PHOTO PROMPT © Jennifer Pendergast

The Wheel

Rolling along green in a golf cart with boot-licking lackeys, cracking crude jokes about wives, he can’t figure out which he disdains more, weak twitterings of lackeys or how uncomfortably tight his pants are after lunch. He lets out an onion-garlic belch, feels bile erupt, as sharp pain radiates up his left arm.

**

He’s lying on his back on cold concrete when he opens his eyes. Far above, postage-stamp kaleidoscopes whirl with grim faces.

What is this place? How did I get here?

The faces speak as one: GUILTY.

As the floor gives way, he smells death and burning brimstone…

[100 words]

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the host of Friday Fictioneers.