Micro-Fiction: Mayfly

It was four o’clock and, as usual, George was dead.  As he stared at the water-stained ceiling through unfocused eyes, moved only by the stutter of his heart winding down, he reflected on the tedium of this.  Another day, another corpse — and summer nearly here, leaving too much light lingering beyond his cheap hotel room door.

Too much time he’d have to lay here, as the last neurons asphyxiated and the muscles grew stiff, until the soft touch of darkness freed him to seek a new host.

We could at least have died by the TV, he thought, then sighed internally and with the last spasm left in this stewardess body, closed his eyes.  It would take ages to get to Alaska like this, but at least he could still dream.

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About H. Anthe Davis

Worldbuilder. Self-published writer.
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