Trot fast, my dapple gray!
by Carl Santoro
OVER THE RIVER AND THROUGH THE WOODS
TO GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE WE GO.
"And then what happened?"
The detective leaned in and offered Marley a tissue for his nose.
"Do you remember how this person got into your house?"
It was night. It was Massachusetts. It was an interview in a snowstorm
that Detective Vivian Diaz wished would go away. She looked at her watch and waited for Marley's 4:46 a.m. answer.
"Marley, look at me please - do you remember anything about the shooting?"
The boy's head remained downcast, still, sullen, swallowed up by his pajama top.
"I know it probably hurts to remember, but what you tell me may help us to catch your Grandmother's killer."
THREE HOURS EARLIER
THE HORSE KNOWS THE WAY TO CARRY THE SLEIGH.
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Author's Note
A darker interpretation of a Thanksgiving song.
Other stories by Carl Santoro
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An apple for Dobbin, but no more punkin pie for the punk.
That's right Matthew - Dobbin took that apple and flew over the landscape of Surrey and the church at Ash!