by Kimberly Rei
Wind ruffled across hay bales, carrying the earthy scent through open farmhouse windows. No snores drifted back, no sounds of sleeping residents. When the police inevitably arrived, they wouldn’t find bodies. They would find bloody pieces. Not enough to form a full human, though the house once held a family of five.
They wouldn’t find footprints, only odd gouges in the polished wooden floors, streaked with crimson.
They wouldn’t find fingerprints, nor fingers with prints.
The house itself smelled like the barn, ripe with musk and rage.
Freedom came on cloven hooves that night. And pigs eat every tasty bone.
Kim has taught writing workshops and edited novels for Authors You May Recognize. She has three published short stories and has become a greedy beast, hungry for more. She currently lives in Tampa Bay, Florida with her beautiful, supportive wife and an abundance of gorgeous beaches to explore.