Crossing Genres Assignment #2

And here's the second installment (see last entry for the explanatory whatnot):
Disclaimer: it's a little longer, and I use a couple of naughty words in it *gasp*

Morning Tea:

I woke up, and wondered why I was awake already. Oh yes, that odd tension again – I knew from instinct alone, even before memory kicked in, that today was a day when I would be ordered to do things. Not just things, but Things. Of the immoral, illegal, and usually somewhat messy kind. The Supervisor was coming to see me, and he was coming today. To give me my details of my mission. Shit – where had the last week gone?

I rolled out of bed none too gracefully, and was greeted yet again by the view of the Riverview Hotel that my window afforded. I’d be stationed in this flat for the last three weeks, watching and waiting for more information. I had suspicions of course, as to why I was there – I knew very well who was scheduled to stay there in the next few days, and there’s no such things as coincidences that huge. Not in my line of work. I knew full well what it was that I was going to be asked to do – I just wasn’t willing to admit it to myself. If I thought too hard about it, then I’d be too scared to move. This was my first major job.

But no point in letting thoughts stray down that path. The Supervisor first. I had to get ready for the Supervisor. Bugger me but I should have kept this place cleaner, I thought as I hastily picked up dirty clothes from the floor and sent them arcing across the room into the laundry basket. Some of Michael’s discarded underwear revealed themselves in the process. Whoops. Glad I found those – the Supervisor has never approved of mixing business with pleasure, but with Michael stationed only two floors below and the tedious but tense boredom of the last few weeks, well, these things happen. Still, clumsily dealt with. And what kind of person in our profession forgets their underwear? After stacking up the scattered books, I tugged the bed-sheets into some semblance of neatness. Right, bedroom fixed.

I stumbled out into the main room of the tiny flat. Thankfully there wasn’t that much to clean up here – the bedroom had been my chief headquarters for time killing, and of course the only way to keep up my watch of the hotel entrance was the window there, so the living room had been mainly neglected. I don’t think that the television had been on once in the entire time that I’d been here. A quick straightening of the couch cushions would about do it. Now, onto the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was neat enough – I think that every on-duty assassin must live on a diet consisting mainly of takeaway meals and breakfast cereal, because heaven knows that there’s not much time to spend cooking – but it wasn’t the cleanliness that I was concerned with. It was the contents of the fridge. The Supervisor’s love of routine was legendary throughout the whole organization. If the old bloke was deprived of his morning tea and biscuits, then things could turn unpleasant, and I didn’t sit in this hole for the last three weeks, twiddling my thumbs, only to be dropped from the job now. White with one sugar was how the tea had to be. In a scrupulously clean cup - I recalled in time to give the waiting porcelain receptacles a bit of extra attention. Three biscuits, and ‘none of that sprinkled, chocolate chip kiddy bullshit’, if I recalled correctly from a co-worker’s recounting of a past dressing down. That was fine - I had some perfectly sober looking shortbread. The Supervisor’s tastes were austere. I’m surprised he even took milk and sugar in his tea.

I opened the fridge. Shit. There was no milk. I looked again. Still no milk. Double shit. I closed the fridge and rocked back on my heels. I looked at my watch. Only 8:30am - I still had time. It was risky to be seen in daylight this close to the job at hand, but I didn’t see what options there were. I scanned my eyes around the kitchen, hoping in vain for some alternative. There was a small carton of soy-milk sitting in a corner. I tried to picture the Supervisor’s reaction to soymilk, but suspected that nothing I could conjure would quite be able to match his contempt. He is always relentlessly articulate in his contempt. The shops it was then. The best I could do was look inconspicuous.

Five minutes later I was ready. Long coat – slightly out of season, but not so much as to attract notice. Hat and scarf, knitted by my mother. I always wonder what she’d think if she knew the jobs on which I’ve worn them. At least she picked unobtrusive colours this time. Bright primaries don’t mix well with subterfuge. My hands were shaking as I dutifully fixed all the locks on my door. Wouldn’t do for someone to get in by accident. I made my way down the stairs, all ten flights of them. I had reconciled myself weeks ago to the lift not being a valid option. Long flights of stairs are another occupational hazard.

Just before I got to the back exit, I ran into Michael entering in off the street. Awkwardness abounded for a few seconds. “Where are you off to?” he asked with a frown. “Supervisor visiting today. I’m out of milk”. It was a little embarrassing to admit. More than a little, actually. He didn’t say anything in response, only held up a grocery bag. A carton of milk peeked out cheerfully through the plastic. “I’ve got enough to share,” he said, and I threw my arms around him in sheer relief before he even had a chance to lower the bag again. After a moment, I came to my senses and pulled away, just in time to see him blushing slightly. “Come up then,” I muttered, and we ascended the stairs, both relieved to have a task to set ourselves to. People in our business don’t tend to be big on social skills.

