Deferred Collection
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They were coming for her.
“Now Deborah, it’s a party for you. We want to celebrate your big milestone,” the pest droned on without mercy behind her shoulder.
What milestone? Deborah mused internally, That she had arthritis and was gradually devolving into a decrepit pile of hateful flesh?
“I don’t want a party, Becky, it’s just another day,” Deborah replied, her nose crinkled as if she had just smelled a skunk who'd rolled in a dirty diaper.
“Nonsense.” Becky prattled on, “You are an important part of our community and deserve to be celebrated.”
Deborah grunted in response as she tossed the pizza dough she had finished proofing onto the flour-coated stainless steel counter in front of her.
Becky ran her hand through her short-cropped blonde hair as she turned to leave and continued, “Just show up tonight at the big park please.”
Deborah made a pained noise in reply to Becky's retreating form and began punching the dough like she was fighting a mixed martial arts match rather than kneading that day’s future pizza. Her restaurant, the Dough Abode, was an institution in Two Duck Lake. She had been crafting and kneading pies for her hometown’s citizens for over twenty years.
“Fifty.” She spat as she punched the defenseless dough, “Bah.”
If only she hadn’t done it, then she would just be a normal business owner.
“How are ya now, Debbie Dirtpile, you big ol' stack of pancakes!” a gravelly voice shouted through the restaurant.
“I don’t have time, Terry!” she bellowed as she tossed a bit of dough into the air.
“It’s your big birthday Darlin, you should be celebrating, not pizza making!” replied the day’s second intruder.
Terry Buchanan was the town mouth. Well, that wasn’t accurate, Two Duck Lake had multiple know-it-all orators of the gossip spreading, self-importance pontificating kind. What made Terry unique was his logger chic outfit that he always donned. His cutoff riggin pants combined with his colorful rainbow suspenders made him stick out. That and a mustache that was probably robbed from Hercule Poirot’s corpse.
“Terry, the lunch rush is coming up, I gotta prep,” Deborah said through clenched teeth.
“What you gotta do is get yourself down to the park at six tonight, Debbie, or else we’ll all come and drag you down there.”
Deborah blew a bit of her black hair out of her eyes, “That a threat. Terry?”
Terry took a stumbling step back, “No, no, no my lady, no one would ever threaten Two Duck’s finest citizen.”
“Get out,” Deborah growled.
She followed the suspender-clad intruder out to the front door and locked it after he walked through. Before returning to her dough, Deborah stopped in the bathroom, washed her flour-coated hands, and splashed cold water onto her face. A slightly wizened with age visage stared back at her. Her black hair wasn’t even her own anymore, she had been dyeing away the grey for years, and the toll of restaurant ownership showed in the crinkles that adorned her eyes and the edges of her mouth.
“I should have just left him there.” She spoke to the reflection.
The visage’s green flecked amber eyes hardened at her statement and replied through painfully stretched lips, “But you didn’t, did you.”
Sighing, Deborah stalked out of the bathroom, so great was her discomfort that she didn’t pause as she usually did to bask in the cozy space that was her restaurant and home. As she strode towards the swinging doors into her workspace, the warm reclaimed fir beams didn’t catch her agitated glance as they normally did.
A man was sitting in her kitchen.
“Who the ten bucks in the back of the truck are you!” she erupted.
The insolent creature who deigned to sit in her chair had the bearing of a human who likes to twist their earlobe because they knew it would annoy you. He was entirely too well-groomed to be a dweller of Two Duck Lake, she noticed as he uncrossed a leg that was clad in tailored grey trousers.
“This is a nice little place you got here Ms. Micklehausen. Do you do a pie with arugula and prosciutto?”
Deborah’s hand slid to the Sig Sauer P365 that she kept in a holster on her right hip, “Nope, but I am thinking of offering one with the long pig in it.” She replied as she slid the 9mm out of its resting place.
Amusement flickered through the man’s limp salmon skin colored eyes, “Why Ms. Micklehausen, you are a delight.”
A well-manicured hand reached down and swept a bit of flour off of the pristinely pressed trousers, “You knew full well that your actions ten years ago would have consequences. You put yourself in debt, I’m the Collector.”
Deborah’s insides deflated like a walnut crushed in a pair of vise-grip pliers. She knew when she intervened that a reckoning would come, much of the hidden white hair that adorned her head served as a reminder of her ever-enduring anxiety.
She sighed and re-holstered her pistol, “I’m ready to pay the debt owed.” She told the collector as she straightened her spine for the inevitable.
The man in her wrought iron kitchen chair started chuckling, “Oh Ms. Micklehausen, your sense of humor is delightful,” he replied as he stood up. Deborah thought she felt the temperature of her kitchen fall twenty degrees.
“Did you really think it would be that simple?” he said in a tone that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up, his unearthly pale grey eyes boring into hers with cold glee.
“Deborah, I’m here!” a voice that was all syrup and no fluff came floating through the swinging doors.
