White

A quick story snippet I thought up of (more of an introduction, or setting-the-stage piece).

    He lounged in the parlor often, but tonight he was expecting guests. The clock, at which he glanced at in regular intervals, told him voicelessly that it was a quarter past six o'clock, p.m. time. They would be arriving soon. At least, the invitations told them to be here at six thirty. The quick glancing was some respite for him; he absolutely detested waiting.

    "He" was Mr. Adrian Bloom, poet, novelist, statesman. He was a thin fellow, many joked he looked like a "beanpole"; he always found the joke - or even the likening of a person to an object crass and lowbrow - with a head that was shaven on the sides, left uncut on top. His hair was auburn in color, a great contrast to the slate grey eyes. He wore a white suit and matching slacks, with brown Italian shoes and a black bowtie. In his hands was clutched a wine bottle (he rarely used glasses these days) and a cigarette.

    Adrian was a chain smoker. The guests would, typically, sit in amazement as he smoked cigarette after cigarette after cigarette, without as much as a cough.

    He lived alone in a villa in the New England countryside, a few mere feet away from the shrubby, sandy dunes of New England coast and the blue-steel sea. The villa was named Capo Bianco, so named after both the eccentric Italian architect (Mr. Bianco) and it's primarily white marble theme. It was a difficult place to reach by any means of transportation other than boat, which would have an unobstructed journey to the villa, as the neat road was winding and passed through many lonely strands of woods. He purchased the land and villa four years ago with the royalties earned from his prize novel; a particularly scandalous and reviled piece involving sexual sadomasochism and homosexuality. The critics detested him at any given turn, calling the book a "revolting freakshow; a blemish upon the face of literature." Such harsh criticisms only lead to an increasing interest, akin to the type when going grave-robbing, amongst the populace. He enjoyed good sales; a spit in the eye of those who mocked him and tore his book to shreds.

    Adrian rarely had guests, and when he did, it was often avid fans who tracked him down to the lonely villa on the seaside bluff, or suitors looking for his attention and love. He always gave them two warnings before setting loose his dogs upon them. A faint, knowing smirk always crossed his face at the sight of someone fleeing from two or three baying, barking, snarling dogs.

    But tonight there would be no dogs chasing guests away. Tonight was different. Tonight, he actually wanted guests and so, weeks before, sent out invitations to old colleagues, publishers, lovers, suitors, friends, fans. It was an extensive and exhaustive search and effort on his part, but before long he found everyone he wanted to show.

    The clock in the grand parlor chimed six thirty and, not even a second later, came a rap upon the door. He rose and threw the door open, arms wide, mouth loosing smoke from the cigarette. He looked like a white dragon, smoking, daring those who stood at the mouth of the cavern to enter the lair. The guests accepted the challenge without as much a sound or second glance, stepping inside. He ushered the dogs out through the door, into the front approach, where the fountain and hedges stood silently in the May evening breeze. He locked the door behind them.

    "Welcome," said Adrian, sipping from the bottle. "All of  you came. This is good. It gladdens me that, despite our differences, despite the years we have not spoken, that most of you still would consider me in friendship. I am humbled, truly. Especially you, Olivia."

    He singled out the woman with his stone colored eyes. Olivia Pinkerton, daughter of a wealthy oil magnate, Oliver Pinkerton. She, he thought, looked as beautiful as ever, cruelly so, with her flowing hair. She wore a deep black dress. She scowled. There was a scandal years ago between the fledgling poet and the magnate's daughter . It eventually graced the front pages of several newspapers; Adrian had used Olivia for sex and for money to kick-start his career. His critics, circling like buzzards over even his earliest (his tamest) works decried and villified him further. Most scandalous of all , Adrian never denied it. In fact, he was quite open about it. It brought him joy to see her squirm, for he knew her to be an insecure, vicious and spoiled woman.

    "It is my pleasure," she smiled, lips lipstick red, behind clenched teeth.

    "As you know, I sent each and every one of you an invitation, here, at my home, my base of operations, the vault containing everything I know, but you do not know why. Does this look like a party? Some of you are dressed for the occassion, certainly," he nodded, taking a long drag before flicking the cigarette away. "Some of you," he nodded to one of his former publishers, long since bankrupt. "Are not quite dressed. But fear not. It is not a party.  Think of it as a.... gathering, of sorts. You see, I am dying."

    There was no gasp or outburst from the crowd. They simply watched, a rainbow of eyes and faces, in muted silence.

    "No, I am not being dramatic. I'm told I only have a handful of months, or weeks, even, to live. My smoking, and drinking, and screwing have all caught up with me, it seems."

    "So," spoke Sam Gatford, a not-so-quite-successful novelist of similar stripe. "You have invited us here just to tell us this news? Telegrams could be so much.... simpler, yeah?"

    Adrian mockingly frowned. "Oh , yes. But that is so impersonal! And, after all, you all are my closest friends. But, of course I did not go through the trouble of finding you all just to break you some news. No. I do believe I have hurt you all, in some form or other, in the past. Some," a passing glance to Olivia. "More than others. So think of this as my way of apologizing and repenting. In this house lays a safe, with what is left of my earnings - which is quite a lot, I tell you -, family heirlooms, and the deed to this house. But how to open a safe without a key? You must find this key - "

    "Ridiculous! " Olivia cried in disgust. "You expect us to run around your home on some wild goose chase for, what? As your form of apology?"

    "Now, now Olivia. As I was saying. The first to find this key can open the safe. Everything inside is yours - including a key to the doors, which I have locked when you all came in. To leave, find the key, open the safe, get the other key, then you're, as they say, scott free."

    "How do you know we won't just break the windows and depart through them?" someone asked from the crowd - he didn't see who.

    "You won't. My dogs are outside and they don't take kindly to trespassers. And if you wait a day or so, they'll be hungy, so I'd advise you leave the house regularly, so they won't attack. But no promises."

    A sound of protest rose from the crowd. Adrian smiled. He set the wine bottle to the ground and ran a hand through his hair.

    "Oh, and one more thing." he said. He retrieved a revolver out from his pocket, and held it to his head. "Anything goes. Good luck!"

    He went down with a bang!