Bridge To Nowhere

by William Kitcher

About the Author: Bill’s stories, plays, and comedy sketches have been published, produced, and/or broadcast in Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Canada, Czechia, England, Germany, Guernsey, Holland, India, Ireland, Nigeria, Singapore, South Africa, the U.S., and Wales. His stories have appeared in Fiery Scribe Review, Ariel Chart, New Contrast, Mystery Tribune, Guilty, Shotgun Honey, Rock And A Hard Place, Horror Sleaze Trash, the Crimeucopia "Crank It Up!" anthology, Granfalloon, Defenestration.

Excerpt

Greenizan stood on the bridge, peering down into the river. It was raining heavily, and he took his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt, but it was useless because he was already drenched. He put his glasses back on and looked down again.

He heard a car motor being gunned and glanced to his left. There was Murphy’s car disappearing at the other end of the bridge into the veil of rain. What the hell is he doing, he thought.

He turned to his right. Out of the dark drizzle came a cop in full rain gear, looking like a sodden ghost making its usual haunt. Fantastic, thought Greenizan.

The cop stopped beside him. “What are you doing?”

There was no way Greenizan could tell him what he was actually doing there, but no reasonable alternative came to mind. After a while, he said, “Nuthin’.”

“It’s not worth it, buddy,” said the cop. “There’s a lot to live for.”

Man, was he wrong about that, thought Greenizan, but he also had the wrong idea about what Greenizan was even doing there. “Oh, I’m not gonna off myself, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“So what are you doing here?”

He’s already asked that, thought Greenizan. Is this some cop concept of repeating himself, hoping for a different answer? In a different context, that’s the definition of insanity. “I’m not doing anything, officer. Just enjoying the night.”

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