Teagan's Books

Wednesday, February 14, 2024

Hello, all.   Happy Valentine’s Day.

I’m delighted with the responses to the writing exercise I shared last week.  I asked everyone to look at a favorite photo, painting, mural, or other image.  Drink in the feelings that it brings to mind.  Then write something related to the image.  Short or long, fiction or memoir.

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Responses

Here are links to those who added them to the previous post.  Heartfelt thanks to everyone who did, or even tried without posting.  All of these are amazing.  I hope you’ll click over to each and enjoy.

Geoff Le Pard:  Feet First

Roberta Eaton Cheadle: Magic Mirror

Darlene Foster:  Purpose

Dan Antion:  As Gardens Grow

Kerfe:  On the Brink

Update:

Sharukh Bamboat:  Jaipuri Safa: A Symbol of Rajasthan Royalty

 

For my own inspiration I chose an image collage I made awhile back.  Here’s a thumbnail of how it started (small).  I also added a few more items to the collage, for the story. (That’s the “after” image.)  How could such a simple image turn into a story?  I still expect it to be a long-short story, but…   It’s no surprise that it isn’t finished yet.  Anyhow, I’m only sharing the opening. 

Following is a rough draft of the setup, along with the revised collage. You get to see the most important characters. Hopefully it’s enough to give you an idea of my story in progress.

Heartbreakers

In a luxurious historic hotel on the outskirts of San Francisco’s Chinatown, the administrative staff whispered excitedly.  The gossip they exchanged passed to the kitchen, and from there to the housekeeping workers.  Someone had booked three entire floors of the hotel.

“Who could have so much money?” exclaimed a cleaning woman.

“It must be something to do with the government,” a cook, just coming on duty replied.

“No.  Not even the government would fork out that kind of dough.  I hear it’s to do with Wall Street,” declared a night manager.

“You’re close,” remarked the son of the company vice president, who looked like he was headed home after a night of a little too much drinking and gambling.  “Strictly on the q.t. but it’s a big consortium of banking big wigs from around the world.  I think Uncle Sam’s involved too though.  They booked floors five, six, and seven, but they’re only using the sixth floor.  All those vacant rooms to try and keep anybody from eavesdropping,” he added knowingly.  “But you didn’t hear it from me,” he added, turning to leave.

On his way across the lobby he noticed a delivery van pulling up to the curb.  The van was red with a large stylized heart on the side.

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Not far away on Mount Sutro, a man and woman stopped at a door which was embellished by a stylized heart emblem.  The woman scribbled a password on a tiny slip of paper and put it through a mail slot.  The door swung open and the pair strode purposefully along the halls to a secret laboratory.

Within, a large sterile-looking room a small team of scientists and engineers put the finishing touches on their masterwork.  Seeing the couple, they all gathered around a vase of red roses.

“The delivery mechanism, it is perfected?” the man asked in Slavic accent.

“It is all in good order, comrade.  Simply get the person to stand near the roses and press this button,” an engineer replied and indicated cigarette case.

The woman took the decorative case and opened it, revealing a small button.

“Its range is not very far,” she commented with a distasteful twist at her mouth.

“Your Yank accent is greatly improved, Miss Volkova,” commented a scientist who happened to be from England.

“You haven’t used the compound and experimented on yourself, have you?” the engineer said wryly, but then turned to the man and woman.  “The range is far enough.  You will have to be close, but you’ll have protection.”

“Ah, yes.  I see it there in the center of the arrangement.  The mechanism is quite small, and the camouflage is good.  Congratulations,” the man stated.

The woman extended her hand, and a signet ring was displayed on her fourth finger.  It was the same design as the heart on the door to the clandestine lab.  She took one of the flowers from the vase.  First inspecting it closely as if to make doubly sure it was safe, she inhaled its sweet fragrance.

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Streetlamps grew dim as the sun slowly burned through the morning fog.  Gray tarnish on the horizon transformed to gold.  Early light made patterns on the pavement as it shined through the security gates of the luxury residential-style hotel known as the Pagoda Gates.

