Tag Archives: murder
I made myself a drink with his expensive scotch and lay on his expensive couch. For some reason, I felt uneasy. “K?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “K?” I asked again, deciding that he, under the influence of too much alcohol, passed out somewhere out of view. I turned on the television and watched a show about winter in upstate New York.
I fell asleep.
When I woke up, my coat had been thrown over me. K was banging around in the kitchen.
I sat up. “What time is it?”
“Five,” he called from behind me.
“What are you doing up?”
“Making waffles. Want some?”
“I guess,” I whined.
He dropped a plate of waffles on my lap, returned to the kitchen.
We hadn’t spoken about what had happened several nights prior, and amidst the lunacy of the waffle conversation, I felt the need to speak up.
“K,” I said from his couch. “I’m going to kill you.”
“Huh,” he replied cooly. “I feel the same way.”
I didn’t get the joke he was trying to make. He continued: “How are the waffles?”
“Fine,” I replied, not yet aware of what had just happened.
Then an uncomfortable silence settled in.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, alcohol, breakfast, couch, death, flash fiction, murder, relationships, Rochester, scotch, Short Fiction, short story, Upstate, Upstate New York, waffles, winter | posted in Short Fiction
And so we went to Thirsty Thursday, as her short-haired friend liked to call it. Thirsty Thursday was the cutesy name for the four of us gathering around her friend’s dining room table making stilted, domestic chit-chat and drinking poorly made gin-and-tonics.
Thirsty Thursday used to just be three, but her friend went and got herself a boyfriend – bald, midwestern, decently friendly. He worked in a train yard, kept a tally of how many vagrants he busted riding the rails.
I drank six poorly made gin-and-tonics, slept until 2 pm. I woke up with a terrible headache and a half-baked plan to take up model railroad.
“Enjoy yourself last night?”
Her voice rattled against the insides of my skull, causing me to wince. “I always do.”
“You wouldn’t shut up about trains and” – a dramatic pause – “their symbolism as great modernity or some shit.”
I dropped my head back on the pillow. “Sounds like something I’d say. Trains are always going forward after all. Progress.”
“Whatever.”
I closed my eyes. “Remember how I used to live next to some tracks?”
“Yeah. I used to fantasize about your death by train.”
She heard me sigh, then added: “Now that would be progress.”
Leave a comment | tags: affect, alcohol, death, domesticity, fiction, flash fiction, gin, Gin and tonic, hang over, modernity, murder, progress, railroad, relationships, Short Fiction, Thirsty Thursday, thursday, train, travel | posted in Me
“Sorry,” she said, lunging at her eye which was lodged between the floor and the heel of my left shoe. “I can’t get it to stay in.”
The casualness with which she spoke of her abnormality offended me. She glanced at me with her one good eye, looked away in feigned innocence.
I retrieved her eye, offered it to her from my open palm. I figured she rolled her eye in my direction on purpose. She figured, I figured, that since I’m a retard she could become my retard friend, sister in arms.
“How did that happen,”she asked. Everybody else pretended not to notice. But she spoke with the confidence of a retarded Other, identified some sort of twisted commonality between us.
I looked her up and down, decided I would try to fuck her. I answered. “You did this.” I traced the hole in my chest, pointed to where my heart used to be.
She stared at me with her one good eye, the other eye now in her hand. “No I didn’t.”
I responded with a sigh: “Then who did?”
She shrugged, answered, “You did,” offered me the knife I gave her for her birthday, stained red now.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, birthday, eye, fiction, flash fiction, handicap, knife, love, murder, relationship, relationships, retard, Short Fiction, short story | posted in Her, Me, Uncategorized
The train’s repetitive click-clack wakes her every night.
“Did you hear that noise,” she asked the morning after she first stayed the night, nose pressed against my cheek, head sunk deep into her pillow.
“It was the train,” I replied, feeling myself fall in love.
“Charming. Does it come through here every night?”
“It does.”
“Great. You’re lucky I like you.”
I propped myself up on my elbow, glanced around the room: wine bottles, condom wrappers, and empty chocolate boxes. “We should do something else some time.”
“Why?” She climbed on top of me.
She moved in with me several weeks later, complaining about the train. Then we started to fight, and our nightly bingeing on wine, sex, and chocolate gave way to heavy silence and passive aggression.
As our relationship worsened she took to walking the train tracks at night.
“I’m not going to kill myself, K, relax,” she said.
I was unconvinced. So I walked with her, behind her, like a scolded but loyal pet. I bought her expensive earrings, tried to cheer her up. She pushed me in front of the train.
Now she sleeps in my bed, wakes with a smile whenever the train rumbles past.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, chocolate, condom, flash fiction, love, murder, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, suicide, train, wine, woman | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
“Draw me a picture,” said the woman, sliding me pencil and paper.
