Jake’s Superette

Another prompt from Jolene/Chico’s Mom. I’ve not participated in the last few because I was focused on Vivian Locke’s noir, but I thought I’d give this one a quick stab between my longer efforts.

Not quite clocking at 1000 words, I followed the prompt on her site which included four elements (and a wild card)

• Vet
• Ex-superhero
• Lottery tickets
• A door that won’t open
• Wild card! Tell your story as a romance

The story was only lightly edited after it was written, so forgive me if there are any flaws.

Comments are always appreciated.

Jake’s Superette

Sad beep. Sigh.

Sad beep. Sigh.

Sad beep. S—

“Nuthin’?” asked the little shit at the register who couldn’t be more than fifteen, judging by the he sparse, fuzzy apology for a moustache boys his age favored.

Vincent realized only then that he had been sighing in sympathy with the scanner as he checked the dozen or so lottery tickets for a possible winner beside the checkout counter at Jake’s Superette.

“Guess not.”

It wasn’t news to Vincent. He’d checked the numbers twice back at home. But he had a hard time giving up the hope that he had missed a winner. Not even a single match. Zilch payout. How was it that he had all the luck in the world when it came to avoiding IEDs in on the road to Kandahar, but had luck for shit all when it came to winning the big bucks with Lotto.

It hardly seemed fair.

The aluminum and glass door in the front of the store screeched open, sending an electronic chime singing a cheery Christmas song. The only problem was that it was early July.

Unable to help himself, Vincent looked up. He would have rather not have, but somewhere along the line the Pavlov reflex had been trained into his psyche. Door chime meant look at door.

He scanned another ticket. Sad beep.

“You need to get that door fixed,” she said as she walked past the counter.

“I know, I know,” said the fuzzy-lipped little shit. Peach-fuzz. Vincent decided he’s christen the boy “Peachy” until it stopped amusing him, which would take longer than he cared to admit. “I told Jake about it and he just shrugged.”

“Well, chances are he’ll regret it if he doesn’t.”

“I mention it again, Miss Silkwind. Mayb—”

Vincent didn’t hear the rest of the exchange. He heard the name Silkwind and had to catch a glimpse of her. Of all the super heroes out there, he had only really had a crush on Silkie, with her ashen white hair flowing behind her in perpetual breeze and a sultry wink at whomever might be looking at the pinup. He still had a ratty dog-eared pinup of her in the workshop area of his garage.

And sure enough, there she was, beautiful as ever. He had heard she had taken early retirement; there was no shame in that as far as he was concerned. Silkwind was at the top of her career, but wanted to go out while the gettin’ was good.

And completely out of Vincent’s league. Time and beer had done his figure no favors and he was in a dead-end job going nowhere fast. He had nothing to offer someone like Silkie, and he knew it.

Vincent looked at his pile of Lotto tickets and realized he had already confirmed all were duds. He thought about scanning them again, just so his eye could continue to linger on Silkwind bent over at the frozen food section like he was already doing, but already felt like a creep leering at her like that, so he scooped up the tickets and handed them off to Peachy.

“No winners, Mr. Long?”

“Shit no,” he said, stealing a glance behind him. Silkwind was already getting rung up for a handful of frozen dinners by one of the other workers who had rushed up to make sure the VIP wouldn’t have to wait. He turned back to Peachy. “Gimme ten this time,” he said.

He glanced at the new tickets, hoping something screamed “lucky” at him, but they looked all as dead as the ones he had just scanned as he shuffled towards the front door, not really paying attention to where he was walking.

Vincent leaned his shoulder into the glass door, expecting the usual resistance of the heavy frame. But the door had other plans. It stuck in the track for a heartbeat, and as he doubled his effort, a sudden “Oof!” hit him from behind.

It wasn’t a normal bump. It felt like being rear-ended by a sedan.

The door gave way all at once, the screech of metal lost in the sound of Vincent’s boots losing purchase. He went down hard, sprawling onto the sun-baked pavement in a flurry of useless lottery tickets. Before he could even grunt, a second weight flattened him—soft, but heavy enough to drive the wind out of his lungs—followed by a cold, rattling hail of frozen Salisbury steaks.

“Oh God! I’m such a klutz,” a voice gasped, the weight lifting as quickly as it had arrived. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!”

Vincent lay there, squinting against the July glare. A hand appeared in his field of vision—pale, steady, and reaching out to pull him from the wreckage of his afternoon.

“Not a problem,” he wheezed, his brain trying to sync up with his limbs. “I can’t bel—no harm done—I’m so—”

His fingers brushed hers as they both reached for a stray ticket. He looked up.

The ashen hair was pulled back now, and the “perpetual breeze” was just a humid Minnesota gust, but the eyes were unmistakable.

Silkwind.

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of quiet that usually preceded an IED blast, but this time, nobody was running. She didn’t pull her hand away. In the stillness, her fingers felt warm against the grit on his knuckles.

“Hi,” he managed, his voice finally finding its floor. “Name’s Vincent.”

She offered a small, tentative tilt of the head. “Jacqui. But everyone calls me Silkwind.”

“I know,” he replied.

He looked at the sea of losing tickets scattered across the concrete, then back at her. He smiled, thinking maybe he had finally hit the lottery after all.