Thought I’d have a stab at Josies writing workshop this week. A bit of fiction based on the trigger word “Escape”. Since it was International Towel Day earlier this week, the last line is a Douglas Adams tribute in case you were wondering. Comments welcome please.
The echo of feet slapping on stone cannoned ahead of the hapless runner, creating an eerie doppler effect. This of course was lost on Boris as he ran hell for leather down the decaying tunnels, unmindful of the uneven flagstones under his feet.
“…down in the tunnel where the deadly are rising, something something, like a bat out of hell…” ran endlessly through his head, proving if nothing else, impending death is intimately linked to Meat Loaf.
As Boris rounded a corner, all too fast, a sharp stabbing pain in his foot was quickly followed by the floor rearing up for an intimate but in no way gentle caress with his forehead. His rapid progress thus halted, Boris heaved huge lungfuls of air in and out, feeling as woozy from the running as he did from the tumble.
Gradually the whole world started to pull into something resembling focus. The asymmetical line of flagstones was interrupted by a pair of well polished patent leather shoes. Boris unsteadilly looked up; the shoes were connected to a pair of smart pinstripe trousers, which in turn lead to a smart jacket, with a head containing a fullsome moustache lurking above a wry smile topping things off.
“You, young man, have seen things you ought not have seen.” The voice was exactly the sort of clipped upper class British accent you would expect a moustachioed pinstripe suit wearing gent to have. The large service revolver however was definitely not the sort of thing you would expect a moustachioed pinstripe suit wearing gent to have. And it was pointing at Boris.
“Bugger”, thought Boris, humming aimlessly to himself.
“I’m sad to say old chap, even playing on my love of Meat Loaf isn’t going to get you out of this one. In fact your humming is actually quite insulting to me. I am of a mind to shoot you in the stomach and let you die from bile poisoning rather than pop one in your noggin.” said Moustache.
“It’s because its a Wednesday,” thought Boris, “I never could get the hang of Wednesdays”