This week hasn’t gone as planned. I had ever intention of hitting the ground running, powering into a fresh, new year with gusto. My immune system had other ideas, and I’ve spent the last several days sick as a dog. (Boy, that’s a weird phrase when you think about it.)
I hate being sick. You’d think spending a few days laying around would be relaxing, but not so much when your throat feels like you’ve been gargling acid and you’re producing enough mucus to lubricate a small car.
Yeah, it’s gross. I’ve been living it. Welcome to my hell.
The original plan was to get back to the series I’ve been slowly developing and begin to bring it to a close. The thing is, I just don’t feel like it. Instead, I’m going with a short, 100-word piece again this week.
Once again, the prompt comes to us from The Prediction:
100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘bark’, ‘chess’, and ‘dry’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.
“How’s the wine?” she asks.
“Dry.” Like the once-abundant well that was her potential. Before she got greedy.
She thinks this is chess. She’s positioning her rook. Lining up her bishop. She has no idea I have a bazooka aimed at the board.
“What did I tell you, Cecilia? Before I taught you a single spell, what did I say?”
Realization finds her, but she remains silent.
“To be humble!” I bark. Deep breaths, and then, in a much softer voice, “A lesson you will soon learn.”
Her pupils shrink.
The wine tastes bitter now.