“I want him dead,” the man said, staring right at me. Whisky bottle bottoms for eyes, Movember had lasted till March for this guy, and the 70s to this century.
When he went to get another drink, I snuck out like a ghost.
I took the rusty fire escape in giant leaps. At the bottom of it, I saw two wheels and a seat. It must have been my lucky day. The bike was not locked, so I pedaled off, my legs pumping up and down in theft mode. Then, suddenly, I felt something.
Actually, I felt nothing. My pockets were empty. I turned around, pedaled back, left the bike where I found it, ran up the fire escape and snuck in like a ghost.
“I’m going to need a gun.”
Writing flash fiction is so much fun. This one was inspired by the photo prompt provided by:
The photo is from StockSnap, Pixabay.