Three Strikes, You’re Out

“You sure had a good time staring down Pam’s dress,” Margaret said with a saber’s edge on the words. “Not that you had to. Her breasts were mostly hanging out.” She pointed the silver blade my way. “And this wasn’t the first time.” Her eyes shot daggers my way. I bowed my head in penance, keeping one eye on the butcher knife in her left hand.

“So were yours,” I said. “I looked at them a lot more than I did Pam’s.”

Margaret paced back and forth across the kitchen, mumbling. Leftover dishes from my surprise birthday party crowded the sink and counters.

I sat on a stool wearing only a pair of briefs. Margaret’s demand. It was that or live without a favorite body part. I reminded her it was a favorite of hers, too. She replied she could get a dozen at any nearby establishment that sold adult beverages.

“Did you try the peach pie?” I asked. “It was very good. Made it myself.” 

“Buffalo pucks, you did. You couldn’t cook your way out of a McDonald’s.” 

“Well. . .I added my special ingredient.” She stared at the pie, her head cocked to one side, an incredulous look on her face. “Did you notice how everyone who ate the pie loosened up. That was the uppers I put in each piece.” I smiled the smile that usually melted her when she got grumpy.

“You put what in the pie?”

Out of desperation, I smiled big enough to make my face hurt. No change.

Man part, pie, smile. All no. I’m screwed!

The Borrowed Grave (a 100 word story)

Dressed in overalls and flannel shirt, a cap's brim lowered over his eyes, Reginald lumbered past the houses where impatient witches, ghosts, and vampires held out bags and pillowcases waiting for sugary treats. Contrary to the others, the sack he hugged to his chest contained possessions no one would see but him.

Tonight was the one year anniversary of his mother's disappearance. The police had ceased their investigation after finding no clues. 

Reginald glanced left and right before walking through the cemetery’s gates, the fresh grave, someone else's resting place, awaiting him. What better place to hide his mother's bones. 

The Clown, The Mark, The Mandolin

Tammi stepped into the ballroom wearing a clown outfit of purple, yellow, and green swirls. The matching mask covered her face. She looked around and saw her mark in a far corner dressed as a minstrel and carrying a mandolin. She wove her way through the crowded ballroom, this year’s Halloween fundraiser a huge success. When the minstrel turned her way, she raised her candle into a Statue of Liberty position and, with a few more steps, joined him.

“You know the drill,” the minstrel said.

“Yes. We swap candle for mandolin. You work your way around the room and exit. Then I follow and give the mandolin to a man outside eating a hot dog.”

“Excellent. And remember, your sister will be just fine as long as you do what you’re told.”

“What about the diamonds?” she asked.

“They’re wrapped in a cloth inside the instrument.” He pointed to an opening on the top. “Any other questions?”

After they made the swap, Tammi looked the minstrel in the eye and said, “You’re not very good at this.”

“What do you mean?

“I don’t have a sister.” 

The minstrel turned and found himself facing a man dressed in a police uniform from the 1800s. 

”Minstrel, I’m Sergeant Phillips of the Metropolitan Police, and you’re under arrest.” He lifted his hand. Two similarly dressed men joined him. “Thanks for the tip, and for helping with the arrest,” the sergeant said to Tammi.”

Tammi smiled as she exited the room, excited that the $150,000 reward would finally allow her to take the round-the-world cruise she’d always dreamed of.

Dinner Time

First published in Flash Fiction Magazine.

Margaret toddled down the hall on her way to dinner. She didn't normally wear pajamas when she went out, but there wasn't enough time to change. 

She stopped to look at a painting she didn't recognize. The sign on one building had the words Cafe Bourgeois. Aliz's Pub was on another. The streets were narrow and cobblestoned, the buildings small and old, like her. She moved on. A wheel on her walker wobbled with each step.

Margaret reached the dining hall and noticed the man sitting at a table in the corner. His gray hair was cut short--military style. His eyes were closed. He wore slippers. She frowned and looked away. 

It bothered her that no one else was seated. People needed to be on time. It was a rule.

Leaving her walker along the wall,  the one with a large calendar listing activities for July, she made her way to her chair. The menu perched in the middle of the table had two pages—one for lunch and one for dinner. She read the dinner side, crinkled her nose when she got to broiled fish and nodded at the chicken pot pie.

"Hello, Margaret."

