Writing Contest - Issue 13

The darkness reeked of eldritch gravitas and incense. Thirteen figures, in black hooded robes, stood in a circle, barely visible in the candlelight’s flicker. No faces were visible in the deep shadow of the hoods, each pulled far forward. Anonymity was important when plotting to kill a King.

“He brought the world to the brink of nuclear annihilation. He doesn’t follow orders like the others,” whispered one of the hoods.

“And you propose?” Another shadow queried.

“Remove him from the game board.” The whisper, smooth and hard as a katana. “Arrangements have been made.”

“Oh?”

“November 22nd, Dallas.”

It was 1963.

Mid-life crisis beckoning, approaching forty.

Emotionally bankrupt and flat broke, I tried to sell my soul.

The bank didn’t see a viable investment—“But do take out a loan at an unaffordable rate of interest?” they begged.

Detroit and Motown didn’t want it—“You’ve not enough of it,” they grooved.

Social Media mocked the idea—“What a loser!” they trolled.

#Soulless—they tweeted.

Politicians showed interest—“Would take it (in return for a vote),” they argued. And lied.

Religion vied for it—“Not radical, needy or committed enough,” they preached.

Death just laughed. “It’s mine in the future anyway,” he assured.

Just hold a bit of ire inside.

A dash of salt makes all the difference.

Allow it to pulse within, but not overwhelm.

After all, life always offers something to be enraged about.

Why not use it to one’s advantage?

Table salt preserves food and makes it all the more palatable.

Spite can work the same way.

Retain some for that jolt of determined drive.

Likewise, perspective can be gained from its presence.

Even among rage, love remains.

Just as salt refines flavor, hatred allows kindness to shine.

Together, they season the world and make existence a dish to be appreciated.

Twnyara slips off the red-soled, high-heeled fashionable nay faddish steppers (the required kit for her executive assistant position in the uptown office).

She puts each shoe in a felt bag that she places in her huge carrying pouch, from whence she removes her cross trainers.

Twnyara dons the comfortable walking apparel, but still…

She catches an uptown bus.

The only vacant seat is next to the window side. A squeeze beside the obese woman on the aisle side, but still…

She transfers.

On the subway a handsome man flashes an inviting smile, and then gallantly allows Twnyara his seat, but still…

Moving slowly up track. Click. Click. Click. Old wooden coaster swayed as it rose in azure sky. Up ahead, ocean flowing like a cocktail dress on a beautiful woman. Click. She took my photo with her phone. Click Click. My watch swallowed time like cotton candy disappearing before it ever got anywhere. Arrival top. Could see so far into the horizon that we thought we could see the future. She raised her hands surrendering to her destiny. I held safety bar. Started down. Everyone screamed. Time stopped. It made a signature in the air as of an angel signing an autograph.