Cream

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By Isobel Horsburgh

I never believed that it was the fairies who drank the bowl of cream that I left by the back door every night, although everyone said it was bad luck not to. The night that we ran out of gold-top it was too wet to run to the convenience store, so I made do with a dusty tin of evaporated milk from the back of the pantry. In the morning, I found a note in the empty milk bottle on the step. In writing too small to read without a magnifying glass, the note read:

“We have your cat.”

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