by K.J. Newman


Blood on the roses.

I look down at Craig lying next to the garden shears. Shears are open. Rusty. Still sharp. I had to do it. Had to stop him getting to the guests in the house. It’s dark enough out here that they probably couldn’t see all that. Maybe they heard the scream. Hope they didn’t.

Milk white eyes looking up at the greenhouse roof. Twisted up hands. Teeth ain’t right. It used to be Craig. It isn’t anymore. I’m not sure what it is, but I got it before it got me. And it was really trying.

About Russ Thompson

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