SSC '04 [Picture, "Chair"]
503 words


The Inheritance
By Rhosymedre

Reports are accurate in so far as they go. I, Lisa Michaels, 23,
am Marta Reinhart's sole heir. If her will's terms are met in
entirety, I'll inherit three apartment complexes in eastern
Berlin from my aunt.

Fortunately and preserving of my dignity, every term of Tante
Marta's will isn't public record.

Today, I've journeyed to the largest, but most rundown of her
buildings. I pace, like a caged lioness, the length of a
penthouse begging for updated heating and fresh plaster and
paint. The wooden floor slats need sanding, sealing and 
polishing. The high-ceilinged room echoes empty save for one
modern (and grimy) plastic and metal chair mocking me from the
middle of the room. I skirt it.

The entry door's rusted handle turns coughingly, and Herr
Arnstadt, the stout attorney administering Tante Marta's estate,
arrives toting a slim leather briefcase and a video camera with
stand.

"Shall we get down to business, Miss Michaels?" he inquires with
typical German courtesy, detachment, and efficiency. He makes
preparations methodically.

The urban view outside this 1903-erected structure suddenly
vacuums my attention. I stand stock-still before one of the
tall windows, my mind and heart ajumble.

"The transfer of property awaits the fulfillment of this last
condition," Herr Arnstadt drones unhelpfully, overflowing the
chair as his 100 kilograms squash the seat. From his briefcase
he fishes the dreaded implement my aunt's will ordered.

I draw ragged breaths, lightheaded. Is instant landlordship worth
this? Or should I flee, content that in abandoning this lucrative
birthright, I won't bow to Tante's demands...and won't suffer!

My sweaty fingers clutch the letter Herr Arnstadt presented me
at the will reading.

     Dear Niece,
     With Dieter's passing, you become my only blood heir.
     You are young and impetuous, but I hold hope you've
     been molded by recent years I've missed in your life
     into a more sterling person than you were in childhood.
     You were a infantile holy terror to your sainted parents,
     girl. Regrettably, they lacked the intestinal fortitude
     or the sense to discipline the spoiled, tantrum-throwing
     tornado their negligence let you become. You deserved a
     hiding countless times. Never let it be said that justice
     doesn't inhabit the tides of time, Lisa. You shall inherit
     my wealth only if you display character and endure the
     spanking of your life now....

I fold the handwritten missive unfinished. I've memorized every
hardhearted detail.

Stifling a moan, I steal a glance at the rubber paddle Herr
Arnstadt idly, expectantly taps against a palm. I've never
undergone corporal punishment -- as Tante Marta knew, and my legs
shake in icy fear.

Can I accept thunderous pounding with that dense instrument?
Dandling over a virtual stranger's knee? Thonged but bare
cheeked? Vulnerable to snoopers in windows across the street?
Video camera documenting my flailing, his relentless splatting?
My backside a freaking hornet's nest; a furnace of angry, darkling
reds? Tear rivulets wetting floorboards? Throat gurgling
unquenchable sobs and wails?

Finally, back straight, chin up, diaphragm full, I pivot away 
from the window. 

I've chosen.