The Tell-Tale Door

Mark made his way to the front door in his dimly lit house. Light from the street lamps poured into the house from outside. Being home late again from work, he hesitated. Although out of sight, he talked loudly to his wife.

“Sorry, I'm so late, Linda. Work was Hell today, people being laid off or let go. The ones that survived the cuts were freaking out. All day long they asked me they were next? Or what does accounting know? They think the whole company's going under.”

Mark waited for a response but got none. He threw his suit jacket into the darkness onto an unseen piece of furniture. Next, he removed his tie and tossed it in the same direction.

“Some of us assured them the cuts were to keep us viable, but they didn't buy it.”

Mark slowly unbuttoned his collar and shirt sleeve cuffs.
“I'm dead tired, honey. I'm just going to check all the doors and come to bed.”

Mark looked into the gloominess of the house. He awaited a response but still didn't get one. Shaking his head and rolling his eyes in disappointment, he thought she was obviously mad at him for being late. He navigated through the murkiness to the backdoor. He confirmed the deadbolt was fastened. Quickly, he checked the handle to make sure it was locked by jiggling it.

“Locked,” he whispered.

In his normal routine, he traveled through the shadows of the house to another door, and verified it was locked in the same manner by rattling the handle. He established the deadbolt was bolted.

“Locked,” he murmured.

Now following his daily ritual, he headed for the front door and the final inspection. All the deadbolts were now locked. After grabbing the handle and twisting it back and forth, he was satisfied it was locked, and his house was secure.

“Locked, perimeter secure,” he said out loud speaking to himself. A military past made him always police your perimeter before turning in for the night; in fact, he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if he didn’t. How could anyone? He contemplated as he walked away, but before he progressed far from the front door, he heard the handle rattle as if someone or something tested the door to see if it were locked.

Frozen in place, Mark focused on the door handle which wasn’t moving. He waited to see if it would move or make another sound, but nothing happened. Some time passed, and he began to question whether he really heard the handle jiggle. Mark loitered there a little while longer eyes fixed on the handle then decided he was tired and probably just imagined the sound. Relieved the door handle remained silent; he took a deep breath and exhaled. As he twisted around to go to bed, the knob rattled a bit more forcefully. It seemed someone or something was trying to work it open.

Terror washed over him, and his eyes were wide open in a trail of light across his face. The rest of his face was covered in shadows. Danger raced through his mind with the stark realization someone was trying to break in, and he needed a weapon. Frantically looking around, Mark picked up an umbrella.

“I've got a weapon! My wife is calling 9-1-1!” Mark yelled at the door.

Trusting he yelled loud enough to wake his wife, he hoped she really was calling the police. Mark edged toward the door, but the handle once again went silent and still.

“Honey, Call 9-1-1!” he screamed to make sure the offender heard the order as well as his wife.

Mark heard nothing from his wife. He kept an eye on the door while he stumbled across the dim room to the phone. Picking up the phone, he got no dial tone. He clicked the receiver button in frustration.




Of Ninjas and Bullets Left Behind


From what information Robert gathered about his perspective employer, the flight to New York from Los Angeles promised to be interesting. Be bold. Be assertive. Be fast. The multibillionaire he needed to impress in this job interview loved these traits in his corporate officers. Mr. W seriously joked about his business philosophy in a fortune magazine, “If you’re going to make a mistake, make it at 120 miles per hour.” What Robert extrapolated from the long article is a fatal accident could be sad and embarrassing at 5 miles per hour, but at 120 or better, it could be a glorious and awe inspiring finale. When Robert finally secured a meeting with Mr. W, he had to accept the fact it was on the move aboard Mr. W’s private jet.

Scheduled over four months in advance, Robert prepared for the encounter by reading everything he could about Mr. W and his many companies. He walked through his opening dialogue. After the introduction, he would firmly state, “Call me Rob.” No weak and hesitating ‘but you can’, he practiced how he would say it. Be bold. Be assertive. Be fast. The flight attendant led him through several areas of the Boeing 787 Dreamliner without explaining any of them. After all Rob thought, she wasn’t trying to sell him the plane. She was taking him to the boss. Her outfit revealed too much for Rob to stay focused. Skirt cut too high and blouse cut to low, the ensemble reminded him of a seventies clip he’d seen about Hugh Hefner’s flying bunnies on his private black DC-9. They passed three other attractive ladies dressed in the same uniforms before they got to the enormous leather seats. Just think to yourself how dated and tacky they look, and you’ll be able to focus Robert deliberated.

The blonde attendant told Robert to sit while the young lady with angel fire hair asked him what type of drink he wanted. Unlike what he envisioned, Robert improvised, “Coffee, black.” An appropriate choice he hoped, nonalcoholic yet strong, in case this