The dogs in the yard have been restless since five, catching the scent of something on the wind. Haunted by sorrow and regret, I’ve barely slept again; unable to escape this house, its land and routines, nor the memories that bind me to them. The hens tussle as I approach the coop door. They tumble out, darting between my legs, racing across the field to a scatter of yesterday’s vegetables. The dogs watch them passively, waiting for direction, itching to visit the top field where the sheep are grazing and the ‘accident’ happened. Those scare quotes still scare and scar.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
1 comment:
I like that introspection, Rob. And now I'm wondering what, exactly, happened with the 'accident.'
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