New Bride, by Sheryl Normandeau

I should never have brought my new bride home in the dead of winter. It was a bad year: my traps were empty, the larders bare, but each night as I curled my bones against Annette in our matrimonial bed, her smooth, soft body grew plumper. She was flushed with warmth and, I hoped, our unborn child.

One night I heard an animal outside our door, the screams of a killing. I stepped out with my gun into moonlit snow, seeing the snarling face, fangs shining with blood.

Her pelt would fetch me a good price at McGuinty’s General Store.

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Sheryl Normandeau is a Calgary-based writer and blogger at Flowery Prose (www.floweryprose.com).

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