Furious cries filled the darkened streets. Outside our window, three costumed figures stumbled into view. One vomited into my bushes.
I knew him. That punk had pulled a knife on me at my front door last year, demanding, “Gimme everything.”
The mob arrived: Smaller. Costumed. Waving knives, pitchforks, swords. They surrounded the older kids, feral gazes on their painted faces.
“Run,” said a kid with a flaming torch.
“Can’t –” gasped one punk. “You made us eat — everything.”
“Then you better run fast.”
The teens bolted. The mob pursued.
“Honey,” I called back to Robert. “They found the candy thieves.”
Day 20 of 31: 100-word Drabbles
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