by Robert MacAnthony
This story is original to PSEUDOPOD.
Robert MacAnthony is a writer and editor of speculative fiction. He lives in California and participates in the Mythic Scribes online writing community.
Your reader this week is a fellow named Alasdair Stuart. Check out what he’s up to (currently NanoJourno, mostly) at his blog, surprisingly named Alasdair’s Stuart’s Blog.
“OL’ DAGON DARK
He’s never heard of such a thing. Still, the aroma is enticing. He checks the box and the shelf, but there is no price.
The shopkeeper is still in back, and all is silent within the store. Iverson contemplates the tobacco, then pulls a small plastic bag from behind a basket of pipes atop the shelves. He quickly loads what he deems to be two ounces of the blend into the bag, and makes his way out of the humidor. He leaves an adequate amount of money on the counter - more than adequate really, quite generous for a place like this - and pushes back out into the rain.
He doesn’t see the shopkeeper sitting just behind the curtain, doesn’t see the man slide into a crouch, back against the wall, and bury his face in his hands.”