Tomorrow's Vig

HI!

JUST A SOMETIMES CYNICAL,
ASPIRING WRITER HERE CREATING
BITE-SIZED STORIES WITH FUN,
ORIGINAL ART FROM MY DUSTY
BROOKLYN STOOP.

MY DAY JOB KINDA BLOWS, SO YOUR
SUPPORT GETS ME A STEP CLOSER TO
DOING THIS FULL TIME. AND JUMP ON
MY EMAIL LIST FOR UPDATES, TOO.

MARTIN

Burns_

Origami of a man's head sinking with his hand outstretched and both dissolving in wind.

Conroy watched the horrified passengers’ faces as his own began melting. A fillet from his cheek fell free and he wrestled the slab back into place. The pain was excruciating. Delirious, he shoved a mesmerized teen aside to view the burns in the bus’s security mirror.

But the smudged silver surface showed a normal face. How? Conroy stumbled backwards, befuddled. Moments ago his eyelids had bubbled and flesh slunk from his skull.

Everyone gawked and cleared a path for him as he shuffled past looking at their aghast faces. He felt a mob coalescing, but couldn’t care less. Did they even exist?

The bus pulled over.

“Get out!” voices shouted.

Conroy pounded the exit button and fell through the doors onto the waiting pavement. He rechecked his arms and hands and saw nothing irregular. Relief rose. For the briefest moment he felt saveduntil a schoolbus stopped at the distant corner.

Behind it, angry clouds built to a massive sandstorm. The wind howled and started towards him.

Conroy begged, “No…please.”

But the storm offered no pity, swelled, and raced towards the bus with pyroclastic fury. Conroy’s face contorted. Tiny grains at bullet speeds tore at his arms rending flesh from bone.

A guttural scream accompanied the disintegration of his jeans and the lightning-fast shearing of his kneecaps from his knees. Hobbled, he prayed for mercy with lips shredded to ribbons dangling from his mouth.

Only a hundreds yards away stood his sanctuary,  yet the storm would not relent. A gust blew and 10,000 lashes whipped his back. Through the sheering sand he saw the children pass unscathed and reviled them with spiteful eyes.

No time for hatred now.

The door was ahead but his lungs were filling with a blood-soaked, sand-gravel slurry. Pawing the doorknob with his bone fingers, he no longer felt  sensations and welcomed the coming of the end.

From a black void he squeezed. The lock clicked and the door drew open.

His zombified corpse crawled inside and collapsed onto the cold clay floor. With its closing click, a rush of air filled his lungs. He opened his eyes and wept, fetal against the wall of his apartment.

Info_

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