Potato. Hot.

The challenge: A piece of any genre, 200-350 words or thereabouts, in incomplete sentences. Also questions under six words.

Without further ado:

Fragments

Darkness. Heat, sweat and speed. Echoes behind me, darkness ahead. Where are they? Where am I? Splashing below — water (I hope) and maybe something else. Coolant, perhaps. Footsteps behind.

Damn! Why couldn’t I have headed for the skyways?

Brick, copper, steel and concrete. Walls and pipes. Where am I?

Run.

Fragments in my hand, painful, cutting. Did I get them all? Can’t stop. Can’t check. Just run!

Crossroads and doors. Pounding in my chest, pounding through the alleys, through the underside. Which way? Where?

A choice — with any luck a good one. Running, running upward… or down. Water rushing. Can that be good?

STOP!

A roaring, foaming, churning drop. Where to? Footsteps behind. Footsteps and voices. Echoes. Always echoes.

“Freeze!”

Turn. Three of them, guns gleaming in the light.

The middle one: “The crystal! Now!”

Me: “Shattered! In a dozen pieces!”

The middle again: “No!” (echoed twice)

On the left: “Such a waste…”

On the right: “Can they restore it?”

Middle: “Maybe.” To me: “Do you have them all?”

Me: “Yes! No! Maybe!”

Middle: “Which one? Decide!”

Me: “Probably. Maybe not. But not for you!”

Middle: “Now!” Exploding plaster at my feet. Rushing water behind. Guns and thugs ahead.

Me: “Never!”

A step, or a leap. A proverbial leap of faith, into the churning pool behind me. Gunshots around, of course. Bad shots, though, or just a moving target. Gripping hard on the shards, trailing blood.

My last sight: Three dark shapes atop a wall, guns firing, the roar of the water and the echoes of their screams.

Always, the echoes.

(Next challenge on its way.)

Current Mood: creative
Current Music: So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright (in my head — don’t ask me why)