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Well, here we are, winding down on the last days of December. Christmas is in the air, including ballistic airborne cookies, rainstorms of eggnog, and snowmen armies breaking down the entrances to gated communities.
That’s how the Christmas season is where I live, anyway. I am writing this in my secret underground bunker.
Which is no longer terribly secret any longer.
Loose lips sinks me six feet down underground thanks to snowmen mauling me and burning me to cinder with their FIERY COAL EYES.
Word of Inspiration: Glimmer
Word Count: 169
Genre: Surrealist Fiction
The glimmer of the city lights were gone; the police had started shutting them off at 10 o’clock sharp every night as part of the curfew.
The book-munchers cried foul play when the only thing they could still see in the night was the page-burners sitting by their lit fireplaces. The police told them they could cry all they wanted to, so long as it was before 10 o’clock and out of public earshot.
Devon Blackstone sat with his leg thumping against the floor, barely keeping himself from sweaty and nervous pacing, warping his mind in thought about what was to become of the man who took his place as the conference (though the lights were out, the book-munchers still came throwing flashlight beams in droves to hear “him” speak).
If all went according to plan, the newest assassin would be caught before the deadly tome left his or her hand but as a writer in the dystopia genre, Devon Blackstone knew that things rarely went according to plan.
Morty Gumbuss to all and to all a safe night from the snowman hordes and elfish toymakers who use human bones instead of wood (it’s cheaper).
Good luck (and happy holidays), you brave writer folk!