Diamonds and Toads (A Modern Fairy Tale) PART ONE: DIAMONDS

Ch. 8-10

Copyright © K.E. Saxon 2010

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CHAPTER EIGHT

The sound of high-pitched trilling startled Chas awake. He glanced at his clock. Five-thirty-seven. He’d barely been asleep an hour, what with all the emails he’d composed. Stumbling out of bed, he moved toward the noise. It seemed to be coming from his living room. What the hell was that? It didn’t sound like anything he owned. Maybe it was a car alarm down on the street, the sound somehow thrown so that it seemed closer.

A little dizzy and off balance from so little rest the past few days, he rubbed the base of his palm into his eye.

The living room was dark and he stubbed his toe on the edge of the sofa as he passed a smidge too close to it. That woke him up. He cursed a blue streak, hopping on one foot and rubbing the abused member until the sharp pain subsided enough to stand on it again. The trilling had stopped in the midst of his outburst, but he turned the light on anyway, curious to see what it might have been.

“What the hell?” He blinked. Then blinked again. The image didn’t change. Perched on a lampshade, a yellow cockatoo stared back at him. Chas took a step toward it and it flapped its wings and hissed. “Okay, birdy, don’t have a tizzy.” How in hell had the bird gotten in here anyway? He did a quick scan of his door and windows. They were all shut tight. Crazy. Had it been in here when he got home, maybe hiding somewhere? Maybe one of the maids had left it here? It was a stretch, but they were the only ones with access to his hi-rise. He’d have to talk to management about it later in the day.

The bird started singing. He recognized the tune, but couldn’t understand the words at first. Then it came to him: Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend. A trickle of fear ran up his spine. That was just a little too coincidental and creepy for comfort. A loud pop! sounded followed by a pungently scented purple mist. He stumbled back, shouting, “Ohhh shit!” The hairs on his arms and neck stood straight up. He grabbed the first thing he could find to use for defense, a heavy brass candlestick off one of the end tables, and fled toward the door.

“Ooh. No need for such”—an inhaled breath—“dramatics, Chas daarling,” a familiar, sweet and smoky voice said.

He swung around. Marilyn Monroe?

“Come sit beside me and we’ll…ooh…have a little chat, shall we?” She dipped her lids and puckered her lips at him. Lounging with one knee on his sofa, she was dressed in the same billowy halter dress she’d worn in that movie where the breeze from the subway lifted her skirts so high, it nearly gave fifties moviegoers their first-ever famous celebrity beaver shot.

This is not happening. He scrubbed his eyes and opened them again, but she was still there. Okay, this is a dream. I’m dreaming. Dreaming is good. His heart rate calmed. This, I can handle.

Now that he knew what was going on, he decided to kick back and enjoy the ride. “Hey, Marilyn,” he said, sauntering back to the end table and placing the candlestick there. “What’s up?”

She smiled and patted the sofa cushion next to her.

He shrugged and plopped down. This was actually kind of fun. “Who was better in the sack, anyway, Robbie or Johnny-boy?” Hey, it was his dream, might as well see what his subconscious came up with. He twisted around and grabbed a pillow for his back.