Black Petals Issue #79 Spring, 2017

For Sale

Home
Mars-News, Views and Commentary
Cellmates-Fiction by Roy Dorman
Drogol the Nosophorous and the Calf of Man-Fiction by Mike Mulvihill
Feral Rage-Fiction by Dave Anderson
First Bite-Fiction by Jeff Dosser
For Sale-Fiction by Dave Anderson
Get Some Shelter-Fiction by Roy Dorman
Last Leg-Fiction by Dave Anderson
Surviving Montezuma, Ch. 7 & 8-Continuing Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Turbulent Silence-Fiction by George Economou
3 Haiku by William Landis
A Mother's Delight-Poem by Liz McAdams
4 Poems by Brendan McBreen

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For Sale

 

By David Anderson, Featured Author

 

No other way out…

 

 

All that could be made out of Sarah Pitzen in the picture was the pink blotch of her face and blond hair spilling over her shoulders. On second glance you could somewhat make out the red glow of her eyes, giving her a demonic appearance. “I really took a shitty picture.” 

Her boyfriend, John Clarkson, folded the picture twice and then tore it in half; he put his side of the picture in his pocket and tossed hers in the garbage. She glared at him, mouthing fuck you

“What? My picture was fine.” 

In a basement barely the height of a crawl space, John, at 6-foot-one, had to hang his head just to enter or leave. But it was perfect for Sarah, who was being kept there against her will, handcuffed to the door, facing left in a sitting position. Through a small, high window, enough sunlight shone into her eyes to make her squint.

“You bastard, John....”

“Shhh, hon! I need to keep you down here until the deal is set.”

“This is my house! How do you expect to get away with this?”

John explained that he had forged documentation indicating she was turning over sole responsibility to her boyfriend because of imminent distress, which was believable, considering her recent meltdown at work. In the documents it read: I, Sarah Pitzen, being of sound mind and body, am turning over my property at 237 Maple Street to John Clarkson.

“Fine, success, but why do you need to keep me down here?”

“The bank is coming over and I said you were at your mother’s; I don’t need you squawking to them. This will be over in 30 minutes, and then I’ll let you go. Sit tight!”

“Hahaha, very funny!”

“If you make any noise, I’ll simply cut your throat,” said John, lips curved into a malicious smirk. “Since I can’t find the key, I’ll give you a saw to free your hand later.” 

A look of desperation paired with anger grew in Sarah’s eyes; she wiped the back of her hand against the crease of her forehead, where a headache was brewing. She had a sinking feel that he was going to kill her regardless. That was why she had lifted the handcuff key from him when he was shackling her to the door. She had also just recorded everything he said on her cell. She’d swallowed the key as a safeguard.

Seated in a crouched position she pushed and pushed until a pain starting at her stomach shot right down to her thighs. It was like someone sticking a vice around her midsection and squeezing. A loud cracking sound was followed by a whistle from her buttocks, then the pain passed. She looked down: amid a pile of excrement, lay the key.

She removed the handcuff and hid behind the door at the sound of John’s stealthy footsteps. When John stuck his head in the room a baseball bat came down hard at the base of his skull. Preceding the thud of John’s body the satisfying wet crack made Sarah grin—one strike and you’re out!

Sarah went to the authorities and told them everything. Surprisingly, John survived the hit and was sentenced to 15 years in prison for kidnapping and fraud (although he had been rendered a quadriplegic). She wrote a book about her experience, embellished it with a hint of the supernatural, and became an overnight celebrity. Sarah put a “For Sale” sign in front of her house; she could finally afford better… 

Five years passed. Sarah now lived in a comfortable new home, its wood floors covered in lovingly crafted throw rugs, sheer curtains, antique furnishings with what looked like hand-carved workmanship, and, in the front hall, a replica Elizabethan mirror. She always caught her reflection when she left the house, her brown eyes staring back at her. Brown eyes? Her eyes were blue!

Her eyes skewered by the light from the small high window, she looked up at her right hand fastened to the door as the handcuff sawed into her wrist. She wasn’t going anywhere this way. So she took out the lighter she’d lifted, wishing it had been the key, and set the basement door ablaze.

 

The End

 

David Anderson, davidbriananderson@outlook.com, of Ontario Canada, who wrote BP #79’s featured works, “Feral Rage,” “For Sale,” and “Last Leg,” is an avid writer of horror and gore. With an extensive writing background, he currently works as a freelance reporter for a couple of newspapers.

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