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Sasha
Takes Another Shot
by Hillary
Lyon
“If
you don’t think about it, then it didn’t happen.” Sasha reached for the full
shot glass on the coffee table in front of her. “That’s what Sister Katherine
told me to do.”
Katie
picked up her own shot glass but stopped short of her lips. “Sister Katherine?
You went to see that old witch? Please tell me you didn’t.”
Sasha
threw her head back, downing the tequila in one gulp. “It’s not bad advice.
Listen, I slept better last night, and woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed
this morning.”
“It’s
just denial! It’s childish and self-destructive. How much did her ‘advice’ cost
you?” Katie reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses.
“Fifty
bucks.” Sasha giggled.
“Fifty?
I could have given you that ‘advice,’ for half the price.” Katie couldn’t help
but join her friend in the giggles, before catching herself and regaining her
composure. One of them had to be serious here. “Did Sister Katherine even give
you a talisman to rub between your fingers when you’re stressed? Did that
wizened old crone make you a wearable little medicine bag, stuffed with herbs
and crystal shards, to protect you? Did she at least hand-write, in cursive, a
short incantation of anonymity on old parchment, for you to swallow?”
Sasha
raised her glass, to her friend’s consternation, and took a ladylike sip of her
tequila. “No, no, and no.” She swallowed her drink and put the empty glass on
the coffee table. Then she pointed to it.
Katie
again filled their glasses, shaking her head. “Pretending it didn’t happen is not
going to change the reality of your situation, which is dire.” Katie pushed
Sasha’s shot glass across the coffee table towards her, sloshing a bit of
tequila on the glass top as she did. “Not one little bit.”
“I
mean,” Katie continued after she chugged her own shot, “The police are
looking for you.”
“I
know,” Sasha mumbled as she rummaged through her hobo purse. She pulled a
bloodied handkerchief from its depths and spread it out on the coffee table
before her. She meticulously smoothed out the wrinkles.
Katie
went on. “They found the body.” She reached for the half-empty bottle.
“Yeah,
they did,” Sasha agreed. She dug out several metal somethings that clinked
together in her loose fist. She held her hand over the open handkerchief, and dropped
onto the center of the bloodied cloth, three spent shells from her Glock, one
at a time. Sasha then nodded towards her empty glass.
“In
your bedroom,” Katie pointed out, as she refilled their glasses.
“Uh
huh,” Sasha concurred, still searching through her oversized bag. “Ah, there
you are!” she stage-whispered to her find. She then gingerly placed a man’s
simple gold wedding band on top of the heaped shells.
“In
your bed,” Katie said, with a catch in her voice and tears in her eyes.
Damn tequila; it was making her sappy.
Sasha
tied her project up in a tidy little bundle, lifted it up before her friend,
and gently dropped it into her hobo bag. She sucked down her tequila, then with
the empty glass between her fingers, spun it like a top on the coffee table,
flinging drops out in a messy, circular-splatter pattern.
Katie
reached over and stopped the spin; it was making her a wee bit nauseous. “What
are you going to do?”
“Do?”
Sasha shrugged. “I'm going to go see Madame Devereaux.”
“Another
witch?” Katie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Why? What can she do for
you?”
“Well,
for one thing, she can—” Sasha began, but Katie interrupted.
“Can
she reverse the flow of time, to prevent this horror show from happening?”
Katie stood up, pacing now. She was on a roll. “Can she send you back to stop
yourself from murdering your married lover?” She threw her hands up in
despair. “And if she could, would you even listen to yourself?”
“Don’t
be absurd,” Sasha said as she grabbed her last tequila shot. She raised it
toward her friend and winked. “I know Madame Devereaux can’t manipulate time.”
Sasha downed her final shot, coughed once, and wiped her mouth. She stood up,
slung her hobo bag over her shoulder, and headed for the door.
“Then
what can she do for you?” Katie queried before finishing her own last
shot. She slammed the empty glass down on the table.
Sasha
looked her old friend in the eye. “What she can do for me,” she said
with an impish grin, “is raise the dead.”
Things Found
in a Public Parking Lot by Hillary
Lyon One pine tree-shaped
air freshener—scent depleted Four cigarette butts— Marlboro, smoked down to filters, ground
underfoot Two-ounce
bottle of energy drink— capless, empty One half-eaten hard candy—
butterscotch, covered in ants One ziplock baggie— quart-size, sealed, stuffed with soiled
paper towels A
single press-on nail— candy apple red One CD—Adele 19,
cracked, unplayable One earring— costume jewelry, dream catcher-style Six zip ties— white
nylon, commercial grade, unused A heel broken from a woman’s dress shoe— two inches,
navy blue pleather One pair sunglasses— men's mirrored aviator-style, left lens
missing One
shell casing—.22 mag, brass, spent Possible blood drops—
eight total, varying in diameter from ¼ to three inches Tire skid marks— eight feet long,
located near parking lot exit A
Glass of Punch Hillary Lyon “I give ‘em five years, max.” “Five
years?” Susan interjected, raising her shot glass. “I give ‘em two.”
She tossed back her tequila and slammed the glass on the bar. “I know my cousin better
than she knows herself, and there ain’t no way—no way—she’s gonna
stick it out with that bozo.” She bit the lime slice and licked the salt off her
wrist. I motioned to the bartender for another round
of shots. “I still don’t get why Leanne wanted to marry him. I mean, it’s
not like she’s pregnant, right? I mean, look at Cody: he’s short, broke, and
mean. And hardly good lookin’. It’s like she’s married Rumpelstiltskin.” Susan laughed at that. Laughed for the first time
all day. “I know, right?” Then she reclaimed her bitter mood. “Today
felt more like a funeral than a wedding.” I
patted her on the back. “And these brides-maid dresses! Could they be
any more hideous? Fuchsia taffeta? With a ginormous bow right under the boobs? How old
is your cousin—twelve?” I tugged at the corner of Susan’s boob-bow. “It
was her dream wedding,” Susan giggled as the bartender set the round
before us. We clinked glasses before throwing back our shots. “A dream wedding,” I laughed, squeezing tears out of the corner of
my eyes. “that’ll end up a nightmare marriage.” Unless I stop it,
I wanted to add, but knew better. “Let’s have another round, then walk back
to the reception before we’re missed.” *
* *. But the reception could wait. “Say,”
Susan said after one too many shots, “weren’t you gonna serve punch
at the reception? How’d you get to be a bridesmaid?” “Duh! I was asked.”
Susan had imbibed much more than me, at my insistence.
Now that her jaw was well-oiled, she would talk about anything and everything. I scoffed,
“As if I’d serve punch at my best friend’s wedding.” Susan
continued, “But I heard Colette was gonna be a bridesmaid, and
you’re supposed to serve punch.” “And who told you that?” “Colette.” The light dawned in Susan's tequila-soaked brain.
“Whatever happened to Colette, anyway?” Got sick and died, I almost said. But instead, I shrugged my shoulders.
“Who knows? She’s a slutty flake, anyway. Why would Leanne want her in her
wedding? I mean, she slept with the groom.” Susan struggled
to focus her eyes, as if she was looking for that particular
memory. “Oh yeah, like, last summer? Around the time Leanne and Cody got engaged.”
She slapped the bar. “I forgot!” She swayed on her bar stool. “Hey,
Cody doesn't like you very much, does he?” “He tells anyone who’ll
listen that I’m a bad influence on Leanne.”
Because I tried to talk her out of this marriage. “I guess I threaten him.”
Now it was my turn to ask questions. “How did he talk Leanne into asking Colette
to be a bridesmaid?” “I dunno. But he did. You know how he bullies
her.” She shook her head. “When we were picking out these god-awful dresses,
she had bruises on her bare arms.” Susan looked like she was about to cry. I adjusted my ill-fitting bridesmaid dress. Jeez, Colette had tiny boobs.
