Friday Fiction: 100 Word Challenge

Friday Fiction: 100 Word Challenge

The inspiration …

A story …

I was in a bad part of town, the room as gloomy as Sol’s face. He hunkered over it, jewelers loupe glinting under a single light.

I felt anxious but not unsafe. It would take one of Patton’s Army tanks to breech this hidey-hole. A tattoo of grey-green numbers was visible on Sol’s inner arm. One of Life’s hard lessons.

“Real?”

“Oh yes. Beautiful stone, 2 carats, antique cut.”

“And?”

“Real. Don’t tell me how it got loose from the … owner.”

That worried me. Not the diamond but its setting; a canine tooth – 3 inches long …

And human.

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Now, your turn.

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3 Comments
  • Ted Snedeker says:

    “Whomp!” “Thump-thump.” The heavy that had been guarding the basement door came rolling down the steps and lay, unmoving, in a growing pool of blood at the bottom.

    He was followed, before he had come to a complete stop, by his partner, whose head was twisted at an impossible angle.

    “One should never steal from the Templars,” the man in the navy-blue suit said as he stepped over the bodies.

    A shot of icy fear ran up my spine. “My grandfather gave…”

    “It doesn’t matter, Samson’s tooth must be returned.”

    Sol handed the treasure to the knight, who promptly disappeared.

  • Steve Fletcher says:

    They said, “Come back tomorrow. Maybe a job tomorrow. Randy, maybe he retire tomorrow. Maybe we let him go. Come back tomorrow, tomorrow.”

    I’ve been coming for almost a year, hoping somebody will give me a chance. I was laid aside last spring. Nobody had money to buy. Nobody wanting spring wagons anymore.

    I’ve got a gun in the attic. I’ve thought about it. The heck is, I don’t have money for a bullet. Plus, mama’s sick, and the kids got to have somebody. Chances are I’ll be back next week. Who knows, maybe Randy will have retired by then.

  • David Krishan says:

    Even the dust devils had abandoned Main Street. The town’s unexplainable stillness worried me, but I could benefit from it. I went right for Hyman’s Pawn Broker; you know the place. Cash only, he’ll appraise anything, has a Confederacy-dressed mannequin out front. “Squeaky” Hyman kept sketchy records of his purchases, and nobody would care if I robbed that old man blind of his gold watches and ivory curios.

    Noon, and Main was still clear, nobody in sight. I grabbed the stone planter in front of the store’s plate glass window and reared back to throw.

    The mannequin drew its scimitar.

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