Short Story Contest - Round Two

The objective of this was to write:
1.  Genre: Fantasy
2.  Location:  Strip Club
3.  Prop:  Urn

A story in less than 1,000 words.


Ashes to Ashes
From one stripper to another, the dedication of the dancer to her clients – dead and alive.



“Fucking-A Diego, I told you I never want to hear that song during my set.”

“There are only so many songs on the list mi pequeño angel. Kat cut hers short and –“

A voice bellowed in the distance. “Ronnie!”

Veronica let out a heavy sigh.

Diego held up a CD. “Okay your highness – R Kelly, Master P, Foxy Brown, and – “

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t care. Just don’t let me hear that shit again.”

“Ronnie!”

Diego smiled. “You better bounce those titties over to the bar.”

Veronica turned around and stalked away. She stopped at the end of the bar. A large, meaty hand pushed a bottle of champagne towards her.

“Table 15. The bottle makes it 2 songs.”

She hid her surprise with a look of contempt. “Thanks Jake. Maybe I should sit down and read the employee handbook? Freshen up on the rules?”

Unblinking brown eyes stared back at her from below a bald dome. “You wanna hop back up onstage?” he asked.

She held up her hands in mock surrender and then picked up the bottle.

“Just give a good show.”

The comment didn’t even deserve a response. A good show. She gave a great show. Always. Or, at least so long as fucking Def Leppard wasn’t pouring out the speakers. Veronica tossed her hair behind her shoulders, glanced into the mirror behind the bar, smiled at her reflection, and then walked away.

Table 15 was at the back of the club. Kat’s territory. This was her first shot at the champagne crowd; the land of folded $20 dollar bills and she was not going to fuck it up. She passed by two regulars and offered only one a smile. Then she stepped onto the platform and made a sharp, purposeful turn to the right.

One glance at Table 15 stopped her dead in her tracks.

She looked around to see if someone was playing a joke but nobody even glanced her way. She approached the old woman sitting at the table noting with some confusion the braided ropes of white hair writhing like snakes atop her head and the rusted, metal urn that sat on the table in front of her.

Somewhere in the background she heard Joe Elliot beg for sugar. Goddamn Diego.

“A dance that starts halfway through the song doesn’t count.” The old lady croaked in a voice garbled with phlegm.

“Of course honey.” Veronica said. Her eyes came to rest on the old woman and up close Veronica saw the braids were in fact ropes of synthetic hair fluttering from the air pouring out an overhead vent.

The woman motioned to the bottle. “That for decoration? Or do we get to drink it?”

Veronica realized she was staring, thrust her shoulders back and mustered a dazzling smile. Grabbing the bottle she placed it between her legs. She pushed on the cork with her thumb but the wet glass slipped against her thighs. This wasn’t right. She felt off her game. After an eternity it popped open and a froth of white bubbles burst through the top. She gave the requisite gasp of surprise followed by a sexy giggle before searching frantically for a glass to pour it into. There was no need. The bottle was wrenched from her hands and the old woman drank from it thirstily. When she was done she drew her sleeve across her mouth dragging bubbly and red lipstick onto her right cheek. She gave Veronica a cheery grin.

Extending a gnarled finger the old woman pointed at the empty space next to her. “Sit.”

Veronica tumbled into the seat trying to look happy and carefree. “You get two dances with the bottle.”

“When he’s ready.”

Veronica looked around for the “he” she was referring to. When she looked back at the old woman the cloudy eyes were appraising every inch of her. The old woman sighed. After another swig of champagne she reached for the urn. She unlatched it and carefully lifted the top off, revealing a small pile of dust laying at the bottom.

They both peered inside. “What is that?” Veronica asked warily.

The old woman scooped the dust from the box and gave her a wink. “Not what. Who.” She said.

You have got to be kidding me. Veronica studied the metal container. Fuck it. Just get through this.

“Your husband?” Veronica asked.

The woman laughed shaking her head. “My best regular. Willed himself to me at death. “

“Are you kidding?” Veronica asked.

“I got two hundred-K and he gets a dance every year. 47 years. You’re his last. His final intention on the road to hell.” She took one more swig from the bottle. “Make it a good show hon.”

The old woman raised her arm over her head and then slowly relaxed her fingers until the last of the dust sifted down onto her braids. Within seconds Veronica was staring at the face of a middle-aged man.

“Darling,” he whispered in a smooth, Southern drawl. “You gonna sit there gaping or dance?”

With a startled gasp Veronica slid across the vinyl seat and stumbled from the booth, her legs a tangled mess. She looked around, a plea for help splashed across her face, but the only eyes she made contact with were Jake’s. His answer was clear. “Fucking dance.”

She turned back to face the young man who watched her greedily. With a deep breath she closed her eyes and listened to the music. She rocked her hips back and forth to the slow, driving beat and let the tips of her fingers slide over her torso and up the curve of her breasts. The music took over and one knee followed the other until she was perched on the table pushing her legs apart.

When the second song ended and she opened her eyes the youthful face was gone and the cloudy eyes took her in once again. She made forty bucks.