Jan 222015

Welcome to Micro Bookends 1.15. As I write this, the BBC adaptation of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall is about to start, so let’s get straight down to business.

Club foot (or congenital talipes equinovarus) is a congenital deformity of the feet and ankles. In affected babies the feet point down and inwards, and the soles of the feet face backwards. With early treatment (a series of gradual manipulations to correct the posture and plaster casts to hold each improved position), affected babies usually make an excellent recovery.

Someone who suffered from a club foot was Lord Byron who was born 227 years ago today. Byron’s biography reads like a Boys’ Own adventure story: he joined the Greek War of Independence against the Ottoman Empire, for which he is still considered a national hero in Greece; he invented open-water swimming; he was notoriously promiscuous with both sexes; he made a huge contribution to the Romantic poetry movement, including his epic Don Juan. All this before his death from sepsis at only 36. Byron had a great fondness for animals, especially his Newfoundland, Boatswain. Byron commissioned a grand marble monument when Boatswain died from rabies, which is larger than his own monument at the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, Hucknall.

Here is this week’s photo prompt:

Photo Credit: Brian Smithson via CC.

Photo Credit: Brian Smithson via CC.

The Judge

Judging this week’s contest is Meg Kovalik, winner of MB 1.14. Read her winning story and what she has to say about flash fiction here.


A story of between 90 and 110 words starting with CLUB and ending with FOOT and incorporating the photo prompt.


Anyone, but especially you!


Why not! Because it’s fun. Because it’s a challenge. Because the winner will receive their own winner’s page, their story on the winning stories list, a ‘who is the the author’ feature to be posted next week, entry into the ‘Micro Bookend of the Year’ competition, and a copy of this year’s winning stories compilation.


Now! Get your entry in BEFORE 5:00 am Friday (UK time: http://time.is/London).




Post your story in the comments section. Include the word count and your Twitter username (if you’re Twitterized). Don’t forget to read the full rules before submitting your story.

Anything else?

Please give your story a title. It will not be included in the word count.

Please try to leave comments on a couple of other stories. It’s all part of the fun, and everyone likes feedback!

Remember, only stories that use the bookends exactly as supplied (punctuation is allowed) will be eligible to win.

  130 Responses to “Micro Bookends 1.15 – CLUB [micro] FOOT”

  1. Sandwich

    (102 words)

    “Club sandwich!” the dread haired hipster called out over the din, “anyone order the ‘club’?”

    “Me!” I shot my hand toward the ceiling, eager and starving having missed breakfast that morning.

    It was one of those trendy new places, like in L.A., but in Grimsby.

    It wasn’t exactly in the best part of town either; the light shining through the trees from the adjacent cemetery and decorating the shop with laser beams.

    He threw the sandwich towards me and over the crowd; flying in its space aged silver wrapper it landed on the floor, destined to be trampled under a stranger’s foot.

  2. Dead Boring
    word count: 110

    Club meetings were always such a drag, he thought gazing about the haunt drolly. Especially ones that were poorly disguised excuses for family reunions, and not even the fun kind where someone drinks to excess and shouts private affairs from tabletops. At least his daughter was present to converse with; last time she abandoned him to tour something called CeBIT with Babbage and Turing.

    Finally the sun rose just enough to dispel the morning mist and the gathering. Sighing in relief, Lord Byron located Ada hovering near their plots.

    “Westminster Poets’ Corner or the atmosphere at Messolonghi?”

    She laughed, gave him a knowing smile, and they slipped away on foot.

    • Ha! Touring with Turing! Lovely bit of whimsy, incorporating all the elements of this week’s contest.

    • ‘…the sun rose just enough to dispel the morning mist and the gathering.’ Beautiful line. Nice take.

  3. Thanks, great to hear.

  4. Club Tropicana

    “Club Tropicana” we both practically sang at the barman. “Hello, ladies, your both looking lovely this evening.” “Why thank you, kind sir, I know you’re taken but are there any eligible gentlemen worthy of our loveliness here.” I gasped at my friend’s cheek but she’s always been and always will be incorrigible. It’s one of the reasons I love her.

    How I ended up in the cemetery legs akimbo, with what looks like spotty Derek leering over me, I don’t know. I scream, he panics and says “No, I just found you here.” Too late, I hear Lucinda giggling “Sue, its okay” as I connect his groin with my foot.

