Flash Fiction: The Tomb and the Broom

I entered the tomb.

In the room of the tomb was a broom.

The broom was sweeping the floor.

The floor was poor.

The flaw of the floor was its scores of doors.

They were trap doors, of course.

Not traps for rats or cats, but traps hidden under mats.

I lifted a trap and found stairs.

Stairs to where, I did not care.

Descending the stairs, I entered a lair.

I said a silent prayer.

For in the lair was the mayor.

The hair of the mayor was fair, his stare austere.

What he said as he turned his head filled me with dread.

He said, ‘Hi, I’m Fred. And I’m dead.’

Dead Fred led me to a shed, that he said contained a bed.

In the bed was Ted.

So he said.

But Ted had fled the bed and in his stead was Theodore.

It was Theodore under the door in the floor, in Fred’s bed where Ted was led, in the lair of the mayor, oh so austere.

It was not what I thought I would find.

Not that I ought to mind.

For I entered the tomb and looked through the gloom for a magical broom that could sweep a whole room.