A Broken Clock

The clock was broken again. That was what held my attention during most of the fuss. There was another damned unicorn in the rose garden, eating Agatha’s prized orchids. Hank had run off for his blunderbuss, screaming something about finally getting to test his new ammunition. Beatrice stood at the window making shooing motions with her hands and loudly saying “tsk, tsk” at the thing. None of us thought to let out Nicodemus, my pet puma, until after Hank’s blunderbuss misfired and destroyed the silly clock for good.

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