A warm wetness trickles down my leg. The room is dark again. My breathing is ragged and I’m petrified. I can sense the clown near me but can’t hear anything over my desperate breaths.
Abruptly a light is switched on and after a moment of blindness I open my eyes. The clown is just like the one from my childhood nightmares – scary as hell. He’s wearing at least five jamberoos on his right arm and I recognise the pink Coachella band. It’s the same as mine. Does that have something to do with how I got here?
For 100 consecutive days I will write and post a short story (about 100 words) incorporating a randomly selected word from Afterliff: A new dictionary of things there should be words for.
Festival wristband worn as a souvenir.
One who complains before even being asked to do anything.