“It’s not,” Harold began, “that I don’t appreciate the offer. I’m flattered, really. It’s just the price seems awfully steep.” The demon shrugged, its massive shoulders knocking cobwebs down from the rafters. “Quality is worth paying for. You could get a knockoff job for pennies on the dollar, sure, cheap imitation stuff. Real damnation is hard to find, these days. It’s all mass-produced, some factory in China.” “How’s the warranty?” “Eternity or ten thousand miles, whichever comes last.” “Fully-loaded?” “Look, this is hand-tooled craftsmanship. You don’t get that kind of personal service just anywhere.” “I’ll think about it,” Harold said.
Faltering, failing. He could not see. He could not hear. There was no time left; his lungs were wrecked, capsized, sinking. He staggered on, nerveless fingers fondling the walls for a guide. He left a trail, four red lines on the metal bulkhead. Whatever they had done to him, it had been bad. He could not see how bad it was, but he could feel. That is why his hands were red. The hallway went on forever. He had to reach the end. The ship must be turned aside. To think otherwise… he could not think that. He fell forward...
I am beginning a forced-writing project, because I love super-short stories and interesting constraints. In the vein of Ommatidia, I will be writing a 100 word story every day, as something to do while I'm trying to get my REAL stories written. You can read along if you like. Audience participation is encouraged, but if you write a sequel or a response story, it must also be precisely 100 words; no more, no less. Happy blink-ficcing!