FiftyWordStory #6

She had the eyes of a snake; eerily yellow and with a vertical slit. Sometimes, if the sunlight hit from the proper angle, the color of her skin would turn sheer, almost translucent, like the cast off slough of a sister snake.
Please… why am I the guilty one here?

FiftyWordStory #5

In precisely three hours, at two in the morning on the 6th of January, he would no longer be the person that he had been his whole life – and maybe, the voice said in his ear, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, what with the amount of blood he had on his hands.

FiftyWordStory #4

The note in her hand didn’t glow rays of golden light, nor did it emit the scent of everything good in the universe. It had no beautiful calligraphy, no seal, and no instant redemption jumping up at you from the paper – which was fine, really, because when had a divorce ever been golden?