not for sale. J R Manawa.
Exhilarated, accelerated, inebriated on the moment, she spun.
The colours, they twirled faster and faster, the dress twisted fuller, fuller.
Her hair a fan of auburn slicing through the air. The sword in her hand blunt
and useless as her life. She paused and fell to the floor as the coins tumbled
through the air toward her. He was pleased. They were all pleased. In her mind
the sword pressed to the whet-stone, getting sharper, ready to cut the sign chained
to her neck; ‘for sale’ it read. He stood and placed his drink down before
crossing the dance floor.
LOVE THIS!
ReplyDeleteThank you ^_^
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