Smoke

This entry is part 6 of 12 in the series Market of the Macabre

He licks his lips in anticipation, ignoring the searing pain of his torn tongue and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Carefully he reaches forward with both hands and takes hold of the box, gripping the top four corners between his thumbs and forefingers. He pauses, careful not to jostle the box and risk losing any of the precious contents inside.

Then, gently, delicately, he lifts the lid from the box, slowly flipping it over and setting it to the side, revealing the prize he has waited for so long.

Inside a grey cloud of smoke boils restlessly. The smoke is dense, heavier than the air around it. Very little of it escapes the box. Here and there white streamers rise to the surface then sink back into the depths. An occasional wisp rises into the air, and he reaches out, gently coiling the wisp around a finger.

He leans in, inhaling the wisp as it unwinds from his hand like a serpent — and he smiles a feverish, toothy grin. His eyes dilate into black holes of emptiness, and he begins to laugh.

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