Post 20: Fourteenth Floor

This was a fun one. The following piece is not a super believable one, but I had fun with it all the same. Why isn’t it believable? Oh, you’ll see.

The prompt for this piece of flash fiction came from the Tale Foundry writing group. Honestly, this was one of the rare times where I saw the prompt and immediately knew what I was going to write. Usually I’ll have a couple ideas bouncing around in my head before I settle on one. But with this one, my brain said “Nope, we’re doing this one.”

Now, my piece did get read on the Tale Foundry Twitch stream, which you can find for your viewing pleasure on the Tale Foundry Scrapyard Youtube channel. My short story rolls in at the 55:56 time stamp. But I would highly recommend listening to all the other great stories that are also featured in the vod. They are wonderful!

So, without further ado, the prompt for this piece is: Moth to a Flame.

***

Fourteenth Floor

Run. Hide. If she could beat him up all 14 flights of stairs, she could slip into one of the study-rooms and throw on the dark hoodie she kept stuffed in her bag. He would pass by, thinking she was someone else. Of course, he could always take the elevator. But there was only one of those while there were two stairwells. Dinah had learned the hard way how easily he could trap her if she took the elevator.

She took the steps two at a time. Any distance she could gain on him was better than nothing. She heard the door, now a few flights below, slam shut as someone else began the climb. Dinah resisted the urge to peek over the railing. Instead, she forced her legs faster.

“Sweetheart, wait up! I got something for you.” His voice echoed up the cement walls.

Panic threatened to take the air her lungs needed to make it up the last few flights. Dinah shoved it down, telling herself that he couldn’t run up stairs as fast as her. She had to believe that if she was going to make it through the top door.

He had gained on her by a flight before she pushed through the door of the fourteenth floor. Dinah wove through the small crowd of people in the twisting hallways till she found an empty study-room. Closing the door behind her, shutting out light from the hall, Dinah dug in her bag for her hoodie. Struggling to pull it on, she scrambled under the table.

Dinah stuffed the end of a hoodie sleeve into her mouth in an attempt to quiet her gasping. She could wait him out. He would think she went down the other stairs, or that she had taken the elevator and he would go back down. He would think he had lost her. She would be safe here.

The light blinked on as the door opened. A chair pulled out from the table and was replaced by a kneeling man.

“There you are, my little spark,” he said with a grin.

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