Staring Reality in the Face

SHORT STORY #1!

During this quarantine, our family has completed a writing challenge where everyone had to complete a short story that included six random words chosen by each of the six people in our family. I have posted the first one for your reading enjoyment!  If you guess who wrote each one, then props to you! Here are the six words: bunny, Paris, concert, hotdog, knife, pocket-watch.  Comment with your guesses as to who wrote this story:  Brendan, Wynette, JJ, Ben, Sam or JoJo.

Staring Reality in the Face

Dr. Whitmore glared sheepishly out the thin window, his face dead with gloom.  The streets of Paris were filled with passersby and a thin layer of fog covered the cobbled roads.  An occasional snore of his fluffy bunny companion, Edward, was audible above the gentle ruckus.  Peering at his golden time-teller, the doctor sighed to pierce the silence.  The slender, ebony wands of the pocket-watch pointed to the fourth numeral.  Suddenly, snapping from his daze, the doctor extended his neck in an attempt to hear what he thought was a voice.  The voice, which was but the volume of a whisper at first, began to grow as if it was approaching slowly.  Then there was a scream.  Spooked, the man hopped up and scurried towards the atrium.  Hurriedly, he tossed on his overcoat and dashed into the outside world. 

“What’s going on?” said Dr. Whitmore.  Adrenaline surged through his body like a raging river as he stared intently at the kneeling character.  He heard deep moans of distress.  “What’s going on?” he said again, this time louder.  Finally, a tear stained face emerged from the individual’s hands.  It was the face of a woman who appeared to have been working hard due to the amount of dried dirt and soot on her face.

 “That dreadful fool!” shrieked the woman between sobs, “He took it all.” 

“What?  What did he take?” said Dr. Whitmore.

“My money.  All my money!”  The woman pointed down the street at a sprinting, shadowy figure and once again began weeping.  Dr. Whitmore knew he wasn’t fast, but still he zipped off in the direction of the outstretched index finger. 

Huffing and puffing like a steamboat, the fortuitous hero elbowed his way through the countless bodies.  Upon being accidentally bumped into a nearby hotdog stand, he was almost severed by the vender’s butcher-knife.  “My apologies,” gasped the doctor as he attempted in vain to balance the angry-man's cart.  Ignoring the exclaims of the marketer and removing the half-cut hotdog from his pocket, the doctor dashed once again down the pavement.  After a few more minutes of darting here-and-there to avoid the stunned pedestrians, he inspected his surroundings.  Searching a second time, and then a third, he finally spotted his victim about a hundred feet away.  The thief stood out from the rest of the crowd with a dark grey coat and a small pink pocketbook in his hand.  Just then, the doctor realized the peculiarity of what he was doing.  Before continuing down the stone track, the fearless liberator thought, “What AM I doing?”  

Surprised whispers could be heard above the panting of the doctor.  Ooh la-la, he is fast! thought the doctor who felt the urge to give up.  However, the image of the dirty, weeping woman in the street prevented this from happening.  That could’ve been all the money she had for all he knew.  The doctor’s legs gave a burst of speed and he began slowly gaining on the criminal.  Only when the doctor was within twenty feet of the thief did he notice him.  Looking over his shoulder, the grey man shrieked but didn’t stop running.  Fifteen feet.  Thirteen.  Ten.  Five.  Dr. Whitmore stretched out his arms, trying to get a hold of the man’s coat tail.  When he least expected it, the crook screeched to a halt and stuck his foot in the doctor’s path.  Before he could react, Dr. Whitmore toppled over the awaiting limb and crashed head-first into the sidewalk.

Whitmore painfully lifted his scruffy head from the rock-hard surface.  A dim light buzzed from somewhere behind the counter.  Between two sleepy eyelids, he could see the disapproving glance of a grey-haired bartender.  “Bar’s closed,” announced the crackling voice.  With a pulsating pain in his head, the groaning Whitmore shifted into a halfway sitting position among a pool of liquid and broken glass.  This was no sidewalk.  Eyes rolling back into their sockets, the meager thief fell back against a bar stool and exhaled.  Had he been here all night?  Then he remembered.  All was silent besides the distant ringing of a concert in the alley.  The strong scent of alcohol floated through the air.  The man frowned at the pink beer-soaked pocketbook lying on the ground.  A sick feeling formed in his stomach as he realized what he had to do.  Reluctantly, he stuffed the empty purse back in his hole-filled shirt pocket before proceeding in climbing to his feet.  Lumbering and wobbling with imbalance, the criminal limped out into the dying sunlight. 

With nothing but a dusty pink pocketbook, Whitmore shuffled down the street.  The money was gone but he still had the woman’s purse and returning it was the least he could do.