My Friend

First published in Flash Phantoms.

Binky’s Bar was full of grown, yet still adolescent, men. The smells of sweat and garlic pizza permeated the darkness. A jukebox struggled to be heard. Once acclimated, I turned my attention to the young woman sitting at the bar. Auburn hair capped a gentle face. The voice in my head named her Queen Bee for the way the nearby drones swarmed around her. I wanted to ask her out, but I couldn’t. I had to bury the twins first. I’d planned to do that right away, while they were still warm. My friend wouldn’t let me. Damn my friend.

The Accidental Suicide

First published at Short-Story.me.

Whack!

Jessica swings the axe and curses Wendy, her thirteen year old daughter. She’s in her room sulking, as usual. An annoying noise she calls music escapes to the backyard where Jessica continues her therapy.

Whack!

She takes another swing, this one for ten-year-old Albert, who continues to whine about not getting the right baseball mitt for his birthday. He’s not a catcher. What do I know about baseball? His dad goes to the games. He’s the one who bought the glove. “A guy thing,” he said.

Whack!

Speaking of . . . Jack's no angel, moping around the house all weekend complaining he’s bored. Jessica offered him a to do list to help fill in his time. 1. Rake the leaves. 2. Mow the lawn. 3. Plug the hole in the fence so our terrier Frankie doesn’t sneak out and bring home a new friend, or worse friends. 

“I just remembered,” Jack says and trots out the door to meet up with Max, his high school buddy, for a beer. So much for his husband of the year trophy.

Whack!

Jessica's never swung an axe before. She didn’t know they owned one until she went to get a rake. It is a great way to rid one’s mind of negativity. Much better than raking leaves.

“Mom, ” Wendy yells from her bedroom window. “Mr. Roberts called. He said he’s coming over to help and that you shouldn’t do anymore chopping until he gets here. He said you’re doing it wrong.”

Whack!

What could that old buttinsky want? 

Whack!

Jessica takes one more swing, moves a few paces away, and hears a loud prolonged groan as the tree falls in the opposite direction she thought it would.

The One

First published in Free Flash Fiction.

I watch the two of you stroll hand-in-hand around the man-made lake in the center of the park, smiling, laughing, ignoring me. Perfect.

The water in the lake is murky due to last night’s heavy rain. The family of mallards swimming military style don’t appear to care. They make lousy witnesses, anyway.

Thanks to a friendly neighbor in your apartment building, I know your name is Carol. His name doesn’t matter. Does it.

You approach a bench with a seat-back advertisement for Siegfried’s Amusement Park. I wonder if you’ve ever been there. I close my eyes and watch what’s-his-face fall from the top of the Ferris wheel. You look over the edge and scream with him, as do the others watching on. Well, except me.

You point a manicured finger across the lake in my direction. I know it’s manicured. I watched the sandy-haired blonde in the mall kiosk do it. Do you know they closed the mall? It’s going to be a roller skating rink. I wonder if you know how to skate. You do? Perfect.

I wave and smile, binoculars covering my face. You tap who’s it on the shoulder and say something. He holds a hand over his brow and looks my way. He removes his phone and pokes at it. Is he calling 911? I’ll be long gone before the cavalry arrives.

But I’ll be back.

‘Cause you’re Perfect.

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. 

Revenge Is a Dish Best Served with a Bang

Karen stared at the three women sitting in the booth by the window as she sipped her unsweetened iced tea. They didn’t notice her, even though she should have stood out wearing torn jeans, a T-shirt, dark glasses and a baseball cap.

Janice, the one facing Karen, was the ring leader of the group—the group that teased and bullied Karen relentlessly as being “ugly,” and “shapeless,” and “dumber than dirt.” The other two—Donna and Valerie—laughed and sneered in support of Janice, but rarely spoke beyond an occasional “Yea,” or “That’s right, Janice,” while air-jabbing Karen with manicured fingers.

When the other two left, Karen removed the cap and glasses, picked up her tea, and walked over to Janice’s table.

