Morning all. Ready for a writing prompt? I know I am. Had dreams of dancing clowns and would kind of like a different image in my mind to start the day. So let’s just jump into the prompt. Timers ready and off we go.
Not sure that’s better than dancing clowns or not. Questions need to be answered before this becomes a story, but it could be interesting.
Wednesday, September 27th: He wrapped the scarf around his face.
He wrapped the scarf around his face. The wet cloth clung to his skin but he knew it would be dry momentarily. He narrowed his eyes against the smoke and before he could stop to think too much about what he was doing he ran into the fire. He kept low trying to avoid both the smoke and the heat.
He searched the ground knowing that he wouldn’t be standing, not in this, not any more. Standing he would have made it out.
There around the corner he spotted a foot. Feeling the moisture in his scarf fairly sizzling as it warmed and started to evaporate, he knew he didn’t have much time. He made it to where John lay. In an instant he knew it would be hopeless. John wasn’t down from smoke inhalation, his throat was slit. Their enemies made it to the house.
‘I knew the fire wasn’t an accident.’
John thought about the bystanders waiting and knew one of them very well could be the killer. He knew there was the possibility that he would be spotted and people would wonder if he knew the death was not due to the fire. Thinking fast he ran out towards the exit.
Once more in the clear night he made his way away from the fire and towards the gathering. He tore his now dry scarf from his face and coughed heartily, falling to his knees.
“I couldn’t get far enough to find anyone,’ he gasped between wracking coughs. “I don’t know if they got out.”
“I, sure they did,” someone consoled him. A water bottle was handed to him by a kindly neighbor. He nodded and looked down the bottle was unsealed. He hadn’t seen the neighbor taking the lid off and when he looked up he didn’t recognize the neighbor. He nodded.
“Thanks,” he told the man. Sirens sounded, the fire brigade was on it’s way.
“Thank god,” he said. He stood, deliberately lost his balance and dropped the water bottle as he leaned heavily on Mr. Simmons from three doors over. Simmons patted him on the back awkwardly but led him out to the street as the truck pulled up to the house.
Something vital inside collapsed and sparks flew into the sky. There was no going inside, not anymore. The door was blocked by a burning beam and beginning to collapse on itself. The firemen reeled out their hoses and connected them to the hydrant but now it was not a matte of saving the house or anyone in it, containment was the issue. Their goal was to prevent the fire from spreading, from taking out all of the other houses.
He was pleased that his neighbors would not be harmed. He was glad that he wouldn’t have to identify John’s body. That the killer might think they got away with things.
Ten til Midnight 