Microfiction: I and the Bound Man

I approached the bound man. Bulbous and round, reeking of his own filth. The boastful braggart had nothing to say. A powerful man among his people, but here, he was nothing more significant than an insect. Impotent. Petulant.

I went to work ripping flesh from bone.

Strip by strip I pulled the bound man’s flesh from his body to a soundtrack of tormented screaming. He threatened, he pleaded, he bargained, but never accepted his fate. He was too grand, too great, to die – or so he said. I accepted his challenge; promised to take my time.

Published by

St Basil Z Fish

Curator of the strange and incredibly awkward. A rambling writer with the misguided notion he has something to say. Attracted to horror. Survivor of abuse. Professional Insomniac. PTSD and MDD misguided.

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