120s are my creative writing exercises. Sometimes they are literally all I can fit into 120 seconds, other times I may spend longer on them. I don't do these nearly frequently enough.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
The clock on the wall said 3 o'clock. Last call for alcohol. The night air was chilled with a slight breeze along which the smell of last call wafted. It was dark but for a small bit of moonlight filtered down through the fog between the taller buildings a few blocks over. The streetlight overhead wasn't lit and few cars passed along on the street. There was raucous laughter as a party of three spilled out onto the street, only staying upright because of how tightly they were clinging to one another. Wobbling down the street I hoped there was a bus or a cab in their future but they turned the corner before too long. I pulled my coat tighter around me and tried to breathe without sucking in the cold air or the stench of the street - a mixture of dashed hopes, going home alone and desperation of various kinds. Two police offers walked my way, but I set my face into a hard, stony look and nodded as if I knew I belonged here. They looked carefully but proceeded on. In the morning, they wouldn't remember me, I blended in. If they remembered anyone at all, it would be a bouncer or private security, not that there would be need for the police to even consider this evening or this street. Before too long, a shaft of light crept from the stoop onto the sidewalk and he stumbled out, a fat balding man in a cheap gray suit. I stepped away from the lamppost and intercepted him just as he began to fall. "Woah, buddy, you alright?" I asked, softening my face into a compassionate smile. "Thankrssshhh" he drawled, grabbing for my arm. The non-descript blue or brown van pulled quickly to the curb, the door opened and I used his momentum to push him right in. Just as quickly the door closed and the van pulled quietly but quickly and I walked off trying to remember which side-street my motorcycle was parked on.
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