    110 words

  5. Born 1952 –

    ‘Club class? I travel first class. You know that.’
    She laughed. ‘We’re going to miss you up here. Who’s arrogant enough to fill those shoes?’
    ‘I can think of someone.’
    ‘Good. Get your affairs in order. Prepare your wife. Pick out your plot – although for the life of me, I don’t understand why you mortals worry so much about the first six of the journey. And I’ll see if I can wangle you a pair of first-class tickets.’
    ‘A pair?’
    ‘Yes. Your son’s coming, too.’
    ‘No. Just me!’
    ‘Can’t do that. I’ll be back – for both of you. Be grateful! Some Poor Souls are made to go on foot.’
    (110 words)

  6. That Holiday

    (107 Words)

    Club in hand, James stood there.

    The girls had seen it first and screamed. James hit the break, but it was far too late. The bonnet crashed and the deer flew a good few metres in the air and landed silently.

    Jean jumped in the back and grabbed the kids. Holding them tighter than the safety belts had.

    All well, James walked to the creature – its chest rose, intermittently, its eyes flickered and pleaded, and then he stepped into the wooded cemetery.

    Jean wrapped her hands over the girls’ faces and James swung.
    Back in the car Jean handed him a rag.

    “There’s red on your foot.”

  7. Savior

    (110 words)

    “Club it!”

    “It’s already dead.”

    The fog rose from the cemetery, and the boys stood there shivering in the briskness of the night. Hendrick’s Spiderman pajamas were short-sleeved and goose bumps rose on his flesh. The boys had stumbled across the cat, laying under a cross that read, “SAVIOR.”

    Brains spilled out of its head oozing like toothpaste from a tube. Hendrick leaned down, the sickly sweet smell of blood reaching his nostrils made him want to gag.

    “It’s still warm.”

    Anxiety gripped the boys with its vicious claws. Suddenly the shadows behind the trees did not look so innocent.

    “Let’s go,” Hendrick said, kicking the cat with his foot.

    (106 words)

    ‘Club him till he passes out!’

    His orders were sharp, holding dreadful promises.

    ‘Kill him if you have to. Just get me my damn money!’

    You are no killer. You’d do things your way; smash Carl’s car windows or stroke his ego if need be. The money is what counts after all.

    The streets are silent as a graveyard. You get to the front porch, and find the door locked. You peer in through the key hole. Someone’s been here already. Carl is sprawled on the wooden floor, peaceful and lifeless. Your heart stops at the sight of a bloodied axe just beside his left foot.

    (106 words)

    Club’s closed!
    Some man hollered at her before crashing into a pile of garbage.
    Upset, she chose to take a walk. Anything to keep her away from Naomi.

    Last night’s episode was awful.
    ‘You can’t go out. It’s almost midnight!’
    ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Naomi. I’m 16!’

    It had gone on for forever. But she had stayed home.
    Tonight, Naomi had turned a blind eye, too tired to fight.

    Her whole life flashed before her eyes as she suddenly fell to the ground. This drunk driver would not have hit her if Naomi had just, for one last time, put down her foot.

  10. Club Sherlock
    109 words

    ‘Club Sherlock’ met to discuss Holmes novels, current television and movie adaptations, and to try their hand at crafting their own mysteries. The members took it seriously.

    All members but one.

    Jeff was constantly interrupting and cracking wise. As leader, Jenny was at her wits’ end. Today he had a “Grave Digger” board strapped to his shoe. Idiot. She took him aside.

    “The jokes stop, or you’re out.”

    His face fell. “I guess I’m out.”

    “We’re sorry to see you go.” A polite lie wouldn’t hurt.

    “Will you at least ask me about this?”

    “Fine. Why is there a game board under your shoe?”

    “Because the game is a foot.”

  11. @susanOReilly3
    Word count excluding title 110


    Club in hand, we wait for our cue
    this part of ours I was starting to rue
    there was the stupid loin cloth
    for space on my stomach it fought

    Bloody historical play
    caveman antics cause me dismay
    If George pokes me again
    I may stop counting to ten

    Wanted to pull me on by the hair
    my glare made him hide behind a chair
    I can hear my hubby in stitches
    he said we all look like sad bitches

    If I hear one more heckler
    I may not go out to the fore
    If I hear from George one more but
    he’s getting the full force of my foot

  12. Dis Manibus

    Club to head caused death. Male, mature. RIP. –Marius Fossor, 285 AD.

