Blue eyes. Black eyes. They changed in the light. They changed with every shake of her wispy head. The ghosts told her to lure him in with pot roast and soft lips. A blue-collar man – he couldn’t believe his luck. A lick of her lips. A click of her tongue. His soul withered in his worn out shoes and seeped into the portrait on the wall. Another painting she could hang with pride.
“I am my own leftovers,” she whispered, a wicked smile on her white face.
I completely forgot to post yesterday. Between working both jobs, it just slipped my mind. Ha, whoops! I’ll be posting two at different points today to make up for it.
This particular post is a piece inspired by David Mitchell’s Slade House. A beautiful and underrated piece of fiction that has been my companion for the past week or so. David Mitchell’s Black Swan Green is one of my favourite novels, so I wanted to read something of his again. Slade House started as flash fiction pieces he posted on Twitter, and developed into a book. So, of course it got my attention.