LambFruit

A place for me to practice writing and various pieces from writing prompts

Writing Prompt – Write a fable featuring silent duck

A prompt from ‘BizarreWPs’ on the WritingPrompts subreddit.


Harold the duck was quiet as fuck,
He shared his lake with a brother, named Drake.

Drake loved the sound of his own quack,
and gave his brother some awful flak.

‘I can fly higher, and dive deeper too,
Mammy and Daddy prefer me to you.’

Harold just listened and nodded his head,
he liked to listen, silence his stead.

One sunny day, came a call of fate,
a hot young lady, looking for a mate.

Harold listened closely, but he sat tight,
something to him, just didn’t feel right.

Drake puffed his chest, with a clack and a quack,
‘Don’t waste your time, she wants me in the sack.’

Drake went on his way, head held high,
and with a snarky laugh, waved his brother goodbye.

But what he thought was mate, was merely a man,
a whistle in his lips, a terrifying bang.

Harold the duck is still quiet as fuck,
his survival that day was more than dumb luck.

 

The Hellfire Club

A short story I wrote based on one of the stories surrounding the supposedly haunted Hellfire Club in the Dublin mountains.


Father Casey’s brush with he Devil took place on the night of June 27th, 1739. He arrived at the farmhouse, to which he had been summoned, shortly before sunset. A young man’s body lay on the stone floor, pale and motionless. Around him stood three farmers. The orange light from the candles that were dotted around the room flickered, only partially revealing their faces.

The young man had been found only hours earlier, face down in the stream at the back of the house. He had arrived the previous afternoon and didn’t say much, other than asking for somewhere to sleep, and disappeared later that evening. One of the farmers was sure he had seen him walking up towards Montpelier Hill, to the old hunting lodge. They said he didn’t look like the usual type to be heading up there. The usual types always arrived on horse back, wearing black cloaks, with collars covering their faces. A group of such riders had arrived the night before the young man ventured up towards the house.

“I’m telling you Father, they killed him,” said one of the farmers. He was standing immediately over the body and wringing his tweed hat between his hands. “Will you come up there with me and find out what’s going on?”

“Would this not be a matter better served by the constable, or perhaps the watchmen?” said the clergyman, looking around the room. The farmers had all averted their gaze.

“There’s stuff that goes on up there Father,” said another farmer. “The constable won’t be any use to you in that place.”

The first farmer interjected: “I just want to go up and ask them if the know what happened. He was a nice young lad, we talked for a little while yesterday before he left. It’s the least I can do.” He let out a heavy sigh. “They will likely be a bit more open to it with you there Father.”

“And it has to be tonight?” asked Father Casey, to which the third farmer finally broke his silence.

“Yes Father. They’ll be gone tomorrow,” he said.

And so, both the priest and the farmer who had summoned him trudged up towards to the old house, guided only by the dull light of a glass lantern. The journey was a treacherous one. Surrounding the house was a forest of coniferous trees, rocky ditches and prickly bushes. Dogs barked in the distance, and wind rustled through the branches overhead. Rain filled horse shoe prints decorated the ground around them.

“Tell me,” said the priest, “who owns this house?”

“I don’t know if anyone really owns it anymore,” said the farmer. “It was built by some rich fella a few years back. Connelly I think his name was.” He paused to catch his breath. “A few years after he died, these strange looking lads started showing up,” the farmer continued. “Seen some strange things around here, flashing lights and all that. Never happened before they came along.”

The farmer and his companion reached a clearing. A wide open grassland, surrounding a large stone house. The roof of the building was a solid rock arch. Constructed after the original roof was blown during a great storm, the farmer had said. The north face of the building was wide and flat, with a stone bay protruding slightly.

A fiery orange glow came from the windows of the upstairs of the building. The flickering light only briefly illuminated the dark crevices that lay at the foot of the building. They heard singing as they approached. The sound of mens voices, loud and raucous.

The farmer lead the way to the door of the building. He thumped three times. They waited. He thumped again, three more times. The singing coming from the upstairs of the building stopped. Moments later the wooden door creaked and groaned, before opening to reveal a tall man. The shape of his body was masked by the dark cloak draped over his shoulders. His face was beyond the reach of any of the light present.

The dark man stepped aside and opened his cloak, gesturing towards the inside of the building. The farmer stepped in, looking left and right as he did. The priest followed closely behind, clutching the small wooden cross that hung around his neck.

