At a snap, consciousness nibbles away from my soul like a rat at a pie. A flurry of events whistle across the hollows of memory. Here come the songs, in basses and choruses; the colours, in greys and duotones and the people in masks and stilettos, as I breathe my last.
This is an experiment with a fifty-word fiction. How do you think I fared? Is the story compact enough? I will like to know what you think.
This is a contribution to the household of fictioneers. A brotherhood that I’ve missed so much.