A very short story done for a writing exercise- looking for feedback on the writing style.
|Off the granite steps, down the well-worn path, struggling with the front gate, he always thought to himself about fixing the damn thing.
Across Whiterush bridge, up Saxon hill and down Maidenhead Street, that was the path he had always took to Mr Nakins corner.
A loaf of Hovis, a bottle of semi-skinned and the mail is what he always bought, polite small talk regarding the weather filling the store as money exchanged hands.
Back on Maidenhead, down Saxon hill, a detour through a roughened alleyway, he always did take the longer route back.
The alleyway becomes a dusted path, trees cover the flanks, sounds of the town give way to the gentle rushing of the river, he had always thought of this place as his own.
The path twists ahead, the old wooden bridge still stands, home beckons on the other side, the daily routine always gave him peace of mind.
First step on the bridge, followed by a second, the bridge creaks disapprovingly, it doesn't faze him however for the bridge had always creaked at him.
Center of the bridge, leaning on the railing, the stream flows beneath, he hadn't always needed a rest but the years had taken a toll.
A commotion disrupts the harmony, raised voices replace the streams, a figure charges out of the trees he looks on confused, curious and concerned.
The figure a hooded blur, stampedes towards the bridge, a knife in hand and a bag in the other, he hears the hammering of his own heart, a breathless order to move and a distant demand to stop.
The figure takes their first steps on the bridge, the bridge loudly raises its objections, a second figure emerges from the trees hands clasped over a gun facing forward, he smells aged wood, the faint smell of booze and his own sweat.
The hooded figure makes it to the center, the second raises their weapon, a deafening shot rings out, he feels terrified, he feels cold, he feels nothing.
Feared a hostage situation she explained, he had a knife she reassured, never missed before she whispered, he lays in a body bag, the old bridge stained with red, a shopping bag lays in the riverbed.
She struggles to open the gate, she walks up the well-worn path, she hesitates treading on the granite step, the doorbell chimes ignorantly happy, a door opens to reveal her, her eyes filled with worry and dread.
She explains to her, she tells her what happened, she tells her he felt no pian, she watches her fall to the ground, she hears her screams, she turns and leaves with a heart full of regret and guilt.