The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide.
The blur of hovercars flashed back and forth, nothing but smears of light. I watched from my window. Once I’d been down there, into the midst of the blur, but no more.
“How are you feeling?” the Doctor asked with the same quiet, bored, tone as always.
“Fine.” My standard answer. I didn’t turn.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because he was guilty.” I paused. “That is….was… my job.”
It was no longer. Cops didn’t play anymore, not unless they played somebody else’s game. I’ll always been stubborn about playing my own game.
He moved up behind me. I knew the moment the decision was made, felt the change in him without even looking. The next moment, I felt the pinch of pain in my neck. My body flashed cold, hot. Pins and needles swept through me, losing each piece of myself inch by inch. Tongue gone, lips, harder and harder to breathe.
At least, I’d played my own game until the end.
Put that on my gravestone, bastard.