“I’m telling you,” said person one, the only male in the four. “She smiled at me.”
“You’re full of shit,” said person three, to his right. “Why would she smile at you?”
“Maybe she liked what saw.”
“Or maybe,” said person four, sitting at end. “She confused you with someone else.”
“You really crap at this,” said person two, sat to the left of person one.
“Crap at what?” said person one.
“Lying.”
“What else am I meant to do? We’re meant to be blending in.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to feed us crap about a witch.”
“She’s not a witch. She’s a wizard.”
“She’s not either,” said person four. “She’s an actor. And a better one than you.”
“Fine, you win. She didn’t smile at me. But I did she her. She lives here.”
“Just shut up and concentrate,” said person three.
“On what? We don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“I do,” said person two.
“No, you don’t,” said person one.
“Yes, I do.”
“Bollocks you do.”
“Okay poster boy, think about it. What did they tell us to do?”
“What we’re doing now.”
“Until Harry comes out,” said person three. “That’s what they said.”
“But he’s not coming out,” said person two. “We could sit here for hours and Harry is definitely not coming out.”
“Someone’s got to come out.”
“Yeah, and they will. But it won’t be Harry.”
“Then we’ll just follow whoever comes out,” said person four.
“That’s not going to work,” said person three.
“Finally,” said person two. “Someone else has worked it out.”
“Worked out what?” said person one.
“This isn’t about us doing what they asked us to do,” said person three.
“She’s got it,” said person two.
“Well I haven’t,” said person one. “So maybe you could stop flirting and tell me your fuckin theory.”
“It’s not a theory. It’s them working out whether we conform.”
“They were pretty bloody well clear. Sit here. Wait for Harry’s cue. Follow.”
“Oh fuck,” said person four.
“Bless,” said person one. “She’s realised it too. Just you left, sweetheart.”
“You’re wrong.”
“She’s not,” said person three. “And they’re probably getting ready to fail us all because Harry’s in there with a knife in his throat and we’re here listening to you fantasize about getting a smile from a witch.”
“She’s not a witch, she’s a …
“Shut up,” said person one. “And just think. What do they want us to do?”
“Succeed.”
“No. Fail.”
“Whatever.
“It’s fail. They want us to fail. Do you want to fail?”
“Course not.”
“Then what you going to do?”
“What you asking me for?”
“Because you’re the weak link here … but you can also be the strongest.”
“Don’t fuckin play me.”
“I’m not. It’s your move. You want me to follow, I’ll follow.”
“I’m in,” said person three.
“And me,” said person four.
“You’re a right bunch of fuckers you are,” said person one.
“Yep,” said person two. “What’s it going to be? Conform … or take a risk …?”
“Fine,” said person one, standing. “You win. But if I get stabbed in the like Harry I’ll kill you.”
“You won’t. I believe in you.”
“Whatever … wait here will you. And don’t move until I come out. I’m not failing because of you.”
“You won’t … you’ve got this.”
“He hasn’t got this,” said person four as person one crossed the street.
“I know,” said person two. “But someone had to go in … and he was really getting on my nerves.”
This fictional short story was written for a 50 Day Project organised by the artist Amanda Billing. I get 45 minutes to an hour (not the project’s rules, it’s just about the time I have right now) to write a story, sometime between 4.30am and 5.30am. After that, the day is no longer mine.
N.B. The sketch image for this short story was created using AI (at best, I can draw a half-decent stick man). The words are all mine.
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