Yellow Mama Archives II

Hillary Lyon

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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 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.

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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/

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