RM Ahmose Fiction Writer

(Story One)

 "Loser!"

   In his walk, Sonny noticed that the wall to his left  gave  way  to  yet  another  entrance before continuing   across   the   wide   space.  As  he peered   into  this  next  meticulously  sanitized area, the sign hanging down from the ceiling by two  glistening  chains  caught his eye immedi-ately.  COMA PATIENTS, it read. Now, coming straight  toward  him,  hospital  staff wheeled an elderly  patient  to whom was attached all man-ner of  life preserving tubes extending from their respective   receptacles.   Accompanying    the troupe was one “civilian.” The harsh inquiry and admonishment came next:

   “Sir, what are you doing in here? This area is for authorized staff only!”

   “Oh,  I’m  sorry …the sign said I could get to Annex C this way. I….”

   “No, you shouldn’t be in here. You’re going to have  to  just  turn right around and go back out the  way  you came. And how did you get pass the receptionist? He should have told you--.”

   “Oh,  no  one was at the desk, so I just--. I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

   “Are you at this hospital to see someone?”

   “My  father…he’s in Annex C, in room 641. I thought I was taking a short cut--.”

   “No, sir, you have to pay attention to the ‘off limits’    signs,   as   you   move   through  this hospital!”

   A   thing   exceedingly   surprising  happened next.  Mrs.  Tickly,  who  lay  atop  the  gurney, gradually  opened  her eyes for the first time in five  weeks. What got everyone’s attention was when    she    made    that    low    and   barely comprehensible    uttering,    taking    everyone aback: “Toilet tank, toilet tank” she whispered in raspy voice.

   As  the  people  present  oriented their heads and  focus  toward the patient she gave several, though   labored,   repeat-performances  of  the mysterious vocalization. To make the matter all the more extraordinary, she managed to point a weak and trembling finger seemingly at Sonny.

   “My  God, Mother is waking out of her coma!” exclaimed  Horace  Tickly, Mrs. Tickly’s sixty-seven year old son. “It’s a miracle!”

(pp. 1-2)

Story Three

"Dream Come True"

   Raif  had  gained  entry  by  slipping, unseen, through   the   raised   garage  door.  Afterward, cloaked  in  shadows,  he  watched  with much satisfaction, as it was lowered remotely. It was, in   short, a  crime  of  opportunity.  He  wasn’t carrying  out  a fore-plan, dressed as he was in the   conspicuous   gown-like   top   and  pants. When  he arrived near the Peachtree home, he was  just putting distance between himself and the Hade Center. After a  few miles of travel, he stopped  beside  a big house whose aesthetics had  impressed  him.  As  he noted, the house was   built   into   an  earthen  incline, and Raif simply moseyed downhill along one of its sides. Shortly, he heard the mechanical drone of metal moving  along  slots  and knew immediately the circumstance. He  saw  a  chance, and, casting caution  to  the wind, took it. Now, on a gamble he’d gained entry into a stranger’s home without having literally done a break-in.

   The  “lucky  break”  came when the man, that is,  Alan  Peachtree,  backed  out of his garage with  head  oriented  rearward,  away  from Raif. Rather than a skillful act of stealth to which Raif attributed   his  success,   it  was  actually  just dumb  luck.  A mere microsecond in time stood between   non-detection   and  his  being,  quite possibly,  shot  to death right in the garage. Mr. Peachtree had “zero tolerance” for burglars and other home invaders. He carried a 9-millimeter weapon to substantiate that sentiment.

   Once  inside  the  home’s  “walls,”  Raif  had hoped  for  additional  instances of good fortune. He   wanted  the  domicile  to  be  vacant  of all residents. Then, he’d be free to rummage more or  less  leisurely  through  it  for  valuables and perhaps  even  food. It  was clear, however, that that hope was dashed with the faintest sound of a voice filtering to his ears in the darkness.

   Continuing  to  stand  deathly still, only barely could he make out the black surface of the door beside  him. It had, however, come to represent a  “shield”  which  blocked his intentions and in-terrupted  his  wishes.  Behind  it “lurked” a foil, who tainted the lucky set of circumstances he’d met thus far.

(pp. 197-198)

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