Just a slip of fiction

A Fiction in 58.


There’s a box in the yard that the dogs whine at when they pass. Spindrift snow anchors it to brown, frozen grass. If you listen, and the wind’s just right, you can hear something scratching.
Nobody’s willing to touch the damn thing, kick it over, take a peek.
It appeared the same day old man Rivers died.


Sepiru Chris said...

Spooky is right. I wouldn't want to go near it; but, I would.

Great slip of a tale.