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: fourth in a series of five drabbles – 100 word “stories” – which in this case will add up to so much more…
CAUGHT EMPTY HANDED
My lungs are burning, fists bruised and bleeding, thighs quivering, but I can’t slow now.
There are goons piled up from his hideout to here, none of them could stop me – but The Mime is still out there.
I burst onto the gallery floor, sprint past dead bodyguards. Just as I turn the corner, The Mime pulls no rope tight.
I sprawl forward—onto the Mayor’s corpse.
A door bursts open, a scream. All eyes turn my way. I hold my empty hands up—
“He’s got no knife!” shouts… Felix Jones. “It’s him, The Mime!”