Lead And Lights

At the intersection, I could go right and head home — but turning left would take me to salvation.

Engine roared. Heart roared louder.

Not a spat: vengence.

Not a conversation: Freedom.

Cade sped past red lights in his Mustang. Lights flickered like morse code to go back. Cade ignored their message. He was the message.

Eyes darting between streets. Mind focus. Heart ready to give out. Not now.

For too long, mobsters demanded cash for peace, but this was it. This ends now.

Rain fell straight like nature begging to turn. But he couldn’t: he wouldn’t.

Tires screeched on pavement. Splashing the doorman. Big man. Only fluff.

“I want to see the boss,” said Cade.

“Don’t know wh—“

No time for chit chat.

Fists contact chin. Gut. Face. Ribs.

800 lbs. gorilla sleeping up cold rain like thirst for mercy.

“Can’t talk. In a hurry”

Big guys talk. Cade silences.

He reaches down. Slight of handle like magician's last trick.

Door entrance to pulsing club paints crowd with flashlights like wildfire echoing its end.

No matter.

Let it paint them. Let them hid once things get hardcore.

Steps lead to VIP lounged.

Knock. Knock.

“Who is it?”

Silence.

Pound. Pound.

Footsteps close. Big mistake.

Cade kicked door open. Scrapnel splinters whisper past goons—blinding.

Bosses. Three of them siting on leather.

Cigar smoke rising like incense of dead—Only too soon.

Fat boss middle. Swirls brandy like an orb ready to tell his fortune. I see death in his future.

“FIngured you gone home.”

“There is no home,” said Cade. “Just you.”

Boss’ jacket waved heavy on one side. Check book or. sidearm.

Cade rushes boss. Guessed wrong. No check book: sidearm.

Bang

Kiss from gun and bite to ribs. Burning bullet becomes cinder and ash.

Cade grab his side.

Eyes: weakning

Hands: color fading

Soul: thriving.

“Want more?”

Open mouth, no breath. Standing. Keep moving.

Bang.

Another kiss.

“I like you Cade,” said Boss. “At least, I’ll remember you.”

Cade up. Rushes. Not stopping. Motivation like memories and ghosts—haunting and relentless.

Tackles boss out of window and glass rain tickles the alley.

Diner nearby Florence light flash SOS. But now only says goodbye.

Boss: Eyes closed. Alone.

Cade: Face smiling.

Worn out picture—faded in his grip.

Son Smiling.

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Author's note:

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. I truly appreciate your attention and interest.

I just want to apologize for the low word count in this piece.

Because of this week’s prompt, I was given only one hour to write a short story.

Under such a strict time constraint, it was a challenge to fully develop everything I wanted.

If I had been granted more time, I would have gladly expanded the story with more depth and detail.

However, the rules of the prompt were clear: no revising, no correcting, and a strict deadline that limited it to one hour.

Given these conditions, I had no choice, but to present a shorter work than I might have preferred.

Despite these limitations, I was genuinely thrilled by this prompt because it gave me a chance to showcase a new and experimental writing style I’ve been developing: Lead and Dust.

It's an unconventional style with intent to strip down as much fluff as possible. Words are minimal, visceral and emotional without explanation.

Characters' emotions aren't declared. It's the trembling hands attempting to light a cigarette after surviving a gun fight.

It's smelling lilac on a pillow in an empty bed. It's about seeing the gun on the nightstand and wishing you were back in the jungle.

The heart of Lead and Dust is minimalism. But it's not the minimalism you're familiar with.

It’s about getting to the bone—picked clean by a vulture. And leaving a scar on the reader.

It's about letting the silence speak. Like the moment after the sound of a gunshot echoes through a dark alley.

The lack of articles is intentional for speed and clarity. The prose can be read just as quick or even faster without articles.

Shorter sentences give a staccato feel with rhythm. Similes and illustrations are grounded, not mythological. It's all about going for the gut and feeling the chains pull you into the mud.

"Blood.

One drop—a spot.

Two drops—a stain.

Three drops—an inkblot."

Violence isn't gratuitous or glorified. It's about the guilt after revenge. The softening face after the anger subsides from your last shot.

It's the sound of loading a magazine, cocking the hammer and making sure at least one round is in the chamber.

Characters are morally gray, flawed and carry their own scars. They don't talk much, but when they do, every word cuts.

Thoughts are fragmented and broken like the character who thinks them.

Lead and Dust is made for readers that seek action, thrillers and character development.

These collections of short story prompts will be expanding my spy thriller series: The Aviary. With its central character Rowan Cade.

Cade is an elite agent questioning his origins and losing faith in his government.

It’s not nihilism by any means, but characters are dragged through the mud. And if they succeed, it won’t be without broken bones.

Purple prose has no place in this style. Neither does maximalism. But that doesn't weaken the story—in fact, it reinforces it.

My initial writing style before creating Lead and Dust was very maximalist. Think Anthony Doerr meets David Foster Wallace.

Simple yet strong verbs carry the weight of the story and leave enough for the reader to put the pieces together.

"Rain fell straight.

He looked up.

Not to see. But to let the rain dilute his tears.

Then it stopped."

Lead and Dust is not for everyone.

You might like it.

You might hate it. But you'll never forget it.

And you'll carry it with you long after you finish reading.

It's heavy but carries its own weight and its true power comes only when the dust settles.

Thank you so much again. I hope you enjoyed my story. Keep on the lookout. More of my work will come in the future prompts.

—D.B. Foster