High in her tower, the witch wove her hands over the dark crystal globe. Smoke swirled and gathered. Her grey eyes glimmered as the image of her hungering desire took form.
A deluxe cheeseburger and cola.
The globe flashed green, and the image became an hourglass. Ten minutes, it showed.
Michael B. Keane is a London-based writer. He dabbles in poetry and short speculative fiction.
I was asleep, darkly dreaming. There was suddenly a scream from my little sister, whom I could hear tearing down the hallway, and next thing I knew, I was scurrying on all fours into the nearest corner, bristling with fear.
“Mom,” she sobbed, “there’s a huge rat in his room!”
Michael B. Keane is a London-based writer of dark fiction.
Waves lap the shoreline. Palm trees rustle, muffling the snores of the men round the spit-roast, whose spices linger in the salt air. Logs flicker. The last captive looks out from his cage and prays.
Then clouds part, and the full moon’s light glides over him. He grins, fangs lengthening.
Michael B. Keane is a London-based writer of dark fiction.