As the day gave way to dusk, Redgrove Street allotments fell silent. With one eye on the upcoming prestigious Annual Produce Competition, the allotments had been the scene of furious activity.
The evening sounds of the city drifted across well-tended gardens – also the sound of a padlock being opened, a chain being withdrawn, and the squeaking of hinges. Bill Evans paused, listened, and then advanced on the allotment of Tom Peters, his great rival. He didn’t know what his chemist friend had put in the syringes he carried in his pocket, but he was assured it would do the job.
100 words, excluding title © Robert J Curtis February 2009
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