“Please, join us in the dining room,” said the tall man as he closed the door behind them. “We are just about to eat. Any and all guests are always welcome here.”

“We’re not here to eat,” said the farmer, and took his tweed hat off. “I just want to ask you if you seen a young man up here yesterday? He was a smart looking’ guy.”

Their host simply bowed his head and raised his palms. Two men, masked by the shadows, leaped out and grabbed the farmer and the priest. With the tips of silver knives pressed against their throats, they lead the two men to the dining room upstairs.

Once in the dining room, the farmer and the priest were seated at a large wooden table. A lavish banquet lay before them. A skewered pig acted as a center piece, surrounded by jugs of wine, grapes and cheese. Father Casey counted ten men in total, all cloaked.

On the back wall of the room there was a large stone fireplace, where a timber fire burned brightly, spitting embers towards the men. In front of the fire, at the head of the table, was a large wooden seat. It had engravings around the edges. Strange runic markings that the priest had never before seen the likes of.

The cloaked men took their seats around the table and sat in silence. A cool breeze blew in through the window and circled the room, before dissipating. Then came a soft purring sound. Father Casey looked to his left to see a large black cat enter the room. It looked at him as it strolled towards the table, before leaping up into the head seat and facing the room.

Leaning in closer, the priest saw the cats head change. Its ears had become twisted horns. Fiery red eyes stared out at the bowed heads of the cloaked men. Its lip were scared and torn, revealing a row of sharp teeth.

Father Casey stood up and tried to back away from the table, but was stopped by two cloaked men. They forced him to sit down again, with one remaining stood over him. He reached for the cross around his neck, remembering that he had brought holy water with him. He slid his hand into his coat pocket and grasped the bottle of blessed water. His fingers worked the cork from the mouth of the bottle. With his free hand he made the sign of the cross on his forehead, before performing the same gesture towards the cat, which glared at him and let out a deep hiss.

The priest jumped from his seat to the floor, landing hard on his knees. He pulled the water from his pocket and emptied it towards the cat. “From all evil, deliver us, 0 Lord,” he yelled.

Chaos erupted on the room. One of the cloaked men fell backwards into the fire, before leaping across the room, spreading the flame that had caught his cloak. The priest continued his chant: “From all sin, From your wrath, From sudden and unprovided death, From the snares of the devil,” In the midst of the chaos he could hear only the screams of the farmer and the screeching of the cat. The stench of sulfur engulfed him and smoke clogged the air. He fell to the floor and crawled towards the exit.

The smoked cleared as the priest descended the stairs. On the other side of the front door he found a body. Bloody and limp. It was the farmer, who must have fallen from the window. Deep claw marks lined his face and neck, and he drew shallow breath. The priest hoisted him up, one arm over his shoulder, and made his way down the hill.

The next morning, The Hellfire Club, as it would come to be known, stood a ruin on top on Montpelier Hill. The flames had died down only after gutting the building. Its inhabitants fled. The old hunting lodge would never be occupied again.

The farmer never recovered from his encounter with the dark cat. It is said to haunt The Hellfire Club, watching all who enter. Father Casey never returned to Montpelier Hill, though he has never been truly free of his experience there.

Writing Prompt – Humans are no longer at the top of the food chain. There is now a new, vicious predator that has decided humans are its prey

A prompt from ‘finallyinfinite’ on the WritingPrompts subreddit.


The hunters stood at the entrance to their cave and waited. Their last two forays into the wildness had yielded no return, and the community was getting restless. Sure they could survive on the shrooms cultivated in the depths, and the foragers always brought back berries, but people would get restless after a few weeks without meat.

Jacob raised his fist, signalling to the other hunters that it was time. Before the mouth of the cave lay an open grassland, the other side of which stood a forest. The forest sat between them and the plains, where the wild wildebeest grazed. If they were lucky, they would find a boar in amongst the trees rooting for truffles. If not, they would have to leave the cover of the forest canopy and take down a wildebeest.

Jacob was the first to go, sprinting across the grassland toward the cover of the trees. He was followed closely by his son, Albert, who in turn was tailed by two more hunters. This was Alberts second hunt. His first had been both a relief, and a disappointment. They had not seen, or more importantly been seen by by any Titans. However, they had not caught anything either. His father had speculated that the reason they found no game, was that the Titans had been on the hunt before them, and scattered all the animals.

