Moonlight Masquerade
The prompt for this one was...
'He's always following me. Even if I don't see him I know he's there- I look out the window and he's on the other side of the road, he's trailing behind me in the forest, he's going through my bins. One night I woke up to see him standing in the corner of my room'.
I don't usually write in first person or in present tense, but I find flash fiction is a good place to practice.
I crouch on the rooftop, watching as two men follow a tipsy girl into an alley. It’s foolish of her to be walking home alone to begin with; taking shortcuts like this is even worse. Maybe tonight’s scare will teach her to be more careful.
The men close in on her. One draws a knife just as she glances over her shoulder, and she lets out a squeal. They lunge. And I descend on them like a wildcat at its prey.
I land on the first one’s shoulders, bowling him to the ground. His friend—the one with the knife—turns and raises to slash. I let out a roar from behind my lion mask, dodge to the side, and catch his wrist mid-air. A twist, a satisfying snap, and an elbow to his nuts just to be safe. The first guy is struggling to his feet, but a heel between his shoulderblades brings him back down.
“Hands off,” I growl. “The women of this city are under my protection.”
Nuts-guy can barely stand. Shoulderblade-guy is groaning on the ground. I put an arm around their quarry’s shoulders and usher her through the alley, leaving them in the dirt. She’s wide-eyed and shaking, but unhurt.
I propel her onto the street—“Keep going. I’ll make sure you get home safe.”—then leap to a drainpipe and clamber up. My light costume of red and gold flutters with the motion. Just before I start back across the rooftops, a shadow catches my eye.
Him.
He’s perched on a roof across the street, half-hidden in darkness, his masquerade mask catching a stray glint of light. Watching me, the drunk girl, the alley. He’s never laid a finger on one of my girls, but I won’t be taking my eyes off tipsy-face down there until she’s locked her apartment door behind her.
“Sekhmet,” I hear him say. “Wait.”
I keep my head down and duck behind a vent. Hopefully he takes the hint.
I needn’t have worried; he vanishes after only one block. Back to his own territory, maybe. I know there’s a vigilante who appears around police calls—usually robberies and hold-up type gigs. That probably means he’s an all right sort. But protecting bankers and jewelers doesn’t mean he’d never strike a woman. Just look at the cops he’s so buddy-buddy with.
Once the drunk girl is safely into her building, I call it a night. In a safe nook behind her street, I peel out of my costume and stash it and the mask under a bin. The hiding place changes every time. I never forget, because it’s always next to the last girl I helped, and I always check on her the following morning.
This girl, fortunately, lives close to the same subway line I do, and within fifteen minutes, I’m home. Even though it’s late, quite a few people lurk on the sidewalks and doorsteps. I picked a sketchy neighbourhood on purpose, in the hope of identifying suspects ahead of time and making sure nothing comes of it. Still, passing the man in my building’s lobby gives me the shivers.
He lives in the apartment below mine. Usually he tries to make conversation—particularly when we meet at the mailboxes—but tonight he just nods. Without looking, I can feel his eyes on me. I imagine them roving over my hips, my waist, my legs. It makes me shudder. He’s young, and tall, and strong, and I’m sure I’m faster, but if he got me in a corner he could probably overpower me.
I slip up the staircase as quickly as possible. My apartment is exactly how I left it, including the pencil on the floor behind the door, the book page number open on the coffee table, and the line of coffee grinds on the counter. I triple-lock the door with two locks and a chain, and finally let myself relax.
It’s the middle of the night when I wake up with a sense of dread. I open my eyes without moving. There. In the corner of my bedroom, in the shadow from the streetlamp, a tall, muscular figure stands as still as a statue. My window is open beside him—he climbed up the fire escape.
I bolt upright, hand shooting for the gun in my bedstand drawer. I might not use it when I’m Sekhmet, but I have no compunctions doing whatever it takes to protect myself as Annie. But it’s gone. He’s thought of that already.
I draw breath to scream. His eyes widen and he lifts something up. A masquerade mask.
For one insane moment, I assume he killed the other vigilante. Then it dawns on me.
My breath deflates in a rush. “How’d you know it was me?” I ask.
He smiles. “I’d recognize that cold shoulder anywhere.”
“You could have used the front door, you know.” I frown as I gather the covers around myself.
His smile widens. “I think you’d actually trust me less if I did.”
I stare at him a moment, and then I can’t help myself. We both laugh. At each other, and at ourselves. “All right,” I say. “Olive branch accepted.” I nod my head at the window. “Now get out of here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes, replaces his mask, and climbs out, as quick and silent as moonlight.
I settle back, and somehow, in the language of one vigilante to another, I understand that my girls are safe with him, and his bankers are safe with me.