“Time to go, girlfriend. Don't wanna miss the best part of the reception.” *
* * So many inebriated people milling about in that
rented hall. I nodded to the bride, who wore a smile that failed to reach her eyes. I meandered
over to the refreshments table and told the matron serving punch to get lost. I bent down, raised my taffeta skirt, and pulled
out a small packet of toxic white power I had hidden snug in my garter belt. Tia Maria’s
powder is a permanent solution to all your woes, my bruja auntie had advised me. Use
with care. So, I carefully sprinkled it into a plastic champagne flute, then filled
the flute with bright red fruity punch. Why have plastic champagne flutes for punch, I
don’t know; I would have gone with Solo cups. I filled another flute with poison-free
punch, before sashaying over to the happy couple. “See?
You’re perfectly suited to serve punch,” Cody sniggered as he
grabbed the flute I held out to him. “It’s about your speed.” Leanne took hers,
but set it aside. “Cheers to ya!” I chirped. Cody drank
his in one gulp. He leaned over and whispered who knows what into Leanne’s ear. Leanne
grimaced and waved me away. I ended up at the open bar, where I struck up
a flirty conversation with the bartender. When Cody and Leanne danced their
spot-light-on-the-newlywed-couple dance, I managed to maneuver myself behind the bar. There
I lovingly stroked the neck of an empty champagne bottle as I chatted with the bartender;
we agreed he’d give me a ride when this was all over. Then
the lights dimmed way down and the disco ball dropped. As the rest of
the drunken revelers bumped onto the crowded dance floor, I lost Leanne and Cody in the
crowd. But with the DJ spinning a new song, Cody resurfaced, pushing guests aside and stumbling
towards the bar. His eyes were glassy, his mouth slack, and he didn’t seem to recognize
me. Perhaps it was too dark. I turned to the
bartender. “Hey handsome, looks like you’re out of soda
and seltzer—and you’re really low on vodka. Best go fetch.” He gave me a peck
on the cheek and a playful slap on the butt before he disappeared into the surrounding
shadows. Cody, nevertheless,
attempted to order a drink, but the words came out as slurred blather. Imagine, he mistook
me for the bartender! Hell, all I’m fit for is ladling punch to teetotalers. I still
had a bit of powder in my garter, so I flicked it in the gin and tonic I poured for him.
It’s the only drink I know how to make. He slurped it down like a man dying of thirst.
I picked up that empty champagne bottle, because—miracle of miracles, he still stood
upright. Well, if Tia’s powder doesn’t fix this marriage, I mused as I
tested the empty bottle’s heft, this surely will.
Nobody Puts Liza in the Closet by
Hillary Lyon “Oooh, babe, you are such a delight,
such a luxury—” He smiled his boyish smile and ran his fingers through her
tousled hair. “Do you realize what I would do just to—” Carl’s romantic babble was interrupted by the sound of a car door
slamming, shortly followed by the rattle of keys in the front door lock. “God dammit!” He hissed, jumping
out of bed. He grabbed Liza by the arm, roughly pulling her up and off the bed. “You
gotta hide!” He frantically scanned the messy bedroom. Carl kicked a pile of dirty
clothes away from the closet doors. “Here—get in here.”
He shoved Liza inside and closed the closet’s louvered doors. “And don’t
say a word—no matter what you hear. Got it?” Naked
Liza worked her way to the back of the closet, behind the hanging shirts, slacks,
and dresses. She pressed herself up against the wall and held her breath. Carl grabbed a wrinkled t-shirt and soiled jeans from the laundry pile
and quickly pulled them on. Just as he was zipping up the fly, Jessie pushed the bedroom
door open. “Hey, babe,”
Carl laughed awkwardly when they made eye contact; his mind was careening like a poorly
shot pool ball, zooming and clacking against other balls, trying to locate a believable
story. “What are ya doing home so early?” He mentally kicked himself; that
was the absolute wrong thing to say. “Me?”
Jessie’s eyebrows knitted together; deflection was one of his tired tricks. “I
thought I’d come home for lunch. Work is making me crazy.” But not as crazy
as you make me, she added to herself. Jessie
looked at the rumpled bed and sighed. She’d made it up before she’d left for
work this morning. She always made up the bed. Carl knew this; he shoved his hands
into his jeans’ back pockets, thrust his shoulders out. He hoped the pose would distract
her. He knew what she liked. “Question
is, Carl, what are you doing home? Why aren’t you at work?” “You know what?” Carl answered, adopting his seductive swagger
and slowly moving in close to her. “I wanted to surprise you, babe. Engage in some
afternoon dee-light.” He was such a bad liar. Carl chuckled and slid his
arms around her to bring her into a close, warm hug, hoping she would melt, like she used
to. Jessie put both hands against his muscular chest and gently pushed him away;
she could smell another woman on him. It was not the first time; more like the 50th.
An exaggeration, but not by much. “You
surprised me, alright,” Jessie murmured as she slid her purse off her shoulder.
But not really, she said to herself as she opened her bag. “Well, I—”
she said as she dug around inside her cluttered bag, “have a surprise for you.” Jessie looked up at Carl and smiled. “And here it is.”
She withdrew her little pearl-handled two-shot derringer, the one her grandmother
gave her when she moved to the big city. For protection. Well, Jessie reasoned,
I have to protect my sanity and self-esteem, don’t I. “Hey, babe—no!” Panicked,
Carl waved his hands before him, as if this lame pantomime could stop the roaring juggernaut
of his oncoming fate. “Uh uh. You don’t wanna do this!” His terrified
mind scampered from excuse to excuse, from appeal to appeal, like a rat trying to escape
a feral alley cat. “You know how much I love you!” “Yeah, ‘in your way,’ you once told
me.” Her eyes were cold and distant
as she recalled that conversation. It was from the first time she caught him cheating;
the other woman was hiding in their bathroom, cowering like the skanky coward she was.
Though Jessie chased her out of their apartment with a steak knife, she had no intention
of stabbing the stupid woman. No, she would save her murderous intention for the inevitable
next time. For Carl. But
he had been so careful in the intervening years; Jessie never again caught him with
another woman, but she accrued plenty of evidence that there were others. Like the lipstick
she found under the couch when she was vacuuming; a color she’d never wear, much
less own. Folded love notes left in his jean’s pockets, childish notes not written
in her hand. Then there were the tiny g-string panties she’d found under her seat
in the car; must’ve belonged to the previous owner, Carl insisted, as the car was
bought used. Uh huh. There were so many other instances, Jessie grew weary
recollecting them; each memory just added more kindling to her smoldering ire. “Babe, you are my everything—my
delight, my love, my—do you realize what I would do just to—” Carl was
maneuvering himself close to Jessie, in hopes of snatching the derringer from her hand.
She was on to him; she stepped back. “Oh yeah,
babe, but do you realize what I would do just to—” Jessie pulled the trigger,
and boom!, Carl crumpled to the floor, landing in the pile of dirty laundry. “—be
rid of you?” She poked him
in the ribs with the toe of her loafer; he didn’t twitch or groan. She wiped the
blood off the toe of her shoe on his jeans, adding yet another stain. “Aw, who’s
gonna do your laundry now, babe?” Jessie scoffed. She put the warm derringer
back into her purse. She turned
towards the closet. “You can come out now, Liza,” Jessie said with a soft lilt
her voice. Liza pushed
the louvered doors of the closet open. She poked her head out, wide eyed and biting her
lower lip; Jessie melted inside when Liza did that. “Is it done?” she whispered
excitedly. Liza had donned one of Jessie’s floral summer dresses. It fit her perfectly. “It’s done,
babe,” Jessie said as she took Liza in her arms. “And you played your part
perfectly—you sweet little scamp.” Liza blushed. “Now
what?” Liza asked. She looked down at Carl’s body and grimaced. “No need to
look at that mess, sweetheart.” Jessie took Liza's face in her hands. “Now I
grab my suitcase, we hop in your car, and we get the hell outta here.” Gently, reassuringly,
she kissed Liza. “We’re free.”