The small band of hunters proceeded into the darkness, spears in hand. Above them the canopy let in beams of light, through which insects fluttered. The fresh forest air filled Alberts lungs. It was a sensation, that on his first hunt, he had not expected to enjoy so much. The stale air of the caves was all he had ever known. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, both savoring the air and trying to steady his heart rate. Up ahead the sound of rushing water filled the forest. Alberts father crouched and approached the river bank slowly. Albert followed, carefully selecting each step.

Jacob raised is hand signalling the group to stop. He turned and raised two fingers to his eyes before pointing out towards the river. On the far bank lay a mound of brown fur and entrails. The carrion of a bear, torn to shreds. Jacob pressed forward once again, staying low to the ground. Albert followed. As they got closer it became clear to even the inexperienced hunter that this was the work of Titan Hawks. Three of them could easily take down a bear. The evidence lay before them. The tearing of the flesh, claw marks across it’s face, eyeballs removed from the sockets. The smell seeped into Alberts nostrils, banishing the fresh forest air. His father placed two fingers inside the beasts carcass.

“It’s cold,” he said, turning around and gazing up at the others. “But there’s a lot of meat left here. Why did they leave so muc—”

Jacob jumped to his feet, grabbed Albert by the shoulder and shouted: “RUN!”. The two other hunters spun around to see three Titan Hawks. Their wings were tucked in by their sides, as they fell like spears towards them. Albert followed his father, his lungs burning as they sprinted towards the cover of the woods, and further away from the safety of their caves. He didn’t look back when the screams came. He didn’t dare stop running.

Writing Prompt – Write an origin story for The Joker. No rules or restrictions. Go crazy!

A prompt from the WritingPrompts subreddit. I did this one a while ago but never posted it here. The user’s account has since been deleted, so I’ve no one to credit for the prompt. This was my first Established Universe prompt.


The first time I saw that crazed look in my brother’s eyes, he was just nine years old. I found him in the yard, covered in blood. It was the sound of his laughter that caught my attention. He was standing by the flower bed at the end of the garden, facing away from me. His shiny purple raincoat shimmered in the post rain sun. In his right hand he held a knife, blood dripping from the tip.

He was still laughing as I reached him, and when I asked him what was so funny he simply pointed a bloody finger towards the flower bed. Laying there, in a pool of blood, was a tiny Robin. It’s wings lay either side it’s body. Two bloody stumps twitched where they had once been.

“What did you do!” I screamed.

“Look!“ he said, and gestured towards the wings. “It’s funny! It’s a bird, but he can’t fly! Get it? What kind of bird can’t fly?”

He erupted with laughter once again, as I stared on in horror.

He was committed when he was just fourteen. It was an incident in school.

She was popular and beautiful, but not very bright. With some pre-teen modelling shoots already behind her, she had set her mind on a career that wouldn’t require much in the way of book learning. My brother thought it would be ironic, and funny, to give her a permanent smile. He slit her cheeks either side of her mouth. Left her with hideous scars. He laughed the whole time. The same laughter I had heard five years before. “Look!” he shouted as he was dragged off her, “She’ll always be smiling for the camera now, our deformed little model! So beautiful, a real gift to the world!”.

“Every deck of cards has a Joker.” was the last thing he ever said to me. For five years I visited him in the asylum. To me he seemed more unstable if anything. Then he disappeared. Escaped. No one knows how he did it, but he did.

Ten years later I read a news story about a bank robber over in Gotham. He wore a purple suit and was armed with a Tommy Gun. One of the employees said he shouted something as he left the bank with the guts of half a million dollars. “What’s a bank that has no money!”. She said he kept laughing. Like it was all a joke.

Writing Prompt – A man makes a deal with the Devil, and the Devil refuses to take it

A prompt from ‘fetfet50’ on the WritingPrompts subreddit.


James stared into an empty shot glass, not quite ready to move away from the bar. The pub was empty save for four elderly men at the far end of the bar, and another in the corner behind him.

“Every Tuesday night, he’s there. Just sitting in the corner sipping on whiskey” his friend Dan had told him. “But seriously, only go to him if you’re properly desperate, yeah?”

He was certainly desperate, but why the grim warning. Dan wasn’t the serious type. James had often said Dan would even act the bollix at his own Ma’s funeral. Never mind all that now, his fate was in the hands of this harmless looking old man, slumped over a neat whiskey. He turned away from the bar and approached.

“Excuse me?” he said.

