Young Writers Society

This is an incomplete story, obviously. However i'm working out some plot plausibility things currently, so this is all i can give you. cheers.

Alyce

It is late in November of ‘63 on the planet Earth.

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The winter wind snaps at my heels, motivating me to go just a little bit faster. What happened? It was sunny and bright just yesterday. I hunker down and sprint to the diner.

I open the door, and instead of the usual chaos of the jukebox playing, orders being called, and regulars shouting to be heard, there is only the sound of the news broadcast, and Lucille softly sobbing behind the counter.

“What happened?” I ask as I take a seat. Nancy, the head waitress, sends me a look of complete contempt. “What happened?” she screeches, cigarrette still clenched between her lips. “Kennedy got shot! What the Hell else do you think happened?”

Oh God. The Kennedy dabacle. I didn’t realize it would be all over the news like this. Luckily, my waredrobe is comprised mainly of black clothing, so I look the part. “I...I just thought that maybe there’d been an update, since you had the news on and all.”

Nancy narrows her eyes, but she’s got no reason not to believe me. She thinks I’m an imbesule, anyway, so fine. Let this feed her loathing.

Doris, who is both cook and owner, turns a kind, if wet eye on me. She doesn’t dislike me, she just feels sorry for me. Which is almost worse, somehow. “They think they found the man who did it,” she says. I suck in my breath. “What...how...They did?” I squeak out. Rick, Doris’ husband, nods. “Won’t release the fellas name yet, but apparently he’s one of them SPOOKS.”

I can feel the blood drain away from my face, and evidently everyone else can see it. “Honey, you want a glass of water?” Doris asks. I nod yes, very slowly. “Lucy, get the girl a glass of water.” Doris says to her daughter, who turns and fills me up a glass, stil crying. “Don’t know what you’re carryin’ on about, girl,” Rick says to her. “Not like you ever gave a rat’s ass before.” “Patrick Malone! Miss Leah is shaken up enough as it is, she don’t need you using foul language in front of her.” Doris hisses at him. She shoots me a sympathetic look, and I study my hands and mumble something strong emotions. I sip at my water, and say weakly “I think I’ll head upstairs, if you don’t mind. I’d like to... lie down for a little while, I think.” Doris smiles kindly and Lucy takes my glass. “You go take a load off, sugar, we’re fine down here... Kind of a slow afternoon, as to be expected.” I smile faintly and give a tiny little wave to everyone before I head to my apartment. Doris hollers up behind me “And remember, we’ve got those canned goods for you to to take to Father Flannigan!”

Once inside, I collapse against my wall. Canned goods for Father Flannigan indeed. I need a drink.

Hidden inside the bread box is a flask of ‘57 whiskey. The bible-thumping good girl image isn’t exactly conducive to my lifestyle, but as my boss, Murray pointed out, “Wild girls breed suspicion in landladys, and suspicion breeds snooping. And you like this woman, right?” I nod, just as I did then. His next comment rings chillingly through my head “Well, then I’d hate to have to...dispense with her. So just play the good girl, and everything will be fine.”

Dispensed with. Kennedy. Kennedy was dispensed with. He’d gotten to be a liablity, according to Murray. More important however--they’d caught a SPOOK. No one, but no one, catches a SPOOK. They’re spirits and apparitions. You may hear about them from time to time, unbelievable tales of their supernatural strength and ability, but no one really believes them. Except unlike spirits, SPOOKS are very, very real. And their talents, while at times exaggerated, are awesome to behold. How do I know this? Because I am one. Just like I know that Kennedy was shot with a single barrled shotgun, with two bullets going to his head, and a third striking the seat next to him. I know this, because I am the one who pulled the trigger.

I walk into the only other room in the apartment, which functions as my living space. At the end of a small, neatly made bed sits a “Hope chest”. This trunk does not house linen and other such nonsense though. Beneath the quiilt that sits inside it is a fortune of equipment. It is shiny, black streamedlined stuff--much of it no bigger than the palm of my hand. Much of it is also powerful enough to wipe out the city of Dallas, Texas. If I’ve learned anythng in my years as a spook, it’s that size really does not matter.

I reach for one thing in particular now--my CommCue set, my link to Murray and HQ. It springs to life and flashes me a welcome message-- It is 2: 37 PM, Central Time, and 34 degrees Farenheit in Dallas. The biggest news item is the assassination of the President of the United States of America, John F. Kennedy. And the current date is November 24, 2263.