(Author’s note: I am writing this in a hunt and peck form due to my left wrist being cracked. I will likely be in a splint for 4 weeks, then in a wrist brace for 4 more…depending. Anyhow, here’s today’s fictioneers.)
The Red Plains
by Miles H. Rost
That is what was left of the old brownstone building in downtown Lincoln, Nebraska.
Andy Patridge looked at the charred papers strewn about the grounds. His 40 years of law and life, gone in 20 minutes.
“Any idea of who caused this?”
The fire chief looked at Andy and furrowed his caterpillar brows.
“You keep thinking someone did this. We have no clue how this was done.”
“Actually,” the arson examiner popped up behind them, “I can conclude that it was likely his ex-wife that did it.”
“How’d you know that?” The chief balked.
“Spraypainted message. Says, “Die, you arseluch.”