“Mind if I join you?” Karen asked.

“I was just getting ready to leave,” Janice said, putting her wallet back in her handbag.

“This won’t take long,” Karen said, sliding into the booth and blocking Janice’s exit. “I have a proposition for you I think you’ll want to hear.”

“Okay. I’m listening.” Janice turned slightly toward the intruder.

“I paid a gentleman to do some research on you.”

“You what?” Janice said loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Let me finish. I promise you’ll be glad you did.”

Karen waited for the tension on Janice’s face to ease before continuing.

“Like I said. I had research done on you, and I know you’re hurting financially.”

“Let me out of here right now, you...you...”

“Bitch? Slut? Skank? Aren’t those the things you called me in high school? You and your besties?”

Janice stared at the woman. Her brain searched for a memory.

“Karen?” she said after a long pause. “I thought you died in that awful accident. How could anyone survive?”

“The doctors said I should have died. They’re not sure how I made it, but I did.”

“How come nobody said anything?”

“I was airlifted to the University of Nebraska Hospital for treatment. The doctors there performed a miracle.” Karen sipped her tea, took her time. “When I was healthy enough, my parents arranged for me to be flown to Mexico for experimental plastic surgery not approved in the U.S. They did a marvelous job, don’t you think?”

“I...I didn’t recognize you. Not even your voice.”

“Well, you only ever heard me say things like ‘Please stop,’ and ‘Leave me alone,’ and ‘What have I ever done to you?’ That sound familiar?”

“Yes,” Janice whispered. She turned toward the window, her shoulders limp.

“Anyway, back to my pitch. The payout from Philip’s insurance should have lasted, but you spent it frivolously and it’s nearly gone. Am I right?”

“How did you find this out?”

“I told you. I hired someone. Between the insurance payout for the accident and the settlement with the car manufacturer of the other car, I’m well off myself.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“Not that I believe you care, but they fell in love with the Mexican coast and decided to stay. I was able to provide for them also.”

“I do care.” Janice reached in her purse for a tissue and dabbed at her nose.

“So much that you went to extreme measures to find out what happened to me? How about attempting to be honest for once, Jan.” Janice hated being called that, but this time she didn’t flinch at the name. “Let’s get to the point. You moved back into your parents’ home after Philip’s heart attack. Right?”

Karen nodded.

“And then your parents decided to retire to Florida and leave you the home.”

Karen nodded again.

“And you sold off many pieces of art and furniture to pay for your extravagant lifestyle.”

This time Karen didn’t respond.

Karen waited until Janice made eye contact. “I’ve always admired your home. It’s very stately looking, sitting at the end of that long front yard. It must be a money drain to maintain.”

Karen sat frozen.

“Here’s my proposal. I’ll buy the house from you for market value. Then you can find a place you can afford.”

Karen finally spoke. “Maybe we could live there together. Be friends.”

“Now you want to be friends? After all those taunts when we were younger.”

“I’m different now. So are you.”

“Oh, you mean I’m not ugly anymore? Maybe I look even better than you? I seem more physically fit. Isn’t that why you wear those loose fitting clothes? Or are you just looking for someone else to mooch off of?” Karen held up a hand to keep Janice from replying. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. For a moment, I sounded just like you.” Karen grinned. Janice didn’t. “Tell you what. Let’s go take a look at the house. I’ve never been inside. I bet it’s beautiful.

Karen had insisted on going first. She pulled into the driveway and stopped, leaving enough room for Janice to follow. She got out of the car and waited for Janice to join her. “Boy, that yard must be longer than a football field.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Janice replied. “Aren’t you going to drive to the house?”

Karen put her left arm around Janice’s shoulders. “Just admiring the view,” she said.

She’d lied about never having been in the house. She’d broken a basement window yesterday, dressed as a utility worker, while Janice was having a spa day and placed a small bomb next to the gas furnace. Now, she slipped her free hand into her pocket and pushed the button. The look of horror on Janice’s face as the explosion and subsequent fire devoured the house brought a smile to Karen’s.