    Elderly male. Cause of death: violence to head. Blasphemous absence of icons. Reburied. –John, Vicar’s Son, 1248 AD.

    Middle-aged second century male. Cause of death: head trauma. Bone stains probably mold. Curious addition of multiple 13th century religious artifacts. Reburied. –William Diggerson, 1682 AD.

    32yo male, d 100CE. Cause of death: blunt force trauma to head. Significant traces of belladonna, hemlock, aconite, toad’s blood. No objects in coffin, though indentations suggest removal of such. X-rayed, photographed, reburied. –Dr. Ali Bissell, 1987 CE.

    May the idiot never rest in peace. –Canidia, AD 65. Unrelated scroll fragment, depth 7th foot.

    110 words


    Brian S Creek
    105 words

    “Club,” said Chris.

    Mike handed his friend the club which was actually a baseball bat with ‘extras’ stuck on. “Are you sure?”

    “Of course,” said Chris. “I received a message that the dead will rise tonight. And where do dead people rise from?”

    “Their graves.” Mike gazed out at the sea of gravestones and sighed. It was cold, it was dark and it was clear that the therapy and medication wasn’t helping his friend.

    “Now let’s save the world.” Weapon raised, Chris marched off towards the church.

    Mike went to follow but couldn’t. He looked down to find a decomposed hand holding onto his foot.

  14. “Wandering Souls” – 110 words

    Club hopping in this burg was getting tiresome Renaldo thought as he searched the same old coffins looking for something new to wear. Tonight everyone would be hooking up at “Wandering Souls”, the spacious Johnson vault near the front gate. If he could not raise the bar, he should at the least do his best to maintain it. After all appearances were all he and his crowd had left.

    Ransacking a plot previously ignored, Renaldo found a gorgeous long purple satin dress with mother of pearl buttons and a lace neck. Donning the dress, he found only a right shoe. Nothing he could do but snap off his left foot.

  15. @susanOReilly3
    Word count excluding title 110


    Club milks and tea
    visit with aunty to cemetery
    skipping merrily
    dancing on graves with glee

    Aunty calls me to her side
    tears have not yet dried
    Says “this is where Jimmy resides”
    tidying his plot with pride

    She asks me to dig a hole
    so she can insert a flagpole
    his team colours flying her goal
    I didn’t understand my role

    “Okay let’s make sandcastles”
    all of a sudden it was no hassle
    I dug away, aunty looked frazzled
    my work with stones we bedazzled

    I watched as aunty the weeds cut
    in my holes, flowers put
    some of my creations where shut
    others she enlarged with her foot

  16. Going Clubbing

    @geofflepard 108 words

    Club in hand, Caleb leant against the grave. He shifted the weapon, getting a good grip. This time he would make it count. When Seth knelt beside the grave and shed his crocodile tears he, Caleb Johnson, would have his revenge.

    The old man, stooped with grief shuffled forward. ‘I’m sorry, my brother, for what I done.’

    Caleb sneered and stepped forward, swinging lustily. The gnarled club crashed through Seth’s neck, just as it had the previous week and each of the many weeks before, ever since Seth shot him.

    Seth shuddered as a sharp icy breath touched his skin. ‘Wind’s getting up,’ he muttered stamping his foot.

  17. Foy
    word count: 110

    The Sins of the Fathers

    “Club St. Judas in session. Lord Byron, you’ve the floor.”

    “Thanks, Nims.”

    “Code names only!”

    Lord Byron mounts the headstone freshly marked, Father Murphy: Headmaster, 1896-1956

    “To business. Will the Initiate step forward?”

    Roddy’s heart squeezes beneath the prickly nightgown; a nudge assists him into the ring.

    “Your mission–” Lord Bryon’s soiled hand sweeps toward Father Murphy, unburied, putrid, the face severe as ever. “–Lick. His. Toe.” Solemnity holds his freckled mouth and nose.

    “Gross!” Roddy mutinies, “Something else.”

    “There’s nothing else. We’ve all done it.”

    A squirm ripples through seven bodies. Roddy’s grit falters.


    He bends, tongue out, pink and pulsing, ready to lick the foot…

  18. Melancholy Claim
    106 words

    Club kids parade mortality without comprehension, their somber weeds garnishing eating disorders and dysfunctional domestic situations. Numbed in false light, they come here to moon about grave shadows.

