This is another flash fiction piece I did for “Post the Horror,” because I’m a lazy bastard who’s been neglecting the page lately. I was pretty proud of it, and thought I’d put it up for a week or so. Enjoy!
The old man scribbled so fiercely his pen tore through the paper in places. The scratched desk absorbed the slashes of ink.
Two weeks of no food had whittled him to dry flesh and creaking bones. But he was almost done.
There was the stink of decay in the room, wafting from the buzzing and crawling pile of feathers and green meat in the nearby birdcage.
The writer ground his teeth as the last words came, and when he was done, the last drop of ink in his leaking fountain pen was splashed into a period.
Finished, the old man’s body gave in, folding on itself like a faded robe. His ratty coat wafted to the ground, and where the writer had been seated, there was now only bone and ash.