Laundry Day by Hillary Lyon Galinda opened
the closet in her bedroom, and picked up the wadded sheet
stashed in the corner. She shook it out. There were lots of wrinkles, But hey, she
told herself, that makes it look appropriately jaded. That and the bloodstains. It will
make a perfect screen for the multi-media project I have in mind. She gnawed her fingernail as she worked out the details for her next
art installation. I’ll use the video I made of my last tryst with Benson—our
final fare-thee-well-fuck, as it were. I'll convert the video to black and white, overlay
a grainy filter, and—voila! Instant old-school amateur porn. I’ll
delete the audio, and add a recording I made years ago of children laughing
and screeching in park playground. Project the finished video on this soiled sheet—yeah,
that’ll do nicely. I shall call it, “Laundry Day.” *
* * Dressed in a black vintage frock and her highest
heels, Galinda wandered around the gallery, eavesdropping on the attendees, her radar tuned
to any mention of her artwork. A tall thin gent knitted his eyebrows
together as he watched Galinda’s multi-media installation.
“It’s rather, uh—” he stuttered. “Empowering,” his
beautiful, androgynous companion finished. “I
mean, the physical viciousness of it all, is certainly—” he started
again. “Em-Power-Ing,” his companion
emphasized with finality. Galinda giggled and moved on to the next group, a cluster of
college-aged young women. Art majors, most likely. “Is
that really her in this video?” a mousy girl in over-large glasses
asked her cohorts. “Her and her actor boyfriend?” “Yeah, that’s her,”
a pudgy tattooed blonde offered. “She’s seriously
pushing boundaries with this one.” “She’s famous for that,” Her
bespectacled friend added. “Though, all that ultra-violence she uses in this one—” “Right?” A brunette with red-tipped curls laughed uncomfortably.
“You know I’m no prude, but all that sex made me cringe—then when
she brings out that knife and stabs and stabs and stabs—” “Yeah, no way that happened—yet it did look so authentic,”
the tattooed blond opined, sipping her wine. “And the ingeniousness of calling it,
‘Laundry Day’—I mean, Wow! So many layers to that alone. Societal norms,
traditional sex roles, and the patriarchy be damned!” The blonde added sagely, “She’s
a true artist.” Galinda continued to move through the crowd, grabbing
a glass of wine off a serving tray on her way to her multi-media installation. She looked
around at the people before her; they were certainly uncomfortable, talking avidly
amongst themselves and motioning to her multi-media presentation. Good! She wanted everyone who
saw this to be shocked. People will talk, and she especially
wanted word to get back to Benson’s family, friends, co-workers, and— —his current girlfriend, who was standing at the back of the gallery
crowd. Galinda’s eyes met hers, and Galinda smiled as the woman gaped in horror.
Her eyes shifted to the video, then back to Galinda. She turned abruptly and walked out
of the gallery, cell phone in hand. Galinda threw her head back and laughed. * * * Back home, Galinda kicked off her heels and pulled
out a bottle of chardonnay from her fridge. There had been no offers to purchase her
installation, not even from any local museums looking for scandalous pieces to make their
reputations; she’d assumed some place would want her artwork, because the
buzz alone was sure to bring attention and crowds. She unscrewed the cap and drank deeply
as she sauntered over to her couch. Police sirens wailed outside her window; she lived
in the city, she heard sirens and the buzz of police helicopters all the time. She ignored
it. Finishing off her bottle, she stumbled to the
coat closet in her front hallway. She flung the door open and leaned unsteadily over Benson,
who was curled up, crumpled in the corner. “Hey
you!” she teased, “guess whose gonna be famous after tonight!”
Galinda yanked out the butcher knife embedded in his neck, nearly severing his head from
his naked body as she did. She licked the congealed blood off the blade. “That’s
right, I am,” she said as she nudged his ribs with her pedicured toe. “And
so will you, Bensy!” Galinda was vaguely aware of voices barking orders
just outside her front door. Her neighbors were a rowdy bunch, so she disregarded this
as just more of their noise. “Tonight, I made you a star! An avant-garde indie movie
star—just like one of Andy Warh—” But Galinda’s gleeful declarations
were rudely interrupted by the violently insistent knock at her front door. Annoyed, she raised her voice. “Jeez, people, give it a rest.”
Galinda returned her attention to Benson. “Anyway, I have an idea!” she shouted
over the sound of her front door splintering.
“A sequel! Gonna get started tonight! Already have the plot scripted in my
head. It’s gonna feature—” She smiled coyly and ruffled Benson’s bloody,
matted hair. “—you and me, together again.”
As the cops poured through what remained of her
front door, Galinda still focused her attention solely on Benson. She leaned in
close to his cold gray face to whisper in his blood-clotted ear, “I shall call it—” “Bloodbath,” an officer gasped. “Dear
God, this scene is a bloodbath!” Surprised, Galinda turned to grin
at the cop. “Exactly!”
Hillary Lyon founded and
for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous
Press. Her stories have appeared lately in 365tomorrows, Black Petals, Sirens
Call, Night to Dawn, 50 Word Stories, Legends of
Night drabble series anthology, and Revelations drabble series
anthology. She’s also an illustrator for horror & pulp fiction magazines.
https://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/
The
Poser Hillary
Lyon “Here, let’s
drape one more gold chain across your . . .” he said as he laid the necklace across
her bare breast. “There! Now that’s the look I want.” Marie stared at the ceiling,
counting the water stains she saw there in order to calm herself before she responded.
“This is the same ‘look’ you saw in that old girlie mag.” “What?”
Neal replied. “No, I thought of this myself.” “No,”
Marie countered. “You showed me the picture weeks ago. You thought it was
‘artistic’.” “Well, it is artistic,” he said. “I recognize
an aesthetically-pleasing composition when I see it—I’m an artist after
all.” He immediately changed his tone. “You look so delicious in those thin
chains—you’re so striking in this light!” He rose
from the bed. “I must take some photos before we . . .” “Oh,
get on with it,” Marie said. Why did everything have to be such a production
with him? * * * “Honestly,
I don’t know why you put up with Neal,” Dina said before taking a deep drag on her
little green and white glass pipe. She passed it to Marie. “I mean,” she
continued after exhaling a cloud of sweet smoke, “it’s not like he’s
rich—though his parents are—and he’s not particularly handsome or charming.”
“Yeah,
I know,” Marie said before putting the lighter’s flame to the pipe. “I’m
just sticking around until someone better comes along.” And they always do—like
that trust-fund ‘poet’ in Austin. He was easy enough to get rid of, she
added to herself, after I helped him with his ‘overdose.’ She took a
deep drag. “Neal’s funny, and sort of—” “I
think you mean sort of funny looking,” Dina commented, sending both
women into giggles. “Seriously, though, after that business at his parents’
pool, where he posed you—naked—on the diving board? Like you were some
kind of dead fish, ready to be gutted! He’s such a freak. What if you’d been
caught?” Marie shrugged. “His folks weren’t home; he was house-sitting.
They were in Mexico, or some place. Some place far, far away.” And I saw to it
his nosy parents were never coming back, she was tempted to add. She half-smiled at
the thought. “Or that time he posed you—again, naked—through
the open sunroof of that old silver Thunderbird, out in the middle of an empty field on
a moonlit night! Jeez, the whole thing sounded like you were about to be a ritual sacrifice
to the God of North American Land Yachts.” Before continuing,
Dina took the pipe from Marie’s hand. “What if he’s a serial killer,
posing as a photographer?” She took a hit. “Seriously, remember that report
on TV about that guy in California who worked as a free-lance fashion photographer—who
was a serial killer?” Dina went on. “He’d sweet-talk attractive, gullible
young women into modeling for him way out in the desert, on the pretense of ‘fashion
shoots,’ and then he’d—” “If
he was a killer, I’d already be dead,” Marie said, cutting off Dina’s lurid
train of thought. She dragged her finger across her throat, rolled her eyes and
pushed out her tongue. Dina laughed so hard at that pantomime, she fell into a fit of
coughing. “And
with that,” Marie said, rising from the sofa, “I take my leave. Got to get
home to Mr. Poser.” * * * Marie
was aware of Neal rummaging around in the bathroom cabinet before she opened
her eyes. She sat up, and leaning on one elbow, watched him look at bottle
after prescription bottle until he found the one he wanted. He popped the cap
and shook out several capsules. “Whatcha doin’ in there?” Marie asked from the
bed. Neal
spun around. “Good morning, doll!” He shoved the capsules into his jeans
pocket. “I had an inspiration! We’re going to the State Park to do a wilderness
shoot. So get up, get dressed!” He pulled the sheet off the bed. “We’re
burning daylight. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” Since when
does he get me coffee in the morning? He was back with a full mug of black coffee just as she walked into
the bathroom. He handed her the cup. “Sip, sip.” “You
know I don’t like to be watched while I do my business,” Marie said, kicking
the bathroom door shut with her heel. With the door closed, she poured three-quarters of the coffee out
in the toilet. She pushed the handle down, and as the toilet flushed, she tilted the coffee
cup to confirm what she suspected was there: a couple of broken, half-melted green and
white capsules sticking to the bottom of the mug. He tried
to slip me a mickey this morning. Amateur! * * * In
the car, she pretended to drowse. “Man, that coffee you gave me this morning,” she murmured,
“sure was weak.” She yawned dramatically. “I’m still so sleepy
and muddle-headed.” Taking his eyes off the road, Neal turned to stare at
her. He wore a wolf-grin Marie had never seen before; she didn’t like it. He
thinks he’s drugged me, she pondered.