“Oh my,” Karen said, forcing the smile away. “I guess the deal’s off.” She turned to face Janice. “Whatever are you going to do for money now?”

If At First. . .

First published at Aphelion.

Evelyn saw him enter the restaurant from the table where she sat and somehow knew it was her next first date. There had been six since she started dating again after a five year hiatus following college to concentrate on her career as a market analyst. None had led to a second. She hoped number seven might be different but hadn't been able to dispel her fear he wouldn't.

He wore tan Dockers, a pastel green shirt, brown loafers, and brown socks with yellow stripes. She wondered if this was the way he normally dressed, or if he was showing off for her. She imagined him in a gym wearing shorts and a muscle shirt and felt a twinge deep within her. She inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. Her initial trepidation lingered.

He smiled and spoke to the hostess. The young woman in a short dress and cowboy boots pointed in Evelyn's direction and led him to the table for two.

Evelyn smoothed her skirt, mostly to wipe her sweaty palms. After first date number three led nowhere, she took another break from dating to lose thirty pounds and have plastic surgery to tighten loose skin on her face, throat, and belly. She also started a three-times-a-week workout regimen.

She stared at her iPhone, acting like she hadn't seen him yet. When he arrived at the table, she smiled and leaned forward to shake his hand--and provide him a better view of her breasts.

He introduced himself as Franklin. She looked him over and decided the name was an alias, just like in those crime novels she liked. Not that that bothered her, since her name wasn't Evelyn. The local paper classifieds weren't picky about names.

Besides having been overweight and plain-looking, Evelyn wasn't much of a conversationalist. She spent time at home practicing with her cat, but it wasn't the same. She stumbled along, letting Franklin do most of the talking, until she'd finished her second glass of Riesling. Then she relaxed and let herself go a little. She felt the rest of the date went well and hoped Franklin did, too. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

She declined dessert, but said he should feel free to have something. "I'll pass, too. Gotta watch the old waistline," he said and asked the waitress for the check.

Outside, Evelyn felt uncomfortable, not sure what to do next. She clutched the strap of her purse, cleared her throat, and asked if he would like to have dinner again. He lowered his eyes for a few seconds, as if in prayer, and said he didn't think so. "You're nice, and all, but not what I'm looking for."

Evelyn felt her heart sink and her stomach knot, just like every other date. He asked if he could walk her to her car. She thanked him for offering, and the two headed toward the garage on the corner of 8th and Grand.

As they approached her car, Evelyn listened for the sounds of other people. Not hearing anything, she bent over, lifted the hand holding her purse to her stomach, and groaned. Franklin didn't see her reach into her purse, nor did he see the utility knife in her hand when she rose. He barely felt the blade slash his carotid after she spun him so his blood wouldn't spatter her dress. He didn't feel his blood flow onto the concrete floor, nor smell the odor when his bowels emptied.

Evelyn watched first date number seven die, rage covering her face. She knelt next to his body, hiked up her dress, and rubbed the three scars on her right inner thigh she thought of as notches. "All you had to do was say yes to a second date, you slimeball."

She wiped the knife on a cloth napkin she'd put in her purse at the restaurant and tossed the bloody material under the car to her right. She placed the point of the blade on her thigh next to the scar closest to her knee and sliced a fourth, shallow two-inch gash. Blood pooled on her skin and dripped to the floor mixing with date number seven's. She pulled an ace bandage from her purse and wrapped it around her leg.

Evelyn crossed herself before standing, then headed toward the entrance at the opposite end of the building. She wasn't concerned about video surveillance. According to a recent article in the online version of the local newspaper, this place was the oldest parking facility in the city and had yet to be retrofitted with cameras. She dropped the knife in a trash barrel and headed north to the lot where her rental car was parked. She didn't care about leaving prints or DNA. She wasn't in any police database. She only cared about finding first date number eight--and catching her 9:30 flight.

