Gone in 70 words
Anecdotes in less than 70 words. Crisp. Moving. Epical. Lyrical.
“Second transaction complete. Two mil. Go ahead as planned.” His expensive cellular phone screen flashed when the message came through. It flashed again, another message: “Dad, I miss you. Gnight.”
He erased the second message, dialed 911; his eyes shined as it reflected the new year fireworks in the sky, and his resolve to earn his child’s love.
Next morning, the headlines read “notorious mafia hitman surrenders!”
He just had one glimpse before a bucket-sized hand had pushed him aside. Unfazed, he resolved to get that priceless signature on his first and only cork ball as he scratched and kicked his way to the front of the adoring crowd. Standing on his toes, he held the ball high. How the other shoeshine boys will be jealous! It hit him then — that the autograph will change nothing for him.
The pastry in the glass case seemed to be crying out to her.
Head bent against the afternoon sun, she breathed heavily as she walked away fast, chiding at herself. Between gulps of air, she opened the door to her studio apartment. She stood on the weighing machine next to the shoe rack — the pointer came to a damped halt at 84. She was sweating profusely from the effort of baking the pastry this morning.
An undead new year
‘‘Happy New Year.’’ The card was signed, simply, “Miss you.”
He smiled when he recognised her loopy handwriting. Still smiling, he went straight to the technician in the lab, ‘analyse this for fingerprint and handwriting’ he said and gave her the card in a plastic pouch. ‘Uh-huh,’ she nodded absently ‘oh, happy new year detective, any plans today?’ ‘Yeah, an exhumation; my wife is alive.’