He thinks he’s going to take me into the big bad
forest to molest me and then stage my murder. Pose me like a ripped-open rag doll. Just
like that loser photog in California did to those naive young women. She
then closed her eyes, plotting all the while. * * * The
car came to an abrupt stop in the gravel parking lot on the edge of the State
Park. “We’re here!” Neal said as he hopped out of the
car. He was on her side, opening the passenger door before she could unbuckle her seatbelt.
“Out, out, out!” He pulled her roughly from her seat. As he reached into the
backseat to get his camera bag, she noted the top of a buck-knife peeping out from his
back pocket. Marie allowed him to drag her deeper
and deeper into the woods, until they came to a small clearing. On the other side of this
treeless space was a large, flat slab of granite near the edge of a small cliff. “Okay,
okay,” Neal said, pointing to the slab. “Strip and lay down there, face up.” Marie
slipped off her shoes. The stone was pleasingly warm under her bare feet. She
turned to Neal, pulled him to her. “Kiss me, you fool,” she said, entwining her
arms around him. He did as he was told, and as he did, Marie expertly lifted the
buck-knife from his back pocket. She pulled away and turned her back to him before she lifted off
her sundress. She opened the knife and hid it in the folds of her dress. She then laid
down on the warm slab, making sure her dress, and its hidden blade, were well within
her reach. On his knees, Neal positioned himself between her legs, quickly
taking one picture after another. He reached down with his free hand to fondle her breast. So, the molestation begins immediately, she thought, somewhat disappointed. He’s so predictable. He
continued to take pictures, but moved his free hand to his back pocket, feeling
for the knife. Marie stretched and slipped her hand into her discarded dress, feeling
for the knife. She
found it. “Looking for this?” Marie asked, as she plunged the
knife deep into his belly. Before he could answer, she raised the blade all the way up
to his sternum, effectively gutting him. Like a fish! He toppled,
frantically attempting to shove his intestines back inside. She
stood up and slipped on her sneakers. “You thought you were going to pose me
like one of those sad victims of that killer in Cali, didn’t you?” He
gurgled in reply. “I know you saw those crime scene photos—thanks to the
national media, everyone saw those photos.” Neal attempted to protest, but the only thing that came
out of his mouth was a burst of bloody bubbles. “I wondered how long it would take
you to decide you were going to duplicate one of those scenes.” “You’re
not an artist,” Marie grunted as she dragged Neal over to the edge of the slab.
“You’re a copy-cat, a hack. A poser.” His mouth quivered as blood
burbled out one corner. “And your parents? They never made it to Mexico—hell,
they never made out of their garage.” As she posed Neal on the
brink of the slab, she added, “Just so you know, my tire iron made for a swingin’
going-away present. I still have their luggage in the trunk of my car.” “And
as for you—you’re not even a real serial killer.” Marie said, and careful not
to get blood on her shoe, kick-shoved him over the edge.
“I should know—because I am.” She
leaned over the edge of the slab to watch him roll and bounce down the rocky
slope of the steep little ravine. He came to a thudding stop against a towering pine.
Marie
pulled on her sundress, picked up Neal’s camera bag, and then dug around inside
that bag until she located his keys—for both his car and apartment. She had
lots of photos she needed to delete from his computer, and from any of his
external-drives or cloud-storage locales. She was going on a scavenger hunt! With
Neal’s keys now in hand, she slipped the bag across her shoulder. Humming a
happy tune, she receded into the cool darkness of the woods, and disappeared.  An Assembly of Assassins [3
thematically connected drabbles] by Hillary Lyon Bryan’s Big Adventure The cancer
was a time bomb hidden inside him, set off when he reached
late middle age. “With the time you have left,” his ex-wife exhorted, “you
should travel, have an adventure.” “No,” his little brother countered,
“you should do something important; leave your mark on the world.” So much misery in
this country, Bryan pondered. Too much wealth and power concentrated
in an elite few. The gatekeepers wouldn’t allow a peon like me near the power
center—near the one who orchestrates it all. I’ll travel, have
an adventure, he decided. But first, buy an unregistered sniper
rifle. * * * Anton, the Aide-de-Camp Only
Cuban connection Anton had was, he liked the cigars; as for Russia, vodka. And China?
He really liked the women. A liquidator by trade, did he use poison powder
secreted in a ring, à la Borgia? A jab on the street with the tip of an
umbrella, inserting a radioactive pellet under the skin? Pay an asymptomatic hooker
to infect with Ebola? Maybe; but he didn’t. This Fed, Anton, was old school. He became
a lapdog, to get close to the target. Stealthy as moonlight in a graveyard, he’d
smother ‘em in their sleep with a feather pillow. * * * Priscilla
(Power-to-the-People) Unwashed,
wild-eyed Priscilla claimed the median at a busy intersection. Her signs
changed daily: “homeless, please help,” “hungry, anything appreciated,” etc.
Some Samaritans offered change or snacks, which she accepted. Some offered
rides, which she declined. Until Senator Stalwart’s limo pulled up beside her,
long after dark. When
the door opened, Priscilla leaned over, accomplishing two things: advertising her ample
bosom, and securing the switchblade nestled in her boot. After she slid into
the back seat, the door closed, and Priscilla, in one fluid motion, achieved
what no political rival had been able to do: terminate Stalwart’s 50-year
political career. As My
Witness by Hillary Lyon I
dropped a white crystal rock, about the size of my thumbnail, into the bottom of my
husband’s glass mug, then filled it with ice cold beer. I swirled the brew to
dissolve the rock. Next I filled two other mugs with untainted beer and set all
three mugs on a serving tray, along with a manila folder and pen. Lastly, I stashed
a teensy bottle into the snug hug of my cleavage before making sure to adjust
my bikini to better display my curves. I sashayed with said tray to the back
patio where my hubbie, Ray, waited by the pool. Setting the tray
on the patio table before him, I purred, “Nothing like a frosty beer on a hot Arizona
day.” I handed him his mug. “Drink up.” Ray
took a long drink, and made a face. “This beer tastes—” “Skunky,” I finished for him. “It’s
the latest thing in craft beers. Cheers.” I raised my mug. “Sip sip.”
I took a healthy swallow of my own beer. I set the sweating mug down on the patio table;
condensation rolled down the smooth sides like cold tears. I myself ran out of tears
a long time ago, I thought bitterly as I wiped the condensation from my mug. “Hey
Joe,” I called out to our gardener, who was toiling away in the yard. “Take
a break. Come join us for a beer.” I didn’t have to ask twice. Joe
stood behind me, and reached around to take the remaining beer. He intentionally brushed
my bare shoulder with his sun-warmed arm; I shivered with familiar delight. Joe
nodded his thanks to me, and wiped the perspiration from his brow before taking
a long thirsty pull. Ray drank his beer quickly, and before
he set the mug down, spotted a bit of undissolved white rock in the bottom of the glass.
He squinted at me. “What have you...” Ray’s eyes widened,
and his breath became labored. He put a hand over his heart. “You’ve poi—” I
waved away his accusation and pulled out an official-looking paper from the folder on
the tray, and placed it before him. “Sign this,” I ordered, slapping the pen
down on the paper. “And I’ll give you the antidote.” I pulled out that
small amber glass vial I’d tucked in my bikini top, in the cleavage of my ample breasts.
