The Match
The Match Cyprus’ ringside seats enabled him to watch the match. Who’d leave in a coffin? The acrobat tumbled, his strength let him toss the mawkish gawker out on his fin. Through the hawker’s hand lapis lazuli beads slid, clicking, blocking Cyprus’ view. The stench of brimstone warned he’d better lie low ‘fore the serum wore off. Sweat bedew his forehead, his arm pits, deodorant’s failure, its obsolescence in process. Then his human skin molted and the chant began quickening the change in the press. A demon spilled forth ending the death match. Everyone left without coffin or scratch. ~ ~ ~ Like vignette-style sonnets? Want … Continue reading The Match
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