The few people passing this way, since the new highway was built, hope to find someone… or lose them.
Suspecting the latter, Joe let the blonde stay. She was no trouble.
One morning he watched her on the porch, scenting the air like a wolf; later that day she was gone.
The next arrival, practically glowing with malevolence, spotted the wildflowers in a jam-jar on the windowsill.
He grabbed Joe by the throat.
“She went that-a-way,” Joe rasped, pointing.
The man turned left at the crossroads; later, still hurting, Joe limped right.
He’d found someone.
He wasn’t about to lose her.
November has never been my favourite month, and I’m amazed to find we’re already into it. I loathe the darker evenings. Even the news that two of my older short stories are to be published in anthologies has failed to raise my spirits much, or to prompt me back into submitting work once again. Head down, I think, and just plough on into December. However, my little ray of sunshine, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields still manages to stay ahead of the Friday Fictioneers game, despite all that she has to do. Inspirational!