"Hello," Margaret parroted and added a wave, like she saw the Queen do on TV.

"What are you doing here?" the woman dressed in an orange blouse and pants set with Karen on her nametag said. "You should be in bed."

"I'm hungry. I came down for dinner."

"It's 2:00 in the morning."

"But I'm hungry." Frustration spread across Margaret's face. "Didn't you hear me?"

"I'm sorry, Margaret." Karen smiled and put a hand on the older woman's shoulder. "It's been a long night. How about a package of cookies and some juice? Will that hold you until breakfast?"

"I guess it'll have to," Margaret mumbled.

"Well, I can always sneak you another package of cookies if one isn't enough." Karen bent down so her lips were near Margaret's ear. "Our little secret. Okay?"

"How about him?" Margaret nodded toward the man in the corner. "Will he tell on us?"

"Nah," Karen said with a wave, like she was shooing a fly. "He's probably asleep."

Margaret went back to reading the menu. When Karen returned with a glass of apple juice and a package of peanut butter cookies, Margaret looked up and, pointing at the menu, said, "I'll have the chicken pot pie and fruit cup."

 

Blood is Thicker

Shannon has loved Charissa ever since her first role as a destitute private detective. He began to follow her around town and was familiar with all her disguises. Tonight, as they approached the alley, he pulled the dagger from his jacket, ready to help his sister obtain her dream part.

What We Know

First published in Literary Cocktail Magazine

Mom walked us down the aisle for Sunday worship smiling. Dad was home alone. We think.

Dad worked at the local hardware store. We think. 

Mom subbed at our elementary school a couple of days each week. We think.

Mrs. Andersen was mom’s best friend in high school, not so much now. We think.

Dad slept on the couch most nights. We think.

Dad spent more time with Mrs. Andersen than mom did. We think.

Mom packed a suitcase and left for good with Nathan’s teacher, Mr. Johnston. We think.

Mrs. Andersen (call me June) moved in with us permanently. We think.

We are confused and afraid, but know things will be okay 

because Dad loves us more. 

We think.

Learn more about Literary Cocktail Magazine here.

Blink of an Eye

Blink

It’s my first day of kindergarten. Mom is more excited than I am.

Blink

Smiling, I strut across the stage to receive my high school diploma. I hear Mom cheering me on.

Blink

I watch snowflakes slalom lazily past the window, my newborn on my chest. I wish mom was here.

Blink

Greetings From Spain

Hola de Madrid mi amiga Carla.

Is that right? It's been a while since we sat next to each other in Spanish class. Can you believe we'll celebrate our twenty-fifth high school reunion next year at this time?

Charlie and I spent our first day at the Parque del Retiro. It was a great place to walk off our jet lag. Well, it was for me. Charlie spent most of the time sneezing, and wheezing, and complaining about sneezing and wheezing. 

Remember I told you this was supposed to be a two-day business trip followed by a long-needed vacation? Well, Charlie’s first meeting lasted longer than scheduled—that didn’t bode well—so I ate lunch at our hotel, then went back to the park by myself. I don’t know anything about architecture, but the main building looked fabulous from the outside; and intimidating. The rose gardens made my little patch look listless. Would you believe a guy hit on me? Hahaha.

That's all for now. Say hi to Frank and the girls.

Love, Marci

***

Hola, Carla.

Charlie and I spent a week in Toledo. I liked Madrid better. Toledo was crowded and the people seemed rushed. As usual, Charlie spent much of his day answering emails and talking on the phone. Some things never change. Hahaha. 

Say hi to Frank and the girls.

Love, Marci.

***

Hola, Carla.

I didn't return to Madrid with Charlie. I decided to stay an extra week and explore a bunch of small towns around Toledo. He had to get back to deal with some big deal business problem only he could handle. I miss him. I’m not sure why.

Say hi to Frank and the girls.

Love, Marci

***

Hola, Carla.

As I’m sure you figured out by the longer than usual gap between notes, I extended my trip again. I hope you weren’t worried. I returned to Madrid, rented a car, and drove to Seville. It should have taken five hours, but I stopped many times along the way to stroll the streets and visit with the locals. 

I spent a day in Seville, stayed in a wonderful hotel, and then drove to Gibraltar. That is some honker of a rock. Hahaha. The coast is beautiful, and the water is so blue. I've never seen anything like it. The people are friendly, and they made me feel right at home. I could spend the rest of my life here.

