Yellow Mama Archives II

Greta T. Bates

Acuff, Gale
Ahern, Edward
Allen, R. A.
Alleyne, Chris
Andes, Tom
Arnold, Sandra
Aronoff, Mikki
Ayers, Tony
Baber, Bill
Baird, Meg
Baker, J. D.
Balaz, Joe
Barker, Adelaide
Barker, Tom
Barnett, Brian
Barry, Tina
Bartlett, Daniel C.
Bates, Greta T.
Bayly, Karen
Beckman, Paul
Bellani, Arnaav
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc
Beveridge, Robert
Blakey, James
Booth, Brenton
Bracken, Michael
Burke, Wayne F.
Burnwell, Otto
Campbell, J. J.
Cancel, Charlie
Capshaw, Ron
Carr, Steve
Carrabis, Joseph
Cartwright, Steve
Centorbi, David Calogero
Cherches, Peter
Christensen, Jan
Clifton, Gary
Cody, Bethany
Costello, Bruce
Coverly, Harris
Crist, Kenneth James
Cumming, Scott
Davie, Andrew
Davis, Michael D.
Degani, Gay
De Neve, M. A.
Dillon, John J.
Dinsmoor, Robert
Dominguez, Diana
Dorman, Roy
Doughty, Brandon
Doyle, John
Dunham, T. Fox
Ebel, Pamela
Fagan, Brian Peter
Fillion, Tom
Fortier, M. L.
Fowler, Michael
Galef, David
Garnet, George
Garrett, Jack
Graysol, Jacob
Grech, Amy
Greenberg, KJ Hannah
Grey, John
Hagerty, David
Hardin, Scott
Held, Shari
Hicks, Darryl
Hivner, Christopher
Hoerner, Keith
Hohmann, Kurt
Holt, M. J.
Holtzman, Bernard
Holtzman, Bernice
Holtzman, Rebecca
Hopson, Kevin
Hubbs, Damon
Irwin, Daniel S.
Jabaut, Mark
Jermin, Wayne
Jeschonek, Robert
Johns. Roger
Kanner, Mike
Karl, Frank S.
Kempe, Lucinda
Kennedy, Cecilia
Keshigian, Michael
Kirchner, Craig
Kitcher, William
Kompany, James
Kondek, Charlie
Koperwas, Tom
Kreuiter, Victor
Larsen, Ted R.
Le Due, Richard
Leotta, Joan
Lester, Louella
Lubaczewski, Paul
Lucas, Gregory E.
Luer, Ken
Lukas, Anthony
Lyon, Hillary
Mannone, John C.
Margel, Abe
Martinez, Richard
McConnell, Logan
McQuiston, Rick
Middleton, Bradford
Milam, Chris
Miller, Dawn L. C.
Mladinic, Peter
Mobili, Juan
Mullins, Ian
Myers, Beverle Graves
Myers, Jen
Newell, Ben
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl
Nielsen, Judith
Onken, Bernard
Owen, Deidre J.
Park, Jon
Parker, Becky
Pettus, Robert
Plath, Rob
Potter, John R. C.
Prusky, Steve
Radcliffe, Paul
Reddick, Niles M.
Reedman, Maree
Reutter, G. Emil
Riekki, Ron
Robson, Merrilee
Rockwood, KM
Rollins, Janna
Rose, Brad
Rosmus, Cindy
Ross, Gary Earl
Rowland, C. A.
Saier, Monique
Sarkar, Partha
Scharhag, Lauren
Schauber, Karen
Schildgen, Bob
Schmitt, Di
Sesling, Zvi E.
Short, John
Simpson, Henry
Slota, Richelle Lee
Smith, Elena E.
Snell, Cheryl
Snethen, Daniel G.
Steven, Michael
Stoler, Cathi
Stoll, Don
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swartz, Justin
Taylor, J. M.
Temples. Phillip
Tobin, Tim
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don"
Turner, Lamont A.
Tustin, John
Tyrer, DJ
Varghese, Davis
Verlaine, Rp
Viola, Saira
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Al Wassif, Amirah
Weibezahl, Robert
Weil, Lester L.
Weisfeld, Victoria
Weld, Charles
White, Robb
Wilhide, Zachary
Williams, E. E.
Williams, K. A.
Wilsky, Jim
Wiseman-Rose, Sophia
Woods, Jonathan
Young, Mark
Zackel, Fred
Zelvin, Elizabeth
Zeigler, Martin
Zimmerman, Thomas
Zumpe, Lee Clark

Relationship Status

By Greta T. Bates


            “Dear Diary…”

No, that’s not right—this sure as shit wasn’t my 9th grade Hello Kitty diary.

          “Log: day 23.”


          I’d followed her home from work again, tracing her steps, noticing her habits, from work and now on the train headed home. A friend of mine once said women’s relationships were confusing—sometimes you didn’t know whether you wanted to be with her or be her.

          Lucky 23, the day we would meet. I fondled the knife in my purse, ran my hand along the spine, as I stared at her long, shiny chestnut locks cascading down her back, skimming her waist, just a peep of skin exposed below her shirt edge—that shirt was sooo cute!

          Ouch! Damn. I’d nicked my finger on the blade.  I brought my fingertip to my mouth drawing it to my tongue. It tasted like lust…or jealousy. I wasn’t sure…relationships with women were complicated.  