The man didn’t respond in any noticeable way, vocally or otherwise.

“Eh, are you Stan?”

“Sit.” was his response. Both Cold and firm.

“Tell me James, what is it that has forced you to seek my help? “

A cold shiver ran slowly down James’s spine. The air around the man was cold. His face had no defining features; his clothes were run of the mill old man clothes. The kind you see on every elderly man  at an early morning mass. But he was somehow hypnotic. The space around him intriguing, inviting even. So much so that  James some how glossed over the fact that he knew his name. A subconscious assumption that Dan had told him to expect a visitor.

“I,  eh, need a job done. It’s of a very sensitive nature. I was was told you can get any job done. No questions.” he said.

“This is true, but you have nothing I want.”

“I have cash, it’s clean, old notes. I’ll pay half up-“

“I have no use for cash, James.” he said, “I require payment of a different kind.”

“I can get you anything-“

The old man raised his hand, commanding silence. His head turned slowly to reveal bright green eyes. Young eyes. Full of life, and certainly not at home in this frail shell of a body.

“This girl you want me to kill.”

James swung his head around, scanning the bar for any would be eavesdroppers.

“How did you know? I told no one!” he said,  his voice hushed.

“Her soul is pure, beautiful and has not yet lived on this world long enough to be corrupted.”

The old man took a sip from his whiskey. James could only look on in stunned silence.

“To take her mortal life now, would be to deprive myself of her soul. Her fate does not yet face eternal darkness.”

“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” James said as he rose to his feet. “I don’t need this shit old man, you’re lucky I don’t fuckin’ knock you out.”

“My payment, James, is your soul,  and your soul will be mine very soon. So it is not in my interest to solve your little problem.”

James turned and stormed out of the pub. The battery on his phone was dead, but no matter, he would drive directly to Dan’s place and demand an explanation. He slid into his BMW, turned the key and pulled out of the car park, straight into the path of an oncoming jeep.

Writing Prompt – You are speaking with an alien scientist from a species that has no such thing as music. Describe it to them.

A prompt from ‘Man_of_Aluminum’ on the WritingPrompts subreddit.


 

“Music?” I said, “Why music is pure emotion, materialized and transmitted through vibrations in the air.”

The alien creature looked at me, perhaps puzzled. It’s hard to read their emotions, they communicate telepathically, and have very little in the way of visual features. They recognize each other by telepathic signatures. I know this because he (it, gender assignment is a grey area for them) told me. He (it) is the only one here, an ambassador. His (its) research lead him (it) to me, a somewhat renowned scientist. Apparently I was a good candidate for they call ‘The introductory phase’.

“There are many different types of music” I said “, some music makes you sad, some makes you angry, other types of music will make you want to move your body. It’s how we humans share ourselves with each other. There is a rhythm and a beat, both are quantifiable but the experience is scientifically inexplicable.”

His (its) mind merged with mine once again, there was a flicker of understanding but he (it) still wasn’t quite getting it. Our minds still merged, I conjured up thoughts of oppression and freedom, of love and of hate. I tried to show him. I pulled happy memories from my subconscious, followed by equally traumatic experiences, emotions that are unique to me, but shared freely with him (it) for interpretation. He (it) began to understand. I took the appendage at the end of his arm (tentacle may be more appropriate) and pressed it against my chest.

“This is my heart beat, the physical beat all humans share. Music is the emotional beat that we all share.” I said.

He understood. They are not so limited when it comes to communication. They know and understand everything about each other. They are a collective set of emotions and experiences. We share ourselves in a more primitive fashion. Musically.

Writing Prompt – You have just found the cure to a virus that is killing millions worldwide, why do you keep it to yourself?

A prompt from ‘Tarjn’ on the WritingPrompts subreddit.


John glanced around the sterile room, most of the other researchers had hit their bunks for their mandatory four hours. He approached his colleague, and friend.

“Stephen, I think I’ve got something…” he said.

He looked over his shoulder again and directed Stephen to the corner of the room, where a microscope sat in a mountain of clutter.

“Look.”

Stephen leaned over and peered into the microscope. His hand trembled as he adjust the eyepiece.

“The virus is receding!” said Stephen, “We’ve done it! What batch is this? We’ve got to get it into production!”

“No, not yet. I’ve destroyed everything that led me to this batch.”

Still hunched over, Stephen turned his head away from the eyepiece.

“What? What the fuck John?”

