Friday, 27 June 2008


A blade slides down the trickle of skin left clung to his bicep. Lost in the crimson flow, not a sound is made that is audible over the adrenalized breathing, and the ensuing clatter of the knife on the floor.

He sits, bent over in ritual contrition. She stares at the corner for just a moment longer, then promptly swings open the door, and finds her way back home.


RuralJuror said...

vermicelli! no!

Dreaminglass said...

hmm. More vermin, less vermicelli. In fact, with the vermin gone, there's more vermicelli to go about.

Also, private profile. me no likey.

Zh. said...

i know who that is