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Short story <i>Mission</i>

I creep around the strange room, slowly, painstakingly, like a murderer.

Taking every precaution. The darkness is glossy and full, so I feel my way around. A banister, a side table, a ghostly mirror, all bumps in the night. I feel the walls, tug at the curtains, slide my feet along the floor to maintain my stability, like walking the plank. I’m barely breathing. Will there be an obstacle? Will there be the noise of shattering glass and cracking plastic and bedlam ensuing and a shotgun and piercing screams and sirens and fat men in uniform running to catch up with their motto of protect, serve, shoot first and ask questions later?

No one is my ally, no one understands what’s at stake. I am alone, utterly alone, but I am determined to succeed.

There is a gentle humming and clicking sound, and my seeking fingers find a cool granite bench. I feel a sense of relief. I’ve almost made it. My feet sidle round the side of bench and I reach my hand out and pull.

If Anna Marie sees me then I’ll tell her I came down for water. She can’t dispute it, and the doctor said “cut down”, not “cut out” like she seems to think.

The room is filled with cool yellow light. I breath a sigh, and reach in for the peanut butter.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: motto, murderer, ally, precaution, and stability.

Image courtesy of Mullenkedheim.

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