Not for sale.

It’s been some time. Again. Eventually this prisoner in chains will rise from captivity. Through the key hole a small offering escapes; this story of one hundred words, a dabble with drabble…

not for sale. J R Manawa.

Exhilarated, accelerated, inebriated on the moment, she spun. The colours, they twirled faster and faster, the dress twisted fuller, fuller. Her hair a fan of auburn slicing through the air. The sword in her hand blunt and useless as her life. She paused and fell to the floor as the coins tumbled through the air toward her. He was pleased. They were all pleased. In her mind the sword pressed to the whet-stone, getting sharper, ready to cut the sign chained to her neck; ‘for sale’ it read. He stood and placed his drink down before crossing the dance floor. 


Written by JR Manawa

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