Saturday, February 2, 2013

The End of the Night, a Short Story

Okay, I was going to do a second introduction post of Amaya, but I think she handled that rather well on her own, as well as already having an About Her page set up, so I don't need to.

But I didn't really have a post set up and ready for today. As I thought, I remembered a short story I wrote last years for a writing/critique group I was a part of down in Texas. Yes, I worked in fast food at the time, and no, I never imagined doing the following to any customer. I'm a complete angel. *malicious grin* *evil hand rub*

The title of this short story, as you have quite probably gathered, is The End of the Night.

It's nearly midnight. The end of my shift and this tub of lard in front of me has changed his mind for the third time. It's hard to refrain myself from telling him to just order all three, because he's eating himself into an early grave anyway. But I don't. Management tends to frown on that.  
He's changing his mind again, and the last of patience has gone out the window. I finger the pen in my pocket and examine the walking heart attack standing there. He has no idea the wrath he's about to incur. Taking the pen out of my pocket, it's surprisingly easy to pretend about his changing order.  
Wait, that's not right, either. He's changing it again. That's it. Lunging across the counter, the pen sinks into the fleshy part of his neck like a fork through jell-o. The carotid artery is severed and the spray of blood covers my chest, face, and arms. I take a deep breath and stand. 
Everyone is staring. No one has moved or said anything, though. There is no reaction at all. Wiping my hands on my pants, I walk calmly around the counter, clock out, and leave. My car starts smoothly for once. Every light is green as I pass. Tonight's a good night. Gathering my stuff from the trunk, I head around the back of this beaten up duplex and kick the back door open because my hands are full.  
A chorus of voices greets me as I step into the poorly it basement. As we pull out our papers and prepare to pick up the game from where we left off last wee, Alex looks at me.  
"How was work?" 
I look down briefly at my unstained hands and clean conscience.  
"Oh, you know. Same old."

Written by: C.R. Trumbo
302 words

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