Note: I thought, for some inexplicable reason, I would post some of my writing. I have never actually posted any fiction because it still makes me nervous! But I figure it’s time I get over it, so here it goes. This is actually something I wrote in a 15-minute freewrite after I watched Super Junior’s “Mamacita” music video. It hasn’t been edited save for two typos. Be nice! I should also mention that Gandalf selfishly wants me to continue this story. What do you think?
He stepped out onto the balcony of the riverboat, pulling a slim cigarette from his jacket pocket. It was the single most important part of every evening, his daily cigarette. Never more than one. Just one. He didn’t want to become one of those folks who were addicted to them. That wouldn’t be a good move, not if he wanted business to keep going. It’s a funny thing, business. All these men wanted to do work over brandy and cigars, or some other alcohol and smoking device. For his part, he preferred a good sherry, but sherry was a woman’s drink. So he settled for brandy when it was at hand. Whiskey if it wasn’t. But never beer. It was unsophisticated, and in his line of work, sophistication was of utmost importance.
On this night, there was no one to smoke with or drink with. There was no business to attend to. There would be tomorrow when he arrived in town, but for now, he could be at peace with the night sky, the fresh air, except for that he inhaled from the cigarette of course. He flicked a match against the railing, the soft glow from the flame licked out into the darkness. He briefly saw a fluttering of wings. He moved the match towards the cigarette. He didn’t like insects, but he didn’t want to willingly murder them by flame either. It was uncouth, unbusinessmanlike. He, after all, was a businessman.
He inhaled and blew out the smoke, trying to make rings like some of the other men he’s dealt with. He failed. They formed into oblong, jagged rings that resembled, more often than not, a vine that never managed to circle itself into a crown of thorns.
He sighed, noisily. He never did manage to nail that romantic aspect to other men his age, always a little more brusque, more forward, less cunning, less charming. He was not a ladies’ man by any means. He didn’t mind, though. He had work to do.
“This is truly a magnificent night.” Waxing poetic was also not his thing.
He glanced back into his cabin, the small, four-walled room in the riverboat. Lying under the bed was a box, an unassuming box, bent, dented, nothing ornate, just cheap old wood. But inside the box was something very precious, something he had to drop off the next day. He never looked inside, though. Once he acquired the object he was hired to acquire, he’d tuck it away and keep it safe. Don’t look twice. The more times you look the likelier you were to be suspected of some treachery, and as he always said, “I will not be accused of betrayal. Nor do I want the temptation to keep it for myself. I am a businessman. Not a thief or robber.”
The box let out a jitter, a wave of temptation, seduction maybe. Inside was a crown of pure gold covered in jewels of emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds. It was big. It was heavy, and it was worth a fortune. He turned from the box and shuddered. “I am a businessman,” he reminded himself.