Mr. Jones was closing up. The hen-houses locked for the night. Jones was to drunk to shut the pop-holes. A ring of light, dancing side to side, sat next to Jones. Lurching across the yard. Kicking his boots off. Pouring a glass of beer, from the barrel. Making his way to bed.
Down the street. At full pace. A girl was running. Running from a man. A man with a sharp knife. The street was deserted. No one there. No one anywhere. Taking a turn. Falling on some glass. Getting up and pulling it out of her aching leg. The chaser was close. Too close. Away she ran. Far far away. Trying to lose the man who carries what is most dreaded to her. Curving. Twisting. This was no use. Until he was gone. And suddenly. She was home free.
Standing on the street, looking in to her, aggressively torn down house. The police have been here, what a surprise, but what she was wondering to herself was, did they find it. She walks up the stone pathway, slowly making her way up the steps, placing her hand on the handle, turning, and pushing it open. It was gone.
Recent Comments