Nothing good happens after midnight.
Today’s post is based on a writing prompt I shared in a previous Daily Drafts & Dialogues post. Keep reading to see what I wrote, and to access more writing prompts.
What I wrote below is based on the following writing prompt: Write a scene that happens at midnight.
Nothing good happens after midnight.
I could hear the faint echo of my heels clicking on the asphalt as I made my way to my car on the other side of the parking lot, as the sounds from the bar faded behind me. I couldn’t wait to take them off, maybe even burn them. They had been gnawing at my feet for hours, making them raw, so I was eager to throw them in the backseat and forget they existed as soon as I could. I would have never even bought them if my twenty-something assistant hadn’t convinced me of how ‘hot’ they were. Like that even mattered. I was hosting a swanky dinner event for a group of colleagues, not trying to score… I don’t even know what. Sure, I was in my forties, and single, but my sex life was—
Ugh. I am never taking advice from a twenty-year-old again, I promised myself as I felt the blister on my right baby toe burst when I took another step forward. And I am never staying out past midnight again either, I added.
“Aah. Fuck this!” I exclaimed, now in the center of the parking lot.
I stopped dead in my tracks, then reached down to take the blasted shoes off and throw them into the bushes nearby when I felt my phone buzz inside the bedazzled clutch I was holding, also compliments of my assistant, and something I was going to get rid of as soon as humanly possible.
The beam from the streetlamp I was standing underneath made it difficult to decipher what the text said, so I moved a few paces to my left, into the shadows, now shoe-less. A burst of cold wind ruffled my hair and sent a shiver up my spine.
The text was from an unknown number.
You look stunning tonight, especially barefoot.
I froze.
Another text came through.
I’ve been waiting to find you alone all night.
As I looked around frantically, another text came through.
Don’t worry. You know who I am. At least, you should know who I am. After everything I’ve done for you.
I was paralyzed, not knowing whether to run toward my car or back to the bar. They were both the same distance away from where I was standing. So, I grabbed my keys, making sure the jagged ends protruded through the spaces in between my fingers. It was all I could think to do. I felt stuck and exposed.
“Hello? Who’s there? Are you in the bushes? Come out of the shadows and face me, you coward!”
Yes, I know, in hindsight that probably wasn’t the best thing to say or do, but the fight or flight instinct is very, very real. And apparently, I was preparing myself to fight, whether I wanted to or not.
It’s so adorable. How you always think you’re the one running the show.
I heard a rustling coming from the bushes to my left.
Not tonight buttercup. Tonight, I’m in control.
“Shit,” I whispered aloud, instinctively.
There was only one person alive who ever called me that. And he was supposed to be spending the next twenty-five to life in San Quentin, far, far, far, far, far away from here, and me.
“Hey, babe. Did you miss me?” I heard a familiar baritone voice behind me say, only inches away from where I was standing, only inches away from the light.
No, it couldn’t be—
[Write what happens next, then share what you come up with in a comment or chat thread below.]
I might revise, edit, or add to this draft in the future. Stay tuned.
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© All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC. The above work is a piece of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Today’s Writing Prompt
Writing Prompt: Recycle
Write a scene in which something is being recylced.
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