100 word stories. Post all you like, maybe we'll dip in and use yours?
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Guy de Maupassant's head ached less as the carriage slowed. Gloria twirled the tip of his mustache, laughing softly, interpreting the sneer as flirtation. Escorted into the apartment, she froze, back pressed against the closed door. Her eyes darted left to a crow flapping its black wings, right to the painted bones. "What manner of art is this?" she whispered. Refreshed from his earlier fatigue, he twisted his fingers tightly into her hair, pulled her to the chair and pressed her down. He knelt close, eye to eye to study the nature of her fear. This story would write itself.
"You're on earth. There's no cure for that." ~Samuel Beckett