Simon tried to apply pressure to the crude bandage on his ribs without slowing down. Blood was seeping slowly through the cotton and every step brought a fresh knife of agony from the gaping wound.
Thrashing in the trees—they’re still coming. Grinding his molars, he kept moving as quickly as his feet could stumble. A break in the jagged wood ahead revealed a miniature white building, some sort of tiny chapel. A church meant hallowed ground.
Simon grinned and lurched at the chapel, shuffling his way to salvation.
The shadows closed in violently. The brass placard at the door read: “The First Reformed Church of Voodoo Pharmacology.” Deliverance denied and Papa Legba laughed.
114 words, inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt: