Due to the beautiful weather across the nation today, I've decided there's no chance in hell anyone would want to stay online and read an ideological blog. Instead, here's a quick snippet of "Lucky Shot," a story from the lost files. Enjoy!
The screen of his phone lit up, indicating the call ended.
“Son of a bitch,” Chance said.
He assumed that the caller may have not known that he was at work. The caller might have just wanted him to go back to his office. That did not necessarily mean the caller knew Chance was at the office.
As quickly as he had arrived on the first floor, Chance went up the fifth. The lights to this section of the news building were all off except for a few emergency lights, which always stayed on. Cautiously, in the dark, Chance walked along the rows of desks to find his. All the desks were supposed to be for the many writers of the Sync, but even after Chance switched to the position of photographer, he kept his desk. No one ever said anything about it, so he continued to make use of it.
At his desk, Chance pulled out his cell phone and opened it. Using the glow of the screen to illuminate the desk area, he searched through papers and supplies to find whatever it was the caller wanted him to find. Finally, he came to a regular yellow Post-It note. Chance grabbed the note and then headed for the elevator.
Chance had a chance to read the note when he entered. The pad of paper only had three words on the front of it:
Now, go home.
“Go home?” Chance asked himself.
Flipping over the note, he read another line: I have what belongs to you. I’ll give it back to you for something in return. Go to your car.
With little idea of what was going on, Chance hurried out of the building and to the parking lot. His adrenaline started to pump. He ran.
In the front row of the parking lot, Chance found his car low on the pavement. All four tires had been slashed. The hood concaved. His windshield still remained, but shattered. A bricked lied on the passenger’s seat.
“Damn it!” Chance yelled. He sprinted over to the driver’s side door and pulled out his keys; then he realized he didn’t have to. The door was broken. He pulled on the handle and the whole door came off with it.
“Oh, c’mon,” Chance muttered. Reaching from the driver’s side, Chance grabbed hold of the brick. As hard as he could, Chance hurled the brick across the road into a section of woods.
“Take that you stupid son of a bitch!” he yelled, although he knew he had accomplished nothing.
While the brick was in mid-flight, another Post-It note fell from it and landed on the pavement in front of him.
It read: I have your family. Wait for the call.
Fear, focus, and the future. C.M. Humphries talks about writing, horror, and whatever.