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Weekly Contest #291
When the rain let up and the clouds began to part, Mr. Herbert Trumbull opened the door of his small house at 439 Maple Street, made his way down the steps to the puddled walkway, and promptly disappeared with a rather impressive SPLOOSH. Glimmering ripples fled to the edges of what had appeared to be an ordinary rain puddle, and the water’s surface soon settled into glasslike calm. There was no splashing, no gasping. There were no cries for help. Mr. Trumbull was, quite simply, gone. The only change to the scene, and indeed the only evidenc...
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