Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27027028-20151005170128

I own a street corner bookshop. I have new books, old books, even a few i have made myself. My books sell rather well and I’ve been meaning to write a new one. The rough leathery cover. The nice red ink. That glorious smell. I’d do anything for a good book.

Once a young woman asked me about them. She was pretty. Beautiful even. soft silky strands of hair, skin so soft and radiant. I told her that i would tell her about them over lunch. she agreed and i couldn’t help the stupid grin that spread across my face.

We met at my shop at around 3:00 pm. we had lunch. Even made tea. i started to laugh as i saw the drugs take effect. her eyes glazed over and she crumpled to the table at her seat. I worked her quickly into the basement.

as she awoke she screamed as loud as her lungs could. Tears streamed down her face taking her mascara with it. I emerged from the shadows and said,”just hush honey, it’ll all be over soon.” i placed my finger on her small trembling lips and told her to hush. I raised the cleaver in my right hand. I gazed into her pleading teary eyes as I buried the cleaver in her nice thin neck.

I skinned her, and drained her blood. i dried her flesh. i went upstairs to get paper. I wrote out my story in her blood. I like it when people ask me about my books. They like me would just do anything for a good book.

And I’ve been meaning to write a new one. . .  