I held the little bottle up for him to see. A clear liquid sloshed inside. He leaned over the paper. “A revised will?!”
He rasped, breathlessly. “If I don’t sign—and I die—you get next
to nothing.” His face wore a sickly gray cast. I scoffed.
I wanted to say, I get rid of you. That’s what I get. Instead, I said,
“I want the assurance that I’ll be taken care of—in the manner to which
I have become accustomed.” I tapped the table impatiently. “Sign it, and get
the antidote.” He grabbed the pen and with shaking hand, scribbled his signature.
“Joe,” I said over my shoulder, “as our witness,
please sign and date the appropriate line.” Joe took the pen and did as he was asked,
making sure to back-date the document. My eyes met his baby blues, and he winked. I
tossed Ray the little vial, which he juggled in a comically awkward catch—scared
to death he’d drop it. He unscrewed the cap and greedily sucked down the contents,
wrinkling his nose at its bitter, chemical taste. Ray caught
his breath and his face flushed. He grabbed his left arm. “What’s in that,”
he gasped nodding toward the now-empty vial. “More of
the same,” I shrugged. “As God is my witness, I’ve begged you to stay away from
street drugs!” I glanced over at Joe. “How many times, Joe, have you heard
me tell him that?” He nodded in silent support of my argument. I
continued to berate Ray. “A man your age doing drugs like a teenage runaway! And
after having—what?—two heart attacks in twelve months. You should know better.”
I went on. “And you should know better than to sleep
with your secretary. Did you think I wouldn’t figure that out? You left enough clues
to fill a police blotter! Business trips to Las Vegas and Aspen, business lunches at posh
little French restaurants, business dinners five nights a weeks at high-end hotels...I
found all the receipts.” I shook my head in disgust. “Do you think I’m
stupid? Do you think leaving me alone all those week nights and long weekends was a
good thing for our marriage?” As an
answer, Ray fell face forward with a dull thunk onto the metal patio table.
I took his beer glass and rinsed it out in the swimming pool. I positioned the empty amber
vial on the table next to him. I put the signed will back in the manila folder, tucked
it under my arm. I’d stash it in the safe in our home office later. “Should
I call 911?” Joe asked, speaking for the first time. In reply, I
walked towards the house, pulling at the bow of my bikini top, successfully
untying it. “Why don’t we give it, say, half an hour?” I didn’t have to ask
twice.
Tis the Season 3 Christmas Drabbles by Hillary Lyon --------------------------------------------------------------------- Let
it Snow, Let It Snow Haley slapped the red envelope
down on the kitchen table. “Looks
like a Christmas card from your ex.” “Which one?” Evan asked, sipping
his coffee. “The one
you almost married.” “Which
one?” Evan thought this reply funny. Haley, not so much. “The one your mother preferred.” “Oh, Elaina .
. .” Evan smiled dreamily. “So
open it,” Haley insisted, pointing to the envelope. He pulled out the cheap card.
A crude image of Santa smiled at him. As he opened it, a fine white powder spilled out
like snow. He sneezed, coughed, and collapsed. “Oh, I was wrong,” Haley snickered.
“It’s from me.” -------------------------------------- Be Good, for Goodness’ Sake Coins
clanked in Santa’s kettle. “Ho-ho! Thanks, kid! What can Santa bring you?” “A baseball bat!”
the boy chirped. “Maybe
next Christmas, Timmy,” his mom sighed. Santa rang his handbell. Next, two thugs approached him. “Merry—”
“Shut up,”
one growled. “Nobody believes in you.” “Well, I believe in—”
The man clocked
Santa before he could finish. Later, in their dark hovel, the two thieves passed a pipe. “Think we hurt him?” “I think we got some
good shit tonight, so—” “Ho-ho!
I think,” Santa interrupted, pulling Timmy’s bat from
his sack, “somebody’s been naughty.” He raised the bat. --------------------------------------------- May Your Days Be Merry and
Bright Gerald set “White Christmas”
to repeat on the stereo. He slumped in his easy chair with a tumbler of scotch. Lauren danced into the den
wearing an X-rated elf costume. “What’s
this?” Gerald scoffed, slugging scotch. “It’s Friday, the kids are
at my mom’s, so . . .” Whistling
along with Bing, Gerald ignored her. After midnight, elves tumbled down the
chimney. “Did you see
his wife?” “I’d
like to make her days merry and bright!” Gerald snored in his easy chair. “What’s his deal?” “Santa says he’s
a bad dad, and worse husband.” The elf cracked his knuckles. “We
have our orders.”
With
This Ring Hillary
Lyon “The nerve of some people,” Mimi said, shaking
her head in disgust. “What?”
Brenda said, not bothering to look up. She was busy
refilling the half-dozen salt shakers on the counter before her. “Who?” Mimi leaned in close and stage-whispered,
“Your ex—he just walked in!” Now Brenda raised her eyes. “Leonard?” “Yeah, with some chicky-baby
on his arm. They’re sitting at table six.” Brenda’s shoulders drooped. Of all the diners
in this city, why did he show up here? Because he knows I work here,
Brenda thought bitterly. This is where we met. “You wanna trade sections tonight?” Mimi
offered, though there were no other customers in the diner. “Nah,” Brenda said with a bravado she didn’t
feel. “I can handle this.” She unwrapped a piece of gum and shoved it in her
mouth. After a few minutes
she approached table six, clutching her order pad. He
certainly has a type, she noted: Pretty brunettes who wear too much make-up. She
included herself in that assessment. Leonard and his companion were sitting on the
same side of the booth, holding hands as they read the menu. How adorable!
Brenda thought with resentment. Not like we ever did that. “Welcome to Bubble’s Diner. So...” Brenda said
flatly. “What’ll it be?” Leonard and his girlfriend looked up at the
same time. The young woman smiled innocently. She has no idea who I am,
Brenda realized. What sick game is he playing? “Well,
hey,” Leonard began, “look who still works
here!” He chuckled at Brenda's obvious discomfort. He turned to his date. “Honey,
this is Brenda. The Brenda.” “Oh,” the
young woman said, breaking her hand free of Leonard’s,
and sliding it under the table. “Nice to meet you.” “Bren,”
Leonard said, using a contraction of her name that
Brenda hated. “This is Cheryl. My fiancee.” “No kidding,” Brenda
said, moving her gum from one side of her mouth to the other. “Congrats, I guess.”
Leonard stared at Brenda with a wolf grin plastered across his face. A grin Brenda once
found to be sexy, in a bad boy kind of way. Now it made her nauseous. “What’ll you have to
drink? Are you ready to order?” Brenda nodded behind her. “Kitchen closes in
fifteen minutes.” “Uh,” Cheryl
interjected, “I’d just like an ice tea and
the chicken salad.” Brenda scratched the order on her pad. When she looked up, Cheryl
had her well-manicured hands folded on the table. She was wearing a very sparkly engagement
ring. Brenda’s engagement ring. Pretending not to notice, Brenda cracked her
gum and looked to Leonard. “And you?” “A
cup of black coffee and a chili cheese dog. And no onions.
I hate onions—remember?” “You got it,”
Brenda said, ignoring his pointed remark. There were
lots of things about Leonard she remembered. Lots more she wanted to forget. *
* * Back in the kitchen,
Mimi asked, “She’s wearing what?” She was mortified.
“You heard me,”
Brenda grumbled. She eyed the cans, boxes, and bottles stored
under the sink. Cleaners, soaps, sponges, rat poison. Should she sprinkle rat poison on
Leonard’s chili dog? Brenda went on, “I said, she’s wearing the
engagement ring he gave me. The ring we picked out, our first Christmas
together. The same ring I wore for eight years!” Brenda slammed her
order pad down on the kitchen prep counter. She
turned her attention to Bert, the diner’s cook
and aspiring artist. He had a creative flair, and expressed it not only through his culinary
creations, but also by designing the diner’s menu and advertising fliers. Many of
those fliers featured his flattering sketches of Brenda. “No onions on the dog!”
