**A narrator keeps giving his protagonist the perfect opportunities to make his life into a great story, but the protagonist keeps messing it up. The narrator is slowly getting desperate.   **

Author Note: I wrote this in less than an hour after hearing the prompt in an attempt to try writing more “extemporaneously”. It was an extremely grueling endeavor, but something I’ll try again.

I said, “She smiled. As she passed, Jake nervously walked up to the woman and blocked her path. She stopped. She was wearing a violet button up blouse. She shifted, revealing a slender figure accentuated by a black skirt.” I leaned in, metaphorically. He needs more. “He felt a sudden pressure at his side. He looked down. A small, beige purse with a lettered pattern was under his arm. Confused, he looked up at the woman and begin to speak, ‘Hello …’. He hesitated. The woman looked at him. He could see the increased agitation on her face. She looked under his shoulder and then at her waist. Her agitation turned to anger. She snatched the purse from under his arm and smacked him with it, before cursing and walking away.” I sat back, exasperated. I thought for sure that would work. “Jake stood for several seconds before running toward a nearby awning.”

“Meghan looked back before walking into her hotel. However, she didn’t stop for long. She walked into the hotel. Jake looked back at the street. A black sedan approached and stopped by the curb. A man in a black suit and sunglasses jumped out of the vehicle and snatched him. Before he could protest, he was ushered into the vehicle just before it sped away.” It felt as though a strong, overwhelming pleasure washed over my body. I feel it, the sweet turn of fate. I continue, excited for what might come next; “’Drop your pants’, the man said. ‘What?’ said Jake. ‘Your country needs you, sir. That woman is a danger to this country. Her father runs a conglomerate of pesticide manufacturers …’. The sounds of the man’s voice went in and out. Jake looked ahead as if standing at the precipice of a great black hole. Ahead of him, eternity, and behind him, a blabbering incoherent mess of words.”

I looked back toward the hotel. “The vehicle stopped. The man jumped out and dragged Jake along with him. They approached a window from the alleyway. The man quietly broke the glass and made his way inside. Jake looked around before opening the back door and striding in.” I could feel it, like a crescendo of grand pleasures, waiting to burst at the seams… “A cook gasped as Jake walked into the kitchen.” It all vanished in an instant. The bland feeling of the mundane world came rushing back to me as a realization hit me with roughly the same force as the pan that hit Jake in the head. “Jake fell backwards as he was struck from what he perceived as an unknown force. He heard a scurried set of noises before the man in black sunglasses quickly helped him up. They hurried down the hall, ignoring the mess of blood and kitchen instruments that served as scenery.”

“Meghan sat as the host pushed her chair behind her. The room was filled with an assortment of businessmen and politicians. Her own father sat to her left. ‘The time of strife between our two clans is at an end. I vow …’ she heard her father say placing her right elbow on the table and slouching on her hand. These engagements were a bore, she thought to herself.” I felt the crescendo rising in my chest again. A sure chance of relief approached. “A gentleman leaned in behind Meghan and began pouring wine into her glass. Carelessly, he spilled some on the table. Exasperated, she looked back at the man. She sat stunned. He wasn’t only familiar, but he was the man who had tried to steal her purse outside. He was dressed in a rather makefast waiter’s uniform. He stopped and looked at her. ‘I, uh…’, he said, before abruptly stopping. A shout rang out from the opposite side of the room.” I felt my heart sink into my chest. Again, an opportunity. Again thwarted. “All heads turned to the sound. A man pulled out a pistol and aimed it at another man before shouting about the FBI or something similar. Several men shouted and shots began ringing from every direction. Meghan quickly crouched under the table and dragged Jake below.” Almost simultaneously, I felt a shot of pure adrenalin as I waited with bated breath for the next development: “’Who are you? Why are you here? Who is that man! Answer me!’, she screamed in his face as he stood there helplessly.” I rose and waited for the final climax. “Jake simply opened his mouth and began to point at her. Suddenly, a grand noise echoed, as if wood cracked all around them. ‘Freeze! FBI! Don’t move!’, came from the distance. Meghan pushed Jake away and ran toward a rear door.

I slumped. This charade had gone on for quite some time. I yearned for the climax. The final resolution was what gave me hope and kept me sane. Yet, the story continued. What must I do to bring these two together? “The police approached and found Jake huddled on the floor. As most of the surviving mobsters were led away, the man in black sunglasses quickly explained to the uniformed officers that Jake was instrumental in preparing for the raid. As they left, Jake sauntered out of the building.” I don’t understand. These two were obviously supposed to be together. This is why stories are made in the first place. Jake couldn’t possibly understand my pain. I tell the story. I put the characters through drama. I bring the characters together and get the sweet intimate resolution that all readers yearn for. I need to die. I wasn’t meant to live for so many pages without the sweet, ever building sequence of events that leads to… it! The thing! That thing we all predict but have to wait so patiently for. It’s his fault. Jake. He’s the reason that I’ve had to live so long without meaning, purpose or direction. He’s a run-on sentence. A page without a number. One too many blank pages at the beginning and end of a book.

“Jake hailed a cab. As he rode home, he thought about how simpler life was out in the suburbs. Everyone speaks slower there, perhaps at the fifth-grade level. The morals are always self-evident and the themes aren’t hidden. A truck suddenly slammed into the cab. It spun in the air and tumbled several times before coming to an inverted halt. Shaken but otherwise in good condition, Jake crawled through the broken glass. He pulled the driver out but quickly realized that he was dead.” I no longer felt any pleasure. I only felt an ever-building rage. “Jake sat back and sighed. After several minutes, onlookers rushed to his side and tended to the body. Jake stood and began walking down the sidewalk. He was very close to the pier. Feeling an intense desire to see the ocean, he walked in that direction. After several minutes, he passed the marina. The sun had already set as he glanced toward the boats tied to the docks. Surprised, he saw the woman from the hotel frantically pulling at the docking ropes for one of the boats. She was still in her evening gown.”

I felt my previously solid rage flicker slightly. Maybe this will be it, maybe providence will deliver what has been denied to me. I began to speak: “’Hey’, Jake yelled out. The woman stopped and glanced his way. Jake ran up to her. She broke down in his hands and began to cry. ‘My father, he’s dead isn’t he! I don’t understand what’s going on! What am I going to do!’ As she continued sobbing, he brought up his finger and pointed intently at her face. She stopped and glanced at his finger. ‘What? What are you pointing at?’, she asked. ‘You have a piece of spinach stuck in your teeth. Right there.’, said Jake. Confident his message had been delivered, he gently lowered her to the dock and walked back toward the city.” I died.