No long intro. Just straight to the fiction.
After all, it is a holiday weekend. Which reminds me, be safe, people. Tragedy belongs in our fiction. Best to avoid it in your celebratory fun this weekend.
Speaking of fiction, (and completely ignoring that I did, in fact, just include a brief intro…)
The prompt for this week’s story comes to us from The Prediction:
100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘grant’, ‘stodge’, and ‘volume’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.
“A dodgy idea, independence.”
Charles was well into an unrequested soliloquy.
“Granted, your countrymen worship the notion. Stodging yourselves on hotdogs and cheap beer, watching fireworks set to classical music. But I rather like dependence.”
He paused. The volume of his voice slipped so low it was barely audible. He licked her neck.
“Like now. I can kill, feed, or birth. I am dependent on you, and you are most certainly dependent on me. Is there not beauty in that?”
She closed her eyes tight.
“Come,” he said, still whispering. “Which shall it be? Life? Death? Or a gift?”