Writing Prompt #20: Ten Thirty One
He’s thirty-one minutes late. Grundy was never good about keeping time, but he’s never left me to wait this long. Something’s happened.
The dishes clatter in the back as broken Spanish curse noodle-fingers and aching backs. I finish up the cold coffee and place a five on the counter. I smile at the waitress and she nodded a wink.
The February chill cut me to the bone. It hadn’t snowed all season; the drought saw to that.
I turned the corner and slipped on wet cement, catching myself against the wall. Warm and sticky- with a heavy whiff of iron and alcohol… I nearly heave at the sight of Grundy’s headless form prostrate on the ground, arms and hands frozen defensively in front of him. Giant teeth marks where his collarbone should have been said it all- the beast is awake, here, and on the prowl.
Yep. I'm starting these up again. I find my best creative flow when I write. Let me know what you think!