Brenda said through clenched teeth. “The bastard hates onions!” Bert nodded, grinning, and pulled
a knife from the block. “Eight
years?” Mimi shook her head. “I had no
idea you were engaged that long.” “Yeah, well, it
was never the right time to get married. Always had
something more important to do. Like we had all the time in the world.” Brenda’s
eyes misted over. She remembered even with all his cheating, all his lies, all their fights,
she’d loved him. And he’d done his damnedest to strangle that love. “So how’d he get the
ring back? You throw it at him?” Mimi asked. “After eight years, I think you’d
earned the right to keep it.” Brenda sighed. “I didn’t want it anymore.
Every time I looked at—all I saw was a broken promise. A failure to launch,
like they say.” “You could’ve
taken the stone out and had it reset,” Bert interjected.
“Put the rock in something designed by somebody who cares about you.”
His warm brown eyes met Brenda’s. She blushed. “And you could've sold the gold
from the old setting to help pay for it,” he added. “Anyway,” Mimi said,
drawing attention back to herself, “so this Cheryl gal—she looks like she’s
young enough to be his daughter, for God’s sake.” Mimi grabbed a plastic glass
and filled it with ice. “I wonder what she does besides look like arm candy.”
She filled the glass with strong dark tea from a pitcher. “Who knows? Certainly doesn’t work for a
living.” Brenda waved her hands. “Manicured nails, obviously soft hands. And
a complexion smooth as a baby’s butt.” She poured a cup of coffee, then set
both the cup and glass of ice tea on a tray. On her way out the kitchen door, she turned to
Mimi. “Guess I was just a place holder until something better came along.” “Aw, honey, don’t look
at it that way,” Mimi said, but Brenda was already out of earshot. Dicing onions, Bert chewed his lower
lip—something he did when he was deep in thought. When he was working on an
idea. * * * “One
chili dog, one chicken salad,” Bert said, dinging
the bell. “And I’m done. This cocina is now closed.” He untied
his apron, wadded it up, and threw it across the small kitchen into the dirty laundry
hamper in the corner. Mimi threw her arms
up. “Hey! Two points,” she giggled. Mimi and Bert
had gone to high school together, where she’d spent hours sitting in the bleachers
watching him play basketball. He was the star of the team. She still had a crush on him
after all these years. But it was obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that he carried
a torch for someone else. Without
saying a word, Brenda grabbed the orders, plopped them
on her tray and swept out of the kitchen. “I’m gonna
go have a talk with that Leonard,” Bert said,
peering at table six through the open kitchen door. He clenched his fist. “What a
jackass.” He watched Brenda drop off the plates, then head straight for the ladies’
room. “You shouldn’t
get involved,” Mimi warned. “Brenda’s a big girl,
she can take care of herself. You ought to hang back here with me,” Mimi suggested
hopefully. In a sing-song voice, she added, “Hey, I have a joint in my purse—some
Maui Wowie a friend sent me.” She giggled.
“We can get lit!” Bert looked at her over
his shoulder. “Nah, I don’t do that shit
anymore.” He strode out into the diner. “How’s the food? Everything
to your liking?” Leonard looked up at
Bert with a mouth full of chili dog. He’d picked off
the raw onions, set them in a messy little pile on the table. “Yeah, except for the
goddamn oni—” He coughed and gagged and began to turn red. “Didn’t your mama teach
you not to talk with food in your mouth?” Leonard crossed his arms, not about to
help the choking man before him. “And piling up your discarded onions on the table?
Now that’s just trashy. Who do think is going to clean that up?” “Oh no!” Cheryl cried,
frantically fumbling in her purse for her cell phone. “I think he’s allergic
to onions!” “Allergic?”
Bert laughed. “Nah, girlie, he’s choking.”
He watched her drop her phone under the table, she was in such a panic. He
kicked the phone and it went spinning across the diner’s floor. “I know my
food’s good, but damn boy! Still shouldn’t shovel it in like a pig.” “Do something!” Cheryl screeched. “Sure, sure, just calm down,”
Bert said, all the while watching as Leonard banged the table top with his fist, trying
to cough, trying to breathe. Leonard’s face took on a pale blue tint. “Gimme your ring,”
Bert said nodding to Cheryl’s hand. “What? Why?” “So I can cut his throat open with that big
ol’ diamond, get him some air.” Bert leaned over the struggling man to get into
Cheryl’s face. “So I can do what needs to be done.” She pulled off the engagement
ring and slapped it in Bert’s large open palm. He shoved
it in the pocket of his jeans. He then turned to walk away, towards the restrooms. “Wait!” Cheryl almost
screamed. “Aren’t you going to open his throat?” Leonard slumped down
in the booth beside her, barely twitching. He was now a sickly shade of gray. He’d
soon stop struggling. “You need to help him!” “Nah, sister, you need to call 911,”
Bert said, not bothering to turn around. He pushed into the ladies’ room, where
Brenda stood before the mirror blotting her eyes, cleaning up her smeared
make-up. “Hey, pretty lady,”
He said, digging for the engagement ring stashed in
his jean’s pocket. “Have I got a surprise for you.”
A Bottle of Sherry by Hillary Lyon A handful of roofies, in a
plastic zip-lock baggie. A six foot length of medical tubing. One scalpel. Four pairs of
handcuffs. A roll of plastic sheeting. One empty wine bottle, screw top. I meticulously
store all of these objects in my duffel bag, the olive green one my father used when he
hitch-hiked across the Midwest, back in the 70’s. Before he was arrested as the I-90
Mangler. But that’s a story for another time. * * * Carson reached over to tap
the mute button on our MP3 player. “Hey, I like that song.”
Here we go, another tug of war over the smallest stuff. “Well,
I don’t,” Carson retorted. “You know I prefer classical.” “But that’s a classic Pat
Travers’ song,” I said. “His version of an old blues classic by Little
Walter.” “This,” Carson said, bored
with this battle and changing the subject, “is a fortified wine from Spain, usually
served after dinner—as a digestif.” He twirled a glass of a dark wine-colored
liquid before taking a delicate sip. “Often, it’s white or amber colored, but
this one’s an Oloroso—so it’s dark, as well as complex, dry and slightly
nutty.” I reached for my glass, and he slapped
my hand away. “I’m not finished.” He then droned on about the region
of Spain from whence this sherry came, the grapes used, how those grapes were processed,
how long the sherry was aged and in what sort of wooden barrels. I couldn’t help but think of the sherry referenced in “The Cask of
Amontillado,” which was preferable to listening to Carson go on and on and
on about the attributes of this particular sherry. I hated it when he brought his work
home. Carson worked as the liquor specialist for a local big box spirits
store—Booze-R-Us is how I thought of it. Lately, he was infatuated with
sherries, and all the middling varieties his store offered. Sherry
is also the name of his girlfriend. The one he thinks I know nothing about. * * * On
the back of a grocery receipt, I found a phone number, written in Carson’s
jagged scrawl. He’d also scribbled the name, Sherry. Did he leave it on the
kitchen counter because he wanted me to find it, or because he’s a careless
slob? Having been married to him for 13 years, I vote for the latter. Yet it wasn’t the first time he’d left clues
around. It was almost like he wanted me to find out, wanted me to confront him, leave him.
He wanted me to do the dirty work; passive-aggressives are like that. I was on to
him. And I had other ideas. I
called the number on the receipt. A woman answered. “Hey
baby,” she said in a husky voice. Looks like he’d called her from our house
phone before. “Yeah,
Sherry?” I replied. Silence. “Listen, you know Carson?
I’m his wife, Janine,” I began. She groaned. I went on, “I think we should
meet, talk like adults. I have an idea that will resolve this situation for all three of
us.” “Yeah, okay,” she mumbled. I was surprised
how easy, how agreeable she was; probably how Carson got in her panties in the first place.
Sherry was but one in a long line of store customers who he’d charmed and bedded.
The early conquests tended to be classier wine-moms, but the last few were—let’s
just say Carson lowered his standards. “How
about, you give me your address, and I’ll pick you up. We’ll do lunch. My
treat.” She told me the name of her apartment complex, and her unit’s number.
