(Image Credit: Roger Bultot)
Call it morbid coincidence or term it a contrivance of fate. But the setting could not have been more prosaic yet so profound. When the old security guard half staggered-half ambled towards the square, the damage was already done. The two shots that pierced the stillness of the night had found their mark with deadly precision. The blood oozing from the entry wound in his chest mixed with the glob of chili sauce that had dripped off the paper plate from which he was enjoying his snack. His wife began screaming hysterically. Even the Sculpture couldn’t bear to watch!
(Word Count: 99)
This story was written as part of the FRIDAY FICTIONEERS challenge, more about which may be found HERE
For more stories based on the above prompt, click HERE