I haven’t heard from Charlie. Have you?

Say hi to Frank and the girls.

Love, Marci

P.S. My Spanish is almost immaculado. Hahaha

***

Hola, Carla.

Remember in my last e-mail when I said I could spend the rest of my life in Gibraltar? Well, I decided to. You know I haven't been happy. Charlie's always working. Brent and Amy are grown with their own families. I felt lost and unneeded at home. I haven't told Charlie or the kids yet. I guess I need to do that soon.

Do you also remember I told you about that guy who hit on me in Madrid? Well, it happened again—a different guy this time—at an ocean village along the marina. I was browsing in one of the antique shops and started chatting with the owner. The next thing I knew we were eating dinner at this lovely restaurant on the water. He asked me out again. At first, I said I couldn't. I was married. But back at the bar in my hotel over a nightcap, I changed my mind.

Alesander is taking me out on his boat tomorrow. I’ve never ridden in a boat before. I’m nervous already.

Say hi to Frank and the girls.

Love, Marci

***

OMG! I can't believe it. I slept with Alesander. It was great. It's been so long since...Well, you don't need to know that. Hahaha.

Anyway, I called Charlie today to let him know I wouldn't be back. He asked what he should do with my clothes. Can you believe that?

Alesander is taking me to a nude beach today. What was I thinking when I agreed? I know, you're thinking that's so unlike Marci. Well, I guess this is the new Marci. Hahaha.

If you and Frank ever want to get away, we have an extra bedroom. Oh, I guess I didn't tell you. Alesander and I are living together. I'm going to fry in Hell, and I don't care. Hahaha. Anyway, consider this an open invitation to come visit anytime. The nude beach is optional. Hahaha.

Say hi to Frank and the girls.

Love, Marci

---

Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Ariel Chart, Short-Story.me, CommuterLit, Fewer Thank 500, and others. You can reach Jim at jpharrin@gmail.com.

Julio and the Sloth

First published on SPANK the Carp.

Julio stood on a wooden bridge and inhaled the aromas emitted by trees he couldn’t name. He’d been on every trail in the area except this one. It was new, and work had kept him inside for too long. As he turned to continue his walk, a shadow moved above him. Whatever it was, it reeked.

“Hey,” Julio yelled, “Did you just attempt to bite me?” He looked up, and all he saw was a sloth.

Sorry, Señor,” the sloth said, “but I had no choice. I was told if I bit someone I’d return to normal.”

“Huh?” Julio perched on a log, confused.

“You see, I was bitten by a werewolf,” the sloth said. “I don’t know why; I think maybe he was blind.”

“And he told you you’d revert back to your normal self if you bit someone.”

“That’s correct, Señor.” The sloth shifted to the left, moving closer to Julio.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Julio said, holding up a hand as if it were a shield. “You stay right there.” Julio moved down the log away from the sloth. “You know he was lying don’t you. You can’t change into a werewolf, or I guess weresloth in this case.” Julio chuckled.

“I don’t see anything funny about it at all, Señor.”

“You don’t? You live in a tree. What are the odds someone would climb up and bite you?”

“Oh, I wasn’t in the tree. I come down regularly to relieve myself.”

“Relieve yourself?”

“Well, of course. Did you think we just held it in forever?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought.”

“Well, now you have.”

“Do you have a name?” Julio asked.

“Flash,” the sloth said.

Julio laughed so hard he almost fell off the log.

“I know. I know. My mother was a hippy and a pot smoker,” the sloth said. “She gave all her kids odd names. My older sister’s name is Gazelle, and my younger brother’s is Bugs. Don’t ask. I have no idea why.” The sloth shook his head and sighed.

“You even shake your head slowly,” Julio said and snorted.

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” The sloth looked around as if expecting someone.

“Do you come down from the tree for other reasons?”

“Nope. No need to. All the food I require is up here. Insects, carrion, and small lizards. Lots of them.”

“So how often do you come down to. . .you know?”

“Once a week. It takes a little time to get to the right spot, go, and cover everything up.” The sloth looked at the ground. “You’re standing on my spot right now.”

“Are you shitting me?” Julio stood and hopped to the side. 

“Interesting choice of words,” the sloth said. “But no, I’m not.”

