Instagrams of Fiction: Miguel's Last Quarter

I've been struggling with a bit of a creative block lately.  It happens to the best of us, so in order to wrench myself out of it, I've been exploring a variety of creative exercises to help get my head back to where it needs to be.  From painting to writing to continuing to sketch out my dreams, each one has helped me regain my footing creatively. The following is no different.

I take an absurd amount of photos.  Some I post, most I don't, left to sit in my digital album as 1's and 0's, taking up space in my camera.  Each of those photos has their own particular story, the majority of them I can only guess.  ...so, in the effort to strengthen my right brain's process of thought, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

This entry will start off with an previously-posted Instagram photo I took a few weeks back.  Future posts will revolve around newly Instagram'd photography.

It was his last quarter.  He had one chance left and after that, well...he didn't want to think about it.  With nervous fingers, he dropped the coin into the deposit slot and slowly dialed the seven digits he was given earlier that morning, carefully making sure that he didn't accidentally phone up the wrong number.  As his index finger released off the final button, a heavily finger-printed "4," Miguel drew in his breath and placed the receiver against his ear.  A second later, the phone began to ring.

     "Are you alone?" asked the voice on the other end of the line.  It was distinctly muffled and laced with a grit that instantly set a pit in his stomach.  It was a voice he had never heard before, but was immediately frightened of.  
     "Si. ...Yes," Miguel answered, trying his hardest to disguise the fear in his voice. 
     "Turn around towards the newstands across the street. You will see a man with a red suitcase approaching the corner."
     "I can see him now," he replied, noticing a tall, gauntish man with chalk-white hair walking briskly down the sidewalk across the street.  His bright red-suitcase contrasted heavily against his dark, slim-fitting suit and black gloves. His lips moved silently as he walked, and even from here, Miguel could see the hollowness behind his eyes.  They were terrifying, as if made of the abyss itself.
     "Follow him.  Now," the voice ordered.
     "Si, Senór. ...I was told--"
     "Do as you're told and further instructions will find you. As will your reward." And with that, the connection was lost, preceded by a sharp click across the line.  The voice was gone.

     Miguel hung up the receiver and turned back to face the man in black he had been instructed to follow.  Taking a deep breath, he began to tail him from the Old Town intersection with the payphone on the corner. 

    Miguel was never seen again.