100-word fiction: ‘The Branches Weren’t Quite Bare’

The street lights had just come on and the breeze had turned cool but he didn’t know what time it was. He looked up. Some of the trees along the road had leaves while some were bare. It was March, April or May. Pete was at the bar getting a round in; probably a stout and an ale of some sort. He wondered how late they’d stay out and how he’d be feeling tomorrow morning. The results of the second autopsy had contradicted the first. Now there were calls for a third. Some things were uncertain; others were being obscured.

Published by MW Bewick

Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com

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