A Terrible Crime

By Hugh Cartwright

The door is swinging loose.

As I step from sunshine into heavy shadow, I’m already sure; my heart sinks.

Muddy prints track across tiled floor to the kitchen, with its butcher’s knives. They can mean only one thing.

I tiptoe forwards, past bloody streaks on the tiles. It’s just as I feared.

There are few places he could be hidden.

I swing round. He’s right behind me.

Is that blood around his mouth?

He rushes at me.

“Bad dog!” I shout. “Go to your box!”

I curse, grab the open refrigerator door, and wonder what can replace my evening steak.

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Hugh’s not a real writer. Now retired, he has begun to write occasional stories, some colored with elements of sci-fi, others being just a little odd. It helps to take his mind off his impossible project: growing citrus trees in the Canadian climate.

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