Revenge of the Nerd

This week's 5 to 50/55 challenge. Prompt words below.

Her red hair and pale skin reminded him of a peppermint stick, her voice as sweet. He scrutinized her in the mirror, her body no longer a girl’s. Her finger traced a pattern across his naked chest. He closed his eyes, moaned. When the blade crossed his throat, his eyes opened and his bladder emptied. (55 words)

Prompt words: peppermint, girl, empty, mirror, voice

Free At Last

Ella hated shoes. They hurt. It was also the way she felt about work, and boyfriends, and sex.

Even now in her late twenties, Ella liked going to playgrounds. She was too big for the slide but could soar on the swings, and hand-walk the monkey bars, and not worry about other things. Today, though, she did worry about other things. Things like her mother’s cancer, and her sister’s divorce, and her new boss, who would touch her and look at her the same way he did when she was the receptionist in the marketing department.

At the apex of one swing, staring into the cloudless sky, Ella decided what she should do. After dismounting, she removed her running shoes and socks, left them near the slide, and skipped to her car, arms raised, her body twirling in the breeze.

Ella scampered past her VW Bug into the woods, laughing. She began to sing a melody she’d never heard before, removed her blouse and slacks, then bra and panties as she roamed deeper into the darkness. Ella was free—free to do whatever she wanted.

The roar of the waterfall tickled Ella’s ears, made her laugh again. She ran to the edge of the falls, took several deep breaths, and looked down. A mist covered the pool at the bottom. With giggles circling her head, she leapt toward the foaming water, her arms spread wide, back arched, legs together, toes pointed, just like her diving instructor had taught her. Ella’s mind and body relaxed, she entered the cleansing water.

Three days later a family hiking the valley found Ella’s body draped on a rock.

An Eye for an Eye

“Hey, mister. Does that plant eat people?”

The man's face went from puzzled to smiling as he turned and saw the girl standing just inside the greenhouse door.

“You part of the school tour?” the man asked.

“No, I'm by myself.” She crossed her arms. “Well, is it?”

The man straightened and said, “What a silly question. There are no man-eating plants.” He smiled, wiped a soiled handkerchief across his brow and put the hankie in the pocket of his bib overalls. He didn't wear a shirt.

“Too bad.” The girl's eyes stayed on the man. He remained still, as if planted in potting soil, unable to move.

The man looked the girl up and down. She couldn't be more than nine or ten. Her pink dress had a dark red circular stain on the front that could be blood. Dark, unwashed hair hung limp on her shoulders. Her purple eyes made him nervous. When she stepped forward, he backed away.

“Now stay back missy. There are sharp tools and prickly plants in here. I wouldn't want you to trip and get hurt.”

“Oh, you can't hurt me. Not again.” She continued forward—slowly. He looked to see how close he was to the back door.

“What the hell is going on?” The man picked up a clawed tool, just in case. “Who are you?”

“I'm not surprised you don't remember me. You were drunk, or high on drugs, or both when we last met.” She cocked her head to one side. “You didn't have a beard then.” She rolled her head to the other side. “You look younger without it, even with the grey.” Her focus returned to the accident. “It was three weeks ago, a rainy, July evening. You were driving when you shouldn't have been, and you swerved into our lane and killed my dad and me. Remember yet?”

“You're mistaken,” he said, his voice soft and unsteady.

“No. You did it.”

The man wanted to run away, but couldn't move. Something held him in place.

“My mom still cries every night. I don't like seeing her sad. She tells everyone she's fine, but she isn't.”

“But. . .you're dead. You said so.” The man's hands shook, bile crept into his throat.

“Yeah, so you can't kill me again. But I can make your life miserable—and that's what I plan to do. Make it as miserable as my mom's is.” Her expression was anything but childlike. “Or worse.”

The man pushed the door open, ran out, slammed the door shut, and propped a shovel against it. He looked inside. The girl was gone. Still, he heard her say, “That won't help you.”

The Stranger

First published at Perpetual Motion Magazine Publishing.