“It’s still in my head, I can recreated it. Just… just not yet. I only showed you for confirmation. You are the only one I can trust with this.”

Stephen stood upright and looked around the room. Eyes opened wide, he demanded an explanation without saying a word.

“Look, think about it for a second. The world was fucked anyway. Poverty, famine, war, global warming and then whatever shit we would think of next to kill ourselves off.”

He glanced around the room again and lowered his voice, “I’m not saying we sit here and let the human race die, I’m saying we wait. Did you know that the black plague actually solved a lot of social problems? They were at crisis point. Overcrowded cities, violence and extreme poverty. We’re way beyond that point. We have the chance right now to save humanity! To tip the odds in our favor, to make rebuilding easier. People will be reeling from this, maybe the human race will finally gain some perspective. Maybe we can achieve world peace! A balanced society.” he said.

“John you can’t do this! Millions of people have died, and millions more will follow. You will be responsible for those deaths”

“Maybe, but maybe I will be responsible for saving mankind!”

He snatched the Petri dish from under the microscope and poured a destructive solution over it.

“It’s done Stephen. I will create another batch, but only when the time is right.”

 

Writing Prompt – While on a promising first date, you see your ex-spouse.

A prompt from ‘fetfet50’ on the WritingPrompts subreddit, as part of the Guaranteed Critique Week


Jason tried his best to conceal his excitement. He wanted to maintain his composure, and perhaps even play a little hard to get. He smiled in spite of himself. So much for playing it cool. Soft brown eyes gazed back at his, along with a similar smile. Their fingers met in the center of the table, a tentative but tender touch. 

“You fancy desert?” he said.

“I do if you do..”

Still grinning he scanned the room trying to locate the waiter. The service hadn’t been great, but it didn’t matter. If anything Jason was glad about how infrequently they had been interrupted. There was but one waiter in the room, and he was busy showing two people to a nearby table. He raised his chin, lifting himself from the chair slightly, in an effort to get his attention. It didn’t work, but that had become the least of his concerns. The woman being seated was Jen, his ex-wife. 

“Shit” he said, realizing too late that the words had actually left his mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh.. it’s nothing, just..”

“Jason?” Said Jen.

She approached the table, and seemed pleased to see him. Her tone had been one of pleasant surprise. The divorce had been about as amicable as it could have been. They still spoke on the phone from time to time, and there was never any malice. Not after the first year anyway. As she got closer the smile on her face turned to a grimace. 

“Jason? What’s going on here? Are you fucking serious?” she said.

“Jen please, take it easy.”

“Who is this? Are you..”

“This is Dave” he said.

“So you’re a homo now?”

“Jen don’t do this, not here.”

He took his hand away from Dave’s, familiar old feelings of shame flooding his mind. 

“No… not here. Not at home either, don’t bother coming by this weekend. I don’t want you or your… friends… anywhere near our son!”

“Jen.. please..”

She was gone. Dave sat silently as Jason hung his head, tears building in his eyes. He knew this day would come. Jen had always been fiercely religious, as had he. His faith remained, but his world views drastically altered. The lies he had lived his entire life had come crashing down, on what had been one of the most liberating nights of his life. His first night as himself. 

 

Writing Prompt – A man is the “were” of a different animal.

A prompt from ‘Menno_Ghetto’ on the WritingPrompts subreddit.


 

Old knees creaked as Patrick O’Shea rose to his feet in front of the hearth. He held his hands out towards the growing flame, rubbing them together before exposing his palms to comforting heat. The flames began to grow, engulfing the briquettes and pouring heat out into the room. He turned and shuffled towards the wooden chair in the corner. In his youth he would have traversed this room with two steps, but now it had become like trudging through a swamp.

He had remained on his farm against the wishes of his children, none of whom had the slightest interest in maintaining his legacy. The lure of the city had been too much, his modest farm unable to compete with the glamorous, wealthy and shallow lifestyle of the capital. He leaned back in the chair, his eyes now fixed on the timber beams above him. His lips moved slightly as he counted out today’s numbers on his fingers. His chickens had produced barely enough eggs to pay for their feed, and he had lost half of his latest litter of piglets. His head slumped, tears building in his eyes. This would be a tough a winter, perhaps the toughest yet. A large supermarket chain had opened up near the village, and the farmers market had already seen a decrease in numbers.