Julio scuffed his shoes on a patch of grass in an attempt to clean them off. He raised his left foot and checked the bottom, like a blacksmith shoeing a horse. “Oh crap,” he said and pointed at the sloth. “You ruined a new pair of hiking shoes.” He scuffed them some more. “If I could sue you, I would.”22222

“Of course, you would. Everyone sues somebody these days.” The sloth moved his head in small circles to relieve the tightness in his neck. “Since you’re going to sue me anyway, why not move a little closer so I can . . .”

“No way, Jose. In fact, I’m going to move back a little,” Julio said, taking a big step backwards. “Ouch,” he said. “What the. . .?”

“Oh, I forgot to introduce my wife, Miranda. She’s even slower than me.” 

“How long have the two of you been up a tree?”

“About fifteen years. Right, Love?”

Miranda started to nod. Julio didn’t wait for her to finish. 

“And you haven’t bitten anyone before me?”

“Oh, there have been lots of opportunities. We see them coming up the trail, and Miranda moves to get into position. Most of the time she’s late, and we have to let the person go.” “It’s frustrating, but. . .” He smiles at Miranda. “You know.” 

“But you said once you bite someone, you revert back.”

“Well, that was a bit of a lie. Actually, a big fat whopper.” This time it was the sloth’s turn to chuckle. “I’m afraid you’re a weresloth for life now. Too bad. You look to be about twenty-five.”

“Thirty-one.”

“Same difference,” the sloth said, with a shrug.

“Well, Miranda and I need to get some sleep. And you, Señor, need to head along the path to get home before dark.”

“Home,” Julio said. “What home. I can’t go there. My parents. My girlfriend. What am I going to tell them?” Julio said, looking up as Miranda joined her husband hanging from a stout branch.

“Can’t help you there, Señor,” the sloth said, “but it’s a long walk back down the hill. I’m sure you’ll think of something. And now, it’s time to say good night.”

Julio pivoted and scuffed his way back the way he came.

Within seconds, he heard Flash snoring. He walked away wondering what his life was going to be like now. 

He heard snickering coming from above. “Okay, there is a cure. Give us $50.00, and we’ll tell you where it is.”

“I don’t have that much money on me.”

“How much do you have?”

 “$38.00 and 25, 30, 4 cents,” he said. He raised his hand as high as he could.

“I suppose that will have to do. On the back side of the tree there’s an opening. Reach in and you’ll feel something.”

Julio did as directed. “Ouch! You bit me again.”

“Not me. That was Junior. Oh, and there’s no such thing as a weresloth. Enjoy life and thanks for the money. We can use it to entice someone else to play our game.”

As Julio walked away, Miranda snuggled next to Flash. “You know we could get arrested if you keep this up.”

“What would they arrest us for? Forest Path Robbery?”

It was Miranda’s turn to chuckle. “You know, that was kind of exciting, and I’m not really sleepy.” Miranda nestled closer to Flash. “Maybe we could…”

“You are a naughty scamp, aren’t you?”

His Wandering Days Are Over

First Published in The Yard: Crime Blog

CONTENT WARNING: graphic sex, nudity

Charlie sat in his chair, hands on his knees, head tilted to one side. A steak knife protruded from the side of his neck. 

Ellen, naked, used a cloth napkin to remove Bolognese sauce from her petite breast.

"You aren't hungry? That's not like you. Spaghetti is your favorite." She leaned forward, twirled a helping of angel hair pasta on his fork, and lifted it to Charlie's mouth. "You haven't eaten for two days.” She shook his shoulder as if to awaken him. “You need to eat." When Charlie didn't open his mouth, Ellen ate his helping. "Maybe you'll feel like eating tomorrow," she said, slowly sucking a stray noodle between thin lips, while gazing at Charlie through half-closed eyes.

She finished her dinner without bothering Charlie. She could tell he wasn't interested in talking. He'd always been the quiet type. Said it was because she never shut up, but Ellen knew the truth. He was shy.

Ellen hummed along with the cassette tape as Tom Jones sang "What's New Pussycat," while she washed the dishes, the dishcloth circling to the beat of the music, her small hips swaying. "Remember when we went to his concert? I removed my panties in the ladies’ room and threw them on the stage." She turned and smiled. "You gave me that surprised look, wondering how I could do such a thing. Even after we got home you were bothered so much that you weren't interested in having sex. I had to take care of myself, while you sat on the back porch drinking beer." 