“I can't go to sleep,” Jonathan said, laying on the doctor's couch. He counted on his fingers to keep his mind active. “I'll certainly die if I do.” He pointed at the man sitting in the chair without looking at him. “You told me so.”

“That wasn't me,” said Dr. England. “That was the man who kidnapped you.”

This man didn't have a beard, Jonathan thought. And his hair wasn't grey, and he didn't yell all the time, and he wore a suit and tie. Still, it was him. Jonathan curled up on the sofa, his knees to his chest, his back to the man.

“I don't believe you.” Jonathan twisted his neck until the man appeared in his peripheral. “You lied to me before.”

“Tell me what happened, Jonathan.”

“I did already.”

“Tell me again.”

Neither spoke for a few seconds. Jonathan rolled onto his back, still clasping his knees, and stared at the ceiling. He rocked from side to side.

“I was on my way home from the soccer game. Mom was at work, so I had to walk. I turned the corner and you grabbed me and pulled me into the bushes. A cloth covered my mouth. I smelled something funny and fell asleep. I woke in a cabin chained to the wall.”

Dr. England wrote in his pad, his legs crossed, and finally said, “Then what?”

“You were there. Why do you keep asking?”

“My memory isn't as good as yours.”

Jonathan frowned. Maybe if he told the story one more time the man would let him go home.

“You told me we were going to play hide and seek. I said I was fourteen and too old to play.” Jonathan hugged his knees tighter. “You told me we were going to play the adult version. That's when you said I'd die if I fell asleep before the game started.”

“How long did he wait to start the game?”

“I don't remember. Three days?”

“What happened than?”

“You entered the cabin, put a big knife on the table, and tossed me a key. I ignored it. Stared at your eyes. I could tell you'd been drinking.”

“How?”

“It was how mom and dad looked when they came home from a party. Not that they ever tried to hurt me.” Jonathan glared at the man. “Not like you did.”

Jonathan wondered where his dad was and if he'd ever come back.

“Then what happened.”

“You told me to free myself, take the knife and run into the woods. You said you'd count to twenty and then come after me. I didn't move—until I heard you start counting.”

“Did you take the knife?”

“Not at first. Then I saw you pick up the shotgun and rack a shell into the chamber.”

Jonathan paused.

“Go on,” Dr. England said, his pen suspended in the air.

“This is stupid. You know what happened. Unless you're a moron. Are you a moron? You sure act like it sometimes.”

“No, I'm not a moron, Jonathan. Go on.”

Jonathan straightened his legs and continued.

“I ran as fast as I could, given it was dark and there wasn't a path. I went until I couldn't see the cabin and turned at a right angle, ran some more and turned again. I planned to circle back so I could follow the road out.”

“That was smart, Jonathan.”

“Until I tripped over a log and sprained my ankle.” Sweat beaded on Jonathan's forehead. “I crawled behind a tree and concentrated on slowing my breathing. Figured you'd find me if I didn't. That's when I heard you calling me. I inched into a recess in the tree and waited. I couldn't outrun you, even if you had been drinking. A twig snapped nearby. I clutched the knife and waited. When you stepped in front of me, I stabbed your leg. You grabbed the wound, and I stabbed you in the side. You fell to the ground, and I stabbed you in the back—over and over and over—until you stopped moving.”

Jonathan's breathing was rapid. He began counting on his fingers again.

“What did you do then?”

“I waited until dawn and made my way to a road where an old man gave me a ride in his pickup truck.”

“What about the man chasing you?”

“He was dead. I told the old man what had happened. Why I had blood on my clothes. He told the police.”

“You're sure he was dead.”

“Positive,” Jonathan said with venom in his eyes.

“Then how can I be him?”

“I haven't figured that out yet.”

“Have you slept since you've been home?”

“No.”

“Don't you want to?”

“No. You'll kill me.”

Broken

by Jim Harrington

First published at MicroHorror

I zipped my backpack and set it on the floor when Mom entered the kitchen. She wore a short, terrycloth robe and her hair was wet. I was pretty sure she’d shaved her legs, too. After she poured her coffee, I told her I was sick and unable to go to school.

