[part of my 100-word story series, where stories have to be exactly 100 words.]
He sits,
Unmoving,
The only sound a faint rasp of his
Shadow-laced breath.
To look at him, he might appear asleep,
Certainly docile, in no way threatening.
Except, to look at him is to invite your own destruction, for
No mortal has ever laid eyes upon his form and lived to tell the tale.
He is the Enemy of Hope, and more precise I dare not be,
For it is not only seeing him that draws his attention,
But mere awareness.
Even now,
He feels your eyes
Glide over these words;
His breathing
Quickens, and
Shadow
Erupts
Into
Searing Flame.
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