The Truth Hurts

The Ad Hoc Fiction competition offers a weekly £1000 prize for just 150 words entered. If nothing else, this gives a person the extra incentive to write just about anything that comes to their mind, once they are provided with a single “prompt” word. This week, the word was “stamp”, and so I took it upon myself to enter a short piece of my writing. It’s not a story exactly, if only because I find it too difficult to create entire worlds and characters in 150 words, but it was something that I enjoyed doing, as all writing is. In fact, this is a much condensed version of my short story “The Victims”, available on the post previous to this one.

We danced all night. Our feet ached and our throats grew hoarse from the singing and the shouting, but we didn’t care. By the warmth of the fire and the feast surrounding us, we were able to truly relax in what seemed like a millenia. There was no more pressure; there was no more fear of the unknown. We were together, with food and warmth, and we were going to be okay.

Stamp.

The little boy danced on the ants’ nest that had congregated about the end of an old cigarette. He laughed to himself, watching them scatter as he continued to squash them underneath his weight. He didn’t care about ants. It wasn’t as if they had feelings, or even thoughts, after all. They were nothing, and now they were dead.

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