Pinstripes hover about the seven burning wicks of the one long candle. Mathisen dipped his finger in ink and drew a crozier with six minimalistic membranous wings. Elginbrod cut the table with his razor, and hair-thin worms bled from the cut.

“What do you desire?”

Their many minute voices threaded, pressed between every particle of air, to the gentleman ears.

“The one hundred forty-fifth sign,” the gentleman voices replied, and then they sketched the answer to the reply.

Hovering about the burning wicks, Elginbrod dipped his finger in ink and drew the fire bolt with four petals piercing a minimalistic cloud. Caithness cut the table with his razor, and slippery black lips simmered from the cut.

“What do you desire?”

Their many minute voices percolated, buoyed by every particle of air, to the gentleman ears.

“The one hundred forty-sixth sign.”

#DailyCreatedOOM #WrittenOOM 2023/11/13

(Gibbsen’s story will continue on week-fourth. 👍)