Binding

Welcome to this weeks response to the Friday Picture Prompt on The Writer’s Mess. This week the picture was of a calligraphy pen, with a single dot of what looks like black ink on a white surface. I chose to interpret this as blood, under strange lighting, and made what could be a continuation of previous picture prompts, as someone signs a contract to escape a place, and go back home.


A single drop of blood fell from the tip of the pen, and it looked almost black in the strange light of this place. She thought back to how she got here, all those years ago, and shuddered at the thought of what she had done to stay alive.

The endless summer paradise was a trap, set to trick you into a hunger and thirst so great that you would do anything to quench it…and she had. She had done things that she could never speak of, and the sounds of the screams still echoed in her ears at night when she tried to slept.

This though, this was her last shot. This contract would be enough to get her home, well not home, for she knew too much time had passed for her to ever really go home again, but it would free her from this place.

The price was high, almost higher than she was willing to pay, but in this case almost was a word that meant yes, and so she took a deep breath, signed her name to the page , watching as it turned gold, the contract binding her unto it.

There were only two outcomes left for her now. One, she finished the contract and got to leave, and two, she didn’t finish the contract, and she died. Either way, she would soon be gone from this wretched place., forever.

Final Print

This week’s six-sentence story, based on the word TERM, was supposed to be a lightheaded one. That said, I have been reading The Stand, and so again, we have gone dark. This week we meet Joe, who violated the terms in conditions with dire consequences.


Joe was a healthy 32 year old man in the prime of his life, with a great job, a beautiful home, a wonderful wife, two amazing children, and less than a week to live.

The worst part was, that it could have gone on like this for years, him living the perfect life, but with an act of hubris he had ruined it all.

In the early days, the deal he had made weighed heavy on his mind, making him question his every decision, was this within the bounds of the agreement, would that violate a term or condition?

Eleven years later he had become sloppy, time dulling the terror he had felt in the circle of mushrooms as he was told what fate would befall him if he was ever to renege on the contract he himself had negotiated.

With distance, he started to doubt that it had happened at all, a vivid hallucination brought on by the drugs to treat an illness he never had, the last damning consequence of what the Doctor’s called a misdiagnoses of the highest order.

He had held onto that foolish belief until this very morning, when he looked out upon his garden of death, a coffee in had as he surveyed the leafless trees, wilted flowers, yellowed grass, and the only thing left alive was a circle of mushrooms, mocking his arrogance, letting him know that his hour had come round at last.


Part of the continuing saga, of why we don’t mess with the Fae.