The editor of the magazine called me on the phone.
He said, "I love your story. It's reminescent of Rod Serling's work for the Twilight Zone."
I laugh, smiling, as we work through the agreement, the dried coarse hair under my fingers itching my palm. But I don't mind. I scratch my pet affectionately behind the ears.
The phone call is over and I set it down.
I turn my pet around so he may see my face.
"My sweet, Rod. We're going to be doing a lot of work together."
The head smiles back at me, as blood oozes from the empty neck onto my pants.
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