Posted in Mystery, Short Stories

Black Balloon


On a chilly gusty evening, underneath a blood moon, a lone, old and worn Good Year Tire rolls into the Welldun City Veteran’s cemetery. It settles against a burgundy granite tombstone that happened to be the final resting spot of a long piece of red ribbon.


“Mrs. Griswold, if you can’t keep up your mortgage payments, then we will have to take the house?”

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