the hyper bowl

Courtesy of Seventh Sanctum: A character applies for a job. During the story, a character inherits an unusual object. The story is set on the ocean. The story takes place in the spring. During the story, someone is framed for something they didn't do.

Jersey knew the Atlantic. She learned to walk on planks mere feet above its choppy waters, strengthened her lungs with its salty air, and ate the fish from its belly. The Atlantic, she felt, was more a part of her than either of her parents--blood ties never spoke to her the same way the ocean did. The Atlantic was her mother, her father, her brother, her sister. She loved it.

And that was precisely why she needed to leave.

Hoss, on the other hand, disagreed.

"No."

Jersey faltered. "What? Why the hell not?"

"You're a green-baby," Hoss said. "You don't know the first thing about the Pacific."

"I know enough. And I'm a fast learner! With a mind like a sponge!"

"Because you're so damn young..."

"Young? You're only twenty-three!"

"Stay here, kid, maybe next time." Hoss threw open the hatch and disappeared down into the hold.

The crew resumed their preparations for docking, grinning and shaking their heads.

Jersey growled in frustration and followed after him. "There is no next time! How often does Grady split up the crew?"

"I need experience on deck."

"I've got seventeen years!"

Hoss laughed. "So you were manning the masts at age one were you?"

"Fine! Thirteen years, you happy? I've got what it takes, Hoss. It's not like the rest of your crew knows anymore about the Big Blue than I do!"

"There isn't a member of my crew who hasn't sailed it before," Hoss said. "We'll be at Headquarters soon, you should start working on looking presentable. When's the last time that hair's seen a brush?"

Jersey reddened despite herself. "Go to hell, Hoss!"

"Will do!" He called, disappearing into the men's quarters.

--------------------------

Twice upon a time, Gregory Post fell to the ground, dead.

The three children huddled in the corner clamped their hands over their ears to keep out the screams. None of them knew the young woman losing her sanity in the middle of the room, but she was the closest they’d ever seen to an angel.

            Moments before, their father was going to eat them.

            Justin Post, the oldest at eleven, knew that wasn’t normal. Having seen their father fall over dead ten minutes prior, he realized whatever wanted them for dinner was not their father but something else wearing their father’s skin. Still, he froze when it came time to protect his little brother and sister.

Once upon a time there was a Girl who trusted everyone. She trusted everyone because everyone could trust her and that just made sense. Her word was all she had and she always kept it. She believed in people and saw no reason for them to be any less honorable than she pushed herself to be.

After all, their words were all they had, too.

One day, she met a Boy.

This Boy made her laugh and she could tell him things. She told him many things and he made her laugh many times. He told her many things and she made him laugh, too.

Girl began to like Boy very much.

Boy began to like Girl, too.

Boy had Another, though. And Another didn’t know about Girl. Another loved Boy. Boy loved Another. Girl was sad.

Girl hid her feelings from Boy, ashamed. She smiled and laughed and told him many things. She just left one thing out.

One night Boy kissed Girl. Girl kissed back. Girl told Boy that she liked him, felt bad and told Boy to go. Boy left.

Boy came back a few nights later and although Girl knew she should stay away, she came closer. Boy kissed Girl again. Girl stopped him and asked him a question.

“Will Boy leave Another for Girl?”

“Yes, Boy will. Soon.”

Girl trusted everyone. She saw no reason for Boy to be any less honorable with his words than she was with hers.

Girl kissed Boy again.

Many days passed and Girl waited patiently.

Boy smiled and laughed and told Girl many things and Girl knew they would be happy together.

But as the days passed more, Girl began to worry. Boy was still with Another. Girl was still alone.

“Boy?” She asked one night.

“Boy is with Another,” Boy said. “And Boy will not be with Girl.”

Girl felt ice in her chest. She trusted everyone.

“Why?”

“Boy talked to Another. Boy and Another want to try again.”

An hour in, Cain’s phone rang and Esmeralda took it down to him. He came up to take the call privately, but came back in from the kitchen a minute later. He passed me wearing a distant expression, slowing his hurried stride just long enough to take the right car keys from the bowl on the side table.

Cain threw open the front door. “I’m going into town for a while.” 

Gunnar appeared at the top of the basement stairs. “Jessica and Blame will go with you.”

I jostled Blame awake.

“My car seats two,” Cain said.

“Then you’ll take our car,” Gunnar said.

“I need to go alone,” Cain said.

“None of us are going anywhere alone until WolfsBane is taken care of,” I butt in. The strain of the past few days lay obvious on Gunnar’s face and he didn’t need to waste his energy arguing Cain down. I would be more than happy to do it for him.

“Cain, we’ll give you the privacy you need,” Blame said groggily, pulling on his shoes. “But you’re not leaving the Den without someone with you.”

Cain ground his teeth. “I can take care of myself.”

“Famous last words.”

“We don’t know enough about them to know how many people belong to their movement yet. You wouldn’t always be able to identify someone in time,” Gunnar said. “Either you go with Jessica and Blame or you don’t go at all. I need to finish talking to Chris and get back to Delia.”

At the mention of his aunt, Cain dropped his shoulders in defeat and stalked out the door in resignation.

“Shotgun!” Blame darted off to claim his prize. I rolled my eyes and followed.

Blame grinned, ducking into Gunnar’s Suburban. “You better not be making all this fuss just to get a Playboy…”

Cain avoided looking at us. “Erin called.”

