To think I could go from cramping my stomach watching John Hodgman to writing about, well, this, really just proves I’m supposed to be a writer with my onset mood-swings.
Title: Silent Steal
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
You’ve never heard of where I live because it doesn’t exist anymore. You’ve never heard of me because I died without a name.
The Blitz our horizon and we couldn’t live in fear anymore. One night we took every car in town and drove north.
Propellers chopped up the air from far away. I craned my head out into the cold, still night— the kind of night when no man deserved to die.
But those propellers were coming from the east, from Germany.
They must have thought we were a convoy. Their bullets only destroyed town cars and humble hopes.
What a zippy fun story this one was! I really want to go back to writing more either funny or just kind of zany stories, if only for a little while. But a nighttime bridge with big eye-like headlights attached to cars poised to run over the cameraman didn’t really scream “zany” to me.
Good luck, you brave writer folk!