by Skye, Mav
Wanted: Single Rose
Mav Skye
Contents
1. The Pollinator
2. Conjugation Bonding:
3. Pseudocopulation
4. The Key Is the Scream
5. Velva Meow
6. Game On
7. Mum’s the Word
8. The Lonely, the Afraid, and the Dark, Dark Velvet
9. Daisy and the Spiders
10. She of the Night
11. Splatterpunk vs. Ninja Skeleton
12. Looking for Love
13. The Thigh, The Duck, & Daisy Passes the Buck
14. Risks of a Cheeseburger
15. Orchards and Graves
16. An Alarming Interview
17. Closet Freak
18. Tenth Planet from the Sun
19. Why the Willow Weeps
20. The Hunted and the Haunted
21. The Crow Caws at Midnight
22. Doomed to Death’s Folly
23. Glitter in her Hands
24. Dead Disco
25. Beast Uncaged
26. Let’s Get This Party Started
27. Elevator Music
28. Carnal Rampage
29. Eternal Garden of the Soul
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Mav Skye
Excerpt of Behind the Black Door
Wanted: Single Rose is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Mav Skye, 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact the author at the following email address: [email protected]
Dedicated to my late grandfather, Navy veteran and reader of many, many books. He loved a good mystery, a charming woman, and a damn fine diner.
Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do, and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too.
Shakespeare, As You Like It
He's a loner and, truth be told, he's never been with a lady before. She's an experienced siren with an irresistible scent.
Heidi Ledford, The Flower of Seduction
1
The Pollinator
Time was running out. The cuckoo clock sitting on the wall behind the register told Sir Sun this every thirty minutes. He wasn’t an anxious man, in fact quite the opposite. He had all the patience in the world when surrounded by his tools. There were always broken record players, typewriters with damaged keys, clocks and watches that needed tweaking. He’d owned Magic Genie Repairs for fifteen years, and he’d enjoyed the peace and solitude that fixing and polishing wood and metal brought—memoirs of an age long forgotten in a world lost in the throws of technology.
No, time was running out because of the personal ad he’d spotted in the paper earlier in the morning while having his coffee and scramble at Sara’s Diner. It was more of a poem than a personal ad. Perhaps even a secret code for a secret lover. If he didn’t respond soon, someone else would, and he absolutely could not let that happen. For the fifteenth time, Sir Sun pulled the paper from beneath the counter and read where he’d circled with a red pen. The ad read,
His mind tongued over the words, picking at every letter, keying in on the writer’s elusive clues. Was Velva a place? He didn’t think so. He could have asked Sara at the diner to pull out her smartphone and look it up for him. She would have been happy to, but he didn’t want to tell her. She didn’t know of his love/hate relationship with the Seattle Times personal classified ads, and he’d prefer to leave it that way.
Perhaps Velva was the woman behind the words, but what kind of name was that? It sounded like a woman’s—
“Velvet?”
Sir Sun snapped his head up. “Excuse me?” He’d been unaware someone had come into the store.
An elderly woman held a small pillow that had been lying across a restored ebony rocking chair. “Oh, my, I didn’t mean to startle you, young man.”
Young? Last time he checked, the receding hairline and spare tire around his middle gave his age away. He attempted to keep in shape with a pull-up bar in the shop, a jog around the track, but most women didn’t give him a second glance—unless they were paid to. Sir Sun smiled kindly at the elderly woman. “Don’t mind me, I think I’m due for another coffee. I’ve got a pot in the back, would you like a cup?”
“How kind of you. Don’t mind if I do.”
He held up two fingers. “Two seconds.” He strolled to the back with the newspaper and laid it beside the coffee maker as he poured two Styrofoam cups of dark brew. He needed to stop mooning over the ad; he had a business to run. “Cream and sugar?” he called out.
“Yes, please!”
He stirred both into her cup and walked back into the shop.
“I simply adore this rocking chair.” The woman sat and rocked, holding the tiny pillow on her lap. He handed her the coffee.
“Oh? And why is that?”
Her face was pale and pleasant, her lipstick as red and fiery as her hair. “My first grandbaby is due soon, and I might be needing this.” She rocked and smiled dreamily, then held up the navy blue pillow. “Is it velvet?”
Velva.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Silk, I believe.”
She stroked the pillow like a cat and said, “Velvet reminds me of royalty.”
Sir Sun sipped his coffee. “Very rare back in the day.”
She sighed. “Rare, and lovely. It’s too bad it isn’t a name.”
“But couldn’t it be?”
She turned to him quickly, almost spilling her coffee. “Velvet? Why, yes, I suppose it could. What a lovely idea.” She stood, a sudden dreaminess filled her light blue eyes. “Oh my goodness, I better call my daughter right away before this old mind forgets.” She pointed at her head, then patted her groomed hair smooth. “Velvet. How utterly charming. I know my daughter will love it, too.”
She started for the door, then turned. “I want this rocking chair, do you mind if I come back later for it?”
