Ahhh @theinkwell, what a delicious prompt this week: 'Headlights'. There was a lot of potential in this prompt to go anywhere, but I hope you'll enjoy "16 minutes in suburbia - with a serial killer on the loose." You can find the competition prompt here.
The skill development focus this week was to craft a hook. I hope I can keep you with me beyond the first sentence.
Thanks, Tim
Image created in Canva using a template.
Like a fox, caught in the headlights, unaware of his own impending doom, Lucas froze. The next moments would be crucial; would he survive; would he become the hunted?
The night should never have reached that climax, as it was not sixteen minutes earlier that Lucas was settling into his thread-bare olive green armchair and reaching for the remote. The remote was in reach, but his Doritos were not. Nor were they in the kitchen, he’d forgotten to pick some up on his return from work. Cursing, he made the choice to head down to petrol station on the corner. His knees clicked as he rose, and he grumbled about as he found his wallet and a pair of sneakers. He was fortunate enough to be wearing his good sweat pants, and in any case, his wife was not around to chastise him on his ‘are you really going out in those pants?’ pants.
On reaching the door, he was momentarily delayed by an advertisement which flashed across the screen. It showed a small child wrestling with a teddy bear, he had no idea what was being sold to him, but he accepted the free joy it offered and left the house with a smile on his face. As the door closed, a news bulletin interrupted the evening programming. Had Lucas delayed his exit, this small pause may have been enough to save him. Mere seconds, perhaps, might have been enough.
On a good day, he knew the walk would take him about 10 minutes, but it was a Friday night, and the week had been long, so he allowed a bit extra in his mind. The evening itself was largely unremarkable, an occasional barking dog (although, he chuckled and called it a rat), a sprinkler which danced some water through the night air, perhaps he even caught a glimpse of a passing owl. It was altogether ordinary, altogether uninspiring, but altogether lovely.
On reaching the small shop, he could see the red and yellow bag right near the counter. Picking up the closest bag, he approached the counter, a friendliness opening the corner of his mouth. The exchange with the clerk behind the desk was largely straightforward, the opportunity to buy two cans of soda for an exorbitant price was customarily offered, and customarily declined.
Lucas felt that everything was going to plan, and with a hop in his step he crossed back across the road, and with one foot in front of the next, got into the rhythm of his stroll. A cat perhaps spied him from the bushes, he casually observed a television was turned up a little too loud in the house he strode by. It took him by surprise, then, when a car slowed its pace behind him. It was unsettling, it reminded him of stories from the news – the kind, which, he could only imagine in his mind, as being unsettling.
Thoughts took him; was he about to be abducted? What did the creep want? His hand went to his kidney – was this it? The car flicked on it’s high beams, catching him in their snare. He was, like a fox, caught in the headlights, unaware of his own impending doom, but all too aware that this would not end well. Lucas froze. The next moments would be crucial; would he survive; would he become the hunted?
Lucas’ breathing quickened, his heart, now thumping incessantly, chose this moment to tell him his worst fears were in front of him. The mundanity of the night was being replaced by terror; it’s reign, it would seem, unmerciful.
The night’s silence closed in on Lucas, and he could just make out the whirl of the electric front windows being lowered. Interrupting the quiet, a voice bellowed: ‘Are you really out of the house in those pants?’. Lucas stiffened, as if an arrow had painfully struck his heart. There was no escape, he couldn’t very well run. He slinked to the passenger door, got in gingerly, his bag of Doritos crinkling, and, as she his wife ruefully stared at him, he could only manage the faintest, ‘Yes, dear’, and the evening silence once again filled the night. She kept darting her eyes at his in his direction, daggers shooting from her glare. The drive home was quick, his choice to wear the sweats in public, fatal.
#fiction #writing #inkwellprompt #theinkwell and #dreemport,