The Shot
Well, my track record for a daily eight minute writing exercise this week has been spotty at best. I decided to go back in time to when Matt Jackson posted his first piece, this one on the prompt of “The Shot”. I had an idea about where my story was going, but I didn’t get there before the on-line stopwatch let me know my eight minutes had passed. Regardless, here’s the results (all 211 or so words).
The Decision
He sat near the end of the bar, canted a bit on the stool to see both the entrance and the door leading to the latrines. Near one elbow was a manila folder, thick with its contents. Near the envelope waited a shot glass. The whisky in the glass glowed softly in the dim, yellow light. Few other patrons were in the bar. It was early, only a few hours after most people had to be at work.
He walked his eyes from person to person. The bartender: fat, bald head already shining with perspiration, neatly trimmed beard, tattoos done in fading blue ink, one of the back of his hand showing fanned playing cards, aces and eights, a dead man’s hand. The others were customers. Regulars. He knew them by face if not by name, each one always present. He wondered if they ever went home. If they had homes to go to.
“You gonna drink that today?”
He fixed on the bartender’s rheumy eyes, waited a beat or two, and then shrugged. The bartender shrugged, turned away to wipe down the bar yet again. The shot glass shimmered as the light shifted from left to right: a truck passed by outside, reflecting the late morning sun.
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