David J.Wing


Crows called from the trees above as she stepped amongst the moss and the broken branches. Her feet, never the most stealthy, gave out a warning cry. As she approached the clearing the thatched cottage stood solitary, aching for companionship. She stopped at the gnarled gate and watched the torn lace curtains flicker.

A gust?

The path stretched out in front, pulling away and falling forward in a visual taunt. The air stiffened and the sky closed fast.

Her arthritic hand reached forth to tap the oaken door.

A creak,

a sigh,

a crack of light,

an axe to fright.

About Russ Thompson

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