He decanted some milk into a small jug and stashed it in my fridge. “Good luck today,” was all he said before leaving. I let out a breath and sat down at my miniscule kitchen table. Milk obtained. Supervisor’s whims catered to. I got up restlessly, wandered back to the bedroom and sat on the floor, back against the bed, looking out the window. The Riverview Hotel loomed large and implacable, filling the view completely. Morning tea sorted. Now all there was left to do was wait, and think of all of the hundreds of other things that could go wrong.

Crossing Genres Assignment #1

Okay, so here's my first attempt at one of the writing challenges from the Ravelry '52 Books in 52 Weeks' group (since I was a lazy bum and never got around to writing something for the first challenge).

The instructions:
Step 1: Pick a short story topic. (ie walking to the store, going to class, picking up milk)
Step 2: Pick two or three genres of writing style (ie romance, horror, fantasy, mystery, humor, etc.)
Step 3: Write your short story in the style of each of those genres.

Anyway, I kind of latched onto the milk thing, so both of these are about waking up and realising that you need to get some milk. I decided to go with fantasy (gee whiz, what a surprise), and something that ended up some kind of weird blend between a spy novel and satire. Here's the first one (I'm posting them separately as to avoid another Enormous Blob Post of Doom):


Fridge:

I was woken up earlier than I would have liked. It was my day off – the first in too long – and I would have liked to have slept on for a more fittingly indulgent amount of time. It was going to be hot today too – and I wanted to enjoy being lazy by choice before the heat forced it on me. But the Fridge had other ideas. That bloody Fridge…

Shuffling out of my room, picking my way across discarded clothing, I made my way towards the kitchen. Not that it was strictly necessary to do so – the Fridge has ways of making its wishes known, so I already knew what was bothering it. It sat regally in the kitchen, humming away busily to itself as if it didn’t really care for whatever reason it was that I had come to see it. I leaned my head against the cool white expanse, so it couldn’t possibly ignore me any more. Milk, the Fridge said. Rather to the point this morning – the Fridge can be very articulate when it chooses, but obviously today was not one of those days. “It’s hot,” I grumbled in response. “The shop around the corner isn’t open yet, and it’s too hot to walk all the way to the supermarket”. Milk, the Fridge insisted. I could sense that it was also none too pleased about the power bill that I’d stuck atop its face with a magnet shaped like a smiling octopus, but at least it wasn’t actively complaining about that yet.

I put the jug on to boil. “I have everything I need for my breakfast right here,” I pointed out. It was true – I always take my tea black, my toast with honey, and all required ingredients were present and accounted for. If it was possible for a major appliance to give you a dirty look, then Fridge would have accomplished the feat at that moment. I did my best to ignore it and sat at the table, jiggling my teabag up and down in the mug and eyeing yesterday’s crossword, for all the world as if Fridge wasn’t there at all. The impatience in the air was palpable.

Fridge tends to demand a certain respect. After all, it has lived here for longer than I have, so apparently that puts me lower in the pecking order. It was there when I moved in originally. The landlord hadn’t made any mention of it, but when I staggered into the kitchen under the weight of a rapidly disintegrating cardboard box full of cutlery, there it was. One less new thing to arrange, I had thought after a brief inspection had shown it to be in fine working order, if none too clean in the vicinity of the vegetable crisper. I had later inquired about its presence to the landlord, who had simply shrugged and said that it had been there when the last tenant moved in, so presumably it was from the tenant before. She didn’t seem puzzled, so I resolved not to be either. Perhaps this kind of thing happened all of the time. Turns out it doesn’t, but it hasn’t been a bad arrangement. When the Fridge isn’t being a stroppy pain the arse.

“What do you want milk for anyway?” I finally asked – the tension in the room had grown too much, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my tea and do the crossword until Fridge had been placated. What kind of Fridge doesn’t even have milk? It’s a staple ingredient. The thought was indignant, but tinged with a little bit of embarrassment. I grinned, somewhat unkindly. “Getting self conscious, are we?” Fridge’s fan motor skipped a little, as if it flinched. Then it gathered itself to retaliate. In a single second my mind was suddenly saturated with reminders of how hot it would be that day, as well as a singularly vivid image of what all of my perishables would look like if Fridge were to decide that it felt like taking the day off. Vegetables wilted, cream curdled, iced tea icy no longer. It did not sound pleasant.

“Fine, fine,” I grumbled, swigging the rest of my tea down in a hurried gulp. “You win”. I felt Fridge positively oozing smugness as I stumbled into the living room, threw on an old t-shirt and began pulling on my sandals. The feeling continued as I fumbled for my purse and keys, and didn’t abate until I had closed the front door and started off down the street. The sun was already hot, and it was well over a kilometer to the supermarket. Stupid Fridge. Oh well, I thought with a smile. Revenge would be had. Fridge still hadn’t discovered the Tupperware-encased leftovers of my brother’s valiant but unsuccessful attempt at cooking osso bucco that I had banished to the back of one of its shelves. Two weeks ago. I looked forward to that moment with childish glee as I tramped down the street, grocery bag in hand. The heat suddenly seemed less oppressive.