“Do you have a test? Do you have to read something in front of the class? Is someone bullying you?” I answered no to all of her questions. “You don’t have a fever. Your skin color is good. You’re not throwing up. Are you having your period?” The rapid fire questions were typical of Mom when she was agitated. I shook my head. “Then there’s no reason why you can’t go to school.” She threw her hands in the air, splashing coffee on her robe, and strode out of the kitchen. “Be ready in five, young lady. You don’t want to be late again,” she said from half way up the stairs.

You would think Mom would have different questions by now. I tried--unsuccessfully--staying home the first Monday of the last three months. The first Monday was when Daddy flew to Des Moines to his company’s headquarters for some stupid sales meetings. It was also one of Uncle Jack’s days off from work. He wasn’t my uncle, really. He was our neighbor, and he was having an affair with Mom. I knew this because I ran home from school one day instead of eating lunch and peeked into a window. They were naked. Mom was bent over the kitchen table. Uncle Jack was standing behind her, swaying back and forth, his wanker (that’s what my friend Sara calls it) sliding in and out of Mom. My parents didn’t think I knew about sex because I was only in eighth grade, but I’d seen pictures on the Internet. Besides, Sara and I tried it with a cucumber once. We didn’t like it at first. 

I told Mom I knew about her and Uncle Jack, that I’d seen them. She slapped my face and sent me to my room. That was two months ago. I thought if she knew I knew she’d stop. She didn’t. So today it was my turn to be the adult and end the affair. Sara said I should tell Daddy. I couldn’t do that. It would break his heart.

I opened my backpack, made sure Daddy's gun was still there, and zipped the bag shut.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll walk to school.”

“Are you sure, sweetie? I don’t want you to be late.”

“And I know why,” I mumbled.

“What? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I have plenty of time. See you this afternoon.”

I heard her voice, but not what she said. I was already out the door.

At the end of the driveway, I turned right and headed for school. Uncle Jack was sweeping off his porch, probably waiting for me to leave. I smiled and waved, certain Mom hadn’t told him I knew about them. “Have a nice day. See you later,” I said. He smiled and waved back.

I walked two blocks and sat on the bus stop bench. I figured twenty minutes would be enough time for me to wait. I rubbed the backpack, felt the gun. 

Daddy will be so proud of me.

Heads Bruce Wins, Tails Bruce Wins

This week's prompt words in bold. A few readers have asked where I get the ideas for these shorties. I don't have a clue; but given this week's effort, it's obviously from some dark place where none of you want to be.

Welcome to MY playhouse. No miniature crap here. No silly butterscotch balls. Lots of real scotch and rum and whiskey, though. You'll need the strong stuff once the fightin' starts. You'll see. Gravity is a bitch when you're dropped from way up. What? The bag in the corner? That's where the loser ends up. Ready? (55 words)

Two Sentence Horror Stories

I was pointed to a site containing a few two sentence horror stories chosen from a group of stories submitted to Reddit. Of course, I couldn't help but give a try. Thanks, Colleen. Here's my effort.

Daddy said he loved his little princess more than anything in the world. He thought I loved him too, until I aimed the shotgun at his crotch.

Sunday Niblet: The Best Present Ever

Prompt words are in bold.

Carrie crouched at the window holding the oversized, crystal spider in her sweaty palm. A present from Josh, it was his way of curing her "spiderphobia." 

She watched Josh, her lover turned antagonist, exit the car. She inched toward the door, twisting the bathrobe's purple sash around her finger, and waited. He wouldn't rape her again.

His First and Only: A Love Story for Halloween

Bryce stood on the sidewalk, wearing a clown mask, his hands in his pockets, and studied her as she dropped candy into the plastic pumpkins and white pillow cases and brown paper bags. She smiled at him and waved, thinking he was the father. He waved back, even though he had no idea who the brats were standing on her porch. It was the woman, Mary Lou Compton, that he cared about. They would've been happily married by now if Bryce hadn't killed his Uncle Ned.

