The Singer Wore A Mask…

The Singer wore a mask. Turquoise feathers and midnight-blue fabric disguised her face. She unpacked an acoustic guitar and set up a microphone stand in a cleared-out section of the dark coffee shop.

The Writer strolled through the front door. He grinned like a hungry wolf as he sauntered up to the coffee bar.

 “The usual?” I asked.

“Why change now?”

“Why, indeed.”                                                                                                                     

-“Anonymous,” Hair Raising Tales of Horror


The Singer will be reading my story, “Anonymous” and singing when required. Come one, come all! If you dare!

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