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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