Writing Prompt

Richard went to the bodega every single day. It was much a part of his day as his morning shower or his evening glass of bourbon. Wake up, drink coffee, dress, stop at the bodega for a second coffee and a paper on the way to his train into the city. Off the train, stop at the bodega for a beer for the walk, sometimes a snack if he hadn’t had a decent lunch before home for the evening. Day in. Day out. Home, bodega, train. Train, bodega, home.

Along with the bodega came Rayed, the owner. Richard knew his name only because of the name tag he wore, he doubted it had come up in the five years of daily visits. Richard never missed a day at the bodega. He had not been home for the holidays since his father died ten years ago, and he seemed to be allergic to relaxing so vacations had never been part of the plan, even if his finance career had allowed the time. Rayed also never missed a day at the bodega - holidays, weekends, storms.

The door to his apartment slammed shut of its own accord behind him. Richard made sure to jiggle the doorknob no less than three times to ensure it was securely locked. Home. He turned down the street - right, left, left, straight down the hill to the train station. Always the same. After his first left, he walks through the familiar door with the same jangle as he entered. Bodega. Rayed was behind the counter as always. Richard made his way to the back for his coffee, filling up his travel mug from home to save ten cents and be sure the lid wouldn’t leak down his freshly pressed white Brooks Brothers shirt. He grabbed a paper on his way to the counter, and for the first time this morning, actually looked at Rayed. He looked ashen and pale, more tired than usual. Richard had seen Rayed look unwell before, to be sure. The man never missed a day, though, and the shop was always well stocked with papers, coffee and beer. Richard just hoped whatever it was wasn’t too contagious. He’d hate to be under the weather for his big presentation next week.

Rayed rung up the coffee and the paper. As he handed Richard his change with one hand, he held out the other to shake, saying pleasantly, “Have a great day, sir.” Richard hesitated, accepted the change, acting like the outreached hand just didn’t exist. “You too, man,” he mumbled as he exited as quickly as he could. Second left. Down the hill. Train.

Richard’s any at work passed like any other - e-mails, meetings, meetings, e-mails, calls, e-mails, meetings, meetings that could have been e-mails. Finally, sixteen minutes past six, Richard decided to call it quits for the day. He logged off of his accounts, got his coat and took the elevator down to the lobby, went through the revolving door and kept walking to the right down the street. Right, right, left, down the stairs to the station. Train.

His commute out of the city always felt longer than his commute into the city. He supposed the trip home likely always did, no matter what form it took. Finally, the train pulled into the station and he exited to the platform, up the stairs, out the turnstile, up the hill, first right. Bodega.

Richard was so startled by the brightness of the flashing lights, he almost fell off the curb. It wasn’t a huge assemblage, two police cars and an ambulance, but on this sleepy street outside of the city, police lights usually just meant a speeding ticket. Richard’s stomach dropped seeing the caution tape across the door of the bodega. His bodega. Everything seemed heavy, but calm - not an active scene, but the aftermath of the wreck. Police officers were milling about, apparently waiting for the EMT’s to finish with whatever catastrophe was inside. There was sign of struggle, blood or accident outside, after all.

Looking around him, Richard tried to find Rayed. He assumed he would be giving a statement to police, but didn’t see him anywhere. Standing next to the fence separating the bodega from the alley, he noticed an elderly woman he recognized from the grocery store.

“Excuse me,” he started, surprised at himself for approaching a stranger for something that was truly none of his business, “Have you seen Rayed? Did he leave with some officers to give a statement at the station? What happened, anyway?”

The woman shifted her purse from one side to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “No, honey, Rayed is still inside,” she said softly, “He had a heart attack. Cheryl who I play bridge with was in getting milk when he just collapsed! Can you imagine? Her Jimmy called 911 when she came running outside, but I overheard one of the officers saying that they were too late. Poor man.”

Richard thanked her and wordlessly took the next right and then a left. Home.

He should have shaken the man’s hand.

My mother and I held in our breath and watched the doctor carefully. My brother was injured during the war of Balbekahn Crest, and was just moments of slipping away. The deep gash on his chest wouldn't stop bleeding, and the doctor said he has been delirious for as long as twenty minutes.