Sir Sun said, “Of course, I’ll hold it for you. I can even deliver it if you’d like. The building manager lets me borrow his old Toyota in the back, sometimes it even works.” He winked at her.
“Oh, good heavens, funny man. My husband can pick it up in the morning, no problem at all.” She rushed to the door with coffee and the pillow.
Sir Sun followed after her to open the door, and when he did, she realized she still held the silk pillow and thrust it at him. “I almost committed thievery! What kind of Grandmother will I make?”
Sir Sun smiled and pushed the pillow back towards her. “An honest one. Keep the pillow.”
“Why thank you, young man.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
She beamed at him and scurried down Main Street. She didn’t notice she had spilled her coffee on the sleeves of her floral cardigan, but that was okay, she was happy.
And so was Sir Sun. His mind turned back to the newspaper. He saw the words in courier font in his mind.
Velva was her name. He’d bet his life on it.
* * *
The next morning, he sat at his 1947 Royal typewriter, stationed in the tiny living room of his apartment. He willed his mind to fa
shion lyrics and poetry to woo the Single Rose, but his prose sounded like corny Roses are Red verses like: Red as rum, Black as night, How ‘bout we meet for a bite? How childish was that?
Sir Sun leaned back in the chair, tapping his index finger against his jaw. A soft and sudden peep! called from behind him. Startled, he turned, and stared at the beaded 70’s mantel above the fireplace. A single orchid sat in its lavender pot, innocently enough. Had it spoken to him?
He watched it intently, carefully, but it merely reached its bone-colored petals toward the living room window. Quiet as it had always been. Sir Sun let out a sigh of relief.
Delusions of talking plants and himself went way back—to a time he didn’t let himself remember. The orchid was a testimony of his obsession with their petals and stamens, their sexual beauty. The orchid was the only plant he felt comfortable having in his apartment, other than the lovely bluebells he met off the classified ads, which were really just glorified whores pretending to be whatever he wanted.
What he wanted had ivory limbs and midnight hair, a single stem with silky petals. He pictured what Velva would look like in his mind’s eye. He held that image as he turned back to his desk, and plucked the stationary out of the Royal and began to draw. He etched a sinewy stem with closed petals twined inside a bud. It was simple and elegant.
Then he rose and retrieved a current leather bound Webster’s dictionary from his bookcase. He brought it to his desk, and opened the book to the V section. He lifted the volume and tilted it sideways, giving it a shake. Pressed violets fell like angel wings from the pages.
He enfolded the violets inside the rose etched stationary, then slid an envelope into the typewriter.
He typed:
But what city? This woman was already impossible. He doubted she lived there in the small town of Spindler. He imagined he would have noticed or heard of her before. No, she lived in a much larger city—the big one.
Sir Sun addressed the envelope for Seattle and slid the stationary inside. He leveled a peony stamp into the corner and reminded himself to pick up more stamps at the post office later. He then left his apartment, and walked down the hall to the elevators. There were two elevators; one of them had a sticky note taped to the door. Mr. Fiddler, the apartment Superintendent had written, in his careful handwriting:
The note had been there for over two years.
On the working elevator, some punk had spray-painted the bright red words—Fix Me! One word graced each door. The words graced the elevator doors on every floor. Mr. Fiddler had never gotten around to repainting.
Spindler’s Roost apartments was not lucky in the working elevator department, and, truth be told, one could say the complex had never been lucky period. Built in the 70’s, the building had never been up to code.
Mr. Fiddler had tried to fix the broken elevator, had even had the elevator repair man out. It had operated flawlessly for two weeks, but stopped suddenly when Mrs. Lewis (top floor, Room 401) had been bringing her children down for their first day of school. They were stuck for eight hours with the firemen and heaven knows who, trying to get the cables working. In the end, when the firemen had retrieved their saws and prepared to cut through the elevator doors, the box suddenly came to life and began to descend. It landed in its original destination, the first floor, and the doors sprung open wide. A shaken Mrs. Lewis and her two children bounded out fine as could be. The local news had reported an hour by hour play of how Mrs. Lewis and the children entertained themselves while stuck in the machine. Whilst stranded, the children had occupied themselves by reading library books and doing forgotten homework, then eaten their school lunches Mrs. Lewis had fixed that very morning. Mrs. Lewis and the children had emerged as heroes in the eyes of the community. Though, Mr. Fiddler had said later he’d found pee stains in the corner.
That night, Mrs. Lewis and her children moved the few belongings they had—down the stairs, Mr. Fiddler had presumed—and simply vanished. She’d busted her lease six months early and never asked for her deposit, which Mr. Fiddler wasn’t prepared to give back to her anyway. During the brouhaha with the elevator business, the state inspector of health was also called. Bored, the inspector had helped himself to the lonely second floor to have a cigarette. It was then he’d discovered the mold climbing the walls.
