithered from the shadows. “Miss Tanner, fear not. We have no interest in your death.” A shape stepped into the meager light.

Shit! Her breath caught in her lungs. The man was in the pictures she smuggled from the nightmare of Equator, the village in the shadow of Volcano Wolf of Isabela Island. “I’m leaving,” she snapped. “I’m in no mood for games.”

He gripped her arm as she turned to the door. “I want what you want, Miss Tanner.”

“What I want is to be out there and away from you. Just who are you anyway?”

“Lou Marston,” he let her go. "I believe we can help each other."

 “I don't require help, least of all from you.”

"Perhaps," he rubbed his chin, "but I know you're looking for Mitch. I happen to be as well. We could pool our efforts, Miss Tanner."

Her stomach plummeted as she assessed her situation. The door behind her represented her hope for freedom: out of reach and closed.

Write On Edge: Gallery Challenge

Red Writing Hood gave us 500 words this week and a photo of a painting displayed in a gallery setting for inspiration.

I'm rarely moved by "modern" art. I'm not saying that I haven't found some pieces fascinating or beautifully chaotic. Most often than not I'm left with the idea that I could give finger-paints to a kindergartner and get better results. Don't get me started on Picasso.

And before anyone sends me hate mail, I want to admit that I do see value to modernistic art. Bank lobbies and doctors' offices for example, have a need for these sorts of abstract pieces. It's just not my cup of tea.

I stumbled across a sculpture carved by Wendell Castle which I am told is part of the rotating display of 19th to 21st century art in the historic Renwick Gallery in Washington DC. From a distance, and indeed from any photo I have seen of the sculpture, Ghost Clock looks like a grandfather clock draped with cloth, the way furniture in abandoned buildings or vacation homes may be. But Ghost Clock, sheet and all, is carved from a huge block of mahogany.

So I've been inspired by a photo of abstract art in a round-about sort of way. I return to Ivy Tanner, a reporter with nothing left to lose and a nerve-developed desire to rescue the man who saved her life. Shameless plug: Ivy's story begins in Escape, one of the short stories that is featured in Precipice.

I offer the following in response: Ghost at the Rendezvous

Ivy re-read the note for the hundredth time. Renwick. Castle Ghost. 1pm. Come alone.

She was alone, against her better judgment.

It was 1:30pm.

Ivy was accustomed to dead ends. As a journalist, she’d dealt with more than a few “confidential informants” who weren’t exactly honest. Getting stood up was part of the job and only caused her grief when she was supposed to be on a date. She checked her watch again and sighed.

Of the art galleries under the purview of the Smithsonian, the Renwick Gallery was Ivy’s favorite, more for the architecture than for the art displays. The laylight in the Grand Salon captured her attention as it rested in the ceiling atop the rose-colored walls, as if a skylight flooding the 4300 square-foot room with the essence of a perfect day. The Ghost Clock held a similar mystique. From a distance, the unsuspecting were easily fooled by the sculpture. After waiting for her no-show, Ivy now felt she had intimate knowledge of the piece. It was nothing more than an exquisitely carved block of mahogany.

“Marvelous work,” a docent said, approaching Ivy with a warm smile. “Wendell Castle was a genius.”

“Mmm, yes, I suppose he was.” Ivy returned the smile.

The docent reacted with enthusiasm, “The folds of the sheet are so dramatic-“

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Ivy interrupted, “but I fear I may have just been stood up. I’m, well, not in much of a mood anymore.”

“Ah, I see. I’m sorry.” The docent cast her eyes downward and backed up a bit. “The piece is still lovely and haunting; I implore you not to allow your current situation to spoil that.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Did you drop that?” she directed Ivy’s attention to the base of the sculpture.

A white envelope, no bigger than a credit card, materialized on the floor; its edges embossed with a distinctive ivy pattern. Clever. Ivy was slow to react. “Yes, I think maybe I did.” She stooped to collect the envelope and turned furtive from the retreating docent, leery of revealing the contents to witnesses.

A small key dropped into her hands as she pulled a note from the ivied pocket. Frustration bubbled in her heart. Why go through this much trouble to hand me a key? Why the scavenger hunt? She unfolded the message almost afraid of what she would find.

Locker 1625 at the Capitol Hilton Spa. Please be discreet. Contents will help get Mitch home.

Ivy released the breath she held and made for the door. The was little time to waste and traffic along 17^th and K wouldn’t be easy to navigate.

Write On Edge: Rain Challenge

Red Writing Hood gives us 400 words this week and the prompt is Rain.

I harken to the phrase: When it rains, it pours. I'm going to whine for a moment and tell you that it's pouring in my insignificant world. I've lost track of time and missed a valuable deadline, I'm packing to move, I'm suffering from lack of ideas, behind in my NaNoWriMo...whine, whine, whine...

But I'm a fighter. When life gives me lemons, I make fertilizer.

Ivy Tanner does the same. For those of you who have read Write On Edge's Precipice, you may be familiar with Ivy and Mitch.

I offer you the following in response: The Driving Rain

Senator Mason approached her as she watched soldiers march through the mud. “When it rains,” he started.