"Save my baby boy," she kept shouting in between sobs.

"I'm doing all I can ma'am, but the blood won't subside. He's going to die any moment now, and I'd find it best to say your farewells before it gets too late."

"What kind of doctor are you," she cried hysterically. "Don't they have other specially trained doctors for soldiers in the war?"

"If they did, I would be helping your son. Unfortunately, I am the only kind that they have."

"Leave me be! Leave me be," my brother would scream out of nowhere, his eyes glazed over with fear. "Just get it over with!"

We don't know if he meant that for us, but it horrified my mother and I.

"What is he saying? What is my baby boy saying!?"

"Ma'am, I need you to calm down. Your fussies won't change a thing."

"Mom! Mom! He wants me to shake his hand! I don't want to shake his hand! I want to die already!"

"Joseph, Allan, Soyer! You will not die," she cried, trying to hold his hand.

"No," the doctor boomed, slapping away her hand. "If you do that, you're only going to kill him more!"

"Don't tell me what to do," she screamed before running over to my brother's side.

"No! No! Get off of me! No," he screamed and whined, frantically spazzing out on his bed.

"Joey, it's me!?"

"Mom! Don't let me shake his hand! No! No! Please don't!"

"I won't, Joey! I promise," she sobbed, slowly weaving her fingers into his. When their palms touched, everything became absolutely quiet.

The three of us gasped as my brother closed his eyes for the last time. The doctor just shook his head, sucked in his bottom lip, and wiped away a tear that rolled down his face. My mom quickly backed away from his body, as if it had stung her. On the other hand, I didn't cry, nor make a sound. I didn't do anything, except stare numbly at his stiff face, waiting for him to open his eyes once more.

"I shouldn't have done that," my mother's voice wavered, the self-hatred radiating off of her. "He should have shaken the man's hand... not mine!"

I overlooked the city while being stuck against a chair. I watched the middle hit fast and then skyscrapers fall fast. Far, but clear enough so I could see little, people ran through the roads trying to run away. I watched as blood began to soak on my hands, and with every second the guilt sunk deeper and deeper. Was this all my fault? If I made the deal would I have saved us?

Everything went wrong from that point. Not just downhill; down into subterranean caverns where only creatures without eyes live.

It had been a stressful day at work, and all he wanted to do was get home and drink until he forgot all about the pain-in-the-*ss clients. But fate had another idea.

His patience (or lack thereof) couldn’t tolerate the traffic- he screeched onto a dirt road. It should’ve been quiet. The sun had set, and the weather was taking a turn for the worse. He could speed right along this shortcut through the forest and get home before the thunder reached its crescendo. He almost laughed at how smart he was.

Then the accident happened.

He didn’t see her run out into the road, but he definitely heard her small body hit the windshield and tumble over the roof. He slammed the breaks so hard he thought his foot might go through the floor.

“Oh sht... oh no... oh fck...” he panicked, bending over her limp form. No point in checking for a pulse; her neck was barely attached to her body. He choked on a sob. He had killed a little girl.

“It seems you’re in quite the predicament,” a voice rumbled behind him. He turned around, but could only make out a shadowy figure. “I-I didn’t mean to... she just... ran out in front of my car!” “I don’t care,” laughed the mysterious man, “but I’m happy to help you clean up. You just have to say yes.” He stared at the outstretched hand. “Just shake on it, and this will all go away-“ “No. I don’t know who the fck you are but this is really messed up.” He popped the trunk and lifted the body into it. He banged it shut and the figure was there. “Sht, man! Leave me alone!”

As he drove away, he could see the shadowy figure still standing there. Watching. As his wipers cleared the streaks of rain from his back window, they also appeared to clear the figure. He must be hallucinating. In fact, he’s probably dreaming. He’ll wake up soon.

He did not wake up. Not after he’d buried her in his garden and scrubbed so hard at his skin in the shower that he began to bleed. Not even after he’d finished a bottle of scotch.

Despite the alcohol, he lay awake in bed.