Ellen ran a hand over her breasts and between her legs. "Just thinking about him makes me horny." She squeezed her legs together. "How about you, Charlie?" He remained silent. She pulled another plate from the water. "No? Again? Jesus, Charlie. Do I have to go find someone else to satisfy me?" Her face hardened. "Like you did with that whore waitress Sheila what’s-her-name? You couldn't do any better than that? I bet there were others, too. Am I right, Charlie?" She thrust a plate into the drying rack chipping the edge and frowned at Charlie. "My Uncle Fred was right. I married a loser."

Ellen continued washing the dishes, letting Tom Jones brighten her mood, until the last pot was clean. "I'm going to dry them later." She walked to Charlie, smiled, cupped her breasts, ran a finger over each hard nipple. "Sure you don't want to join me upstairs?" Charlie stared straight ahead. "Or do you want to do it here, bend me over the table?" She waited for Charlie to stir. When he didn't, she walked to the stairs and stepped past the suitcase resting on the bottom stair. Her leg brushed against the ticket to Cabo knocking it on the floor. She looked down and smiled.

"You know, Charlie. If you continue to smell like you do, you may have to go to the doctor." She wagged a finger. "And you know how you hate to go to doctors."

I'm Late

I’m never late, not even coming out of my mother's womb. I ooze sweat, my fingertips tingle, and I feel like I have to pee when I even think I’m going to be late. Like now. Damn all those traffic lights.

My doctor’s office is on the second floor. Panting from running up the stairs — I don’t trust elevators —  I enter the waiting room at 9:46. That’s one minute late according to the instructions emailed to me three times in the past two weeks. Hopefully, the restroom isn’t in use.

I check in at the desk and am directed to have a seat. On my way, I make a pit stop. Damn. The door’s locked. I take a few slow, deep breaths to calm me. Before I’ve totally settled down, I hear my name called from the door leading to the examination rooms.

I follow the nurse to be weighed (another unsettling necessity) and then to the exam room. A second nurse takes my blood pressure, which is higher than normal, and verifies all my medications. The two leave together, one telling me the doctor will be right in. Sure, he will, I tell myself.

I pull out my phone to find something to read when I hear two knocks on the door and the doctor enters.

I’ve seen the same doctor for fifteen years. Based on the date on the diploma hanging on the wall, he’s in his fifties, with the body of a marathoner and voice of a cigar smoker. Streaks of grey have invaded his black hair. The doctor standing in front of me exhibits none of the same traits. She has on light blue pants and a white blouse with the requisite stethoscope draped around her neck. Her unruly, auburn hair matches her flair as she enters the room.

“Hello, Jason,” she says, brushing a shock of hair away from her face. “My name is Dr. Miller. Dr. Franklin is sick. I’m subbing in for him for a few days.” She sits and studies the computer screen while I attempt to speak.

“It says here that you’re having stomach issues, anxiety, and an uneven sex drive.” 

I cringe at that last one. I have no trouble speaking to Dr. Franklin — well — frankly, but it doesn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances. “Yes,” I say.

“How long has this been going on?”

“A few of weeks.” She reads off a few more symptoms, and I reply accordingly.

“High, medium or low. How would you rate your level of stress?”

I hesitate answering, as she types some more, probably detailing what a loser I am. 

“I would say medium.”

She smiles and continues typing.

“Well.” I swallow. “It may be closer to the high end.”

“I’d agree to that.” She stands, takes the stethoscope from around her neck, and listens to my heart and carotids.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do medicine-wise. You just need to find a way to de-stress when things are going badly.” 

I nod like a bobble head doll. She’s right, of course.

“You could think about something else to do. Like closing your eyes and watching ocean waves roll onto a beach. That’s my favorite. Or going to a zoo, or taking me out to dinner.”

That last one got my attention. We held each other’s gaze, until I finally broke the silence. “Isn’t dating a patient against some rule?”

“Yes, but technically, you’re not my patient.”

“Well…”

“Marvin’s. Friday night. 7:30.” 

I sit stunned, not believing what I just heard. 

She opens the door, turns, and says, “And don’t be late.”

