Friday, February 20, 2009


He led me through the crowd and into a small room next to the bar. 
"What are you doing you here?" I asked him. He ignored my question and shoved me into the corner. I slammed into some bags of flour, a cloud of white dust rising up from the impact of my landing. 
"How about I ask you the same thing?" he said.
We were in a small pantry off the main kitchen. I scanned the shelves for a weapon that might help keep me safe. Aside from canned beans and a round of foul smelling cheese, there wasn't much I could grab for. 
"SO?" he insisted.
I had my excuses for being here. I just wasn't up to explaining. The less I told anyone, the better it would be for me in the end. I shrugged my shoulders toward him and kept my mouth shut. The silence angered him. I watched the veins pop out from the side of his head. I probably should have considered the knife in his hand.

1 comment:


your thinking style is good my dear friend