Clandestine
Today’s post is based on a writing prompt I shared in a previous Daily Drafts & Dialogues post: Clandestine. Keep reading to see what I wrote, and to access more writing prompts.
What I wrote below is based on the following writing prompt: Write a scene in which someone is doing something clandestine. Or write about a time you or someone you knew did something clandestine.
Sheila hadn’t been home in eleven days and ten nights. A work conference in Tucson. Just like last year, and just as boring, she had claimed as she wheeled her overnight luggage to our front entranceway, in preparation for the taxi that was scheduled to arrive a few hours later.
“It’s so sweet of you, babe, to be willing to suffer through another lecture on financial forecasting with me,” she had said with a laugh, waving off my offer to join her with a delicate flick of the wrist. “But I’d rather spend solo time with you somewhere that isn’t in the middle of the godforsaken desert next time we travel together. And definitely want to leave the spreadsheets behind.”
I can still taste the kiss she gave me then. And the bitter irony of those words she had uttered, so casually, so effortlessly. Because, here I am now, nestled in a tiny alcove on the perimeter of the lobby of one of the largest oasis hotels in the middle of the Arabian Desert, trying my best to look like I’m engrossed by something on my phone, like I belong here, so no one suspects that I don’t.
The shiny elevators to my left open with a ding. My cue to pay attention.
I look up and see three men exit, all wearing dishdashas and turbans. Two men in dark business suits come out seconds later, then diverge paths at the giant fountain in the center of the lobby. My wife does not exit with them. But is that a good thing?
Waiting for Sheila to appear in the flesh, to see her breathing again, is all I want after traversing the globe to determine for myself that she is still alive. After proof of life, however, I’m not sure what comes next.
At first, I thought her flight had been cancelled or delayed when she didn’t come home last Sunday. Or that maybe her phone had died and she lost its charger again. Typical explanations like that.
But when she was a no call, no show ten hours after her expected arrival time, I was forced to verify all the appropriate airline information she had given me a second time…. which eventually led to me checking her bank statements and personal emails and social media messages, making frantic phone calls to her favorite co-worker Cynthia, and leaving semi-composed voicemails for a handful of her friends from hot yoga class… which ultimately led me here, more confused but determined than ever.
As I sit in wait, I list off every fact I know regarding Sheila’s disappearance again and again and again. A ritual I started once I realized no one else was going to go looking for her, assuming she’d simply run out on me, or that she’d be back in a couple of weeks after taking some time to herself. But I know Sheila better than that. Or I think I do. Until I have a reason not to anyway.
Another ding.
I hold my breath.
Not her.
I resume pretending to stare at my phone as I list off everything I know about her and what she said and did before she left the house in my head.
A man apologizes for bumping into my knee with his luggage. I tell him it’s okay without looking up at him.
Another ding.
Only a room service cart with its attendant.
Another ding.
A group of tourists.
Another ding.
This time she appears, like a mirage in the sand surrounding this hotel’s property.
She’s in a modest business suit and her hair is covered with the light pink silk scarf our youngest daughter gifted her last month. And while I can’t make out her face just yet, I would know the scent of her perfume anywhere.
Two men exit the elevator with her. A big, burly man exits first, clearing his throat as he surveys the lobby, as if looking for… I’m not sure exactly. Then a taller, lankier man exits after the burly one, walking way too close to my wife. He has one hand on her elbow and one hand behind her back, which is holding… a gun!
She glances at me in her periphery for a beat. Or at least, I think she does.
Regardless, I’m scared stiff for longer than I like to admit, debating what to do next, and by the time I stand up, ready to come to her aid— How? I have absolutely no fucking idea! —she’s already pushing the burly man into the fountain and apprehending the gun from the lanky one while bringing him to the ground. In one fell swoop.
Two other men approach, handcuffs out. The same men in business suits who had diverged at the fountain earlier, I realize. Then two more men in similar suits emerge from the ether of the hotel lobby. Sheila backs away as the men in suits cuff the men she assailed, watching intently as they’re hauled away, one soaked to the bone and dripping all over the marble floor, the other bleeding from the nose.
The entire episode lasts less than a few minutes. Hotel guests seem to barely register what happened. The hum of conversation and steady movement commence across the lobby within milliseconds of the arrest.
I’m rendered mute, wondering if I should speak at all.
What the hell just happened?
And who the hell is she?
Sheila looks around the lobby casually, like she hadn’t just downed two grown men double her size, and like she hadn’t just been held at gunpoint. She even smiles at a hotel clerk who wishes her a good day as they mop up the fountain water and blood from the marble floor.
Then, without warning, my wife looks directly at me and says, “Hey, Peter. Want to grab some lunch? I’m famished,” gesturing toward the restaurant attached to the hotel on the other side of the lobby.
[Write what happens next, then share what you come up with in the comments or a chat thread.]
I might revise, edit, or add to this draft in the future. Stay tuned.
If you completed this prompt too, leave a comment to start a dialogue. And don’t forget to subscribe to receive more writing prompts in your inbox.
Also, be sure to see today’s writing prompt below if you’re interested in completing a creative writing exercise like this one.
© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC. The above work is a piece of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Today’s Writing Prompt
Writing Prompt: At the Hotel
Write a fictional scene that takes place at a hotel. Try to make it funny or suspenseful. Or write about your last hotel stay in real life.
Writing Tip
Before you begin writing, close your eyes and imagine yourself inside the hotel. What do you hear and smell? Are you happy to be there? Why or why not? And are you alone?
