#FlashFictionFriday: Of the Finest Sort

Last week’s story, for some strange reason, didn’t have a poll linked to it. Until I figure out a different way of polling for future stories, I’m just going to keep putting up new stories each Friday and leaving options at the end. Please let me know which story you want to hear next week in the comments below. Thank you.

As for this week’s selection, this is a strange fic. I’m the one choosing it this time, so I hope it satisfies.

Of the Finest Sort

by Amy Keeley

Timothy tried to scream but it came out as a howl. This could not be happening. Not now. He had spent everything he had left from his last paycheck on this bottle of French-made, dry red wine with a bouquet that was supposed to taste like a sunrise and sing like the choirs of heaven itself. If he changed now, he was likely to drop the bottle.

His hands shook, whether from his current bout of sobriety or the change, he couldn’t tell. Bad enough he’d been so focused he hadn’t even noticed the full moon outside the shop’s window.

He set the bottle on the table, waiting until it was steady (mostly) before letting go and backing away fast enough to bump into a chair.
A shadow caught his eye, frozen in the moonlight. It had been moving until he bumped the chair.

He’d changed enough to catch the scent of a stranger, someone who wasn’t familiar to this area. Timothy lowered himself to the ground, his hands already becoming paws. He grit his teeth against the pain of transformation, watching the glass.

His wine. No one else’s. His primal brain registered that much. His.

The door jiggled and opened. The shadow outside became a man, slowly entering, his face covered with a knit hat with eyes. The shadow’s eyes widened. The shadow raised a gun.

In seconds, all that remained was the wind-red splotches on the wall.

When Timothy came to, the scent of blood and wine mixed. And yet, he was no longer in the shop room, but in a warm bedroom. On the nightstand next to him sat a business envelope. Still sore from his transformation and very confused, he took it and read it in the golden morning light, hoping it wasn’t a bill for the damages.

Or worse, blackmail.

Someone had written, in cursive, Can you start Monday?

Copyright 2015 by Amy Keeley


Next week, would you rather read about:

a) a witch trying to get back a container of dark chocolate almond milk?

b) a magician trying to buy a play-pen for his son at the local big box store?

c) a broke writer who makes a deal with a bunch of elves who promise to help him write a bestseller?

d) none of the above?

Please let me know in the comments.



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