It hadn't rained in three days. Norma thanked God and touched the ceramic four-leafed clover by her kitchen sink and prayed to both that it wouldn't rain for another three. Not until she canned all this soup.
Norma labeled the cans "Consommé." Strictly speaking, it wasn't consommé, but the European air was popular and the tourists were many ever since her small town had twinned itself with Elpòine in Burgundy. Her small shop guarded the only through-road and invariably this was where the lost would pause to get their bearings.
A knock at the door.
"Get that, Clyde!" Norma shouted as she gummed the last of the labels.
She heard hinges creak and the muffled pidgin of "Excusez-moi, can yoo tell mee ze way to--" cut off by a scream and a thud.
"Put the pot back on Norma," Clyde called to her, "and sharpen the knives. We got us another one o' them frogs."
Opening: 150.....Continuation: Anon.