It was after Bryce took Mary Lou home from a date that he walked in on Uncle Ned slapping his sister, Bryce's mother. Bryce grabbed an iron from the fireplace and forced Uncle Ned into a corner. "Here's some of your own medicine, you bastard," Bryce yelled. He continued to swing away until his uncle stopped fighting back.

But that wasn't the memory Bryce needed in his head tonight. He wanted to focus on Mary Lou and what they meant to each other. He'd often thought about their life as husband and wife, with lots of little kids running around the backyard playing with the dog--a Rottweiler named Gus. 

He wrote her twice from prison. She didn't respond. He was disappointed but not surprised--nor worried. He knew he could win her back. It wasn't until yesterday when he returned home after twenty-one years in prison and a two day bus ride, that he learned she'd married Peter Gorshen and had two kids. He didn't recognize the name Gorshen and pictured them with a couple of scrawny girls who didn't know how to throw a ball and some yappy little dog that wasn't worth a damn.

He followed the costumed kids to the next house, but continued to watch Mary Lou hand out packages of M&Ms to a new group. Her smile was the same one he remembered, and she still liked to wear dresses, even on a chilly October evening. The last time he saw her in a dress was the night they made out in his mom's Chrysler New Yorker, the night he decided he would ask her to marry him. The night he killed Uncle Ned. He glanced at her left ankle. He couldn't see the tattoo clearly from this distance, but he knew it was a miniature dragon that matched his. He took that as a sign she still loved him. 

With no more trick or treaters in sight, Mary Lou went inside and closed the door. Bryce moved on with his group so as not to draw unwanted attention. He'd come back later after all the children were home and pay Mary Lou a visit.

***

An hour later, he rang Mary Lou's doorbell, anxious to see the look on her face when he revealed himself.

"Trick or treat," he said when she opened the door.

The smile turned to a chuckle. "Aren't you a little old to be trick or treating?"

"Maybe," he said, "but I'm not here for the candy." He removed the mask.

"Bryce?" she said. "Bryce Mullens? What are you doing here?"

Bryce felt his hands get sweaty. He stared into those familiar hazel eyes and felt the same as he had on the night he picked her up in his mom's car. The night she professed her love for him.

"I got out of jail a few days ago and thought I'd stop by and see how you're doin'." His studied his fingers, as they crumbled the mask. "I. . . I missed you."

Mary Lou stood with one hand on the door. Her other hand fingered the material of her dress.

"Maybe I should have called first," he said.

Mary Lou remained silent.

Bryce cocked his head and peeked into the house. "Mind if I come in?"

"That probably wouldn't be a good idea," she said. "My husband will be home anytime now, and he might not like you being here." She stepped behind the door and started to close it. "Maybe you could come back another time."

"But I want to talk now." Bryce pushed the door open and grabbed her arm. The roots of a headache began to take hold. They'd started during the trial when his so-called friends and neighbors, even his mother, told lies about him.

Mary Lou tried to pull away, her eyes wide. He maintained his grip.

"Please, Bryce." 

He released her arm and exhaled, like the prison doctor suggested he do when the pain started. "I couldn't hurt you," he said. "Don't you know that?" 

She rubbed her arm and stepped back.

"I know it's been a while." He pointed to the living room. "Can we sit?"

She looked over his shoulder into the darkness. Seeing no one, she walked into the room and sat on a chair near the fireplace. A book lay on the adjacent end table. A pair of men's reading glasses sat perched on top of the tan cover. Bryce sat on the edge of the sofa.

"You've got a nice place here."

"Bryce," she said, her fingers interlaced in her lap. "It's been a long time, and I never said I'd wait for you, or anything like that." 

He noticed her glance at the family picture hanging over the mantle. 

"It wasn't like we were committed to each other," she continued.

"But you said you loved me," Bryce said, a puzzled look on his face.

