I've got a new story up at The Molotov Cocktail. Called "Silver Bullet," it's about a woman married to an alcoholic loser who also happens to be...well, you'll see.
Here's the opener:
The moon is waxing gibbous and Norman still hasn’t fixed the shed. Once a month I lock him up in there and spend the night in the basement, curled in a sleeping bag with a Colt .45 single-action next to me on the concrete floor. We’ve spent a small fortune on the shed, upgrading from vinyl to wood to aluminum, but once he’s changed Norman always manages to find a weak spot, escape, and spread the entrails of some unlucky cow or sheep halfway across the county.