“I’ll see you Saturday morning, around 11.” That would give me plenty of
time to pack my bag of tricks. *
* * Sherry opened the door after several knocks, wearing
a stained pink chenille bathrobe. Her hair was wild and dry, with last night’s eye
make-up smeared on her face. Eleven o’clock, and she’d just stumbled out of
bed. “Too much fun last night, huh,” I said as
I pushed my way into her tiny, messy apartment. “You alone? Or do you have a playmate
sleeping in the bedroom?” When he was scheduled to work on Saturday—like today—Carson
always stayed home Friday night, so I know he wasn’t her party buddy. “Huh?
No, just me.” She mumbled, her breath reeking of last night’s whiskey and
cigarettes. I looked Sherry up and down. What on Earth did Carson see in her? “You forget our appointment?” “No,
no—Janelle, right?” She shook her head, as if that would clear the muddling
fog of her hang-over. “Yeah,”
I snorted. My name was Janine, not Janelle, but whatever. I dropped my duffel
bag on the floor next to her coffee table. “What’s
that?” She asked distractedly. Before I could answer, she was on her way to her
tiny kitchen. “Want some coffee?” I followed
her. “Thanks,” I said as I took a cup of luke-warm instant from her. I dropped
in several roofies. Back at the couch, I pointed to a large,
framed photo of an apricot poodle hanging on her wall. “What a pretty dog! Is he
yours?” When Sherry turned to look at the photo, I switched the coffee mugs. So easy. “Maybe
someday!” She cheerfully slugged her coffee. I could’ve asked what she meant
by that, but I really didn't care. “So
about Carson,” I began abruptly, “You do understand he’s just using you for a
bit of fun, right?” She shrugged, her eyelids beginning to droop. Sherry
fumbled her mug, spilling coffee on her robe. I took the cup from her, set it
on the table. Then I reached for my duffel
bag, unzipped it, and began laying out my toys, neatly, on her coffee table. Her brow wrinkled,
and she was breathing heavily through her mouth. I
pulled out the handcuffs, dangled them before her unfocused, uncomprehending
eyes. “He’s a serial cheater, and you're not the first slag he’s had,” I
said as I clicked the handcuffs closed around her bony wrists, “but you’re
certainly going to be the last.” *
* * “You are going to love this,” I shouted
from the kitchen, as I poured the viscous red liquid into the delicate cut-crystal glasses.
I waltzed back into the den with the two glasses and the bottle of Sherry set on the silver-plated
serving tray. A wedding present from his mother. I
placed the tray on the coffee table before us, careful not to spill a drop.
“This has a most delightful mouthfeel!” I handed Carson a glass, and raised my
own to him. “Cheers!” We clinked glasses. I
took a sip, never moving my eyes off Carson. He raised the glass to his nose,
sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like sherry,” he grumbled. Oh, but it does! I wanted
to corrected. “This is a special edition,” I said instead. “You couldn’t
say this Sherry is sweet, or particularly attractive.” I giggled. “Matter of
fact, she’s very dry, nutty, and about 35 years old.” Carson
ignored my critique; as I’d been told many times, he was the connoisseur,
not me. He took a sip, licked his lips. “I don't like it,” he said as he put
his glass back down on the coffee table. “Got a weird, almost metallic taste.” “Oh,
contraire—you did like this Sherry,” I grinned. “So much that
you cheated on me with her.” I picked up the bottle, spilling the dark red liquid
on the tacky silvery tray as I did. Carson’s
eyes grew wide. “How did you . . . when did you . . . this can’t be . . .”
For once in his sad little life, Carson was at a loss for words. I swung the bottle
at his head once, twice. As the old song says, Boom! Boom! Out go the
lights.
A
Broken String of Love-Beads by Hillary Lyon I
twist off the cap of the little indigo colored bottle,
dab a drop of scented oil behind each ear. I close my eyes and inhale. Though I can barely
smell it now, the sweet-spicey scent will bloom as my body heat rises; I’ll carry
a cloud of patchouli with me wherever I go. Like every other neo-flowerchild attending
today’s music festival. I drape a string of plastic multi-colored
love-beads around my throat, making sure the necklace cascades down into the
cleavage between my breasts. Sure, the beads were mass-produced and made in China, but
they have such a cool retro vibe. Besides, I like the idea of love-beads. We could all
use a little more peace and love, couldn’t we? Undoing
one more button on my gauzy shirt reveals even more
smooth flesh. I look at myself in the dresser mirror, and can’t help but smile. Frayed
Daisy Dukes show off my toned legs, my Doc Martin’s are hand-painted with pink and
yellow Dayglo flowers, and my chunky turquoise and silver bracelets jangle merrily. Should I pull back my thick, wavy
blonde hair? No, long and loose is the look for today. I’ll likely stick a flower
in my hair as the day goes on; at least one man always gives me a flower at these events.
Sometimes a woman does. Tokens of appreciation. I think of them as trophies. And I keep my trophies
in a Roseville vase that belonged to my Granny. I do so
enjoy flower arranging. The older flowers are dried now, and crumble if I’m not careful
handling them. The newer ones are fresher, of course, so they're more vibrant, more sturdy.
I love to look at this bouquet, as every flower tells a story. Whenever I add a new one,
I brew a cup of herbal tea and reminisce. It’s very calming. For my final accouterments, I slip
my knife into the worn black suede sheath strapped to my left forearm before rolling
down my sleeve. Slim and shiny, it’s my favorite accessory. It never fails me. There! I
grin at my reflection. Such a pretty hippy chick. I grab my fringed leatherette
hobo bag and skip out the door of my apartment. *** One of the worst things about this
festival is the lack of portable toilets. There are never enough. Most people wait until
they can’t hold it any longer, which is a bad plan as you always have to wait
in a long line. I go before I really have to. So here I am, standing in line when a man
approaches me. He is wearing a basic white t-shirt and torn jeans. As he comes
closer, I note that he’s older than he looks at a first glance. He’s attractive
enough, if a little dirty and frazzled; like we all are at this point. He’s
holding a flower. A daisy. How original. “Hey pretty mama,
this is for you.” He says with an Elvis-drawl.
He fumbles with the flower, attempting to place it in my hair. The blossom hangs down,
almost falls out. I say, “Thank
you, sir!” and arrange the flower in my hair myself.
I am well-practiced at this; now it looks nice. “So, hey,” he says leaning in close, “how’d
you like to party with me? I got some primo stuff I’d love to share.” Despite
his warm, welcoming words, his eyes are cold, his smile forced. “Sure,” I giggle. I
act like so many trusting, foolish women my age. Women who end up raped, or worse, at these
gatherings. At this particular annual music festival, there have been eight reported violent
rapes in the last three years. Reported. How many went unreported? Somebody
needs to do something. I twist my love-beads around my finger. With a flick of his head, he slings his long
stringy dreads out of his eyes. “Awesome! Meet me at the picnic tables behind
the Buffalo Sammiches booth in like half an hour. It’s more private there and
we can do what we like.” Wants me to meet him at sunset, in other words. Before
I can answer, he turns and walks away. I
pass the time listening to the noodling of a local jam
band channeling their version of a Grateful Dead tune. I’ve heard worse, but that
sort of music is not my thing. Finally, the sun slips behind the stage, my cue to visit
the picnic area. Buffalo Sammiches is
very busy feeding hungry people. People who’ve spent
the whole day milling about, dancing, drinking, doing drugs. The few families with their
kids in tow are now leaving the festival, as night is coming. And everyone knows bad things
tend to happen under cover of darkness. Personally, if I had kids, I wouldn’t have
dragged them here in the first place; too much decadence for the wee ones to witness.
Too much to explain to baby brains. I walk behind the sandwich booth to the picnic
table area. It’s not quite dark, but it is pretty dim. The section closest to
the sandwich booth is well illuminated, but it appears somebody cut the light
in the back area where, of course, my new friend is waiting. His plain white shirt glows
in the descending twilight. He’s sitting on a bench at the farthest table. I sidle
up to him. He’s already set
up his paraphernalia on the table before him. A couple of straws,
several rough white lines on a small square of glass. He stands when I approach. “There she is!” His
grin reminds me of a wolf’s. Predatory. He grabs me and pulls me in close. “What’s your name, little
girl?” Ugh, sing-quoting an
old Lynyrd Skynyrd song. Really? Is that his idea of seduction? “No names,” I say. “I
prefer to keep things simple.” “That works for me,” he says. His breath reeks
of beer and pot. His hand slides down my back, grabs my butt and squeezes hard.
