“Sounds caress my ear”

[Estimated reading time: 6 minutes]

[Note: this is a work in progress.]

The End

Samantha watches with eyes full of tears and rage as her killer looks through her handbag.
The bastard tosses aside the cell phone, the pack of pads, the little make-up mirror that Samantha's grandmother bought her first week in America, way back in the 19th century.
The flippant disregard of precious heirlooms is what really angers Samantha, even more than the theft and murder, somehow.

The cicadas are loud in the grove and their song makes for a strangely peaceful background sound.
Give me a babbling brook, and I can almost fall asleep, a thought flits through Samantha's mind, and then she is brought out of her reverie by the curses of her killer.

"Where is it?", the murderer mutters as he empties most of the bag.
The red hood of his sweatshirt is down and his bald head gleams in the afternoon sun.
His movements stop after a second and he slowly pulls a tiny wire contraption out of the lining of the bag.
"Wouldn't want anyone getting suspicious, would we, luv?
No, 'course not," he slips into what must be his native English accent, "wouldn't want anyone thinking this was anything but a muggin'."
He gets a handful of bills out of the wallet, then drops the wallet next to a large tree, onto a slowly accumulating pile of Samantha's belongings.

Samantha's lying on her side, following his movements with her eyes.
Her blood-covered right arm is stretched out, as if reaching for the murdering bastard, but she can't move it, can't move her body at all.
Her brown leather jacket is a stark contrast to the green grass and the red blood.
Some still-human part of Samantha regards this scene as beautiful, if only for a moment.

The murderer walks up and kicks Samantha in her stomach, forcing her to roll away from him, onto her back.
The handful of knife wounds in her back scream out in agony, and she joins in for a crescendo of pain.

This is how I die, she thinks, listens to the song of the cicadas, and dies.

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“Left me barely holding on”

[Estimated reading time: 2 minutes]

[Note: this is a work in progress.]

Act 1

Samantha sits in the diner booth and watches the orange-and-purple sunset through the dusty window.
Her contact is late, but she doesn't mind, this view is worth the wait.
She sips her coffee and skewers the last bite of apple pie onto a fork, then gobbles down the whole thing.
The last bite.
She saves the best for last, and finishing this mouth-watering apple pie in tune to a great oldies song blaring through the ancient speakers and the sunset outside is just about the best.
Sam's happy.

A car, a red sports number, pulls into the diner's driveway and blocks Samantha's view of the sunset.
It's her contact.

A bleary-eyed San Francisco hacky sack stereotype steps out on the wings of a plume of smoke and strides into the diner.
People start coughing.
He slides into Samantha's booth and quickly picks up a menu.

"What's good?"
He's not looking at her, he's focused, intently, on the plastic menu.

"You're laaaAate," Sam drawls out and tries to catch his eyes.

Ran into five-oh."

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