FiftyWordStory #8

There is a hole in the wall. I don’t always see it, blinded by the sunlight from the window, but when you move, the light moving with you, I see that the hole is there – behind you, hidden, in the wall. For what it’s worth; do you see it, too?

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.