by Rosanne Griffeth
100 words
We rode insane Shetland ponies and petted rabbits at Gracie's house. Her dog bit me but it was my fault. Her mother, a dark-haired beauty, cleaned the punctures and kissed my forehead. I apologized to the dog and we went back to play, running on the dock over oyster shells.
Her father was big and scary, a crabber--rough and stinking of brine and shellfish.
I hadn't thought of Gracie in years, until her mother disappeared.
Missing persons assumed she had run away. But the townfolk, they whispered Gracie's father cut her mother up and used her for crab bait.
Rosanne Griffeth's work can be seen in The Angler, Writer's Eye Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, Keyhole Magazine, Cautionary Tale, Static Movement, The Dead Mule and Dew on the Kudzu. She lives on the verge of the GSM National Park with her herd of goats and spends most of her time writing and documenting Appalachian culture. She is the blogger behind The Smokey Mountain Breakdown.
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