Most people wouldn't believe in the existence of the Scavengers, even if one of the peculiar few who had heard of it ever dared to mention it. After all, who could give the notion of such a congregation of pickpockets, burglars, carjackers, and bandits who rob from the well-to-do only to throw their spoils away a credible thought? "No," most people would say, "robbers are motivated by greed or poverty. It's impossible that there could exist a brotherhood that would encourage its members to steal for sport."
And yet, such a fraternity of felons does exist, and tonight is the kickoff of the most anticipated event of their year: the Scavenger Hunt. Once a year, the entire brotherhood of bored suburbanites assemble and compete to see who can first collect a complete set of high-end loot. It's now a crisp, cool autumn evening - but don't ask me which one. Officially, authorities deny that the Scavenger Hunt exists, but you can bet it's going down if, on your evening commute home, you pass an unusual number of police cars on patrol through the neighborhoods.
Now, the most intimate secrets of the Scavenger Hunt are well-guarded and, like most well-guarded secrets, very boring. Far more entertaining are the individual Scavengers themselves. Take, for example, young Elliot Ross, who now paces back and forth in front of the Reed Hotel, a gaudily formal tower with bright rose-petal paint that somehow shines just as garishly at night as it did during the day. Ross wears a black-checked scarf around his neck, and he now pulls it just a little tighter to keep a small draft from sneaking in at his neckline. He pushes the wire rim glasses he wears up the bridge of his nose with a clean, if poorly manicured, finger, and then he shoves his hands back in the deep pockets of his black aviator's jacket. He glares down the street in both directions. No one comes up the street to meet him. Ross scrapes his boots on the ground again and coughs.
Tonight, Ross goes on his first Scavenger Hunt. You must excuse him if he appears a bit nervous.
A woman in a thick fur coat rounds the corner and walks towards the entrance to the hotel. Ross stops his pacing and stares at her as she approaches. She turns behind her and yells at someone still coming up behind her. German. Ross can't make the words out. A short, balding man steps out from the alley and mumbles a drunken apology to his partner. The two walk towards the entrance to the Reed Hotel. Bathed in the light spilling out onto the street, the woman looks at Ross expectantly.
"Annie?" he asks.
The woman looks at Ross, a slight sneer creeping around her lips before she manages to slip on her most condescending smile. "Door, please," she says. The coat slides down over her left shoulder, and she hikes it defensively back into place. The man burps and mumbles something.
"Not Annie, then," Ross says. The woman frowns at him and points to the door. Ross opens it with a deep bow. The German woman strolls through magnificently, barely missing catching the hem of her coat on the corner as Ross lets it fall prematurely shut. The drunken man stumbles to slide through the door before it closes. He grunts when the door hits his shoulder. Rather than push the door back open, the man pulls his hand through, ripping off a button in the process.
After the door has closed, Ross reaches down to picks the small black button off the ground. A slim hand with long, purple nails scrapes the button up before Ross can touch it. A young woman stands over him and looks down with a half-smile communicating both bemusement and disappointment.
"I guess you'd be Annie," Ross says. She seems far too young to be his contact, barely more than a teenager. The hair on the left side of her head had been shorn near to the skin, while the rest of her hair flows up and over her head then down so it just covers her left eye. Her hair, of course, is them same purple as her nails. She stands with one hand on her hip, the other playing with the fringes of a black checked scarf, much like the one Ross wears.
"I guess that makes you Mr. Ross," she says cheerfully. She doesn't mask her disappointment very well. Between you and me, I don't think she means to. Annie flicks her hand and looks at a thick gold watch. It slides back and forth over the pronounced curve of her wrist bone. Even at its tightest, the watch is much too big for her. "Just about nine," she says. "Time to start?"
"I'm ready," Ross says. "What's the first item on the list?"
Annie cocks an eyebrow. "You don't have the list yet?"
"Sorry," Ross says. "I didn't know I was supposed to steal it ahead of time." He fails to suppress a blush.
"The list is here," Annie says, waving her arm dramatically around her. "They always hide it somewhere at the meeting place. You new to this?"
Ross runs his fingers along the mortar connecting the bricks of the hotel wall. "No papers stuffed into cracks in the wall," he says, turning his eyes to the ground, "and nothing in the sidewalk, either." He looks upwards to the canopy over his head. "That only leaves..."
Annie sees the small dark shadow on top of the canopy. She wraps her hands around the brass pole and shimmies her way carefully up. Hanging from the edge, she pulls her head up and over. Whatever caused the dark shape is gone now. "Nothing there," she says as she drops down. "Well, it's a good thing I came prepared just in..."
Ross smiles and waves a small white envelope in front of Annie's face.
Annie grins. "I guess you're not so useless."
"Rock climbing," Ross says. "I'm very good at what I do."
"Me, too," Annie reaches into the front pocket of her jacket and produces a similar, unmarked envelope.
Ross blinks. "And what's that?"
