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Printed from https://writing.com/main/books/entry_id/443396-Angel
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Rated: 13+ · Book · Writing · #1097066
For all the rest of my Flash Fiction Entries
#443396 added July 26, 2006 at 7:21pm
Restrictions: None
Angel

Written for the: "Daily Flash Fiction ChallengeOpen in new Window.
Prompt: Show how your main character has been forced into doing something s/he does not wish to do.
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The ZigZag Café. A hot spot for all that is cool and hip in today’s society. I am a rich man with several hundred bucks to burn. A fresh face in a city, dizzying and spinning out of control. New York. A hot summer’s night and I feel like I’m King of the World. Got paid – need to let loose after working those god awful hours. I need the release.

She stands beneath the awning, a seductive figure in black, stiletto heels, ruby lips pursed, letting out smoke, cigarette dangling from blood-colored fingertips. She smiles, luring me in.

“Call me Angel,” she breathes, sending chills of delight down my spine. “Wanna have fun?”

No need for an answer, dragged into a living hell – organized pandemonium and chaos. Hipster night. A marijuana-smoke-choked, hot-sweaty room filled with junkies, anarchists, Stalinists, painters, cynics, visionaries, intellectuals and poets. Cheap drinks, martinis and espressos, if you please. Passed around as I find myself swimming in a sea of delirious oblivion.

White lines on a black table.

“Take it,” she urges. Heated eyes boring in mine, making me feel small. Insignificant. Suffocating. I want out.

“Now. Take it. Makes you feel good. See?”

Reasoning – I desperately try to summon it. But never mind. Her hands are persistent, turning me on, making me lose rational thought.

I don’t want to do this!

Helplessness. The pulsating beat of bongo drums. Someone begins a chant. It’s picked up and begins to echo incessantly in my head. Sweat. Cold sweat on my brow, leaning closer to partake in this necessary evil. Laughter. They mock me. Too weak. A newbie with no hope for redemption.

I inhale. And the world explodes.

And my Angel – dark as she is – leans closer to whisper sweet nothings of death.

Regret will come much later.


Word Count: 300




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