What was that? Footsteps? No, just the heavy rain. He was paranoid. A monster. He’d go to the police tomorrow. Her family deserved the truth...

He jolted awake, not even realising he’d fallen asleep. Someone was in his house. It was that creep from before- he must’ve followed him home! No. These footsteps were too light for a full-grown man...

The dirty, bloody corpse lunged at him: head hanging, eyes open.

One thought- his last thought- slipped across his mind as her hands slipped around his neck: He should have shaken the man’s hand.

I bent down over the cliff side, screaming and shouting but the words were simply ripped out of my mouth by the howling wind. My already-tangled hair whipped around my head. The horizontal rain slammed against my chest like bullets.

I stretched a hand out the person far below, halfway down the cliff, clutching a ledge for dear life (literally), but it was no use; he was much too far away. In desperation I glanced up at Bertie, standing next to me with his arms folded.

“No,” he said firmly in response to my look.

“Oh, come on, don’t be so freaking stubborn!!!” I exclaimed angrily. “It’s your fault!”

He shook his head in defiance. I swore, and refocused my gaze back downwards, down the cliff.

He wasn’t there.

The person had finally fallen.

I sobbed. “I can’t believe you! It’s all your fault, couldn’t you have been nice to him? No, you simply had to be mean. Now look what’s happened!”

He shouldn’t have been so cruel; he should have shaken the mans hand

Had he done it He would have noticed A web of white lines Like veins on a lotus

He might have noticed the callouses littering his joints He could have saved her But now what’s the point

He didn’t shake his hand And that was all it took That and her life Were gone in one look

And as her life slipped through fingers like sand He knew he should have Shaken the mans hand

Dear Ayda,

Hello from the North Pole! Huge congratulations on becoming a big sister this year to banal Luna. I’ve heard your a great big sister and are very kind and loving towards her so well done.

“Will that be cash, credit or memories?” Her smooth lips forming the words, her eyes portraying indifference.

Unable to counteract, his head rose to meet her at eye level, acknowledging her presence. “Wait, wait, sorry what?”

Receptionists were short tempered at the best of times, and these certainly weren’t them. “Sir, will that be cash, or credit?”

Utterly confused, staring blankly at a nurse young enough to be his daughter, he replied. “Sorry, I thought you asked something else, cash please.”

“They all do, take a seat.” The receptionist gestured toward a full half dozen row of blue chairs, each with a story to tell.

Sitting down on the single worn out chair that was available, Doug started to roll over the days events, and just how they lead to this. Time passed at the sound of nails on a chalkboard: 3:05, 5:30, 7:45. Doug knew he was to blame, couldn’t help it. Waking up, preparing for a meeting with the board, oblivious to his surroundings. Until the coffee was spilt, and the cliché was unleashed, leading to the inevitable downfall of his morning routine; curb water splashing from cars, missing his bus to work, and an angry taxi driver.

Getting in that taxi, Doug became unaware of the consequences that the injustice in his behaviour toward other people could bring, and as the taxi pulled up to his 42 storey office, Doug made a gesture for the door.

Seemingly annoyed and unimpressed the taxi driver questioned. “Are you not going to say goodbye, rude American.”

Doug noticed a Russian accent, and nothing else. “Yeah whatever, I’m late, see you later.” Before Doug reached the first step up to his work, his face became perturbed by an intrusive hand, offering itself out.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m late, please go away.” Walking around the driver, putting the scene down to lack of experience within the city, Doug made his way up the stairs and reached the top, just in time to see the gun unload its bullets.

Sitting in that room, on that one blue chair, waiting for someone to walk through the bright white doors, surrounded by more blank walls, he realised where he was.

He hadn’t misheard the receptionist, and he couldn’t remember how he got there. Noticing a set of blue leaflets, set down next to the colour coordinated chairs, he read the title. “Welcome to purgatory, enjoy your stay.”

Surprisingly unsurprised, Doug intriguingly opened the leaflet, to find the pages blank. Hours passed on the clock that he’d come to acknowledge as useless, and as he waited, and waited for something to happen, one thought remained.

“He should have shaken the man’s hand.”