The opening sentence for the January 15th Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: ” We were within a mile-and-a-half of the service roads when we found it.”
A wooden door in the face of the rock. On opening, it was, as I had feared, a portal into all things dastardly and dangerous.
A crooked man led us down a crooked path, to a crooked room.
The room was barely five feet in height and held no end of crooked objects and a multitude of crooked beings. We were urged to enter and being six foot in height we immediately joined the crooked folk who grinned at us through faces that betrayed the novelty of the occasion.
At the end of the room sat a man. He sat straight where around him all were bent and grovelling.
It was a pitiful sight, such crookedness and such grovelling.
The straight man looked at us said” “I see you have walked a crooked mile to see a straight man, what can I have you grovel for?
We stood speechless as his face disintegrated into a thousand shards of dastard.
There was a flurry of crooked movement as brooms and dustpans appeared and he was swept up.
“Drats,” said a voice behind us, “We thought he was the one. Which of you wants to go next?”
We gave a collective gulp!