Bob reminisced while sipping two-fingers of watered-down house whiskey. Hell, who was he to complain? It was free, meant to loosen purse strings. The problem was the purse had been empty for years. In-side-out and shaken empty. Bob swallowed, pulling a face, the taste barely tolerable.
He stared at his nemesis, its screen a mess of mismatched numbers and fruit. Dirty bastard. He tipped his head back. Felt the whiskey burn—down to his ulcer. This was his night. He felt it in his bones. He shook hands with the devil, yet again. Cherries and Sevens set in motion.
Lisa H. Owens
A Finalist - Top 13
October 2022 - Globe Soup Micro-fiction Challenge - read here
Published in Encore: Poems Collected by Jimmy Broccoli
Bob's apartment looked like an explosion. The couch cushions were shredded, the twin mattress stripped and flipped. Every drawer dumped to form one haphazard pile in the center of dank wall-to-wall carpet.
This had Gianelli thugs written all over it. Bob’s apartment, smaller than his recently vacated prison cell, tossed. He opened the freezer and pulled out a Tony’s Pizza box and felt inside—beneath the shrink-wrapped pepperoni pie. They were still there, sealed in the baggie.
He didn’t give two shits about anything else in this wretched hellhole. The hidden negatives were his way out. His ticket to Easy Street.
By Lisa H. Owens
Just 100 Words
100 Word Stories - October 2022 Photo Prompt
Keep it simple, Stupid!
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