by Fiona M. Jones

“Damien.” It was the Enemy. “What—”

Damien dodged away, throwing chairs to slow the Enemy’s advance. He needed to level up, exchange the bread knife in his jacket for a machete. He headed for the Great Hall, ducked into the equipment cupboard, but the Enemy had seen him—had him cornered now.

“Damien. Will you please—”

Damien raised his weapon and struck, a long slicing blow that felled the Enemy. Cheers of admiration went up—or were those screams of fear? Damien suddenly felt tired. Discouraged. Life is rubbish. The blood spatter is much better in the game.

Fiona M. Jones

Fiona M. Jones writes very short things—dark-themed fiction, nature-themed nonfiction, and sometimes poetry. Her published work may be sampled from her website:

Website: fionamjones.wordpress.com