The Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction contest has completed. One of the members of my writers’ group (Andrea’s blog here) won second place! I have been kicking myself for not posting on my social networks, asking people to vote. While previous weeks’ winners were determined by votes and judges, the final round was votes only. My excuse is I was too busy finishing draft 3 of my book (and then reveling in having finished it). When I decided to become a writer, I thought I would sit by myself in my room at my computer all day. I discovered that writing, like many professions, is buoyed by community. As a fellow writer friend said, “You can’t write in a vacuum.” I did, however, place as a finalist in the contest! Big thank you to those who “liked” the story below, based on this image:
Wool reached out, like fingernails scritch-scratching, irritating the back of her neck. The long jacket served her purpose tonight. She made her face pretty, so they would choose her from among the wandering hookers, wearing little in the cold.
She undid the man’s belt buckle in an alley. She opened her coat so he could see her, bare, before he went. Humans. The looks on their faces when they could not understand. Rancid sores, oozing, trailed over her. Buboes, ruptured. When closed, the coat covered the stink.
A little nibble. Small bite? She sank thirteen rows of tiny, pointed teeth into his earlobe while he screamed. Soon his whole ear was gone. He bled out.
No matter. He would serve her just as well dead.
The sickness she left in him would spread. Corpses, souls, waiting for Him, yearning for Him. She would deliver this world to Him.
Death would be proud.
Perhaps He would take her in His arms, tell her that she was His favorite. Hunger, whose kills were slow but many, and Despair – the suicide rate arced ever up – would no longer satisfy Him.
But when she returned home, Love was in His bed.
“Darling,” He said, running thin bone fingers along her cheek, “Without Love to couple the humans, there would be no souls to take.”
She wept. He said, “Balance, my dear Pestilence.” He returned to bed Love.
The look on her face was much like that of the man, when she opened her coat.