Word count: 100
I am old. I am weak.
Leathery wings rush past me; claws tangle my hair and pull my skirts. The smell of death and rot bring me to my knees. The demons came at night. Soon my family, friends, and neighbors were dead. But they left me, the old woman. So they could torment me more.
But I have a secret. I know how to bind them.
And I have.
And come morning, the sun will burn them to oblivion.
I am old. But I am not as weak as they think I am. And soon I will be alone.
Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Photo Credit: ©Dawn Q. Landau