Morning all. It seems we’ve reached mid week and the remaining part of January is rapidly draining away. I hope the first month of 2021 was a good one for you. Mine seemed to pass by in a whirlwind. In fact I’m inclined to believe someone stole a week somewhere. I just can’t quite figure out where. Regardless, it is time for the morning writing prompt. And trust me, today my brain needs a little shaking to wake up. So timers ready? Let’s begin.
I rather like this story start. It needs cleaning up and more grounding details but I would kind of like to see where this story ends up. Definitely a keeper for me.
Wednesday, January 27th: Wilson knew the bag contained not clothing, but a gun.
Wilson knew the bag contained not clothing, but a gun. He was stymied as to what to do about it. It wasn’t every day that someone walked into the library with a gun. He watched from his seat at the large wooden table as the man made his way slowly through the stacks. He walked slowly down each row of books, clearly looking for something. He walked down the aisle studying one side of the corridor of books. The he reached the end turned and walked back towards the center where the tables were placed. Then he moved to the next set of shelves and began his search again, methodically working his way through the library.
With each step, Wilson could see the loose socks of all different colors and styles sticking out of the tip and bouncing around like some sort of children’s show puppet. Below them, pressed clearly against the sides of the plastic bag, Wilson could clearly see the outline of a gun. There was something behind it, pressing the gun into the side of the plastic grocery sack, but he couldn’t make it out.
The man walked with the bag held by its straps hanging down by his side. Perhaps it was the fact that the bag was so obviously being held in a casual position instead of being readied to fire, perhaps it was the look of concentration that he gave to the books on the shelves, but Wilson wasn’t afraid.
When he first noticed the gun, he was startled and concerned. Watching the man concentrate so fiercely on the book titles made him think that if this man planned mischief and mayhem with the gun, that sort of trouble wasn’t going to be let loose here. The man entered the last aisle and Wilson found himself wondering what would happen if the man did not find what he was looking for. Somehow, deep inside, he knew that the man wouldn’t.
The cautious part of his mind suggested that he take this opportunity to leave the vicinity. To walk away and perhaps warn someone that there was a man with a gun looking for reading material.
A sort of morbid curiosity mixed with stubbornness kept him in his seat. He scheduled himself for research today. He had to shift around three meetings and work late for a week to clear this time for his research and he wasn’t going to simply abandoned the day because someone came in and…
There Wilson’s mind stuttered. What was the man doing. Whatever it was he was certain it hand nothing to do with eighteenth century literature. His section of the library was dedicated to it. Several prime examples were stretched out across his table as he consulted them.
The man exited the last of the rows and at a glance Wilson could tell that he wasn’t successful. Wilson tried not to draw attention as the man began walking back towards the front of the space where their alcove of shelves met with the main corridor leading to other subject cubbyholes.
Wilson expected him to continue on. Instead the man stopped in front of his table. Wilson looked up.
“May I see your books please?” he asked. His voice was the warm deep baritone that a professional opera singer would envy and Wilson blinked in surprise. He nodded and the man looked at the books. One by one he picked them up and set them down. Finally he came to the second to last, a small tome, Wilson picked up to check a reference. He had yet to get around to opening it. The man smiled as a small slip of paper slid out of the back cover.
Ten til Midnight 