At the Waterfront


The smell of cordite curls up into the air; almost blonde-coloured in the suave dark night. It is raining harder, pattering on window panes, and under a yellow lamp the raincoats of the two men at the quai shine with fresh wetness. Somewhere, a moon is blurred by clouds.

“slugs stuck in the ice,” grunts one of the men.

“They’ll sink someday,” the other growls, “aim better.”

Their long shadows are interrupted
by a flashing blue police light inching nearer:
“Push her in, quick!” growls the second man.

The thud echoes tonelessly. “Ice is too thick!” the first grunts.

Oblivious, the police car rolls towards them.

For Friday Fictioneer 100 Word stories.



A.H. Starlingsson

—dispatches from Ukraine🌲currently writing "Distant Taps The Woodpecker,* Mastodon contact: starlingsson@gmail.com_