Fiction: Turnning Points #7
SEVEN Winter is coming. I can feel the north wind finger its way underneath my coat, slide down my neck. The clouds ooze weight above me, bottom heavy, warning me of snow. I glance left and right. Not too much head movement, but just enough. But mostly, my eyes swivel, like secrets. I can't let anyone catch on, even feel a hint of suspicion. Except for the last of the late night partygoers returning their unsteady way home, and a council street cleaner, the area is almost empty. The humming vehicle is approaching on the opposite side of the road, spraying water, the sharp swiiishhh of the huge circular broom clearing the gutters of the day's detritus. I allow myself a quick glance at the driver, but he has eyes only for the road ahead of him. Quickly, I return my focus to the end of the street where it meets the crossroad. The curfew is close and I have to hurry. If I'm caught, there will be nothing left. I cannot attract the attention of ... anyone. Nevertheless, I q...
