Dead Ends

This once-flourishing farm community, wasting away —

Resorting to superstitious custom.

Disgusting.

Their only physical evidence was the crazed bust that once topped her tombstone —

inexplicably smashed; curious, but insufficient.

“Gentlemen,” VanKirk declared, “since you insist, you may exhume my daughter. I sincerely doubt you will find her. . . a vampire.”

Preposterous.



This flash fiction in 50 words was crafted for the M3 blog’s Flash in the Pan (crazed).

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