    I suppose I should find some measure of admiration for the kohl-eyed attempts at dancing with sublimity. But what do they know of death?

    For them, love is comfortable. They’ll tuck themselves in sleep certain their lovers will draw breath on the morrow, if shallowly.

    Yet, I wonder which a worser fate: their dull searching or the long list of my heart’s losses—brother, daughter, beloved—with my name, in a spot of blood, at the foot.


  19. Palmer and Jeff
    (word count: 109)

    Club membership was compulsory for all but one. And as long as Palmer continued to be the chair of these Saturday evening get-togethers, Jeff would never be allowed to join. Never.

    Everyone had heard the rumours, however, few acknowledged their existence. And even fewer spoke of them outside the dark sanctuary of their wooden coffins.

    Palmer and Jeff had been friends, so the rumour went, and when Palmer’s wife produced a daughter Jeff tumbled into a jealous rage and kidnapped the child.

    Jeff denied all charges, but shortly before Palmer shot him through the eye, the police found Jeff covered in blood and gnawing on a tiny severed foot.


  20. The Boring Nonlife of a Zombie

    ‘Club, machete, kalashnikov, I’ve seen them all, more up close and personal than you would ever want, and I’ve survived them all. So to speak, because I’m dead before an attack and dead afterwards. The, if you will, eternal mistake people make is they destroy my brain. Doesn’t work. That’s pop culture for you. This being said, I’m getting really bored. Where’s the fun in trying to get killed, again so to speak, in all the wrong ways, every single time? So I’ll give you a tip: if you see me leaning casually against my tombstone – the name’s ‘Achilles’ – aim at the flesh right above my foot.’

    109 words

  21. The Final Touch

    Club soda fizzes on the grave.

    As it sinks into the soil, I pour on two slugs of gin.

    I’m being watched. A woman is tending the next grave along.

    “A Tom Collins,” I say. “His favourite drink.”

    I hold out two half-lemons, and squeeze. The woman tuts, and goes back to her weeding.

    But when I begin drizzling syrup, she stands.

    “I’m sorry,” she says, “I find this disrespectful. I mean…it’s just not right.

    I stare at the sticky, wet mess on the grave.

    “You’re right,” I say, finally. “Think the gin’s meant to go in first.”

    I add the final touch.

    My spit.

    Ground in with my foot.

    110 words

  22. In The Graveyard of Pretentious and Tacky

    Club member selection was never as selective as Percival would have liked.
    He began to feel as though the world were only populated by dullards and dilettantes and he was being punished for some unknown crime by being a magnet for them.
    The problem was that not enough people had a true appreciation for poetry recitations in graveyards bathed in moonlight.
    People who came to apply for his club often cited their reason for interest as it “sounding like a hoot ” or liking “death and stuff”.
    He would have to keep looking. The newest member had recited a limerick about someone named “Big Aggie” and spat tobacco on Percival’s foot.

    110 words

  23. Clemency
    (109 words)

    Club her to death—that was the mission. And that he had accomplished. Now, crouched beside a tombstone, he relishes the scenario—her graveyard procession. His companion, the sun, also attempts hiding behind a tree; but its rays sell it out.

    He turns around on hearing some whistling. ‘Disconcerted’ belittles his countenance. I faked my death and now, my funeral? Yeah, thanks to my dummy double. And what pro assassin wouldn’t reconfirm his victim’s identity, uh? He begins pleading for clemency.

    I squeeze with abandon the comma-shaped part of the cold tool in my hand until it confesses with clicking sounds that it can dispense no more lead.

    Clemency my foot.


  24. @stellakateT
    107 words


    Club together we did and buried him under the blossom tree. He lies next to some woman called Edna Barrett, beloved by all who knew her. We’re not sure what to write on his headstone. Might not be a problem as we’re all skint now. Johnny thought about putting up a little fence and hanging a sign with an arrow pointing down saying ‘Edwin Hawkins missed the last round’ we all laughed at this! Ed was as tight as a drum, last to put his hand in his pocket, first to drink you under the table. His final legacy, a bar bill for us all to foot.

    (109 words)

    Club the whole night through, lounge at some graveyard—his weekend routine. Trudging, he entered the apartment backwards. Notwithstanding the strong reek plus a gait that couldn’t be more unsteady, that he hadn’t retched yet unnerved me more. I could put up with mopping up vomitus than poor judgment and incoherence.

