Branflake Police

The knock on the door wasn’t so much a knock as it was a clipped click. A sound like a cereal flake sighing on its last breath. Margaret paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, a single bran-flake trembling on the curved edge; as if considering the jump. Another click. She opened the door.

There were two of them. Dressed in beige. Not trench-coat beige, not fashion beige, but the kind of beige your eyes forget. One had a clipboard. The other had a small clear evidence bag with a single bran-flake in it.

“Good morning,” said Clipboard. “We’ve had a report,” said Bag.

Margaret blinked. “A report?” Clipboard nodded. “Routine check. Bran-flake consumption irregularities in the neighbourhood.” Bag leaned in. “Yours appear... unorthodox.” Margaret looked back at her table. A bowl. Ha ...