My Cardboard Balcony

The actual murderer had fled New Wickham seven months prior. He stayed in a very small tent where his long, knobbly feet pivoting on two long, knobbly ankles protruded from the scratchy flaps, the fire made of dry brush and leftover tree scraps being the only source of warmth. Some mornings, he would go out to fish, but his animalistic instincts would kick in after snatching a fish and he would gnaw on it while it was still alive and flopping.