F is for Flash

Its Good Friday, I'm not working today, as its a Bank holiday here in the UK, and I'm looking forward to doing some serious writing over the holiday weekend. One way I kick-start my writing is to warm up with a short piece of prose. I refer to these as quick flashes of inspiration.. Here is one I wrote earlier.

   I’m walking along the street towards Caffeine Heaven, it’s 7.15am, and because nothing much happens at this time in the  morning I’m not paying attention, I'm not switched on. 

     ‘Burn this book!’ The words are urgent, shouted at me.  A shabby little man with a bald head and moustache appears before me on the pavement. Thrusting something at me, I put my hands out defensively, taking whatever it is, there isn’t time to register anything else.

    I didn’t see the thin steel wire looped over his head, pulled taut around his neck.  Or the fast moving saloon car behind him where the other end of the wire attached.  But I heard the engine roar, then accelerate. It caused the wire to snag.  

    Like watching cheese being sliced off a block, his head leaves his body with alarming speed. Eyes bulging. Staring. Staring right at me.

    I scream. And scream, and scream. The head rolls onto the ground. The body drops like a weight at my feet. Blood gushes and pools all around me. The body twitches. Someone else screams, people are shouting. They're running.

    My world moves in slow motion. I look down at my shaking hands. At whatever has caused the man to lose his head.

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