    Suddenly he turned around, saying he was late for a class. Bummer, here we go. Not only was it a Saturday—the time’s 1:45am for clearheadedness’ sake, dude!

    Then he got on all fours—I asked what—and began crawling. My confusion soared.

    “Late as I already am,” he bawled, “don’t you think ‘twould be too slow to go on foot?”


  26. The King’s Man
    107 words

    Club. Not a sword or a musket. Just a club. Yet a deep bloody stain ran along its shaft.

    “This club,” said his father, “has cracked the skull of a traitor.”

    A chill crept through Josiah.

    “My brother?” he whispered.

    “In the garden, being useful.”

    Josiah saw the shallow mound in the hazy light, let disbelief disarm him. His father struck before he had a chance to turn.

    “Food for worms, all a traitor’s good for,” said the once patriarch. He shed no tears. His sons had dug their own graves. “God save the King.”

    And he gave the soil a final, triumphant stamp with his foot.

  27. The Last Dance
    A.J. Walker

    ‘Club Tropicana’ began to waft though the trees jump starting the crowd. First toes were tapping, then hands swaying and fingers clicking. Before too long all the grieving were grooving by the graveside. It reached a surreal pinnacle when the children of dead Dave began to lead the funeral party in a conga through the gravestones.

    The two old gravediggers laughed a little but old Henry in particular kept looking at his watch; it wasn’t a job with overtime. The speakers in the coffin punched out thumping bass as the impromptu party continued. Henry almost fell off his spade when something burst out of the coffin; David’s dapper shoed foot.

    (110 words)

  28. Birthed (110 words)

    Club: human; membership rejected.

    I was ineligible the moment the amniotic fluid was cleared with a white terry cloth from my infant eyes.

    To underscore the melodrama with which I’ve long felt as something of a birth echo, I had my cheek to the dirt unearthed from the grave of a dead man. And I was scribbling poetry with a feathered pen.

    The only way to better encapsulate the dark essence that drizzled from the deepest pores of my mind would be if the moon titled its glow my way.

    Alas, it did not and worse, the ink was gone from my feathered pen.

    Typical; it’d leaked on my foot.

  29. — Birkenhead Grave Rubbers Welcome New Members —

    Club secretary Malcolm, knee-deep in AOB, looked up as the door creaked. Malcolm never looked up.

    “Hi. I’m Chloe. Old Clem’s burial site. Can you help?”

    Len, club president, inhaled.

    “The Evil Anvil? A myth, miss. Hogwash. Cobblers.”

    Nonetheless, bobble-hatted Chloe stood grinning by the gates the following weekend.


    Shadows were lengthening when Malcolm felt an absence.

    “She’s gone,” offered Len. “They go.”

    Malcolm kept looking, up and down, until it caught his eye. Among the nettles, a wooly hat on an unfamiliar headstone. Stretching the paper, he rubbed the inscription:

    Careful Where Ye Place A Boot
    Lest Ye Should Join Clem Under Foot

    110 words

  30. The Club

    Club Traumatize manifests in shocking locations. It’s my favorite underground club–when I earn invite.

    Tonight’s address arrived scribbled onto a femur. The cost of tonight’s admission is hair from a blonde virgin.
    The entrance tasks are edgy and always get me into gothic moods.

    I snipped the locks from my roommate’s girlfriend. She rebuffs his advances due to virginity.

    The beats are thumping in the graveyard as I arrive. I present my offering before the Elder. She sniffs the hair and issues a screech in an unknown language.

    The music stops.

    My heart races as I realize the girlfriend lied.

    I scream as a skeletal hand grabs by foot.

    110 Words

  31. Sorry if I posted the story twice! It wasn’t showing up on my browser–I haven’t had that happen before!

  32. Interference

    “Club it!”
    The club came down: once, twice.
    Roland detached the raccoon from the trap, glaring at Frankie.
    “Baby,” Roland said.
    “I’ll carry it,” Frankie said.
    “I’ll carry it.” Roland shouldered the sack.
    The sun rose as the brothers trekked through the gravestones, dew soaking their sneakers.
    “Whoa!” Roland squealed, dropping the bag.
    “What?” Frankie shrieked.
    The bag wriggled.
    “Shouldn’t kill in a graveyard.” The voice was gruff, male, like John Wayne. The boys wheeled around—nobody.
    “Shit!” Roland said, face white.
    “Show some respect,” the voice said.
    The raccoon emerged, staring over Frankie’s shoulder. It ran.
    The boys followed.
    The sack was kicked by a ghostly foot.

