This story was kind of left behind. First 200 words is Ely’s and 2nd 200 words is from hpetterson. I did 400 words, to bring the story up to the 4th week. I haven’t titled it and there are only 200 words left for someone to bring this story to a conclusion. They have the honor of titling it. Here’s the link to the 3rd week post. http://hpetterson.wordpress.com/2013/12/06/continuation-of-elys-from-graymatter-com/
About midday the rain stops, the clouds disperse, and the sun leaks through in all too brilliantly visible of rays. If I didn’t know better I would think things are looking up. But natural beauty has a way of blinding us to the darkness hovering behind its mask. Or so I’ve learned through years of frightening observation.
I glance toward my watch and find that I have approximately four hours twenty three minutes and nineteen seconds remaining of my life. Eighteen seconds. Seventeen. Sixteen. The countdown began only this morning, a mere six hours ago when my reality came head to head with my dreams. Really, I knew this day was coming long ago. I had seen it clearly and repetitively since my thirteenth birthday; the city illuminated with the shine born from streetlamps and puddles of rain and my body, bloodied and cold with death, slumped against the Red Panda’s dumpster.
I can’t claim that the absurdity of my gift has not plagued me since its arrival—the question of why—why be given such impeccable foresight if you aren’t meant to change the outcome? Truth is, I know why, this morning’s meeting only proved my theory correct.
“Have a seat there junior.” He said as I entered the booth.
“So…are you the guy?” I said looking at the guy who was dressed like a bum, unshaven and smelling like whiskey.
“For your needs…yes I am the guy…but not I’m not the…the big guy.” He brought up a pint that was wrapped in a paper bag and took a sip.
“I was expecting someone more…more…ah finished looking.”
“Listen up Hemmingway I got all the time in the world…you got what four and a half hours?”
A waitress walked up and looked at the guy across from me and said. “Excuse me sir…you can’t drink that in here…you’ll have to either leave of throw it away.”
“Listen Lisa…your two kids are cute…leave me alone, and I leave them alone…you don’t want little Tommy breaking his left arm again.” He looks at me and smiles.
“How did you know…” She turns and scurries off.
He was here to bargain for my life and I was holding jack shit.
He must be from the nether regions…for every action there is an equal reaction…the fact I had been dealt four and a half hours to live must mean that there was something just as powerful working for me. 405
Part 3 and 4
I grasp at my only straw. “So, you’re not THE Big Guy. Why the meet?” I leaned back and drummed my fingers on the table. I figure this guy is only going to respect power. I need to project it.
He snorted and took another swig. “Yeah, you’re a goner for sure.”
“Oh, so you know it all?” I roll my eyes. I’m a goner anyway. What’s he gonna do if I piss him off, kill me?
He lunged across the table and jammed a finger in my face. “Listen, Hemmingway, I can off you right now.” He snapped his fingers, a wave of bad breath assaulting me. “Heart attack, stroke,” he waves his empty hand, “it’s all the same to me.”
“And what, throw the Big Man’s plans into a tail spin?” I lean forward and gently shake my finger at him from side to side. “I don’t think so. He might be annoyed. At you.”
He sulked and threw himself into the back corner of the booth to take another swig. “You don’t know jack.”
He had me there. But I was getting a few clues. There was a plan and this joker wasn’t in charge. “So what are you here for, other than to scare poor waitresses?
“Tick Tock,” he grinned with broken, yellowed teeth. “You still have something to do.”
“I don’t have to do a thing,” I told him. But I was thinking feverishly. What do I have to do? Will it change the course of this curse?
He leaned across the table. “Sure you do, Hemmingway. You’ve got four hours and twenty-five minutes to figure it out.” He got up and staggered out of the diner door.
I sank back and ran a hand through my hair. What to do next? Hemmingway, he called me. Sure, I’m a writer, but I barely make enough to cover the groceries. What else? He’s the messenger. I shook my head, that didn’t help me at all. There’s a plan. But all that meant at this point was my demise. But why? Is that the clue? That I’m a writer? My last piece was on the Chinese mob. That might explain the Red Panda dumpster. I dug a fiver out of my wallet and left it on the table. Time to see if, just for once, I could change the vision. 393