A ritual took place early every morning on the green at Little Marlow: Miss Taylor with her terrier, Mr. Lloyd with his lab. and young Sophie with a boisterous spaniel named Clover, greeted one another with warm smiles. They shared gossip over wagging tails, and savoured the simple sacrament of companionship beneath an ancient oak.
Until one misty Tuesday when a stranger appeared. He was small and squat and wore a trench coat that brushed the grass. Behind him strode three pit-bull terriers, their muscles rippling, eyes fixed on every passer-by.
The newcomer’s jaw clenched; the dogs growled low. Miss Taylor and Mr. Lloyd drew closer; Clover whimpered and tugged back. An electric hush fell over the green.
Over the days that followed, the man – who never spoke a kind word – walked the same circuit every morning. Neighbours tried polite nods; he only snarled. The dogs whined when anyone approached, teeth bared in a warning that set hearts racing.
Tension rippled through the lanes. Whispered worries turned to hushed reprimands. Someone thought the dogs eyed the village cats with murderous intent; another swore they’d seen the man kick at small birds.
Then, the dogs vanished from the green. The villagers exchanged relieved glances, though unease lingered like smouldering ashes. That night, unheard by neighbours, there was a terrible racket —barking, snarling, a single piercing scream.
Since no one dared approach the man’s house his body lay undiscovered for a week. By that time the pit-bulls had eaten their owner’s face.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 