By Deborah Walker
A version of this story first published in Postcard Shorts 2011
“Their laughter is rain pelting on distant leaves,” Granny told her.
The door to Granny’s cottage is open. When she runs inside, the vivid tang of copper blood assaults her. She sees the tangled outlines, covered by Granny’s quilt.
The woodcutter sits at the foot of the bed. “I did it for you, Deliah. It’s not murder; they weren’t human.”
Deliah walks slowly to the bed. She pulls back the blood stained coverlet. Lying amongst them is Granny.
Deliah smiles at the woodcutter, hearing the rain pelting on distant leaves, feeling a new and surprising thirst, soon to be quenched.
Find Deborah in the British Museum trawling the past for future inspiration or on her blog: Deborah Walker’s Bibliography
