Dan Joncas just wanted a greasy donut. Instead, he got a warning scribbled on a bill and a shadow that wouldn’t leave.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon “OPEN” sign flickered, casting a rhythmic, sickly pulse of red over the Formica counter. Dan Joncas didn’t look up. He stared into the black mirror of his coffee, watching the steam rise like ghost stories.
Donna slid the plate over. The donut was glistening with grease, a heart attack in a paper napkin. She popped her gum—a sharp, percussive crack that echoed off the stainless steel backsplashes. She didn’t say a word, but as she dropped the check, her thumb lingered on the paper.
Scribbled in frantic blue ink at the bottom: Guy staring at you. Don’t turn around. Bad feeling.
Dan felt the hair on his neck stand up. He took a slow sip of the coffee. It tasted like burnt beans and battery acid, just the way he liked it. He used the polished chrome of the napkin dispenser as a makeshift rearview mirror. In the distorted reflection, a shadow sat in the corner booth. Still. Too still.
The figure wore a heavy overcoat despite the morning heat. One hand was tucked inside the breast pocket; the other was tapping a steady, impatient beat on the table.
“Another refill, Dan?” Donna whispered, her gum-snapping bravado replaced by a tremor.
Dan felt the cold weight of the snub-nose in his own waistband. He knew that coat. He knew that rhythm. He thought he’d left that life in the rain-slicked gutters of Chicago, but the past has a way of catching the morning bus.
The bell above the door jingled as a stranger walked in, but the man in the corner didn’t blink. He rose slowly, his hand tightening inside his coat.
Dan gripped the edge of the counter. Does he know I’m ready? Or am I the one walking into the trap?
Finish the Story
The stranger is three steps away from Dan’s stool. Does Dan pull his piece first, or does he try to talk his way out of a debt that can only be paid in blood? The next move is yours.