"Oh, I picked this up off another Scavenger about a week back," Annie says. "It's another copy of the list. I always nick it ahead of time."
"That's dishonest," Ross says. He tears open the white envelope and starts to read the list.
"We're Scavengers, hon," Annie says. "Dishonest is the point. Anyway, let's get moving. We can go faster if we each have a copy of the list. First item is a black laptop computer. We can find one at the community college, I'm sure. Let's go."
Annie walks away from the building. Ross doesn't move. He blinks rapidly as his eyes pass again and again over the scrap of paper in his hand. "You sure you remember that list right?" he says.
"Remember nothing," Annie says. "I've got the list right here." She unfolds her paper and reads,"'One laptop computer, four to five years old, black casing...' It's all there."
"You should take a look at this." Ross hands her the paper.
Annie's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "It's a completely different list." Ross fails to suppress a smirk at Annie's obvious surprise. "You pick up the wrong list?"
"Maybe," Annie says. She bites on her lip as she thinks. Ross studies her face for any sign of panic or frustration.
"So much for prep work." Ross snatches his page back from Annie. "Let's go. Time's a-wasting."
Annie ignores Ross. "Either I intercepted another team's list somehow," Annie mumbles to herself, "or they changed the list. Or maybe somebody else slipped us a bum list and the one I've got is the correct one..."
"Why would someone give us a fake list?" Ross says.
"Probably payback for me stealing the list in the first place." Annie sighs and folds the paper back up. "Only one thing to do now."
"You're not giving up, are you?"
"Of course not," Annie says. "We just play a new game now. Tonight, we steal everything."
Hoo boy. Every time I fall behind during Project 52, you can bet a short story is to blame. I'm definitely biting off too much with each short story attempt. This one could EASILY have turned into a short novel - and, frankly, not letting it actually BE a short novel is doing "Scavengers" a disservice. Hence, this stilted and admittedly incomplete piece of fiction. Sorry.
I'm not actually all that familiar with the short story as a piece of art. I don't read short stories for fun, and, outside of the one fiction writing class I took in college, I've never really tried to write one. I've tended this far to approach short stories the same way I do novels, and, as a result, I expect too much of myself in too short a space.
That said, I definitely tried some things here that I think will serve me well going forward. I attempted a new narrative voice I've nev really tried in fiction before, and I attempted a present-tense narrative style that, while not wholly effective, definitely helps me understand its usage better. Even in the picture, which I was quite hurried in completing, taught me some things, mostly about the importance of variety in facial and body shapes, which I could have tried to exaggerate EVEN MORE.
Just... just pretend that I've actually SEEN the inside of a car, and please don't give me too much grief on proportions, 'kay?
And yet, such a fraternity of felons does exist, and tonight is the kickoff of the most anticipated event of their year: the Scavenger Hunt. Once a year, the entire brotherhood of bored suburbanites assemble and compete to see who can first collect a complete set of high-end loot. It's now a crisp, cool autumn evening - but don't ask me which one. Officially, authorities deny that the Scavenger Hunt exists, but you can bet it's going down if, on your evening commute home, you pass an unusual number of police cars on patrol through the neighborhoods.
Now, the most intimate secrets of the Scavenger Hunt are well-guarded and, like most well-guarded secrets, very boring. Far more entertaining are the individual Scavengers themselves. Take, for example, young Elliot Ross, who now paces back and forth in front of the Reed Hotel, a gaudily formal tower with bright rose-petal paint that somehow shines just as garishly at night as it did during the day. Ross wears a black-checked scarf around his neck, and he now pulls it just a little tighter to keep a small draft from sneaking in at his neckline. He pushes the wire rim glasses he wears up the bridge of his nose with a clean, if poorly manicured, finger, and then he shoves his hands back in the deep pockets of his black aviator's jacket. He glares down the street in both directions. No one comes up the street to meet him. Ross scrapes his boots on the ground again and coughs.
Tonight, Ross goes on his first Scavenger Hunt. You must excuse him if he appears a bit nervous.
A woman in a thick fur coat rounds the corner and walks towards the entrance to the hotel. Ross stops his pacing and stares at her as she approaches. She turns behind her and yells at someone still coming up behind her. German. Ross can't make the words out. A short, balding man steps out from the alley and mumbles a drunken apology to his partner. The two walk towards the entrance to the Reed Hotel. Bathed in the light spilling out onto the street, the woman looks at Ross expectantly.
"Annie?" he asks.
The woman looks at Ross, a slight sneer creeping around her lips before she manages to slip on her most condescending smile. "Door, please," she says. The coat slides down over her left shoulder, and she hikes it defensively back into place. The man burps and mumbles something.
"Not Annie, then," Ross says. The woman frowns at him and points to the door. Ross opens it with a deep bow. The German woman strolls through magnificently, barely missing catching the hem of her coat on the corner as Ross lets it fall prematurely shut. The drunken man stumbles to slide through the door before it closes. He grunts when the door hits his shoulder. Rather than push the door back open, the man pulls his hand through, ripping off a button in the process.
