Double-post today, to make up for yesterday's Travel Holiday.
“Eureka!” he cried, trailing papers behind him. He held a scorched alembic in one hand. His beard still smoked, his hair a matted birds-nest atop his head. He grasped my arm, his palms sweaty. “Listen! The secret! I’ve found the secret! You don’t have to turn anything into gold. It’s already gold! All of it! It’s all made of gold!”
I shook him off, hurried away. He shrieked away, down the street.
My skin itched where his dirty hands had touched. I scratched at the spot, felt it peel away in thin strips, saw the metallic sheen glinting from beneath…
DP FICTION #5: “Not a Bird” by H.E. Roulo
5 hours ago