No Entry sign
The towering urban orchard rippling throughout the horizon, the glare of unnatural light was so powerful that time itself was lost, and a broken watch deep in Arthur's pocket would do nothing but make matters worse.
Hurriedly, he moved down the boulevard, the mud-stained back of his jacket beating heavily down on him. A heavy mist was forming from the docks, and Arthur knew that if he didn't get across town in the next half hour, it would be too thick to see and any chance of his freedom would be lost entirely. Clutching at the thickly wrapped parcel stowed by his breast, he could feel his heart beating, practically out of his chest, adrenaline powering his every motion, and fear powering his every thought. A thin bead of salty sweat began to make its way down his face, tainting his mouth and washing away that last whisky, which seemed so long ago.
Art, he thought, this is now or never.
And, throwing caution to the winds, he sped across the road, looking neither left nor right, until a bugle penetrated his skull, giving him a brief glimpse at the articulated lorry bearing down on him.
The week started without hiccup, Arthur Blake had received his order from the furniture company, and he has spent much of Monday morning organising his new suite around his modest apartment. It was June, and the threat of a hot, dry summer had been fulfilled and surpassed, so the idea of stretching out on humid, sticky leather cushions was the least attractive proposition that could be offered, so Art planned out a drive to the Park, buy some lunch and watch the time fly by on his favourite seat by the lake.
Trying a little third person writing, which is really my biggest weakness. Comments, criticism and input would be greatly appreciated, thanks.