A noise came from outside the kitchen window. The pigsty. They would usually be very quiet at night, something must have rightly upset them. Paddy stood up as quickly as his legs would allow him. His wellies stood by the back door, his coat hanging on a hook at the other side of the room. He bypassed the coat and slipped his feet into the boots. It would be cold outside, but this shouldn’t take long.  He grabbed a torch from the counter by the back door, and made his way out. The air lay still, tonight’s full moon creating an aura around the dark clouds overhead. Paddy lumbered towards the pen, swiping the beam of his torch to and fro.

He counted two sows, three gilts and a single boar. One boar missing. He scanned the pen slowly, the torchlight catching his foggy breath. Then he saw it, in the far corner of the pen, laying in a heap. Whatever it was, it was bigger than his boar.

“H-Hey! Is there s-someone there?” he said, his voice now trembling with the cold.

“I said! Is the-“

The lump moved. It was a man. Wearing nothing but the dirt of the pigsty. The man turned his head towards the dumbfounded farmer.

“What are ya doin’ out there!?” he shouted

The man moved slowly, placing both of his hands on the firm muck and arched his back. He seemed unsteady, almost drunk. Paddy had given up his legs to alcohol on more than one occasion, but this man seemed beyond the drink. Drugs maybe, but he knew very little about that sort of thing. The man walked towards him, his head bowed, his eyes fixed. Paddy stumbled backwards, trying to keep the torch focused on the man.

“I’ll be calling officer O’Brien if you don’t clear out of here now! Ya hear me!?”

The man reached the gate and inspected it with his hands. His breathing was heavy, almost like he was snoring, his actions slow and laborious. He stumbled over the barrier and stood upright, at least six feet tall, probably more. Paddy reached the back door, his hands now trembling, his eyes unable to look away from this strange naked man. He stumbled on the lip under the door, falling backwards and hitting the ground with a paralyzing thud. Intense pain shot from his hip to his back as he flailed on the ground. The man was upon him now. In the light of the kitchen he could see him more clearly. Deathly black eyes looked back at his, drool dangling from his mouth. The man then dropped to his knees, one leg either side of Paddy’s body. Gurgling sounds came from the his throat as he raised his clenched hands. Paddy tried to scream but the sound wouldn’t come. The man dropped his fists onto Paddy’s face. He raised them again, only to drop them, harder, faster. Blood pooled on the floor underneath, the man shrieking as he savaged the old farmer.

Untitled – Second Draft

This is the second draft of a piece I wrote for a writing course. The first is here. The task was to edit and try to improve on the original.


 

Jason Hydes’ fingers rapped anxiously on the car’s dashboard. Forty god damn minutes sitting in traffic. He leaned over to turn off the radio, sneering with a glance in its general direction. The idiot presenter had said that some water mains had burst up ahead. This city was falling to pieces, and yet everyone was paying more in taxes and maintenance charges than ever. He tightly wrapped his fingers around the worn black leather of the steering wheel. Clenching. Unclenching The dreary clouds above seemed to seep into the car, surrounding Jay in a bleak emotional fog. He was going to be late. Oh how he hated to be late. They would all be waiting for him, scoffing and fabricating ridiculous scenarios as to where he was.

He released the wheel and pulled down the sun visor, sliding the cover of the vanity mirror back. Dark blue bags lined his eyes and hints of grey shimmered in his formerly dark hair. Very little in way way of physically attractive qualities remained. The skin along his ever receding hairline had gone dry and flaky again. The lines on his face seemed deeper, his rough stubble growing ever grey. He slammed the visor back up against the roof, it wasn’t helping the situation. His insides felt every bit as bad as his face looked. Staying fit and eating healthy wasn’t exactly a priority lately. His tattered old grey shirt pulled tightly around his protruding belly, and dark grey patches had formed under his arms. Ten years ago he had run a marathon, fat chance of that now. His old life was gone, and would never return.

There was a thump from the trunk of the car. Fuck. If they didn’t start moving soon he would have to ditch the car and make a run for it. Hopefully no one would get a look at him, or he’d be in a world of shit once they managed to pry the rusted trunk of this ancient Nissan open. Someone a few cars back was sitting on their horn, like it would make a difference. His head was starting to throb as the Silver Volvo in front moved forward a few feet. Why today? Today day of all days. Traffic lights came into view up ahead, the junction where everything had ground to a halt. Ten more minutes he guessed, and he should be through and on his way to the meet up. Another thump from the trunk. These would be the slowest ten minutes of his life.

 

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