One January Morning, Part 12

“Do you mock me?” said Morgan, fuming. “I was sent here by the Brethren Court, sir, and an affront against me is an attack upon the whole of that venerable institution!”

The cop held himself together long enough to mumble, “The Brethren Court?” but then collapsed into hysterics again. He waved at the darkened window and in came the men in the white coats. As Morgan struggled against the straightjacket they fit her into, she focused on the manufacturer’s label on their attire. It was a French word, one she did not know and could barely pronounce.

Cliché read the tag. “Cliché?” she said aloud.

She fought them tooth and nail on the way out, nail and tooth, looking for a timepiece the whole way. She did not find one, but she sensed it. She knew in her heart what I am about to tell you: time was running out. It was 10:59 a.m. There was little more than an hour remaining in this January morning, little more than an hour to do what must be done.

To be continued…

This month, January 2015, I’m telling a story one paragraph per day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.