I stopped short. “What did she have to say?”

“She just said she really needed to talk to me.”

They call me The Photographer. I like to shoot models. I don’t own a camera.

            Why?

Once when I was young and ambitious I asked out a model in New York City. Her name was Isabelle. She laughed at me and turned me down. I followed her a week and then I killed her.

            That’s a lie.

            My mother threatened to turn me into a little girl if I didn’t brush my teeth before I went to bed. She hit me when I spilled things. She threw me down the stairs and took me to the hospital to get attention. I hate women.

            That’s a lie, too.

            What is fascinating about people is that they absolutely must figure out why things are the way they are. Things cannot just come into being. Things cannot just happen. There must be a reason and that reason must be identified. Science. People will come up with anything just so their minds don’t boggle. The idea of not understanding something is too uncomfortable. People rather believe in something that can never be proven rather than believe in nothing.

            Sad.

            I am what I am and I don’t care why. I was not a foster child. I did not witness my father kill my mother. I was not a nerd. I was not bullied. I did not bully. I did not kill small animals. I did not kill my parents. I never cut myself. I never did drugs.

            Most people would have a problem with that if I told them.

            Too bad…

Sometimes I hate being incapable of apathy. Then I remember that I can still hate, and hey­­—at least that’s something.

He knew I demanded timeliness. It was, in fact, the only reason for his tardiness at all. Knowing him, he probably started a fight on his way to the restaurant just to grate my nerves.

I dangled my strappy stiletto from my tiptoes. Knowing in their heart of hearts that approaching meant their eternal entrapment, the male clientele settled for clearing their throats, loosening their ties, and gulping their ice water or merlot­—whichever was closest.

My charming cherub of a waiter arrived with a fresh margarita as the last drop of the one in my hand disappeared down my throat.

“Amazing service,” I said with a solitary toast in his direction. “You deserve a raise.”

From the look in the speechless boy’s eyes, I knew the kind of raise he wanted. Poor thing. He deserved one, just not from me. He wouldn’t be able to handle it.

I scanned the room, eyes falling on an absolutely charming girl a few tables over. Her last boyfriend introduced her to the joys of sailing, though she couldn’t find anyone to sail with since he dumped her. My amazingly diligent waiter learned how to sail last year­—one of the many reasons why this was perfect.

I watched with a grimace as she smiled politely at her gas of a date as he laid on lie after lie across the half-eaten roast duck they shared. She loved ducks. Live, quacking ducks.

“That table,” I pointed. “Go.”

Glassy-eyed, my waiter abandoned his post and wandered toward the hideously matched pair. Blind dates. I take no credit for inventing those.

He snapped out of his trance upon reaching the table and, confused, tried covering up his unexplainable arrival with a quick survey of their food quality. When his eyes met hers I knew no further interference was necessary. Obviously.

“Enjoy your tip, kid,” I said between sips.

“You never take a break, do you?” A deep voice rumbled behind me.

I looked the King of Manliness up and down with half-lidded eyes.

“Strategically disheveled as always,” I said airily. “Good thing you came when you did. Any earlier and I would never have gotten them together.”

His blazing auburn eyes pivoted from me to my latest success.

“Huh,” he said.

It only took an instant for the young girl’s date to draw back his fist and catapult it forward into our delightful waiter’s face. I held in my gasp and shot a hateful glare at the hellion across me.

He grinned deviously. “Sorry.”

“And this is why I’m ending it,” I said.

Eyes still trained on the scuffle, he asked, “Ending what?”

“Us.”

“Ha! As if!”

“I’m not joking, Ares.”

The fight ended abruptly when both men lost their moxy and the maitre de and a rather large chef from the back finally managed to pull them off each other.

The God of War fell back into his chair. He treated everything he ever sat on like a throne. “You’re serious, aren’t you, V?”

“Don’t call me V.” I finished the last of my martini and signaled for a free waiter to take our orders.

A new waiter made a beeline from the other side of the restaurant nearly drooling on our tablecloth. “Ready to order?”

Ares opened his mouth to speak.

I cut him off. “Yes, I’ll have the lamb. Rare.”

Ares looked even more offended.

“I’ll have the scallops.” He growled, disregarding the menu.

“You would,” I huffed.

Our waiter, suddenly more scared than goo-goo eyed, hurried away to put in our order.

“Why ask me to dinner if you’re cutting off dessert?” Ares demanded.

“I want to end this in a civilized manner,” I said, throat mildly dry. Why did I have to give the waiter his tip so damn early? 

His tone betrayed his words. “Well that’s no fun.”

People began to stare. I could see the darkness settling over them, a tightly wound dragon that would sweep through the restaurant and into the streets.

“You’re affecting them—”

He schooled his face into a mask of intrepidity, as cool and in control as a rabid dog. “Fuck. Them.”

An older woman a few tables over suddenly snapped at her husband. I frowned. “And you wonder why it’s over.”

Ares fumed.

“You don’t even look hurt.”

“Don’t tell me what I look like!”

“You’re more mad that you lost a game than you are that it’s me you’re losing,” I said. “That’s the saddest part.”

“Aphrodite! Aphrodite! This isn’t over!”

Inquisitive eyes followed me through the restaurant and out into the chilly winter air. Just before the glass door swung shut behind me, discord erupted, shooting out through the ceiling, spilling over tables onto the floor, until the patrons could barely fathom even the idea of peace.