'He's always following me. Even if I don't see him I know he's there- I look out the window and he's on the other side of the road, he's trailing behind me in the forest, he's going through my bins. One night I woke up to see him standing in the corner of my room'.
I don't usually write in first person or in present tense, but I find flash fiction is a good place to practice.
---
I crouch on the rooftop, watching as two men follow a tipsy girl into an alley. It’s foolish of her to be walking home alone to begin with; taking shortcuts like this is even worse. Maybe tonight’s scare will teach her to be more careful.
The men close in on her. One draws a knife just as she glances over her shoulder, and she lets out a squeal. They lunge. And I descend on them like a wildcat at its prey.
I land on the first one’s shoulders, bowling him to the ground. His friend—the one with the knife—turns and raises to slash. I let out a roar from behind my lion mask, dodge to the side, and catch his wrist mid-air. A twist, a satisfying snap, and an elbow to his nuts just to be safe. The first guy is struggling to his feet, but a heel between his shoulderblades brings him back down.
“Hands off,” I growl. “The women of this city are under my protection.”
Nuts-guy can barely stand. Shoulderblade-guy is groaning on the ground. I put an arm around their quarry’s shoulders and usher her through the alley, leaving them in the dirt. She’s wide-eyed and shaking, but unhurt.
I propel her onto the street—“Keep going. I’ll make sure you get home safe.”—then leap to a drainpipe and clamber up. My light costume of red and gold flutters with the motion. Just before I start back across the rooftops, a shadow catches my eye.
Him.
He’s perched on a roof across the street, half-hidden in darkness, his masquerade mask catching a stray glint of light. Watching me, the drunk girl, the alley. He’s never laid a finger on one of my girls, but I won’t be taking my eyes off tipsy-face down there until she’s locked her apartment door behind her.
“Sekhmet,” I hear him say. “Wait.”
I keep my head down and duck behind a vent. Hopefully he takes the hint.
I needn’t have worried; he vanishes after only one block. Back to his own territory, maybe. I know there’s a vigilante who appears around police calls—usually robberies and hold-up type gigs. That probably means he’s an all right sort. But protecting bankers and jewelers doesn’t mean he’d never strike a woman. Just look at the cops he’s so buddy-buddy with.
Once the drunk girl is safely into her building, I call it a night. In a safe nook behind her street, I peel out of my costume and stash it and the mask under a bin. The hiding place changes every time. I never forget, because it’s always next to the last girl I helped, and I always check on her the following morning.
This girl, fortunately, lives close to the same subway line I do, and within fifteen minutes, I’m home. Even though it’s late, quite a few people lurk on the sidewalks and doorsteps. I picked a sketchy neighbourhood on purpose, in the hope of identifying suspects ahead of time and making sure nothing comes of it. Still, passing the man in my building’s lobby gives me the shivers.
He lives in the apartment below mine. Usually he tries to make conversation—particularly when we meet at the mailboxes—but tonight he just nods. Without looking, I can feel his eyes on me. I imagine them roving over my hips, my waist, my legs. It makes me shudder. He’s young, and tall, and strong, and I’m sure I’m faster, but if he got me in a corner he could probably overpower me.
I slip up the staircase as quickly as possible. My apartment is exactly how I left it, including the pencil on the floor behind the door, the book page number open on the coffee table, and the line of coffee grinds on the counter. I triple-lock the door with two locks and a chain, and finally let myself relax.
It’s the middle of the night when I wake up with a sense of dread. I open my eyes without moving. There. In the corner of my bedroom, in the shadow from the streetlamp, a tall, muscular figure stands as still as a statue. My window is open beside him—he climbed up the fire escape.
I bolt upright, hand shooting for the gun in my bedstand drawer. I might not use it when I’m Sekhmet, but I have no compunctions doing whatever it takes to protect myself as Annie. But it’s gone. He’s thought of that already.
I draw breath to scream. His eyes widen and he lifts something up. A masquerade mask.
For one insane moment, I assume he killed the other vigilante. Then it dawns on me.
My breath deflates in a rush. “How’d you know it was me?” I ask.
He smiles. “I’d recognize that cold shoulder anywhere.”
“You could have used the front door, you know.” I frown as I gather the covers around myself.
His smile widens. “I think you’d actually trust me less if I did.”
I stare at him a moment, and then I can’t help myself. We both laugh. At each other, and at ourselves. “All right,” I say. “Olive branch accepted.” I nod my head at the window. “Now get out of here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes, replaces his mask, and climbs out, as quick and silent as moonlight.
I settle back, and somehow, in the language of one vigilante to another, I understand that my girls are safe with him, and his bankers are safe with me.
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