A. C. Spahn
They came in a group to kill Colleen after the storm. Her neighbors, her coworkers, her not-quite-friends. They broke down her front door and cornered her in an immaculate kitchen beneath pleated floral curtains. Ginger and cinnamon mingled with the fresh spring scent of the orchids blooming in a row on the counter.
Marie had worked two cubicles down from Colleen for the past six years. She now held a butcher knife instead of a file folder. She stepped to the front of the mob and swept her arm across the countertop, catching the orchids in one swoop. Terra cotta pots smashed and dirt spread on the gleaming floor. The flowers lay half-buried, leaves spread in funereal solemnity.
Marie pointed the knife at Colleen like an accusatory finger. “We’re here to make you stop. This can’t go on any longer.”
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