Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Hazel eyes

Lights slid over the glass like a skater on ice. Inside the jet black limousine a man in a very dark, very professional suit stared out. His hazel eyes were half closed, weighed down by boredom. His face was dark in the cab, playfully illuminated by the occaisonal neon sign. The driver was quiet, staring blankly at the colorful city streets.

The man held no love for the city, with it's cloud piercing sky scrapers and morally degrading bars and trip clubs.

Slowly the vehicle crept into an open space beside a large, imposing building. The man drew the lightest breath, before swinging the door open. His obsidian colored shoes met the pavement lazily, cutting a crystalline sheen this way and that, on the droll cement. Finally, after a moments thought, he pulled himself on through, standing tall before the building. The doorman nodded, grabbing the door for the somber looking gentleman.

Through the lobby he walked, slowly, deliberatly. He paused for a moment, noting the way the receptionist stared, the gentle say of the crystalline chandalier looming over his head, and the three uniformed men waiting, guns drawn. He gave one last look over his shoulder, the exuberant blue lights pouring over the streets hardly registering. Finally the officers threw him to the linoleum. "Hands behind your back!" One screamed, wrenching his hands into the small of his back, while another kicked his feet apart.

The man watched the dark colored pistol slide from his jacket, and across the floor, skating along beside the bloody footprints that followed him in. He closed his eyes, content with the throbbing in his jaw and the smell of blood drying on his jacket.

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