Photo prompt response to Crimson’s Creative Challenge #67
Word count: 144.
It was a bad heat wave in August that pushed away through the blue sweat, twisted and rolled on the nooks and crannies of us all. An extended rain came down, gradually coming and going, moving in a stutter—and as I watched, an eerily spume came forth from the clouds; they blackened.
I led myself outside to the atrium of the smoke glissading before me. I gazed around over the flashes of blue and green chromes, wrapped serenely in a tinted blanket. I stirred uneasily when I laid my hand on the mill. A battered cold went through my chest.
The door slid open and immediately one figure seized me, “Where should we make the incision? It seems he’s escaped again.”
“Around his neck—it’ll creep in like a worm to his brain.”
“Why does he forget?”
“He needs to know what he did. Then he’ll be free.”
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