The voices whispered in my ear. They told me what to do. They told me he would leave her alone. Never hit her, never hurt her, never make her bleed, never break another of her bones. If I drove the ice pick through each of his eyes, and then deep into his chest, at least four or five times.
Here’s my weekly attempt at Lillie McFerrin‘s flash fiction challenge, Five Sentence Fiction. This week, the prompt is Whisper.
Simon’s Playhouse sat next to the river, its windows boarded, its doors chained shut. The flowerbeds along its sidewalks only grew weeds. More weeds grew through the cracks in the sidewalk, and in the parking lot.
We’d all been sad when Simon’s closed. But Simon got what he deserved. Sanctimonious old fart, sitting in his office day after day, pulling out illegal Cuban cigars from the humidor on his desk. We’d really wanted to hold the show at Simon’s. We could have saved it, brought new life to it.
The pompous old bastard wouldn’t pay us what we needed to break even, and pay our cast. We’d opened at Theo’s. We’ve been a hit. Our third year just started last month. Simon’s closed two weeks later. In time, like Simon himself, Simon’s Playhouse will be nothing but a memory.