A withered old man hobble down the dark street, passing underneath the street lamps, the weak yellow light turning his loose skin grey. Pulling his muddy brown great coat closer to his skeletal frame, he hobbled closer to the peeling green front door of his. He reached a run down little B&B and brought out a great big rusty brown key which he slipped with difficulty into a slot just above his head height. He unlocked the door and looked around shiftily as though unsure of where he was in the world.
"It's quiet here, too quiet." He muttered to himself before he felt the knife slip in between his ribs and the world turned to darkness.
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A girl,barely older than 15 sat at a wooden bench her shoulders relaxed, her lips curled into a faint, loving smile as she slowly dragged a dark, thick cloth down the length of a thin sparkling sword.
Comments
Curse of 222 | October 30, 2009 - 19:33
i like the tone of this and am definitely interested in more. you might want to avoid using slotted and slot in the same sentence.
good little piece.
jason