I hold him up at arm’s length, an offering to the gods, a tribute. He gurgles and squeals, wriggling in my arms. The sun kisses, then stings us. Beneath, his shadow wriggles along with him. I shudder, without a dark echo. That was the price for our freedom. Image credit: Photo by Riccardo Farinazzo on Unsplash
Hall of Mirrors, or a mansplainer’s just desserts
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 […]
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 SaveSave SaveSave SaveSave