Flash Fiction Thursday–Devoted Eyes

I participated in a challenge on terribleminds.com where you take a ~ 200 word story from someone else and build in it, adding 200 words of your own. I thought it was a great idea. I worked on a story called Devoted Eyes found here, by the Author Jon Jefferson. Let me be clear, the first seven paragraphs are his work. In no way am I trying to take credit for it. I simply added my own words to his story. Curious to see where this goes.

 Devoted Eyes: Part Two

Larry woke up. The dream was fresh in his mind at least as fresh as dreams can be in that place between asleep and awake. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes wiping away the last bits of the dream.

Well, everything except the eyes. He could still see the eyes. It wasn’t the first time they invaded his sleep, it wouldn’t be the last.

The memories faded as he went about his morning. Breakfast, shower, clothes, his morning followed a pattern he set his mind to years ago. Variation, unthinkable. He woke at the same time, dressed at the same time, ate the same thing. Science and predictability were the cornerstones for the perfect routine.

He opened the garage and pulled his red Stratus down to the road. Red the color of safety, the same as every car he owned had been. The sun crested the horizon, as he pulled onto the road.

Larry left for work an hour and a half early every morning. He preferred to avoid rush hour. Most days the stop lights were still blinking.

His billboard had changed overnight. For the longest time a show for the MGM Grand graced the board. This morning it was unfinished. The picture was gone. A portion of a new one in its place.

The eyes, the ones from his dream followed him as he crashed into the car in front of him.

“Yeah, let’s just stop in the middle of the road, asshole,” he said into the empty car. When he closed his eyes to clear his mind, he saw the other eyes staring him in the face—red, glowing, hate-filled—that much was obvious. But the most terrifying part was the familiarity in them. A paralyzing terror took over his muscles, effectively binding his hands onto the steering wheel. Every time he blinked, he saw the epitome of hate staring back at him.

Three loud knocks on the window jolted Larry out of his paralysis. “Get out of the car, sir. I think we need to exchange info.” The voice making its way through the glass was muffled, but clearly understandable. “I hope you have insurance, sir.”

“Just a minute,” Larry said. The drum solo going on below his sternum caused his right hand to shake uncontrollably. It took him three attempts to do something as trivial as unlatching his seatbelt.

He clenched his fists, stepped out of the car, and confronted the furious man.


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