Saturday, December 22, 2012
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Last
Stop
O it was a moonless night suddenly filled
with dark foreboding. The invisible birds had begun their metallic piping, the bats were squeaking
among our ripe mangos and a thousand supplicants in a distant evangelical
hangar were laying down a keening back beat. Then, like a solo singer to this
orchestra of sound, there was a noise we had never heard. A grunting. A
flapping. A scraping. Somewhere, close to the house, was a terrible
manifestation. It had surfaced from the depths of our ancient fears. And it was
working its way around our house.
Not given to craven submission to the
agents of hell my wife opened the main door, fearless and intrepid. No weapon
in her hand. Just vulnerable flesh and blood.
She disappeared into the Ghanaian night,
submerging herself in its hot, thick embrace.
The malevolent sound reached a crescendo
and then stopped abruptly and I heard her in-drawn gasp as clearly as if she
was sitting beside me. It was followed by a terrible silence as if an unspeakable
act had eradicated the very signature of life itself.
The door opened and there she stood like a
female Beowulf carrying the gory trophy in her hands, a piece of folded card
with thick glue on one surface. It was Last Stop, a trap for black mice the
size of British rodents.
Our big but gentle Doberman, Sirius, had
had it stuck to his paws.
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Labels: #Writing: A short short #story.
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