by Lisa McCourt Hollar
A breeze blew across the playground, sending a chill across Jeremy's spine. One leg shorter than the other, he limped, carefully picking his way around the litter strewn ground.
"Who could have done this," he wondered out loud. There was no one to answer, except his dog, Sherlock Holmes. No one wanted to play with a cripple, a lesson learned from Bobby Slone, the neighborhood bully.
Sherlock stopped snuffing his nose against the ground and looked back at the boy. Jeremy heard a growl forming in the back of the Beagles throat and then the dog took off. Jeremy followed, passing the trash can that had been tipped over and the broken see-saw.
Stopping at the swingset, Jeremy saw the play equipment through the curious eye of a boy. A huge chunk was missing from one of the swings that had been flung over the top bar. From behind he heard a growl.
The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Turning, Jeremy stared into the face of a creature that only existed in his mind. At least until last night, when Jeremy made a birthday wish. In the creatures mouth were the ripped pants of Bobby Slone.
Word Count: 200
My Menage Monday entry.