100 Words: Pick Up

She staggers down the alleyway, hands half-clawing at the bricks, as though the wall we’re a sturdy set of hands to catch her. Bloody-eyed, bloody-lipped, she twists, gagging up the last few hours’ of memories, pressing her back to the brick, then her hands to her knees.

Everything spins.

Nothing makes sense.

She drops to her knees, digging out her phone, and struggles to dial a number she’s not sure anyone will answer. When she hits the asphalt and the phone skitters away, still ringing, shaking hands reach for it, and a shaking voice whispers, “…I need a pick up.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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