Deborah swung around, her heart smashing against her ribcage, “Sarah, wait a second!” she blurted a moment before her young protégé burst through the doors.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah’s warm brown eyes were full of confusion as her houndstooth bellbottom and purple paisley shirt clad form skidded to a stop.
Deborah whirled around, the chair was empty and the Collector was nowhere in sight.
“Uh, I just wanted to show you the new dinnerware that I was thinking about ordering before you came all the way in here,” Deborah said as she pasted what she hoped was a convincing smile onto her face.
Sarah’s voluminous brown eyebrows rose, “Okay, let’s have a look.” She twirled her gloriously ample frame completely around with all the grace of a Julliard dance student and glided out into the dining room.
Hours later, after the lunch rush was over and her evening crew had arrived, Deborah found herself staring at the haunted visage in the mirror once more. She had made a choice years ago, a choice at the time she thought was worth it. It was an instinctual reaction really, she mused to herself as she wound her long black hair into a chignon and pinned it low against her neck. The creature in the mirror stared back at her, pale pink lips pressed together loathing the moment that was upon it. Deborah took in the image peering back at her, a middle-aged woman at the peak of her productive timeline, clad in a lavender sundress, and cloaked in long-borne anxiety. She was ready for the debt to be collected.
A knock shattered the moment of resolve. It was Sarah, she had arrived to take her to the party looking resplendent in a vintage turquoise swing dress that was adorned with perfectly symmetrical red cherries. Her young friend’s hair was wound into two fabulous victory rolls. Deborah smiled as her eyes left the haunted creature in the mirror and settled onto her beaming young friend’s face.
“It’s time,” she said.
Lovely story, @generikat. I love your colorful descriptions, and Deborah's terrific personality. This one is sequel-worthy!
Thank you so much @jayna! You know, since I finished the tale, I have been kicking around the rest of the narrative, the before, the after, and the why. Then my mom told me that she needs to know what happens to Deborah and what the heck did the woman do in the first place, so I think I better tackle it. I'm not sure if I am too old to get grounded or not at this point, lol!
Ha ha! I hope you don't get grounded! That's a great sign that you've hit a nerve and your readers want more if you're starting to get threats to write more... or else!
Hello @generikat,
Your iPhone may not be beguiling but your writing style certainly is. You bring these people--your picturesque characters--into our homes as we read. The corpulent, the plaid-clad, the sinister, and the guilt-ridden swim before our eyes. They are real. It's good we don't know how the debt will be paid. And it is good we don't know how the debt was incurred. What matters is the weight of it. The time may be nigh for collection, but the burden of the debt was always a presence in Deborah's life.
I've told you before, you're a great writer. Forgive me the lack of modesty here: this is something I know. So many talents I lack, but I do have discernment of good writing. Take the compliment and run. Not away, but to your desk, and write some more.:)
Oh @agmoore, thank you so, so much for your kind words. I wanted to convey the burdensome weight of time, and you condensed my intent into such a beautiful summation. For most of my life I have been hesitant to share anything I write, out of fear and frustration. Fear that someone might be upset or dislike my hard work, and frustration that I can never quite compose what I am thinking. The fear of failure I have dispelled, and the only way to get better at composition is to compose and put it out there, right?
Your encouragement means more to than I could ever convey, and I wholeheartedly believe that you indeed are a paragon of good writing discernment, so I would love it if you challenged me even further. I value your opinion highly and would love to be mercilessly eviscerated on the altar of craft improvement.
Also, I am sitting at my desk right now.😁
So pick up the pen (keyboard, pencil) and go to it. I will try very hard to find something to eviscerate. I know every writer craves honest feedback. So, I'll be merciless and look for weak points in your writing. I'll need a magnifying glass :))
Ah, now I am both excited and a bit terrified lol! Challenge accepted!:)
Love this conversation, @generikat and @agmoore. My two cents is this: every single writer on the planet is in development. We are all on some scale between beginner and expert. If we don't write - whether out of fear or insecurity or what have you - we never move beyond our current position on that scale, and we rob the world of the stories that could have been told.
🌟🌞 🌟
I'll try to remember that as I fail to write my own stories :)
So, um, @agmoore, I like to read, like a lot, soooo, just sitting here waiting for you to pick up the pen and stuff.😉😁
Wonderfully put @jayna! I definitely don't want to be a story thief, nor do I want to be deprived of all of the glorious tales floating around in people's imaginations out there, write me must! lol:)
@tipu curate
Upvoted 👌 (Mana: 39/78) Liquid rewards.
Thank you for posting this story in the Ink Well community. What a wonderful application of the prompt. What a wonderful tale you spin. Your characters are colorful. Your setting is vivid. You leave us in suspense, although in this case we can imagine quite readily the kind of evening Deborah is going to have. Well done!
Thank you so much! This prompt, like all of your other glorious prompts, makes me want to spend hours adding to what pops out of my brain in response to your call. Thanks for providing such a wonderful space to create and be encouraged in.:)
Also, I hope at the very least she gets a slice of cake before all Hades breaks loose.
Your post is reblogged and upvoted by me. It is a good post. Thank you @generikat