Preston strained his eyes through the ninth-floor window; without his spectacles, it was a futile exercise. He could, at least, imagine hearing the tinkling trickle-spatter of the spouting, regurgitated ice-cold water.
Moonlight flecked the dappled surface making it seem, from up here, as if the body in the pool was scouring the bottom for wished-upon pennies, a missing snorkel the only hint to the contrary.
Still, that semblance of mobility unsettled Preston. Glasses. He must fetch his glasses.
He returned from the bathroom in haste, wiping the blood from the lenses with a scrunch of toilet paper.
Now the scene below had edges, came into focus.
For two minutes he watched, unblinking.
The body remained face-down, its bloated clothing waxing and waning in the moonbeam-kissed ripples.
The twin fountain heads were now, he noticed, spouting pink-tinged water, an oddly similar colour to that of the few remaining droplets on his lenses.
No. The bell-ringer was dead.
To be certain, Preston waited until 1a.m. Then a minute past, two, five.
No, nothing; silence reigned. He sighed, and resumed undressing for bed.
It was, he pondered, amazing the lengths to which a sleep-deprived man would go to get a decent night's sleep…
Brief, c/o Authors of the Flash Fiction Writing Challenges
This week:
Your character - from his high up window - sees a corpse floating in the famous Michgail fountain. Things are not what they seem.
Fancy a punt? Awesome. Head on over to the Authors of the Flash Fiction Writing Challenges Facebook Group and join in! See you on the outre side.
Image courtesy of Eduardo Goody, Unsplash.
