Fred Aiken Writing

A group of well-meaning, or perhaps well-dressed though ill-mannered, yet still well-intentioned, group of men approached an undisclosed building with yet-to-be-continued content of materials and people inside.

“So, what’s the plan?”

    “What plan?”

    “The plan. You know, what are we about to do?”

    “Oh yeah, I…have no idea.”

    “That’s not a plan.”

    “I never meant for it to be taken as such.”

    “So you’re saying we don’t have a plan?”

    “I’m saying there neither is nor isn’t a plan.”

    “What if something goes wrong?”

    “Then we’ll adjust.”

    “So there is a plan.”

    “Stop suggesting there’s a plan. We’ll go in, do our thing—”

    “What’s our thing?”

    “The thing we always do. I’m not your babysitter. If you don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing when those doors open, then well, there’s a lot more problems than whether or not we have a plan.”

    He went rouge. He felt embarrassed, but was too embarrassed to say so. Instead, he shut up, followed everyone else’s lead, and kept to the back.

    “What are you doing?”

    “Just going along.”

    “You’re supposed to lead the way.”

    “I feel like we can adjust that part of the plan.”

    “THERE IS NO PLAN!”

    The lights to the building jumped. A rustle surged through the walls and out into the cold night air. Something, or someone, stirred inside.

    The men bolted and wondered if this was what they intended all along.