Rules are: write a title, set a timer for three minutes, and write like mad! Post whatever you come up with, whether it’s turned into a story or not. Feel free to join! (And to tweak a few sentences once the timer runs out. No judgement! It’s just for fun.)
He’s waiting for me under the bridge. Dirty yellow light spills out of the street, washing over the ripple of the clogged stream, and I can see his dark figure in the shadows. He doesn’t look the way I expected him to, the way I thought he would. No trench coat, no hoodie, no cap pulled down over his eyes. Only an old coat and a turned up collar. And the darkness. The darkness, to hide his face, to hide his eyes. From me, maybe. Or from someone else.
Whoever else might be watching for us.
He doesn’t talk much, only counts the money I give him. Thirty, forty, fifty. All the money I had from this week’s paycheck. It’s expensive, and foolish, but I can’t help myself. I’m addicted. I can’t stop now. Not anymore.
The books are in my hand a second later, and he’s gone. Back into the underworld he emerged from. And I have my stories.