I was inspired by rich, of Brainsnorts, who turns out little pieces of wonderful creativity every Friday in 100 words–so I tried an experiment when I had to get away from the book work which has engulfed me this week. It was fun, and I needed a little fun. Be kind in your critique and remember my mind has been taken over by facts and figures, numbers and……
A full moon spotted the weary traveller on the bare, shiny road. He pushed the button on his umbrella and it collapsed. He used it as a guide, its quick clicks cut the night silence.
A figure approached, her shadow enveloped him. No words were exchanged. She took his hand and led him up the stairs. Putting her fingers to her lips, she silently hushed him.
Nodding he followed her. She knocked a staccato message on the door. It opened, but no light escaped the room. She beckoned. He hesitated, then “Happy Birthday” poured out in loud, happy unison.
Brandishing the black 45, he twirled it expertly on one finger, then returned it to its holster. He turned his back and walked away. Was it over before it started?
Bewildered, the town’s people started to disperse. A shot rang out. It hit him in the back, not quite dead centre.
He fell to the ground. The crowd froze. Engulfed in a pond of blood, he did not call out for help. A kid with a limp stumped over to him calling for Doc Howard. Someone ran to the Doc’s office. He tripped on a step and fell.
She knew she was a good dancer. She knew he was watching. Her feet turned to lead. Her once graceful moves turned robotic. She could no longer keep the beat. Her face turned pink, then red—then she blanched.
He turned away. She saw him turn; she left the dance floor. In the washroom she flooded her face with cold water, not caring that it washed off her makeup and made her eyeliner run. She hunched her shoulders in defeat, wiped off the black streaks. The night was over.
He was outside the door. Waiting for her. She took his proffered hand.