          The Object Of My Desire had exited the train and I watched her make her way up the stairs to the street—her boots, amazing. I wondered if they came in brown. Both hands clutching my purse, keeping it tight against my body, I stuck close to her but stayed out of sight. I’d walked this path for almost a month now and I knew where the OOMD was headed, where she lived.

          She entered the front door of her building, there was no concierge, no gate, no code—it would be easy. I waited 15 minutes and then made my way to apartment 2D, my breath quickening in anticipation and to be honest I was shaking a little thinking, “Kill her or kiss her? Kill her or kiss her…”

          Standing outside her door, I inhaled deeply, one hand in a fist poised to knock, the other reaching into my bag, grabbing my knife, my palms were sweating. The door opened suddenly—I was frozen in place, my lips parted, holding my breath.

          The OOMD was standing there in one of those long, oversized t’s, the kind that leaves you wondering if there’s anything underneath. She was casual, one hand leaning against the door jamb, the other finding her hip, her t-shirt riding up a little with this action.

          I exhaled, licked my bottom lip, tugging at it slightly with my teeth.

          OOMD: “Well, you’re finally here. I’ve been watching you too, you know. I thought you’d never get up the nerve to actually come to my door.”

          I stood there, just stood there, not blinking, not breathing. My own clothes beginning to cling to me, damp with nervousness, and to be honest, excitement. The Object Of My Desire had turned, walked away from me. That long t-shirt shifted, confirming my hopeful belief that yes, there was nothing underneath.

          She turned back to me and said, “Are you coming?”

          As I entered the small foyer, all thoughts of the knife in my purse left my head. I was excited, randy, and…a little scared.

          OOMD: “Would you like the grand tour? There’s not much to see.”

          Living room, bedroom to the right. Her closet. Ah…Xanadu…purses, and jackets, and shoes…oh my! And shit, yes, those boots did indeed come in brown!

          Still, I said nothing, hesitant to speak to her. I hadn’t decided exactly what it was that I wanted with this woman. I could feel my blood pumping through my veins, my heart beating, thudding—TICK, TOCK, TICK, TOCK.

          Then, we were in the kitchen—not what I expected at all judging from the rest of the warm, girly apartment replete with fuzzy carpet throws, overstuffed pillows, candles, and plushies—PINK. So much PINK. It, the kitchen, was cold, clinical, dare I say, antiseptic? It looked like that room you see in shows or movies, the one in the back of the funeral parlor where they prep the bodies. And knives, her knives, so many flanking the wall. So…many…

          The OOMD had gone back to the entrance, and I heard her turn the dead bolt—CLICK. She came back to the kitchen flipping the switch, blinding, fluorescent lights illuminating the space. I shielded my eyes, adjusting. It was then I noticed a clock on the wall, heard the hands striking. I sounded like the march of the death beetle—TICK, TOCK, TICK, TOCK—only, I didn’t know for whom it was calling.

          The OOMD started to say something, but I held up a hand stopping her.

          Me: “May I use your restroom?” The only words I uttered.

          OOMD: “Uh…sure. Through the bedroom…I can wait.” She smiled, her grin spreading from cheek to cheek, perfectly whitened teeth gleaming, almost glowing.

          I passed through her bedroom, glancing at her closet and fighting the urge to shop through her things. Closing and locking the door behind me, my thoughts whirling—I felt alive!

          First, I knocked one out to quell one need, so I could focus. Then, I took my phone out, quickly got on Facebook, and changed my status from ‘complicated’ to ‘in a relationship.’ Finally, I took out my knife, sliding it into my waist band.

          Back in her kitchen, I acquiesced, allowing her to lead me over to the spotless white countertop. Lying down, I accepted what was to come. The OOMD tied my wrists and bound my ankles but not before taking off my shoes and replacing them with her brown boots. Nice touch I thought.

          Still smiling, she took a variety of knives down from the wall—a chef’s knife, a paring knife, serrated edge—and began, slicing my flesh, here and there, making incisions, my blood slowly leaving me drop by drop. I breathed in and out through clenched teeth. The pain was exquisite! Then, taking the largest blade, she held the tip below my chin. I knew this was it.

          I had to act fast. She had not tied my wrists too tightly since I’d seemingly complied earlier—I’d never know. As she began to drag her knife across my throat, I grabbed my own and with all the power I pulled her towards me with my other arm. Just before she’d cut all the way through, I stabbed her in the back again and again. RED. So much RED. Her smile slipped… she looked…surprised?

          We lie there, bleeding together…but…together. I had finally answered my own questioning thoughts of, “Kill her or kiss her?” Women’s relationships were complicated, instigated by attraction, arousal, or envy. At least I died with my boots on…well…with her boots on.


Greta T. Bates lives in sunny Fairhope, AL where she draws the drapes and writes in the dark. She published Snapping, Fraying and Dangling in the Wind in 2020. Currently, she is writing short stories that explore lost love, revenge, and facing one’s fears, told through the lens of horror. A Mills College alumna, Greta has been published in Eternal Haunted Summer-Pagan Songs and Tales, Summer Solstice 2022 issue, with Scars Publications at, and in Horror Scope-A Zodiac Anthology edited by H. Everend.  More work out soon!

Look for her first novella, Wounded, to be out in 2023!

Site Maintained by Fossil Publications