Every Wednesday from now until the end of the world, or the blog, I’m going to post a random bit of writing: a rhyme, something from an old folder or a work in progress, or if all else fails whatever random thing I scribbled down during the free-write warm up of my Tuesday Night Writers Club.
‘Tis the season of either dewy-eyed generosity or blind, filthy greed, depending on your level of cynicism (and, if you’re mired in the past, maybe there’s a minor religious aspect to it too).
My ongoing gift to you: second in a series of five drabbles – 100 word “stories” – which in this case will add up to so much more…
The cuffs stay on,” I say, “until he opens his mouth.”
Jones’s lips pop goldfish o’s.
“Talk!” I bark in his face. He gives an eloquent shrug, all commiseration.
“The Mime wants to cooperate,” says his laywer. “Would you reject a Frenchman’s testimony simply for speaking French?”
“He’s not Marcel Marceau!”
“You’d let him speak his native tongue. Grant my client the same courtesy.”
Unseen, Commissioner Dorgon raps on the mirror.
I seeth, and unlock the cuffs.
Felix Jones, aka The Mime, silently confesses.
And escapes through the ceiling via his imaginary ladder.