Bastard’s going to leave a bruise. I don’t like bruises. “Ladies first,”
he says, watching me closely. He points to the set up on the table. “My pleasure,” I giggle.
Men like it when I giggle; makes me seem younger than I am. I reach into the front pocket
of my Daisy Dukes and pull out a small metal rod, about the size of my pinkie. I wave
it at him. “Got my own. Never leave home without it.” I lean over the glass plate and pretend
to inhale. But there will be no sniffing; my rod is solid. I mean, who knows that
he’s mixed in with the coke? Fentanyl? Rohypnol? Rat Poison? I’m not about to
take drugs from a stranger. A leering one at that. I stand up, wipe my nose, and say, “Wow!
That’s some good powder.” He’s staring intently at me; he doesn’t
notice my line is still on the glass. I blink rapidly then widen my eyes. I sway a
little bit, pretend to smacked by whatever he laid out for me. He grabs my arm.
Again, bruises. He’s going to leave bruises. “Now
it’s my turn to party,” he says.
He lets go of my arm. He pulls his off his shirt, revealing two tattoos on his hairless
chest. Though it’s getting dark, I can still make out the designs. The one on his
right side is a grim reaper holding a scythe, about the size of my palm. How predictable. The tat on the left is a target design,
inked directly over his heart. If that’s not an invitation, I don’t know what
is. I reach over and poke the center of the target. He slaps my hand away. He grabs a handful of
my hair, jerking my head back. “I’m gonna have
some fun tonight.” In grabbing my hair, he also grabbed my love-bead necklace,
breaking the string. All my pretty little multi-colored beads go flying, like a handful
of plastic rice tossed at a doomed wedding. So much for peace and love. “Oh,” I laugh, “I’m
gonna have fun, too—I’m gonna do things to you that you can’t even imagine.”
I slip the thin knife from its sheath hidden by my sleeve. In a flash, the blade finds
its first target. Bull's
eye! *** When I’m done
with my righteous fun, I pull his t-shirt back over his perforated
torso. In the shadows cast from the distant picnic area light, the blood seeping through
looks like dark purple tie-dye. Groovy! Whoever finds him will think he’s either a
black-out drunk, or he’s overdosed. I leave his drugs set up on the picnic
table, leave him lying on the bench. He won’t be discovered until morning, I
estimate, when the clean-up crew comes in to pick up the trash all the hipsters
left behind. I swear, these festival goers, they’re all about saving the Earth,
but they can’t be bothered to pick up after themselves. I
always clean up my mess. It’s important
to me to leave the site clean. I wipe my knife on his
raggedy jeans, take the token flora from my hair. The
daisy’s stem is bent from our rough-housing, but the bloom itself is in good shape.
Looking at it, I am flooded with the endorphins that come with the satisfaction of a job
well done. And now I have another
flower for my vase.
The Perfect Gift Hillary
Lyon “Are
you trying to ruin my Christmas?” Vic motioned to the artificial tree set up in the
corner of the den. A string of lights blinked weakly behind plastic balls and
limp tinsel. The area under the tree was bare. No presents this year. Suzanne took a sip of her eggnog, and frowned. She walked over to
the bar and poured a generous slug of whiskey into her creamy drink. “Everything’s
always about you,” she answered without turning to look at Vic. He
ignored her comment. “Did you forget my mother is going to be here in less than a
week?” Vic clenched his fists and moved closer to Suzanne. “Go get a real
tree.” “Too expensive,” Suzanne replied.
“We’ve had to tighten our belts, remember? No gift giving this year, no neighborhood
party, no donation to the church.” She took another sip of her eggnog. More whiskey
made it better. “My mother deserves a real tree!” Vic said
as he turned and stormed out. “And last
year, my parents didn’t?” Suzanne called out after him. His reply was to slam
the bedroom door. * * * Suzanne
visited several Christmas tree lots in town, but this close to Christmas the
only trees left were sad and skinny. Charlie Brown trees. At the last
lot, when she asked for a more robust tree, Dave the vendor suggested she get
an ax and go cut down her own. He wasn’t being sarcastic; he knew his selection
at this time was disappointing. Dave offered to sell her a used ax at a 50% discount.
When she hesitated, he said he’d loan her the ax on the condition she return it
when she was through. He also drew a map for her pinpointing a stand of acceptable
trees, not far out of town. Suzanne thanked him. As she was leaving, Dave added
that the trees were on private land and she ought to be careful. Great, Suzanne
thought. I’ll get shot cutting down a tree for Vic’s mother. An appropriate
sacrifice for his household goddess. *
* * Dave the vendor’s map was surprisingly accurate. After Suzanne
parked her SUV and hopped over a wire fence, she easily found the stand of trees. She was
relieved when she looked around and saw no farmhouse, no cabin nearby. Suzanne
chose a tree that she estimated would be an appropriate height for their den. It was
fairly full and smelled wonderful. In the growing dark, Suzanne chopped down
the tree quickly and dragged it back to the fence. She was grateful it was an
unusually warm December; no snow this year, so no tracks left behind. Only a
stump as evidence she’d been there. The next challenge was hauling the tree
over the fence. With grunting effort, Suzanne maneuvered the tree across the wire and shoved
it into the back of her SUV. It made the
car smell fresh and clean—much better than those pathetic pine-tree shaped air fresheners.
In spite of her resentment with Vic’s
demand that she get a real tree, she smiled. He’d never know that she cut the tree
down herself, with a borrowed ax, to save a buck or sixty. His mother would have her tree,
Vic would be happy, and she herself congratulated herself on being thrifty. It was a win-win
all around. * * * Suzanne
had the tree set up and decorated before Vic got home from work. Her arms ached.
She poured herself a tumbler of whiskey with a splash of eggnog. It helped. “That’s what you came up with?”
Vic laughed, walking through the front door. No hello, no home-coming kiss. Just criticism.
Like always. “How hard is it for you to do a simple thing,
like find a Christmas tree that’s not lop-sided?” He didn’t even look
at Suzanne, much less thank her for getting a real tree for his beloved mother. He
moved closer to the tree. “I mean, look at this—there’s a huge
bald spot—right here.” He threw his hands in exasperation. “And these
tacky ornaments—you need to toss this garbage and buy some new ones, some classy
glass ones.” Suzanne had left
the ax on the bar when she came home. Next to the whiskey bottle. Without thinking, she
put her hand on the worn wooden handle as Vic continued his rant. “Whatever
you paid for this trash tree—consider that your Christmas present.” Suzanne’s
ax came down on the back of his head. She used the blunt side, so Vic was knocked
to his knees. And the blade wouldn’t get stuck in his skull; that way she could
hit him again. Which she did. From the floor,
on his knees, he finally turned to look at Suzanne. He feebly held his hand up to ward
off the next blow. “As far as presents go,” Suzanne said, raising
the ax, “my gift to myself this Christmas is the end of this God-awful marriage.”
The ax came down with so much force that the blade did, in fact, get stuck in his forehead.
She had to press her foot against his groaning chest as she pulled the ax handle, in order
to dislodge the blade. She left him bleeding out under the Christmas tree. Suzanne cleaned off the ax, packed a go-bag, and turned
off all the lights in the house, except for those on the tree. Seeing those colorful twinkling
lights made as her happy as she’d been as a child, excited for the surprises she’d
find under the tree on Christmas morning. So she left them on. This
year, Vic’s body was the only present under the tree. This, she thought with
great satisfaction, is the perfect gift for his mother. She locked the
front door behind her. She’d return the ax to Dave on her way out of town.
Hillary
Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor
for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her stories have appeared lately
in 365tomorrows, Black Petals, Sirens Call, Night to Dawn,
50 Word Stories, Legends of Night drabble series anthology, and Revelations
drabble series anthology. She’s the Art Director for Black Petals and is also
an illustrator for horror & pulp fiction magazines.
https://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/
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