Short Story: Good Morning, Margaret

 By: Allen D. Reed

    When Margaret woke up, she wasn't at all surprised to find that she was still hanging by her wrists in the cold, dust-lathered basement. The smell of vinegar hung in the air like a eulogy, just as it had every morning for the past few weeks. There was an inch thick layer of dirt and cobwebs that framed the only window in the room. If one were to pass the window outside, it would look like someone had leaned a lint trap against the base of the house, but it did allow enough light in to illuminate the shelves of pickled vegetables. It was the same old tomatoes, onions, and pickles, as well as the large jars of indiscriminate produce that she had to look at every day. One of them seemed to contain an entire gourd. Barney liked his food pickled. It's the only way he would eat it.

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