K, gotta get this manuscript done so I can get it back to Caitlin. And I'm miffed because it's still not there - there's a lot I didn't catch before that I should've.
Bad me! BAD!
Ok, so while I send myself into the writing time-out chair, here's something for you to ponder and write about:
It's six am. Downtown city streets are coming alive but still groggy. A man stands on the corner with unusually dark shades one, staring at an intersection.
He smiles, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out...
WHAT?!?!?
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ReplyDeleteHe smiles, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a tiny, burnt teddy bear. It reminds him of the son that he lost many years before in a fire. After the day of the fire, he has never been the same. His wife and son dead, burnt to a crisp, and all he had was this teddy bear.
ReplyDeleteIn the city, a ghostly fog begins to float around the man and the street lights create an eerie feeling, but he does not notice.His world and focus is all in the eyes of this teddy bear. But as he stands there with the shades on, he looks up to see his wife and son walk towards him in the fog.
They motion him to walk to them and he puts the teddy bear back into his pocket and runs to the loves of his life. They lock hands, promising never to let go, and walk into the fog.
A few days later, the police found the man dead in the corner, clutching the teddy bear, with a smile on his face. He had finally found peace.
I LOVE this mystery writer! Tony, is that you?
ReplyDelete...a small, black notebook, the kind a journalist would carry, that seems to absorb all traces of the morning light.
ReplyDeleteHe flicks it open, noting a few indistinct scribbles. He taps the page, apparently thinking to himself, and watches as the writing writhes and changes like a torn spiderweb. A few words stretch, ink rippling, and they cross themselves out.
He nods in satisfaction, and snaps the notebook shut.
The man walks out into the middle of the intersection, and looks expectantly down one long street. A car appears; a nice, two-seater sports car, driven by a middle-aged businessman with an electric razor pressed against his cheek.
The car slows, and stops at the line. It can go no further without running the man down, after all. The driver leans out in annoyance, and shouts a few dire threats as he walks casually towards it and stands, knees almost touching the bonnet, and looks at his watch.
The early morning world holds still, just for a moment. As the driver draws breath to yell for second time, a bus flies through the intersection, kicking up a cloud of dust that catches the man's coat and whips it around his legs.
The noise fades into the distance, a low, gasoline growl that lingers in echoes. The driver can only stare, his razor discarded and forgotten on the seat beside him, as the man walks away.
On the back of his coat, stamped into the leather, so faint that it is almost invisible, is the outline of a pair of wings.