Nobody had ever lived on the second floor, and now the residents knew why. Though how the state inspector was able to get through the stairwell door, no one knows. Mr. Fiddler had nailed it shut years before. The second elevator was sometimes used. But most of the residents, the few that chose to remain after the inspector condemned the building, just used the stairs.
Sir Sun considered the working elevator, but he decided it wasn’t worth the risk, and took the stairs to the first floor. It brought him between Mr. Fiddler’s apartment and the others who still lived on the floor. Further down the hall, he saw the Super fiddling with his tools at the elevators, and felt relief at his decision to take the stairs.
The old man with his red beret tilted off to the side and gray beard, clipped and proper, appeared as more an artist than a landlord. He sat on a stool holding a screwdriver like a paintbrush. The elevator’s call button plate hung by various wires at the old man’s knees, and he poked and prodded with the screwdriver. He nodded at Sir Sun. “Hey ya Sonny, good thing you didn’t take the working elevator.” He curled his fingers into air quotes at the word working.
Sir Sun resisted the urge to correct his Super on his name, and simply said, “Dodged one.”
“Hee! Ya sure did. This piece of shit is always breaking down. I’d swear there’s a ghost playing devil with us.”
Odd phrase. “Or someone on the second floor messing with you.”
Mr. Fiddler frowned and stroked his beard. “Nope. Nada. I sealed off that floor. No one lives there, and I made damn sure of it. It makes me sad to think of this building going to waste. Damn pipes. Surprised you’re still here.”
“I think there’s more than a few still loyal to Spindler’s Roost, up on the third and fourth floors anyway.”
“Damn and bless you all.” Mr. Fiddler turned back to the gaping hole in the wall. “Some still down here on the ground floor, too. Rent check still arrives from most. And half of you still lock yourselves out on a weekly basis, always needing my keys. At least I’m good for something, eh?”
Sir Sun smiled at the old man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sure you are, Mr. Fiddler. Well, good luck with that elevator. Be nice when it’s working again.” Sir Sun tapped the envelope against his thigh. “Gotta get.”
“Hey, uhhh…”
Sir Sun turned back toward the Super, surprised. “Yes?”
Mr. Fiddler’s face contorted, his grunge gray brows arched over stormy seas of green-blue eyes. Finally, he spit out the words. “You in trouble with someone, Sonny?”
“Uh, no. No. Everything’s good at the shop.” But he couldn’t hide his instant anxiety. His heart raced, and movement between the two elevators drew his attention. A fern sat on a resin column stand. He had thought it was fake. Fake plants don’t talk, only real ones do.
The long leaves of the fern between the elevators shifted its long green arms, waving them behind Mr. Fiddler’s back. A tiny female voice spoke from it. They know.
Sir Sun said, “Do you hear that?”
“Huh? What?” Mr. Fiddler eyeballed Sir Sun real good. “Did you hear what I asked ya just now? Are you in trouble?”
Sir Sun stumbled for words, trying to keep his focus on Mr. Fiddler and away from the plant. “Of… of course not.”
Yes, you are, said the fern, whipping around its leaves.
“Is your business holdin’ up?”
“It’s been a little slow, but always is this time of year.” Sir Sun gulped, hard. “Why do you ask?”
Mr. Fiddler shook his head. “Folks been around asking about you is all. Found it kind of strange.”
They all know your little dirty secret, Timothy. They know what you did
to me.
Sir Sun’s heart pumped harder. “What kind of folks, Mr. Fiddler?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The one’s yesterday had on long dark jackets and sunglasses, just like in that Matrix movie.”
“Huh, that’s strange all right. Thanks for telling me, Mr. Fiddler.” Sir Sun’s eyes remained glued on the moving fern and didn’t bother to mention he’d never seen The Matrix.
Mr. Fiddler grunted and turned back to his button, and the plant dropped its leaves as soon as he did.
Sir Sun stepped outside the complex, landing him straight on Main Street. He skimmed the streets, looking for men in dark jackets and sunglasses. It was a lovely autumn day, and there wasn’t a sketchy person in sight.
As he plopped the letter into the mailbox, Sir Sun decided to let it go and strolled down the street to Sara’s Diner for coffee and scrambled eggs. No one could ever know about Miss O’Hara. He’d made sure of that. Still, between the plant’s whispers and Mr. Fiddler’s uneasiness, an edge of doubt crept into his soul.
* * *
Her reply came one week to the very day. Tuesday to be precise, and when he found it in his box at the post office, he’d felt so lightheaded he’d needed to sit down before opening it.
Her handwriting was as delicate and elusive as her name. And just like the first time, the poem was a puzzle.
Violent? He wondered. Perhaps, it was a typo, she had meant violet, a reference to the petals he had sent her. Did this mean she had been charmed by the petals and rose sketch? Whatever the poem was or was not, one thing Sir Sun felt for sure, it was an invitation to engage. He wondered if perhaps her name was Violet, and that the word Velva had been a test. At the same time, the word violent was a black winged butterfly tickling him to the very depths.
