Brent Giles

The Man in the Doorway

The erstwhile god exhaled a plume of cheap smoke into the stale air of my tattered apartment. “Why did you do it?” She asked, leaning back on my one chair with one foot up on my ash-stained desk. It rested amongst crooked cigarette butts, scattered like so many withered husks of scorpions that had died in writhing agony.