He likes the red ones. He hoards them below the stairs, next to the grey tennis balls and the stale custard creams from Christmas. He likes Christmas. So many children he can bribe with his eyes. He likes the children. They used to ride him, before they got too big. He got a treat afterwards,Continue reading “The Red Ones”
Something a little different, written as an exercise, now its own piece of flash fiction. Arachnophobes need not apply.