writer • editor • dog lover
“Well actually…”
Breathy whistles of calliope music swallowed his words.
“Come,” a silken voice commanded from the darkness. Swirling, slithering white-gloved hands led him forward. An impuissant marionette, he followed.
Behind him, a closing door’s click ushered a silence so complete his ears ached.
Released, he clawed at slippery surfaces searching for an exit, mocked by grotesque reflections of himself.
They exchange secrets; two strangers on the bus.
‘How much to cross?’ The Devil rubbed his bald head. He missed his golden locks.
Continue reading “Payback”John re-read the note, wondering if he’d overstepped.
Thanks for the hospitality.
I had a hard time sleeping, so I did some investigating. Lo and behold! I found a dried chickpea under my mattress.
I can’t believe you tested me!
Penelope
P.S. Calling yourself a real “Prince” is creepy.
Click the YeahWrite Microprose #356 badge to check out the other entries this month.
Night enters, rudely awakening fear while light peeks tentatively from other rooms. Fate reaches for the one match still housed within its book, lone survivor of smoking years. Phosphorus flowers into flame, snatching at the candle. Vanquished, darkness slinks away.
Crimson splatters line the walls, crime scene tape girds the door. Shattered glass, a single lily, and pristine white shagpile carpet grace the floors.
He lifts the needle, abruptly silencing the Shostakovitch piano concerto.
Tipping back his trilby, he scratches his head. Who still uses a record player?
Image credit: SouthernRebel/pixabay