After the door has closed, Ross reaches down to picks the small black button off the ground. A slim hand with long, purple nails scrapes the button up before Ross can touch it. A young woman stands over him and looks down with a half-smile communicating both bemusement and disappointment.
"I guess you'd be Annie," Ross says. She seems far too young to be his contact, barely more than a teenager. The hair on the left side of her head had been shorn near to the skin, while the rest of her hair flows up and over her head then down so it just covers her left eye. Her hair, of course, is them same purple as her nails. She stands with one hand on her hip, the other playing with the fringes of a black checked scarf, much like the one Ross wears.
"I guess that makes you Mr. Ross," she says cheerfully. She doesn't mask her disappointment very well. Between you and me, I don't think she means to. Annie flicks her hand and looks at a thick gold watch. It slides back and forth over the pronounced curve of her wrist bone. Even at its tightest, the watch is much too big for her. "Just about nine," she says. "Time to start?"
"I'm ready," Ross says. "What's the first item on the list?"
Annie cocks an eyebrow. "You don't have the list yet?"
"Sorry," Ross says. "I didn't know I was supposed to steal it ahead of time." He fails to suppress a blush.
"The list is here," Annie says, waving her arm dramatically around her. "They always hide it somewhere at the meeting place. You new to this?"
Ross runs his fingers along the mortar connecting the bricks of the hotel wall. "No papers stuffed into cracks in the wall," he says, turning his eyes to the ground, "and nothing in the sidewalk, either." He looks upwards to the canopy over his head. "That only leaves..."
Annie sees the small dark shadow on top of the canopy. She wraps her hands around the brass pole and shimmies her way carefully up. Hanging from the edge, she pulls her head up and over. Whatever caused the dark shape is gone now. "Nothing there," she says as she drops down. "Well, it's a good thing I came prepared just in..."
Ross smiles and waves a small white envelope in front of Annie's face.
Annie grins. "I guess you're not so useless."
"Rock climbing," Ross says. "I'm very good at what I do."
"Me, too," Annie reaches into the front pocket of her jacket and produces a similar, unmarked envelope.
Ross blinks. "And what's that?"
"Oh, I picked this up off another Scavenger about a week back," Annie says. "It's another copy of the list. I always nick it ahead of time."
"That's dishonest," Ross says. He tears open the white envelope and starts to read the list.
"We're Scavengers, hon," Annie says. "Dishonest is the point. Anyway, let's get moving. We can go faster if we each have a copy of the list. First item is a black laptop computer. We can find one at the community college, I'm sure. Let's go."
Annie walks away from the building. Ross doesn't move. He blinks rapidly as his eyes pass again and again over the scrap of paper in his hand. "You sure you remember that list right?" he says.
"Remember nothing," Annie says. "I've got the list right here." She unfolds her paper and reads,"'One laptop computer, four to five years old, black casing...' It's all there."
"You should take a look at this." Ross hands her the paper.
Annie's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "It's a completely different list." Ross fails to suppress a smirk at Annie's obvious surprise. "You pick up the wrong list?"
"Maybe," Annie says. She bites on her lip as she thinks. Ross studies her face for any sign of panic or frustration.
"So much for prep work." Ross snatches his page back from Annie. "Let's go. Time's a-wasting."
Annie ignores Ross. "Either I intercepted another team's list somehow," Annie mumbles to herself, "or they changed the list. Or maybe somebody else slipped us a bum list and the one I've got is the correct one..."
"Why would someone give us a fake list?" Ross says.
"Probably payback for me stealing the list in the first place." Annie sighs and folds the paper back up. "Only one thing to do now."
"You're not giving up, are you?"
"Of course not," Annie says. "We just play a new game now. Tonight, we steal everything."
Hoo boy. Every time I fall behind during Project 52, you can bet a short story is to blame. I'm definitely biting off too much with each short story attempt. This one could EASILY have turned into a short novel - and, frankly, not letting it actually BE a short novel is doing "Scavengers" a disservice. Hence, this stilted and admittedly incomplete piece of fiction. Sorry.
I'm not actually all that familiar with the short story as a piece of art. I don't read short stories for fun, and, outside of the one fiction writing class I took in college, I've never really tried to write one. I've tended this far to approach short stories the same way I do novels, and, as a result, I expect too much of myself in too short a space.
That said, I definitely tried some things here that I think will serve me well going forward. I attempted a new narrative voice I've nev really tried in fiction before, and I attempted a present-tense narrative style that, while not wholly effective, definitely helps me understand its usage better. Even in the picture, which I was quite hurried in completing, taught me some things, mostly about the importance of variety in facial and body shapes, which I could have tried to exaggerate EVEN MORE.
Just... just pretend that I've actually SEEN the inside of a car, and please don't give me too much grief on proportions, 'kay?
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