Lupus

There’s no better way to start than by attempting a Flash Fiction challenge issued by Chuck Wendig. 100 words limit.

Lupus licks his lips. Just one more, goddammit. He wraps his left hand around the solid lever, places his right hand, palm upwards, fingers spread, on the metallic tray and pulls with a mighty effort. This is it, this is it, yes, this is it. He shivers, a tingle of excitement, that familiar feeling.

Lupus slams the lever, receives resistance and love. Triple clicks reward his efforts. Silence. Clank, clank, boop. He feels something drop onto his palm, heavy weight, smooth surface, circular.

“Lupus,  you did well. Give it to me.” she whispers.

He slips it inside his pocket.

“No.”

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