Ivy barely acknowledged him. “It pours.”

He sat beside her on the bench, closing the standard black umbrella that all denizens of D.C. seemed to own. “Look, Miss Tanner, you know what you’re asking. Favors like that go beyond friendship.”

Lightning flashed, ushering in another deluge of precipitation. The boys in uniform seemed impervious to the weather. Ivy cast a weary glance to the overhang shielding her from the drench. “You’re right of course, Senator. But I’m not asking for a favor.”

He shifted. “No?”

She turned, returning the cold glare from his bloodshot eyes. “The Hill is full of skeletons, Senator. I’m going to shake the trees until I stir something up. I’m giving you the option to be first to the trough, because you’ve always been so kind to me.”

He chuckled and stood, slow as if the rain had soaked his joints. “You won’t last three seconds in that forest, Sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart, Senator, but if you don’t find a way to send a team to extract Mitch from Equator, I will become your personal poltergeist. Everyone you know will watch you burn, and when I’m through, you’ll be lucky if you can find a position in Moosejaw Alaska.”

He opened his umbrella. “Extortion isn’t your style Miss Tanner. I believe we are done here. And if you so much as step foot near my offices again, I’ll bury you myself.”

She allowed him to retreat a few feet before she called out, “Senator Mason, you want to hear me out. You see, I got to thinking…how is it that Tobago has managed to elude all the operations against him on his own soil?”

Thunder interrupted her. He stopped, turning around, his face stone despite the wind driving rain in his face. “You’re a reporter. I’m sure you have a million fabricated stories to support any number of theories.”

Ivy snorted. “Of all the professions on the bottom of the trust scale in America, people still trust their reporters more than they do politicians. You know why? Because people like you are in bed with unsavory people like Tobago. Reporters? We just get shot at on foreign soil for taking a few pictures.”

His face darkened. “I hope you’re prepared for the storm.”

“You as well, Senator.”

Precipice Is Here!

Bannerwing and the editorial staff at Write On Edge proudly announce the availability of this magnificent collection of short fiction and creative non-fiction pieces written by members of the Write On Edge community. The Kindle format is ready at Amazon, and other formats can be found at Smashwords.com. A hard copy will be released soon for those who prefer to have physical pages to turn. I have links set up under my new "Publications For Sale" tab above.

Write On Edge: Bought Challenge

Red Writing Hood gave us the following for last week:

Write about money, using the provided lines:

Beginning line: “Not everyone can be bought,” she said.

 Ending line: He let the money fall onto the table and walked out.


So I played with the lines a little bit, and I worked with the story until I realized I didn't have internet access. I'm returning to Mitch and his path of vengeance.



I offer the following (late) in response: Cafe Borracho

“Not everyone can be bought,” Her hushed voice leaked from her grin.

Mitch smirked. Eva only ever looked out for Eva. She must’ve received a better offer. He leaned back in his chair, hand over his scotch glass. “That’s a shame,” he uttered. He watched two men enter the cantina and make their way to the back, charging the atmosphere with a sharp tension. “Are you losing your touch?”

She snorted and knocked back her tequila. “The Game has changed, Mitch. Someone else is making the rules now. Rumor is Marston is backed by someone the locals call Tobago. Nobody seems willing to double cross him.” Her hazel eyes drifted, losing intensity. “Remember that night in Bucharest?”

He nodded. Forgetting wasn’t an option. Too many lives were lost due to bad intel. The Agency never found the leak. Her tone, though, spoke of their hotel room, not the botched assignment. All that infernal waiting, stuck without backup for hours. He remembered she smelled of lilacs and opportunity. “What of it?”

She flinched like a battered cat. “Asshole. You just scratched an itch, that it?”

He raised an eyebrow as movement in the back caught his attention. The barmaid delivered drinks to the two men and scurried away, a little too rushed for his tastes. “Rich, coming from you.”

Her cold look slapped him. “I lost my innocence in Bucharest.”

Mitch groaned, “I’ll buy you lost your car keys once, but innocence? I don’t think so.”

“Okay, fine. I can’t fool you,” she hissed. “What game are you playing, coming down here? You’re burned. Your country abandoned you.”

“I’m going to kill Marston,” he leaned close, sliding his hand gently down her cheek. “I’m giving you the chance to be someplace else, for old times’ sake.”

“Spare me.” He felt the distinct pressure of a blade pressing against his inner thigh as she added more teeth to her grin. “You’re simply a means to an end.”

“I know.” He flicked his wrist, plunging his sleeve-concealed syringe into her jugular. She resembled a deer trapped in headlights, eyes wide with fear. “But the Game’s changed, remember? For me, this is personal.”

She slumped in her chair, the clatter of her knife resounded across the wooden floorboards. The two men in the back rose from their seats, but Mitch drew down. “Stay put,” he barked.

The tall one twitched.

The muzzle flashed, bright in the smoky cantina. The two men were thrown to the floor as the hollow points ripped through their heads. “Sorry about the mess, Pedro,” Mitch told the bartender. He pulled money from his wallet and tossed a generous handful to the table before he walked out.