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
Keep it simple, Stupid!
Copyright © 2022, Lisa H. Owens and Lisahowens.com
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site's author/owner is strictly prohibited.
Website Built by I Am Mad Art and Autumn Year Round.