"Who are you?" He asked, spitting blood onto my black stiletto heels. "Death?"
Looking down at the table of weapons next to me, my fingers grazing a medium sized blade - the tip winking in the dim lights. "Sometimes," I reply with a grin that could put my sanity into question "but not today." And with that I grab the hilt of the dagger I had been eyeing and plunge it into his thigh.
YOU ARE READING
Snippets, Prompts, and Other Fun Things
Historia CortaThis is just a collection of writing and snippets that have no story to them, basically the only writing I've done in years.