The security guard drank in the quiet serenity.  The rest of the complex still slept.  Then delivery vans from half a dozen florists cued up, awaiting admittance.

“I knew the quiet couldn’t last.  Not today.  Ya don’t need a calendar to know when it’s Valentine’s Day around here,” he muttered within one of the small pagoda-like structures on either side of the gate.

Getting up, he shook his head with a bemused half-smile and motioned the vans through.  As he sat back down at his post, Tony Bennett’s voice crooned from his transistor radio.

“I left my heart,” the guard sang along.  “In San Francisco…”

The entry of the main building sparkled with glass, brass, and chrome.  The lobby was vacant but for the doorman and his new assistant.  Abruptly, the revolving door flashed with reflected light as it whirled, admitting deliverymen who carried armloads of vases and bouquets, one after another… after another… and another.

Wearing a puzzled expression, the assistant frantically looked for free space on desks, counters, and tabletops to put all the flowers.

“Look alive, Ned!  Go get some baggage carts.  This won’t be all of them,” his supervisor, Xinyi Park, told him with a chuckle.

“I grew up thinking New York City had more and better of everything,” Ned stated.  “But I’ve never seen so many flowers in one place!  Are you guys here that crazy for flowers?”

“It’s only your first day, kid.  You’ll be fine,” Xinyi promised.  “The City will grow on you, and you’ll forget all about the Big Apple.”

“It will take me all day to deliver all these,” Ned replied with a despairing wave toward the mass of mostly red blossoms.

“Nah,” Xinyi shook his head.  “Ninety percent of them will be for one woman.”

“Seriously?  She must be a real doll,” Ned said with a low whistle.  “Wait a minute, this card says “Mrs. Lockheart.  So do these over here.  You mean a married lady is getting all these?”

“She’s a widow,” Xinyi cut him off.  “A young, beautiful, and rich widow at that.  Her husband died less than two years ago.”

“Oh, a gold digger, huh?” Ned remarked salaciously.

“Shut your mouth, son.  Nobody here talks that way about Mrs. Lockheart,” Xinyi replied heatedly.  “Besides, she had at least as much money as her husband.”

“Jeez Luise!  Alright already.  Are there any other broads around here that I’m supposed to give special treatment?” Ned went on, undeterred.  “I heard one of the florist guys mention Auntie Key.  Who’s that?  What’s the key?  Is she a madam with the keys to the hookers’ rooms?  Or maybe she’s a rich old maid?  Is she gonna get a bunch of flowers too?” he snarked.

Xinyi Park took a single step closer to the young man.  He was no taller than Ned Prentice, yet he seemed to loom.

“Son, if you stay in the City, you’ll have to learn proper respect.  Especially where Auntie Kee is concerned.  No, she does not live here.  And that’s spelled K E E.  The Pagoda Gates might barely be in Chinatown, but the Kee family has a long reach.  Auntie Kee is beloved, particularly in this part of Chinatown.  There are many who would kill you on the spot for disrespecting her,” Park stated in a voice that was low, calm, and utterly bloodcurdling.

The brash younger man’s face blanched.  He gulped, speechless.

The front desk phone rang, saving Ned from further reprimand.

“Mr. Park?” a woman’s voice could be heard before Xinyi turned his back.  “Yes, Mrs. Lockheart.  … Of course.  We’d be happy to.  Last year you sent them to the old soldier’s home, and three nursing homes.  Shall I use the same ones?  …Yes, I’ll only send the ones with red roses, and save the rest for your inspection before sending them up.  …Very good ma’am,” he added and replaced the receiver in its brass cradle.

Ned looked on, mystified.  In a questioning tone, he murmured something about “the red ones.”

“Her husband died on Valentine’s Day,” Park explained to the young man.  “People who know Mrs. Lockheart understand that it’s a day of mourning for her.  The arrangements that don’t shout Valentine are from people who know better.”

