Alan P. Scott - Fictions

prick me

Thank you.

No, I don't usually appreciate being awakened by a shower of cold grits... but I was having that dream again. Yes, the one where you're a toreador in Barcelona.

As that baggy-pantsed picador pinks you with his tiny spear, the blood springs out on me.

Blood streaming from my nostrils, I fart one last shuddering gasp of methane.

The roses fall at your feet.

You take my quivering heart and feed it to your hero, the clown.

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