50 Word Story: The Debt Collector

Poet Rummager

jar-1493135Whistling, he enters my room. My heart races like the hooves of a doomed deer. Leaning close, he pricks me, then takes a hanky from his pocket; wiping my blood from his horn.

My soul oozes from the hole he made in my skin, and it pours into a jar.

Read a poem about bartering with the devil by clicking

↪️ ↪️ ↪️ ↪️ ↪️ ↪️ ↪️ HERE ↩️ ↩️ ↩️ ↩️ ↩️ ↩️ ↩️


(Photo by Roar Petersen of freeimages.com)

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