Thorny Mornin’

He cracked the door open and peered. “When’d it start?”

“An hour ago,” she answered, “maybe two?”

The rose bushes waddled about on stubby roots. One pair rested atop the dead gardener, carnivorously sucking his juices.

A thorned tendril slapped the door.

Copyright © by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

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