I was paid in old change. Ancient change. Gold drachmas engraved with ancient marks, no two alike.
Rubbing the coins between my fingers, the flakes of red stained my soft flesh. The stink of copper held fast as I washed away what I hoped was paint.
I can’t quit anymore.
Isaiah grew up in California and has been looking for any reason to become anything but a writer for as long as he can remember. Writing won’t pay the bills, but it sure is fun. He wishes he could name this story “Blood Money,” but his love of horror and puns probably shouldn’t mix.