CSI crew members sifted threw the dirt in the backyard barbeque pit on their hands and knees. In the kitchen, they snapped photos of the stove, collected samples from the pots and pans—leftover chili, dry rub ribs on a foil sheet, a cut of flank still warm in the cast iron skillet. They sealed bottles of Worcestershire sauce, dry mustard, basil leaves, Montreal steak seasoning, and minced garlic into plastic evidence bags.
“I don’t think they’ll find anything outside,” Williams said as he wheeled a skeleton into the kitchen. “Take a whiff.”
Johnson leaned forward and inhaled. The hint of hickory smoked bacon filled his nostrils. “Oh my god.” His widened eyes nearly met at the center of his face. “Where’s the rest of him?”
“I imagine whatever we don’t find on the stove, or in the freezer, will be in her stomach.”
Johnson doubled over, dry heaving into the pit of his elbow.
“Hell hath no fury, right?” Williams said dryly.
“Yea, and Satan hath no appetite.”
word count: 169
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge where you write a story in 75-175 using the provided photo prompt as inspiration. Click the froggy icon to read other stories inspired by the photo and add your own.