“Yes. It’s true. It was me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Clint reached into his pack. “Then how do you explain this?” He pulled out a small silver cube. It distorted his reflection like a funhouse mirror.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
Clint didn’t respond, turning the object over in his hands.
“Do you have any idea how much heat that will bring? You’re so shortsighted I’d be surprised if you could see your eyelids.”
“This is what you wanted,” Clint barked, returning the cube to his pack. “I’m sure I can find another buyer if you’re having a crisis of conscience.”
Arsh started to respond when a canister crashed through the window spewing thick yellow smoke. Arsh dove to the floor, but Clint tried to run, clutching the pack to his chest. In a matter of seconds, there were so many agents on them they looked like an anthill. Clint didn’t survive interrogation, while Arsh never saw the sun again, dying in a bunker thirteen years later.
Notes: In this exercise, my first sentence had to be a single word, and each sentence had to be one word longer than the sentence before it. Go ahead, reread it. I’ll wait here.
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