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