Oktober Ski: A Night at the Overlook

 The reflection in her eyes tipped him off-- the man behind him, as he lifted his arm to hit Mack, showed as a blurry glitter of movement-- Mack slid aside, kicking out as he went, dropping the surprised attacker onto the floor. In a flash, the edge of Mack's hand came down on his throat, and he was out of the game. The girl didn't stick around to see the results; she turned and made for the door as fast as she could, scattering her scarf and cheap bag in her hurry, and Mack let her go.

 He could have caught up at the elevators, maybe, but it didn't seem important. He knew who'd sent the pair, and he knew why. It was the ring, again, always that damn ring. Sitting in a safe ten floors below, it had managed to call trouble to him, for the third time. A cursed sapphire, not technically the legal property of anyone for over two centuries, although Mack's employer claimed hereditary ownership. His own short guardianship made Mack wonder why possession of this weirdly cut stone in its old-fashioned setting was so hot on everybody's list. Each day since he'd acquired it had brought some new problem, and he had five days left till delivery-- a meeting he'd begun to wish was happening a lot sooner, despite the luxurious accommodations he'd been paid to enjoy.



 

Oktober Ski: Fiction, Fiction, Fiction

After many beginnings in September, most having gone unreported here, we are into Oktober, which is always reserved for instant fiction. This year, the plan is to alternate between a few prospective books, adding some new work to each. The first is a fanfic I've just dreamed up, a gathering of stories that may or may not become interwoven, called:


A NIGHT AT THE OVERLOOK



 His wife was trying on earrings now. She'd picked up ten different pairs so far, holding them near her head in turn, assessing their effect against her perfect coif.

 Brennan sat heavily in one of the Overlook's leather club chairs, realizing he might have to wait another half hour or more just for the jewelry to get picked. Then she'd need to decide on shoes, and last of all, a wrap. All of this to go downstairs and mingle with the richest scum in America on a cracked ballroom floor under aging chandeliers, while they ate dried out canapés and lobster that was sure to be overcooked.

 He grabbed a newspaper, bored already. His wife turned from her vanity mirror, hands on hips.

"What do you think about these?"

 He lifted his head from the sports section just as the first bullet ripped through her middle.