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Only a mile away, in the heart of San Francisco’s Chinatown, the Golden Crane already bustled with activity.  The complex included a nightclub in a large basement, the restaurant, and several apartments that were above the restaurant, along with several small shops on either side, including a dry cleaner, florist, and shoe repair.

Mick Hartline looked down at the colorful scene of the street below, as he unpacked one of his suitcases.  A few neon signs were still lit from the night before.  He gazed out skeptically.

The apartment above the Golden Crane was well appointed and spotless.  It was certainly convenient for his assignment, giving him proximity to his contacts and the person with whom he would liaise.

“Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Washington anymore.  This place is nothing like Washington,” he murmured, absently rubbing the stubble on his chin.  “Cheer up Heartline.  Give the place a chance.  It was a long flight — the red eye.  Maybe everything will be better after you’ve had a cup of Joe,” he told himself.

“No, indeed, Mr. Heartline.  Not Washington, DC, and certainly not Kansas.  To get this assignment, you must have really pissed off somebody with some clout.”

He gave a start, when the voice came from the door.  He hadn’t even heard it open.

God, I’m really off my game, he thought, awkwardly clearing his throat.

The speaker was a woman of Chinese descent.  Despite the incongruity of the term “pissed off,” he guessed she was around sixty years old, although he had learned the hard way that he should never guesses about any woman’s age.

Her appearance threw him.  Heartline was not so ignorant that he imagined some kind of kimono.  However, neither did he expect a completely American style. 

Behind her was a younger woman holding a tray with a covered dish, and a pot that he desperately hoped contained coffee.

“Kee Fū Rén?” he asked, with a half-bow.  “It’s my honor to meet you.”

“No need to be so formal.  If I may call you Michale — or perhaps Mick?” she began with a slight pause.  “You may call me Auntie Kee.  Almost everyone in Chinatown does.”

In a manner that made him wonder how she knew, the older woman raised one eyebrow when she said his preferred nickname.  It also suggested that she wanted him to wonder how she knew.

Or at least that I should know that she paid attention to everything that goes on around her, Mick amended his thought.

“Don’t worry,” the honorable Kee Genji added offhandedly.  “I won’t ask you to do anything immoral or certainly not illegal in our…  What shall call it?  Our association.  There’s also no need to hide any attempts to spy on my organization.  I’m no fool.  However, from time to time, I might call upon you for help.”

At his flummoxed lack of response, she gave a self-satisfied smirk and walked away.  The other woman entered the room and set out the coffee tray.  She uncovered the dish to reveal an assortment of bite-sized pastries, steamed dumplings and vegetable-based dishes.

“It’s dim sum.  It’s an iconic breakfast here,” the woman explained to his curious expression.  “Call me Nee Dà Jiě.  Dà jiě is big sister, and that’s what I’ll be to you while you get adjusted.  Auntie doesn’t have time to keep you from getting yourself into trouble.  If you have questions about how things are done, then aske me.”

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End of excerpt.

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So, there you have the main locations of the story’s action. Hopefully everything is “visual” enough to set the mood. You’ve met the important people and some supporting characters. (At least I think that’s all of the main ones.)  However, at the moment, that’s as much as I have for my own response to my writing exercise.  All the spying, gadgets, secrets, and such are waiting in my notes.

Thanks again to everyone who participated.   Friendly comments are encouraged.  Happy Valentine’s Day from the “Scoobies” and me. Hugs!

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Due to the nature of the last comment (left Sat, Feb 17 at 11:34 AM), comments are now closed.  I might also be taking a break… indefinitely.

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Obligatory shameless self-promotion

Fiona Finch & the Pink Valentine

Kindle:  relinks.me/B084NZFZ14

Paperback:  relinks.me/B084P73L4C

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This is a work of fiction.  Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

All images are either the property of the author, or used with permission, or from free sources.

Copyright © 2024 by Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene

All rights reserved.