A picture is worth a thousand words (A salute to the elder Leto)

(I have zero rights to this picture, and am in no way profiting from its use.)

Hi All,


 I know it is Wednesday but in honor of the beautiful Shannon Leto's birthday I decided to launch my new format today. I came to the conclusion I am giving too much away in my writing, by sharing pieces of my books weekly. I thought that maybe I could do something special for just my blog readers. My idea is called A picture is worth a Thousand Words..which is pretty self explanatory, I will choose a photo and write a thousand word story about it...What do you think??


Here is your first Short, based on the above image. Enjoy!

*****

Happenstance

I get off the light rail train at the station just a few blocks away from my Minneapolis condo.  The streets are barren, and devoid of life, as most are in their homes hiding from the biting cold. My phone tells me it is midnight as I start down the sidewalk toward my lower level walk out on the northeast side of the city. The wheels of my luggage creek and whine against the freshly fallen snow of my path.

“Don’t look now, but someone is following you.” A voice comes as a whisper over my shoulder. My spine stiffens  as I cut my glance to the right. A man with golden eyes and a warm smile comes soundlessly to my side giving me a dimpled grin.

“What are you taking about?” I ask in a sharper tone than intended.

“About a half a block back, you have a tail. I saw him watching you on the train. When he followed you off, I decided to make sure you got wherever you were going.”

I cut a quick glance over my shoulder and spy a hooded man right were my companion said he would be. Taking in the full picture of the man at my side, I grow suspicious. He is clean cut and handsome, but also has an edge to him. The exact type who knows how to present himself, but hides a dark side that only a few know about. His black pea coat and Burberry scarf in stark contrast to the black jeans and combat boots.  Yet for some reason I feel safer with him next to me.

“How do I know you guys aren’t working together?” I inquire. “You take the lead and make me feel safe, and he sneaks up while I am distracted?”

He looks at me through hooded lids. “Smart girl, but I am nothing you need to worry about.” A shiver slides down my spine. However, my intuition tells me he is telling the truth, so I relax.

He walks quietly at my side, shrouded in mystery. I want to ask his name, where he lived, all the small talk questions you ask a person when you first make their acquaintance.  Yet, every time I go to speak, I lose my words, like they are just sucked out of my lungs before I can speak them. My brain chalks this issue up to exhaustion and jet lag. For some reason, though, the man quietly keeping pace with me seems familiar, safe. I finally give up on trying to speak and just walk.

Reaching my building, I opt for the main entrance. Though we pass my door on the way around the building, I don’t want to let the silent stranger know exactly which unit is mine. We round the corner on to the well-lit street, finding some of my neighbors outside smoking.  I come to a halt outside the entrance and he pauses, looking at me timidly.

“Well this is me.” I say motioning toward the door. My companion nods  walking backward toward the smoking party. “Good night.” I say in a slightly raised voice, as the distance between us increases. The smokers stop and raise their heads to me, looking at me as if I had cracked. My guardian smiles as he turns to continue down the sidewalk, throwing a hand up to wave.  I pull my heavy suitcase up on to the only step and look after him one last time. Maybe I should go get his name, or even his phone number so I can repay him somehow.  Unfortunately there is no sign of him on the sidewalk or in the street. He must have turned the corner already. With a sigh, I head down the hall to my condo.

Morning comes and I take my coffee to my picture window, sliding open the vertical blinds to take in the river view.  I am surprised to find a string of police vehicles and news vans flooding the street just a few yards down from my building. Scrambling to my television I turn on the local station to see if they are reporting live. I find the broadcast, taking a spot on my couch and turning up the sound.

“A local man, on a walk with his dog early today, found the remains of a man missing since early last month. Dade Thomas, a local musician, had been missing since February 5^th. He left a gig at a local bar after it had closed, choosing to walk home, due to a falling out with another band mate. He was reported missing the next morning by his roommate an fellow band member. “

The image of the man is imposed on to the screen , causing my coffee to slip from my fingers, crashing violently on my slate floors.

“Local residents say they had seen the Dade walking that night, as well as another man in a hooded sweatshirt. Preliminary findings suspect foul play. Family was not available for comment at this time.”

The news anchors ask questions of the on scene reporter, but I no longer hear what they are saying. My eyes are locked on the screen, the image of the man chilling me to the bone. I replay my walk home last night. How the air seemed so much colder after he came up next to me. How my words seemed to fail me when I tried to speak them. The man following me, wearing the dark hooded sweatshirt.  I pause my television so I can stare at the screen. Every bone in my body knows this is the man who walked me home to keep me safe last night.

Like a montage, the images from our short time together flood back.  I remember the news reports when he first went missing, and seeing flyers on the poles in the neighborhood. When he walked he didn’t make a sound, though my feet crunched noisily through the snow. When we parted, my smoking neighbors, looking at me suspect when I shouted my good night.

They could not see him.

He wasn’t really there.