Wednesday it was a revolver

For my fiction class, we're required to write five openings for pieces of fiction and post them on our class blog.  I'm really impressed by some of the stuff we come up with, because I know if I had to come up with a story that belongs to my opening, I wouldn't know what I was writing.  Mostly because I know that it's just an opening, so I can do whatever craziness I want and I don't actually have to commit to it.  I was going to steal an opening from one of my classmates to write this blog post, but then I thought that might be creatively immoral, so instead I'm using one of my own lines.  Yay free writing!

On another note, Poem-a-Day March is in the planning stages.  I've asked my good friend Claire of Musings of a Rhythm Junkie to be my Poem Keeper for the month, and she's going to set me a challenge akin to my "love poem a week" challenge for February.  I'm really excited because it should be a good month!

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Monday it was roses, Tuesday it was chocolates, Wednesday it was a revolver.  The boxes just showed up on Frank's doorstep with no explanation, stamp or return address.  He flattered himself to believe that they came from a secret admirer, but he would have hoped that she would reveal herself by now.

It had been three days and the most unexpected gift arrived on Frank's doorstep.  Packed in with those foam peanuts and some stray Easter grass was this old-time revolver.  Fully loaded.  No note, no nothing, just like the roses and the chocolates from the previous days.  Frank replaced the revolver in its nest and crossed to the front window, parting the curtains just enough to peek down the street.  Nothing unusual or out of place, just the neighbor kids playing in a sprinkler out on their front lawn.  And Mr. Perkins sitting on his front porch like he did every evening in July, paying homage to an older time when porch sitting was a pastime.

"What the hell..." Frank grumbled under his breath, lumbering back to the box on his kitchen table.  He sunk his hands in amongst (don't you dare tell me that isn't a word, Chrome, you know damn well it is) the packing peanuts and felt around for anything he might have missed.  His knuckles bumped against the cold metal of the revolver as he felt around on the bottom of the box where something smooth separated him from the divide between layers of cardboard.  Latching on to it, Frank brought the thing out into the light.

The thing just happened to be an envelope, making Wednesday's delivery starkly different from Monday's and Tuesday's.  The envelope held no markings, no postage, no address, except it was sealed with a tri-colored fleur-de-lis.  It looked like it had been made with a rubber stamp, the colors blending in to each other.  Frank tore open the envelope and pulled out the card, reading the single word of the message written upon it in a sophisticated script:  "Run."

Frank's eyebrows furrowed, and it almost looked as if he was about to take the message seriously and run.  His eyes held a terror he hadn't felt since he had broken up with his homicidal girlfriend for the last time, and his body tensed.  But just at the moment when it seemed like Frank would jump through his front window and start a mad spring to Somewhere Else, the envelope and the card fell from his hand.

"Pssh."  Frank let the air out of his mouth, looking at the card skeptically as if the card really thought he would take it seriously.

He stuck a cigarette between his lips and raised his lighter to the tip when there was a knock on the door.  For a brief moment, Frank regretted not listening to the card.  The moment immediately following that one brief moment told Frank that he was ridiculous.  Just as a precaution, Frank picked up the revolver and held it out in front of him as he turned the doorknob and wrenched open his front door.

The woman standing on his doorstep looked at the revolver and was unimpressed.  She didn't even flinch.  "What's that, a museum piece?"  She laughed at her own joke and sidled around Frank and into the house.