Wagered Flesh

“Last hand, Jarek. Double or nothing.”

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They say you don’t play Bloodsticks unless you’re desperate or stupid.

Tonight, I was both.

I should’ve walked away hours ago.

I should’ve known better when the dealer—an old, one-eyed gnome named Tovin—grinned at me like a spider watching a fly tangle itself deeper in the web.

But when the night started, I was winning. I can still hear the crisp sound of the sticks snapping against the table, the weight of the heavy iron coins stacking in front of me. For the first time in months, I wasn’t drowning in debt.

Then the tide turned.

One bad call. One miscalculation. And then another.

And another.

Before I knew it, the pile of winnings was gone, my personal stash along with it. But Tovin wasn’t ready to let me leave. No, the Black Market has a way of keeping people who owe too much.

“You’ve got one more shot,” the gnome rasped, tapping the table with a stubby, scarred finger. “Last hand, Jarek. Double or nothing.”

I swallowed hard.

There was no walking away—not when the shadows in the corners of the room shifted like living things, watching me, waiting. The House didn’t take kindly to runners, and I’d seen what happened to men who tried to bolt mid-game. The bruised and broken bodies that got dragged out, sometimes missing fingers, sometimes worse.

No, the only way out was through.

I rolled the Bloodsticks in my palm. The wood was smooth, polished from years of handling, each stick marked with a tiny rune that whispered promises—or curses—depending on how they landed. My fingers trembled. I had nothing left to bet except myself.

My life.

A final gamble. Winner takes all.

I hesitated.

My gut screamed at me to stop, to find another way out. But what other options did I have? Run? Fight? I was outnumbered and outmatched. And deep down, a small part of me—some reckless, hopeless part—whispered that maybe, just maybe, I could win this last throw.

With a deep breath, I tossed the sticks.

They clattered against the table, bouncing, spinning, deciding my fate.

Silence fell.

Even the usual murmurs and clinks of the Black Market around us seemed to hold their breath.

One. Two. Three. Four.

The final stick teetered, rolling slowly before coming to a stop.

Tovin frowned. “Well now… seems luck’s finally made her choice.”

I couldn’t believe it.

It was the worst roll possible.

The gnome snapped his fingers. From the shadows, two massive figures emerged, their faces hidden behind steel masks.

The House’s collectors.

“Such a shame,” Tovin sighed, scooping up the sticks. “But don’t worry, Jarek. We’ll find a good use for you.”

The collectors seized me, dragging me from the table, past the crowds of gamblers who deliberately kept their eyes averted.

No one interfered.

No one ever did.

How these scum kept their acts hidden from the Triad and especially Iyl-Tandril never made sense.

I didn’t know exactly what fate awaited me, but I’d heard whispers. Stories told in hushed tones when the drinks flowed too freely.

Some were sold into labor camps deep in the Undercity, breaking stone with bare hands until nothing remained of them but dust. Others were given to the alchemists, their bodies experimented on until pain was their only language. Those not so fortunate were given to whims of Dodie McGlynn.

And the worst?

They became the playthings of the Black Market’s elite—puppets whose strings were pulled until there was nothing left to control.

As they dragged me toward the gate to the back tunnels, toward whatever fate awaited those who lost more than they could pay, I had only one thought:

I should’ve never played Bloodsticks.

And this night wasn’t over yet.

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Authors Note:

Well THAT was exciting.

Not so much for Jarek, but I did enjoy filling in for Jaime as he world furiously on The Fiction HUB. He told me I could take a crack at Scoots 'Flash Fiction Friday' event for February 28th 2025. I haven’t officially met Scoot yet, but Jaime raves about the guy…so he has to be a top-notch human.

Scoot gave four prompts, and I read we could use one of them, up to all of them and in any combination (hope I got that right, Scoot?).

• Write about a long day

• light fell like pinpricks

• “You don’t understand”

• The type of character who is lying about something.

I met Jarek a while back. Good man. Down on his luck, but he had addictions he refused to address.

Sad.

Let me know what you thought. Never written a flash fiction piece before…

How’d I do?