I gather myself and exit the room. I look at my watch and see I may be late for my next appointment. A nurse points the way to the exit, and I realize my tension is gone. No sweating. No tingling. No need for the restroom. Maybe this doctor is the medicine I need to conquer my stress.

A Family Threesome

[After a longer-than-expected hiatus, below is a recent publication.]

“What do you mean you kinda shot Jolene?” 

Franklin – he hated Frank or Frankie – stood leaning against a cracked kitchen counter, arms crossed over his stomach, waiting for a response from his half-brother, Red, short for Redford. A metal stepladder stood, legs spread, under a bulb-less fixture. A replacement bulb, still in its cardboard container, waited on the counter next to a well-used toaster. A cast-iron skillet sat on the gas stove. A center island separated him from Red.

“Well, you see, she surprised me when she came into the kitchen while I was cleaning my Glock.”

“You own a Glock?” Franklin said, pushing away from the counter. 

“Bought it at a flea market.” Red puffed out his chest. “Best part was I didn’t have to do it on that internet thing,” Red said, bouncing on his toes. “Even got a discount on a silencer.”

“Why on Earth would you need a Glock?” 

“We got a rabbit problem.” 

“A rabbit problem,” Franklin said, and stared at Red with unblinking eyes.

“Yeah. They keep eating the vegetables in Jolene’s garden.” 

“It’s winter time,” Franklin said. “There aren’t any vegetables in Jolene’s garden.” He began to wonder, not for the first time, if inviting Red to stay with him and Jolene while searching for a place to live was a good idea. Especially since he’d been mooching off of them for eight months and counting.

Sweat formed on Red’s forehead as his rehearsed story began to fall apart already.

Tired of waiting, Franklin continued. “Wouldn’t a shotgun be better for your needs?”

“Probably,” Red replied, “but a Glock is more fun.” Red took a deep breath and continued. “Anyway, she came into the kitchen and stood across the room looking out the window at a pair of blue jays bickering over something that was a mystery to me.” Red’s shoulders relaxed as he felt more confident in his tale. “When she turned around, I asked if she wanted to see my Glock. A big smile formed on her face, and she said sure. So, I opened the junk drawer, reached way in the back where I hid the gun, waved it around like I was shooting a bunch of bad guys, and . . .”

“And you shot Jolene,” Franklin said. 

 “Well, yeah,” Red said, “but it was an accident. Like what you see all the time on the TV news programs.” Red offered Franklin a weak smile. 

“So, you bought a Glock to kill rabbits and instead shot my wife — your sister-in-law. Have I got that right?”

“Almost. You forgot the part where I said I didn’t mean to.” Red backed away toward the door to the dining room, one hand behind his back. 

“But you did.” Franklin took a step forward, as Red raised the Glock and pointed it at Franklin’s chest.

“So, where’s Jolene?”

“In the garage, in the bed of your truck, wrapped in a painting tarp.” Red’s gun hand began to shake. “You know, she’s kinda heavy for a such a skinny thing.” Given the look on Franklin’s face, Red decided he shouldn’t say anymore. Instead, he straightened his arm, raising the barrel of the gun higher and slipped his forefinger over the trigger. “Sorry, Bro, but you know too much.”

Red hesitated pulling the trigger. That gave Franklin time to lift the cast-iron pan off the stove and hold it in front of him. The gun finally fired knocking Red back a step. The bullet struck the cast-iron pan, ricocheted off the ladder, and ended up diagonally in Red’s chest.

Franklin kneeled down on the opposite side of the blood pool forming near Red’s heart. It was then he saw the second blob of blood. Jolene’s blood, he assumed. “Well, Red, you’ve done it now, haven’t you. I’d tell you how sad I am at your impending passing, but I’m not.”

“Remember that internet thing you bragged about not using? Well, I used it after I saw the way you two ogled each other when you thought I wasn’t looking.” Franklin stood and flexed his knees. “I wondered if you two were doing the dirty, so I put little cameras all around the house to spy on you and Jolene every time I was out of town.” Franklin took his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed 911. “You were much more inventive in bed than I would have guessed, Red.” 

“And, so you know, you made things easy for me. My plan was to come over while the two of you were in bed and kill you both—with that Glock you hid where any idiot could find it. But you did the job for me. Thank goodness. I’m not sure I could have pulled the trigger.” 

This piece first appeared at https://www.arielchart.com/2024/01/a-family-threesome.html.