Piano riffs ran through Lane’s brain to cover thoughts of Lola. That skull in the picture didn’t have the flecks of yellow in Lola’s brown eyes, but Lane felt connected to its shape and knew it was her. The third movement of Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto No. 3 in E-flat flew Lane outside of his Amtrak berth soaring over unfamiliar landscapes. An eagle touched him with the tip of his black feathered wing. Rapid-fire knocking landed Lane abruptly. The detective was back. He met Lane’s eye through the window and entered his space. “I hate to interrupt your reverie,” he put quotes in the air around the word reverie and rolled his eyes as he said it, “but I believe this keyboard belongs to you?” Lane hated when anyone posed questions as answers, and he hated this cop for questioning him at all with his dumbass way of saying one thing while implying another. Lane didn’t kill Lola but he knew the person who did, and he knew that person already paid for his crime.
The prompt over at One Stop Poetry today asked that we write a story opener. The set-up is there, go take a look, see how others began this murderous train journey.