This is a quickie I wrote for my friend, James Powell (a fantastic artist), a short while back. Enjoy.
The evening had gone well. Dinner, music, some dancing. Though I’m not much of a dancer, she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she’d seemed to pick up on it almost instinctively and had taken over with no protest on my part.
Now she led me again, down the darkened hallway to her apartment. She fixed us drinks while I admired her bookshelves. They were filled with fine crafted, leather bound editions of all the best writers, artists, and poets of the last few centuries. But I was puzzled, for I could not identify any publication marks.
I downed my drink. “Yes, they are exquisite, aren’t they? Hand crafted over the years by me.” I slumped down to the floor, dizzy, my mind reeling. She loomed over me, skinning knife in hand. “I’ve long admired your work. Now it’s time for you to take your proper place in my collection. But don’t worry, as you’ve seen, you’ll be in very good company.”