By Emily Clayton
Willie left one night and woke up at a farm. His blood-stained clothes cracked like stiffening plaster. Small gory crumbles tumbled to the ground.
Nausea rode the journey to freedom. Brown streams, like liver and onions, spewed across his socks. Liver? He looked from the puddle to the chunks on his clothes. He’d always had a hankering for liver.
Willie slunk across the dew-laden grass. Two people slumped at the farmhouse table. Sliced onions on the counter. Splash of red on the floor. More drops. Splatters on the table.
Caramelized onions wafted on the breeze as he headed indoors for breakfast.
This is awesome Emily….. I hate liver 🙂
Thank you!