    (110 words)

  33. Gone But Not Forgotten

    Club moss (at least the wolf’s foot species) is confined to undisturbed sites, like this abandoned graveyard. It has high priority for conservation, so I don’t clear it from Grandfather Thomas’ grave on my annual visit. But I do clean his headstone, a mark of respect for a man I never knew but who was adored by my mother.

    During WW1 he was conscripted, and left to fight for his country, leaving his young wife and 5 year old daughter.

    He was awarded an Iron Cross 2nd Class for gallantry in action while serving on the Western Front in the Imperial German Army’s 5th Guard Regiment of Foot.

    Word Count: 108

  34. The Libation
    (100 words)

    “Club sandwiches? Again?”

    Laura sets out the picnic as the sun shines into the graveyard.

    “No grace?”

    She nibbles at a sandwich. The morning is warm, but she draws her sweater around her. Then she pulls a bottle out of the hamper.

    “Sparkling juice? A little wine wouldn’t kill you.”

    She stares at her glass. A tear rolls down her cheek. She pours the juice out onto the grass.

    “You’re not done already, are you? Don’t go.”

    She packs up the picnic with a sigh. As she leaves, she straightens the veteran’s flag at her father’s grave with her foot.


  35. Satisfaction Guaranteed
    109 Words

    Club Dead. The brochure made it sound so enticing: an all-inclusive vacation to the Grecian Islands to celebrate the reanimated. “Come get your zombie on!”

    The effects were spectacular. There were undead soldiers and swimmers and poets and patients and lovers of all proclivities.

    No detail was overlooked, not even at the buffet, where he slurped up “intestines” with “brains” and a side of “eyeballs”.

    He even flirted with a zombie girl, and they did the danse macabre in his coffin bed, all night long, until he fell asleep.

    In the morning, he awoke to confined darkness, his screams muffled by every inch of dirt above him, every foot.

  36. Perspective

    Club blows to the head ultimately did me in, and there are some laughs to be had at the perpetrator’s choice of weapon, especially considering his Neanderthal-like appearance. I know people are sensitive in regards to death, but life is too short not to laugh. Really, no expense should be spared.

    I used to be a stickler for such matters. Luckily, I can now appreciate the joys in life. Death will do that to a man. Just the other day (or night? You can’t really tell from down here), as the maggots were eating the flesh underneath the toenails, I realized I had a webbed foot.

    107 words

    • Laugh? I nearly died!
      A webbed foot! That’s why he always swam around in circles!
      Great stuff, Carlos. Gave me a laugh.

  37. “Rendezvous”

    Club of Truth fashioned out of mist and permanent cenotaphs
    Light pierced the shadow of Mystery and Specter alike
    Slumber surrendering to arousal turning the finest bed into
    Bitter mocking of Dream…or was it?
    Her lover eternally asleep covered by Earth and marked for posterity
    Yet last night love drew breath once more

    Mocking Death as they crossed the River without detection
    No sign of neither Boatman nor Guardian
    Amongst a carpet of Red Anemone, Narcissus, Poppy and Belladonna

    A soft sound interrupts her reverie
    Is it love that awoke from deathly oblivion?
    It is Death at her foot

  38. Just Boyhood Adventures?
    (91 words)

    “Club it! Hit it harder.” Herman Webster was staring intently, fascinated, as his friend was bludgeoning their victim. “Careful. Only his head.”

    With great ceremony, the hare was carried to the isolated shed in the back field.

    Removing his fresh honed knife, he made the precise incision from throat on down. Stretching the rib-cage of the tiny animal, Herman gazed with rapt allure at the rabbit’s innards.

    “He’s yours now,” his riveted eyes now ready for their next adventure. “Tan the hide. Dispose of the remains. See you here again tomorrow. Let’s try for a fox!” Herman carefully concealed his trophy in his front pants’ pocket: the hare’s foot.

    (Requirement: 110 words. This was the first of many conquests before H. H. Holmes became a physician, and America’s first renowned, modern-day serial killer.) Written for Micro Bookends.

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