He lived in the shadows watching those who live. Once a week, he would get a note in the mail telling him who his next soul was. And every week for the last hundred years it was always some disgusting vagabond, drunk and crazy. He was sick of their pickled, nasty souls. He wanted something better. He deserved something better.
He got his directive for the week and tossed it in the garbage of his shitty one room apartment in north east Philly. Jules Austere, the best-selling author was staying only a short distance away at the Hilton. Now that is a life, he could get himself into. Writing stories, making a shit ton of money selling the movie rights.
It was easy for him to slip past the front desk clerk and the lone security guard. People don’t want to see if they can’t explain it. Jules Austere was staying in the penthouse which was no big surprise there.
Taking the card key he made while the perky desk clerk flirted with the middle aged security guard, Seamus put his ear to the door and heard the tv on as well as the bathroom fan. He slipped the key in, hoping the dead bolt wasn’t latched. It wasn’t.
Seamus crept into the hotel room. Crumpled clothes lay on the floor. Room service trays and McDonald’s bags were scattered over the table. The room stank like stale weed and vomit.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar and Austere was sitting on the shitter looking at his phone. Seamus glided into the corner that faced the tv and beside the king-sized bed. The toilet flushed ; Seamus noticed the runes burnt into his back. The glyphs of various shapes were to ward off supernatural attacks.
Fuck and double fuck.
Jules Austere saw Seamus in the corner.
“What bloody hell?” He yelled and came at Seamus with a dagger. Seamus grabbed his pudgy arms before the writer could sink the blade into his shimmery flesh.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Jules yelled.
“They're real? bloody hell. Hey so what kind of souls do you take?”
Seamus stopped fighting and got off of him. He lit a cigarette, “Mostly drunks and druggies.”
“Right, well I am not any of those. So why me?”.
“Your stories, I want your stories- the unwritten ones.”
“Right, listen. Give me some of those drunk souls, I want that feeling again. I can’t because of my liver. And I will give you dozens of stories and novels, I never published.”
“Just like that?”
“I would give anything for a bloody drink and be drunk. And I mean anything. I will even put in a good word for you with my publisher.”
Seamus looked at the fat writer who wanted to be drunk but couldn’t. It was his life after all so he should be able to do what he wanted. He probably had to stay alive for as long as possible otherwise how would his publishers and producers make money?
“Are they any good?” Seamus asked.
“Yeah they are good, I wrote them." The writer plodded off to the computer and brought up a file. Seamus skimmed it.
Seamus presented his arm to the writer, “Bite and drink, but first one of those novels.”
The writer plopped the whole folder on flash drive and sunk his teeth into Seamus’ arm.
And here you ago, another flash fiction story. This one is a around 540 words. I planned on writing a blog post, but I had nothing to say. I do have some ideas brewing though. What do you think I should write about? Let me know.
Till next time...