Short fiction from Emma Brooks
“The blessings of Aradia and Cernunnos be upon this creature of salt.”
There’s an itch on my arse. I try to wriggle, rub it without being obvious, but my hands are bound too tightly to my chest.
The smell of sandalwood and cinnamon warms the room, and the radiators click and creak. The heat only makes the itch worse.
What if it’s a spot? I should have checked.
I should have skipped that pasta yesterday too. I must have the biggest belly here.
Under the blindfold, I can see the pebbles they used to lay out the circle, and I prod one of them with my big toe.
Should I have painted my nails? Would that have looked a bit shallow?
Dave finishes his speech, and the room is silent, except for the scuffle of naked feet on the carpet, and the occasional small cough.
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