Yoked

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


“Here.”

I barely caught the stranger's phone as he waded against the crowd flowing past us. “The password's zero five five seven, record everything that happens.” I rolled the phone over in my hands. Top of the line and brand new, it was a beauty, worth a grand easily and I had the key. I could just go. My feet moved a few steps, herded along by people pushing me out of the way. What kind of person ditches their cell to a stranger? I glanced back. It was easily to find the man's orange sweatshirt. He was the only one heading resolutely toward the smoke rapid filling the sky. That kind of man apparently.

Goddamnit.

I tried to follow in his wake but the gap had filled. Edging to the closest wall I was able to funnel the flow of people past me. Curses and demands to get out of the way were flung in my direction. I ignored them and hedged on. The flow of people didn't stop or thin our until I reached the corner of Riviera and Malden and then with no one in sight, noise became silence, and I was all alone.


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Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

Nice intro piece. Intriguing that he was all alone at the end with no sound in a city that obviously has had something big happen. The orange shirt stranger seems to have disappeared in the silence, so to what real end was the protagonist being led to? This story could go so many directions...

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