Fiction · writing


He was careful to weigh the options before him- like a sentry who would be fired for one undue mistake, he was always on guard for the first sign of trouble. He had nightmares of machinated men leading cavalcades of monstrous armies across swathes of arid land whilst he slept on, the vaults unguarded, his possessions a gaping hole for the unstoppable forces of the enemies. He thought it could happen at any moment; while he slept with one hand on the gun, jerking awake and falling back into an uneasy doze, he made certain that the tiniest leap of a summer frog across the landing would register in his ears like a faithfully alert dog.

‘Excuse me?’

He was dreaming of armored men holding large swords and cutting through human flesh like a butter knife through its targeted slab. His eyes and chest hurt from the scratchy stretch of space between consciousness and unconsciousness on which he broodingly stood.

‘Excuse me!’

He startled and sat up straight, one hand on his rifle, eyes open for the first hint of trouble which would spring him into action, his other hand steady inches before the one-touch trigger which would raise the alarm.

Instead he was facing a woman. The prettiest woman he had ever seen. With ringlets of dark hair falling across her forehead and angled eyes the color of chestnuts lighting up a beautifully bronzed skin. In a moment, he forgot about the monsters and the dark creatures of the night and focused instead on her violet blouse with gold chains hung over firm breasts. He appreciatively admired her slim figure and his fingers relaxed around his weapon.

‘Excuse me?’ the woman said again, not angrily like most women would be but with a slightly quizzical expression that rounded up her delicate features, her mouth pouted into a round ‘O’.

‘May I help you madame?’, he finally replied in his glibbest voice, sending his hair flying backwards with a single flick of the neck.

‘Yes, I was wondering if you could guide me to a Mr.-Mr-‘

She held up a slip of paper, muttering words he couldn’t distinguish but the agonized urgency with which her hand pointed towards the paper in her hand moved him in a second and he reluctantly turned away from her to examine the paper.

‘Mr. Quastershquatsch’. He read out for her. He got that a lot. It was the weirdest name he had ever heard to.

‘Yeah, he’s up on the fifth.’

‘Well, that is so kind of you. I’m grateful.’

She flashed him a beautiful smile, revealing a set of glowing teeth and reached out to sign the visitor’s book before she turned away towards the glass doors.

He watched her retreating back with a smile of his own and settled back into the chair, the demons of his nightmares replaced by the beautiful woman he had just seen, pushing back his curls with his hands, he found her tender lips turned up and ready.

In a flash of lightning, he was awakened by the sounding of alarms.

The beautiful woman was at his desk again, signing herself off.

‘Looks like there is a spell of trouble brewing inside.’ She told him helpfully before letting herself out.

He ran up the stairs, confronted the gaping hole and looked around in despair for a signal. There were no large armies, no guns or cavalry men. Just a woman, three blocks away, turning up the collars of a dark coat in an alley which was carefully hidden from the nearest security camera, her breasts enlarged under the extra padding of weights they weren’t supposed to drag.


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