Friday the Firteenf

Spite

I am Spite. That is my name. Do not doubt me.

Enjoy your little walks up my sidewalk, down again, just outside the vire fence.

Try not to turn your head, but I am in your eye corner always.

Try not to fink about it. Am I a purr-version of the rubber chicken? Am I a Halloween tweat? Did I die, right here, in the vindow?

Perhaps calling, scwatching, at the glass as you enjoyed your little blind walks? Until my final breath, and then I shriveled here, year after year, in the sun, in the crackling cold, my eyes settling dust?

But, hehe, never mind me. The cozy tavern is right next door, so go, go, you’ve had a long day, enjoy your little shrimp basket and your drinks.

I’ll still be here, behind the darkening glass, when you come back out.

Or will I?

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