I posted on the Facebook page yesterday that I wanted you guys to give me some prompts to go off of for my writing, and I'd do each of them for half an hour and post what I got. Here is the first.
While waiting for a bus, you are handed a slip of paper from a mysterious man in a trench coat. It reads, "7:00pm. The usual spot. Bring the money, or else i go public." You look up and he's disappeared. You have no idea what this means.
I look back down at the paper in my hand, then back up, as though I expect this to just be some weird conjuration of my own mind, but sure enough, the paper is as tangible in my hand as my chapped lips against the late November air. I bite my lip, pulling off a bit of skin, and climb aboard the bus as though nothing happened, tossing the paper behind me, thinking nothing more of it. I stare idly out the window watching pedestrians pass by, as though nothing were in their little heads at all, no thoughts, no feelings, all just robots moving along an invisible track with no purpose whatsoever except to merely keep moving. The world reminds me of a beehive. All buzzing away, with no knowledge that the queen is going to kill them one by one, as she did with all those beforehand. I shudder, thinking how odd it is that my thoughts are suddenly so morbid. Something in my head flashes back to the man at the stop. What made him think I had money? What usual place? Nothing I did was ever usual. I can't even sleep in the same room for more than two nights in a row. Some pit in the bottom of my stomach churned up every bit of bile I had when I thought of settling down. I never even stayed in the same city long. I've always traveled a lot. All across the world. I have memories of Beijing, Barcelona, Vienna, Sicily, Kent, Nairobi, New York City... I don't know how I got the money to fly back and forth from the states so much. My head throbs and I quit trying to think on it.
I get off my bus at a small sixties-themed diner. The place strikes me as homey. Despite the dirt and grease, and the faint buzzing of the heater by the jukebox stuck on "Mony, Mony". I catch myself humming along to the song after the old woman in an old waitress's uniform takes my order. I don't even remember what I asked for. Or looking at the menu. But either way, a burger and shake appear in front of me just the way I usually take them. I allow myself to indulge in this moment of repose briefly, humming along with the worn out record in the jukebox, munching on the dill pickles left on the plate after the burger has vanished.
I look up at the waitress to tell her I'm ready to pay, and standing in the doorway is the man from the bus stop. He walks over to my table and sits in front of me. "I see you decided to heed my warning. Smart girl."
I searched my mind for anything about this man. Anything at all. Nothing. Just headaches. "I'm sorry, I just came here for a burger. I don't know you."
He chuckled, opening his coat to show me the gleaming black pistol strapped to his rib cage. "Let's not play games, agent. We've both got something the other one wants. I have your identity, and you have my 8 million."
I shook my head, "My name is Clara. Not 'agent'. And I certainly don't have 8 million dollars."
He sighed, opening his brief case and pulling out a manila folder. He spread it out before me. "Figures they would have wiped your memory. Clara was your younger sister. She died in the field almost six years ago. Your name is Maya Ravencroft. You're an agent of the United States government hired to-"
There was a loud shattering of glass and a shwoomp sound as something heavy whizzed past, some instinct inside me kicked in and I kicked over the table and ran out through the window just in time to avoid being caught in an implosion that sucked the entire building into a ball of flame. I lean over, putting my hands on my knees before they gave out. I fall on the sidewalk and throw up, my whole body shaking. I look up, and see a briefcase next to a bus stop. Something compells me to go over to it, so I do. When I open it up, several large stacks of cash sit inside, as well as a handgun, a box of bullets, a box of red hair dye, and passport with the name "Clara Freeman" inside, with my picture next to it, with red hair. A note falls out of the passport, written in curvy, elegant cursive. As I read it, something in my brain clicks. I stop shaking. I no longer feel sick. I feel nothing. Nothing but purpose. I have things I must accomplish.
The note reads simply;
I get off my bus at a small sixties-themed diner. The place strikes me as homey. Despite the dirt and grease, and the faint buzzing of the heater by the jukebox stuck on "Mony, Mony". I catch myself humming along to the song after the old woman in an old waitress's uniform takes my order. I don't even remember what I asked for. Or looking at the menu. But either way, a burger and shake appear in front of me just the way I usually take them. I allow myself to indulge in this moment of repose briefly, humming along with the worn out record in the jukebox, munching on the dill pickles left on the plate after the burger has vanished.
I look up at the waitress to tell her I'm ready to pay, and standing in the doorway is the man from the bus stop. He walks over to my table and sits in front of me. "I see you decided to heed my warning. Smart girl."
I searched my mind for anything about this man. Anything at all. Nothing. Just headaches. "I'm sorry, I just came here for a burger. I don't know you."
He chuckled, opening his coat to show me the gleaming black pistol strapped to his rib cage. "Let's not play games, agent. We've both got something the other one wants. I have your identity, and you have my 8 million."
I shook my head, "My name is Clara. Not 'agent'. And I certainly don't have 8 million dollars."
He sighed, opening his brief case and pulling out a manila folder. He spread it out before me. "Figures they would have wiped your memory. Clara was your younger sister. She died in the field almost six years ago. Your name is Maya Ravencroft. You're an agent of the United States government hired to-"
There was a loud shattering of glass and a shwoomp sound as something heavy whizzed past, some instinct inside me kicked in and I kicked over the table and ran out through the window just in time to avoid being caught in an implosion that sucked the entire building into a ball of flame. I lean over, putting my hands on my knees before they gave out. I fall on the sidewalk and throw up, my whole body shaking. I look up, and see a briefcase next to a bus stop. Something compells me to go over to it, so I do. When I open it up, several large stacks of cash sit inside, as well as a handgun, a box of bullets, a box of red hair dye, and passport with the name "Clara Freeman" inside, with my picture next to it, with red hair. A note falls out of the passport, written in curvy, elegant cursive. As I read it, something in my brain clicks. I stop shaking. I no longer feel sick. I feel nothing. Nothing but purpose. I have things I must accomplish.
The note reads simply;