…a literary journey
Hey everyone! As promised, here’s my 10 minute writing practice result from the photo below. Remember, writing prompts are just practices – raw writing, not intended to be polished, so be kind 🙂
His look said it all. I was crazy letting him see me snap the shot.
At first taken aback by his casual dress, sneakers from the mall and cargo shorts, I quickly realized they were a costume, worn to discourage attention. But I knew who he was, or rather what he was.
The plastered wall behind him held up a small-time bar where big-time money changed hands. And this guy was the Watcher. At least he wasn’t the Cleaner, I told myself, wondering why I insisted on using bad mob movie characterizations.
I had a couple of choices. Walk away and keep snapping photos – just an amateur photographer out on a nice day; or stay where I was and see if Caruso came out of the bar.
The Watcher’s glare continued to bear down on me, but I chose the latter. My mission held me in place, because while I had the story already written in my leather bound notebook sitting on my kitchen counter back at home, it was the photos that told the part of the story I’d never capture with words. No, the animal would just have to keep glaring, because I wasn’t going anywhere.
For two hours I sat on the terrace of the tea-tree café across the street from Ignatius Caruso’s bar. I started out drinking the green tea, but after having to piss so many times, I quit drinking altogether and instead started going through the pack of cigarettes I’d brought with me. Only once did the Watcher move from his post to go inside, returning with an associate, both of them glancing my way, not even bothering to be inconspicuous.
Regulars flitted in and out of the bar all day, but no major family players. I had nothing but a photo of the Watcher staring me down from across the street.
I’d be back another day, and this time I’d know what to do. They weren’t going to get away with murdering my brother without going down for it – I’d get the proof I needed, and then I’d be the one staring at them, behind bars.