C. Sharp
It wasn't so much the unceasing creaking of the trees that got him up from slumber and down the steps of the back porch that night, as the expectation that someone would meet him there in the shadows beneath.
By the time the sun crested the eastern hills, he was long gone, with no sign of his passage, but a single slipper left amid the pine needles as the infernal creaking continued, like an invisible gate on rusty hinges.
By the time the sun crested the eastern hills, he was long gone, with no sign of his passage, but a single slipper left amid the pine needles as the infernal creaking continued, like an invisible gate on rusty hinges.
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