Thursday, September 2, 2010
Micro fiction - Almost
63 word story. Written as part of the 24/7 Folded Word thingy I participated in.
The place he died was a dirty, rotten, hovel. He took this as a personal affront. That the final smell he would ever experience in his existence would be that rancid odour. The last texture he would touch, the mouldy floor his face was pressed against. It made him so angry, it almost gave him the energy and coordination needed to escape. Almost.