"We were kids." She turned toward him. "You were the first guy who paid attention to me. I was a fifteen-year-old girl who didn't know what love was."

Bryce clutched the mask harder and twisted the plastic into a grotesque shape. "Is that why you never responded to my letters?"

"Letters?"

"I sent you two."

 She paused. "My parents must have thrown them out."

"I see you still have the tattoo."

"They're hard to get rid of."

"Or maybe you still have feelings for me." Bryce smiled.

"No." She glared at Bryce. "I don't. How many times do I have to say it?"

"But you could--"

"Bryce, I'm happily married. I have no intention of leaving my husband and children."

"Lots of people get divorces. I bet if we spend some time together--"

"No." She stood and walked to the fireplace, her back to Bryce. "You should leave now."

The pain in his head increased, and he rubbed his temples. He couldn't believe this was happening. It wasn't right. She had to still love him. It was what had kept him sane. He rubbed harder, but it didn't help.

"I suppose you're married to some rich banker, or something."

"Bryce. Please listen." She took a deep breath. "You went to prison, which I never thought was right, and I moved on with my life. Lots of kids date in high school and don't end up together. That was our fate too." She nodded toward the front door. "It's time for you to go."

The pain felt like it did the day he attacked his new cellmate after the man tried to rape Bryce, a beating that earned him added time in that hell hole of a prison. He knew the violence was wrong, but he couldn't help himself. It was the only way to lessen the throbbing. Unable to constrain himself, Bryce lunged toward Mary Lou.

Mary Lou screamed.

Bryce grasped her shoulders, twisted her around, and slapped her. Mary Lou's head struck the mantle. Her legs buckled, and she fell to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Mary Lou," Bryce said, leaning down. "I'm so sorry."

He wiped a strand of hair from her face. A tear rolled down his cheek. "I just wanted. . .." He cradled her head in the crook of his arm and gently rocked and felt the pain subside.

"I need you, Mary Lou." He looked at the family picture. "Maybe more than them."

Mary Lou groaned and stopped breathing.

Bryce kissed her forehead and lowered her to the floor. He stared again at the family portrait hanging over the fireplace and tried to imagine himself in it. When he couldn't, he rose and walked to the table near the doorway where the phone waited. He dialed 911 and explained the situation. The operator instructed him to wait until the ambulance arrived. He said he would. He was going back to prison, this time for becoming Uncle Ned.

Life Imitating Art

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold. 

Mazie trudged through the Gallery of Fringe Art disgusted by what she saw. Statues with heads for feet. Torsos with genitals in place of belly buttons. Audience members oohing over every disgusting piece. She stopped at the statue of the boy, drama etched on his face. She touched his skin and he whispered, "Help me."

Still Lifeless

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

The guests invited to his studio considered his sculptures anything but ordinary, the features so real, so precise. Many asked if any were custom designs. He smiled and answered they all were. How could they not be, he thought, when the model for each one was encased within the work.

Together at Last

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.  

Scented candles lined the walls of the refrigerated room. The flickering lights echoed off the ivory inlaid on the sides of the open casket. Raymond had fantasized about them frolicking in a jacuzzi, but this would do. They were together, and once it'd become a reality, he lost his appetite. (50 words)

The Stranger Amongst Us

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold. 

The man's face belonged in a museum, in the section for the not famous, for those whose advice was feared, a concealed room of an antiquated, forgotten period, one where the man's secret would remain just that, where no one would learn he was the unknown artifact from Pandora's Box.

The Borrowed Grave

Harold lumbered past the houses where impatient witches, ghosts, and vampires had visited the previous night seeking treats to fill their bags. His sack contained possessions no one would see but him. Eyes and ears on alert, he continued his journey.

Tonight was the one year plus one day anniversary of his mother's disappearance. The police ceased their investigation after finding no clues. They now considered the woman a runaway.

Harold approached the cemetery, the fresh grave, someone else's resting place, awaiting him. What better place to hide his mother's bones.

Harold grinned.