Hello, readers! I hope this week was kind to you.
Before I give you that short short I promised, let me give you some updates:
- My sister is out of the hospital. They had to put metal rods in her leg to fix the breaks. She’s alright now, but she hates being stuck in bed over this. It’s all good, though; she made it out of this fiasco with a nice tiara (don’t ask.)
- My roommate’s fine now, too. They’re eating regularly again, and I have been reminding them to eat every day.
- Also, I’m sick. So there’s that.
Anyway, here’s the short short I wrote. I made it for Fiction class this week, and I think it turned out well. Enjoy and Blessed Be!
A man in a purple top hat sits down on a snow-blanketed bench, never once brushing the snow off his seat. He never once takes off his hat, but his pale, wrinkling face is just visible above his black scarf. He lies a fine leather briefcase–dyed the same shade of deep purple as his hat–at his feet. He sits there only for a few minutes, looks up at the sky, looks at his watch, then walks away, leaving the briefcase on the snow-patched path. Ten minutes later, a ponytailed jogger in a purple vest comes up and plucks the case off the ground. The whole thing goes on without any noise–no talking, not even a cough or sniffle. Just a sit, drop, wait, leave, jog. grab, leave.
“I’ve never been one to speculate or tell wild tales,” Cheryl whispers at our table in the nearby coffeeshop. “But I can’t stop thinking about the park. It makes me think of espionage and secret societies.”
“Now I know you’re crazy,” I say before taking a sip of my mint latte. “I mean, I always assumed, but…
“No, I’m serious. Just work with me here. Perhaps a group of–get this–purple-loving thieves moved into the area and wished to send blueprints for their next heist in a secure–or convoluted–manner, so crazy that it would actually work. It’s possible that the jogger continued on into the city, briefcase in hand, only o drop it off in a nearby bagel shop. A woman in purple boots could have picked it up there and taken it over to the door of an expensive apartment in Manhattan. The owner, dressed in a purple silk robe, would then take it into his apartment to plan for the night ahead.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say. “That’s just some crazy scenario you made–“
In walks the jogger, purple case in hand. She walks over to a gorgeous woman in a cheetah-print dress–and purple boots.
“I think you dropped this,” the jogger says.
The woman in the boots takes the briefcase from her. “Thank you so much. I would’ve been lost without it.”
The jogger leaves without another word and continues down the sidewalk.
Cheryl looks me dead in the eye. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“You’re still wrong,” I smirk.
She crosses her arms. “How so?”
“This is a coffeeshop, not a bagel shop.” I sip my latte while Cheryl gets up to get some scones to take home.