Easter came with a furry furor.
Their padded toes marched two by two and on the streets of capitals, the blood ran sour and crimson.
Eggs spattered and bucked teeth sank deep into ankles, then thighs, then more.
The homo-sapiens now languish in their runs and suckle at their bottles.
David Wing was desperately awaiting Easter. (But the Editor had too many submissions, so he didn’t get this one up in time for the holiday!)
The detective pondered.
“I’ve ruled out the housekeeper, who is on vacation. Every petty thief in London is imprisoned at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. The thought of a mythical furry creature committing the crime is comical but outrageous.
“Which leaves only one suspect.
“Watson, where have you hidden my Easter egg?”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.