The Host

Alan P. Scott - Fictions - 100-word stories


The fourayim wait in a circle around my bed, gradually edging nearer. Individually they are nothings; collectively, they are the embodiment of dread. Pale, their breathing shallow and much quicker than mine, they hide behind the phosphenes in my eyes until sometimes I swear they don't exist at all, then reveal themselves all at once and in a rush so I have no doubt. They force me to confront my kindnesses left undone, all those tiny sins that comprise my oh-so-ordinary life. I could have done so much better.

The fourayim wait in their circle around my bed, edging nearer.


©2009 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.

Last updated October 8, 2009

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