Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

A Dime, A Bodyguard, A Gangster, and One Very Confused Girl

I had no idea so much trouble could be caused by one little dime.
Well, it wasn't really the dime. It was my acute inability to hold something without dropping it.
I fumbled with it for a second that felt like an eternity; it made its slow revolution through the air, landed with a clink, and bounded for the door. I chased it, hunched over, as if it were actually worth something, and ran head first into someone's stomach.
I straightened. It seemed a long way up there.
The midriff which I had collided with was attached to a man who weighed about 275 pounds in sheer muscle alone. He did not seem happy to see me. That was a two way street.
The man who followed seemed equally as threatening; although considerably thinner, his personality carrued the size he lacked. He bent down and picked up my shiny new dime with a certain air of superiority, gave me a wry smile, and deposited into the pocket of his gray suit, which he patted for luck. The big guy cracked his knuckles.
"Better watch where you're money's goin', doll," the thinner man said in an Italian accent. He was definitely in the mafia. I eyed his Rolex watch and the gold rings on his fingers with a new cautiousness.
I thought maybe I'd take the first train back to rural Illinois that I could catch.

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