“Of what?”
“Draw my portrait.” She brushed her hair from her shoulders and posed in mock grandiosity.
I drew a jellyfish fighting with a human skeleton. I was impressed with my technique and wanted, momentarily, to keep the picture for myself.
“What the fuck, K,” she said, putting her clothes back on. “Not really what I had in mind.”
I wanted to point out the imperfections in my sketch. I wanted to tell her that because the ship was swaying rather violently, my lines here, here, and here were imperfect.
“It’s just as well,” she bellowed. “A storm is coming.” She knocked me over as she left my cabin, letting my picture float to the ground.
Against my knee, I smoothed out the wrinkles of my discarded drawing, hoping that I might frame it after all.
Climbing to my feet, I locked eyes with the jellyfish and human skeleton outside of my porthole. I shrugged and the skeleton shrugged back.
With a bony finger the skeleton beckoned me over. “Careful,” it mouthed through the glass, “you’re next.”
A knock at my door. I already knew who it was.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, art, body, death, flash fiction, jellyfish, murder, relationships, romance, sex, ship, Short Fiction, short story, skeleton, storm, window | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
We hadn’t seen each other since college. Our friendship ended abruptly because we were in love with the same woman. He wanted to fight over her. I politely declined and wished him well.
I wasn’t surprised when he told me of their breakup. Everybody knew that this particular woman had been adamant about remaining a virgin until marriage.
“You lucked out, K,” he said with a mouthful of vodka. “She never caved.”
The way he described their sexless courtship – hours of cuddling and making out – was rather charming.
His eyes lit up. “I saw her last week. She called and told me that she’s married now. Then she invited me over. Before we broke up, she promised to have sex with me once she was married – even if she wasn’t married to me. I guess she was serious.”
“Did you?”
“Of course.”
“And her husband?”
“She told me that you’re her husband and that you’ll probably kill me. She said you’ll have a sharp knife with you.”
I put the knife on the table and shrugged. “I’m not going to kill you with this.” I nodded toward his empty martini glass and watched his throat tighten. “Thanks for the drink.”
Leave a comment | tags: affect, alcohol, bar, body, death, flash fiction, love, marriage, martini, murder, relationships, romance, sex, Short Fiction, short story, virgin, virginity, vodka | posted in Her, Him, Me, Short Fiction, Uncategorized
I know this artist who is also a taxidermist. Naturally gifted in art, he found that he could only accurately sketch living creatures if he killed them, stuffed them, and manipulated their bodies into wildlife scenarios.
In his home, which I borrowed for the first time in high school to rob my girlfriend of her virginity, are lots of taxidermied creatures and accompanying artistic renderings. They’re perfect renderings and also that girl and I broke up shortly after because the dead animals, which seemed very alive, made her uncomfortable.
I had the opposite reaction and haven’t been able to have sex not surrounded by dead animals ever since.
“K, I need your house,” I implore a little less often than I like. With each visit, I find that his home is a little more overrun by his animals and his art. Last week, I had sex with a girl inside the mouth of a large shark. She cut her hand on one of its teeth and won’t return my calls.
I kinda want him to kill and stuff her. But he would probably want to sketch her and that would make me uncomfortable because I like her a little bit.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, animals, art, artist, body, death, flash fiction, love, murder, relationships, sex, shark, Short Fiction, short story, sketch, taxidermy, virgin, virginity, wildlife | posted in Her, Him, Me, Short Fiction
My girlfriend was the most beautiful woman in history. So when she was blown up by insurgents, the world’s museums went to extremes to collect her parts, divvy them up, and house them behind expensive glass in expansive rooms.
I didn’t realize this at first. “You know,” said K, recently returned from abroad, “I saw your girlfriend’s torso at a museum in Paris.” He handed me a replica, a souvenir he purchased in the gift shop. I had read of her death – “Most Beautiful Woman in History Killed by Terrorists” – and lamented. But my thoughts shifted as soon as K handed me her mini torso. I punched him in the face and stole it.
I traveled the word, collecting her replica body parts from museum gift shops throughout the world. In Tokyo I acquired her tongue; in Tel Aviv I acquired her womb. And so on.
After a year of travel I had all of her body parts, inside and out. Standing a mere four inches, she was as exquisite as I remembered. I carried her to my bed and we had sex. Unfortunately my erect penis broke her in half. I lamented my girlfriend’s death for the second time.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, art, body, death, flash fiction, gift shop, murder, museum, penis, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, terrorism, terrorist, torso, womb | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
I spent much of her insurance money repairing her body (no easy feat after the body dies), filling bullet holes, sewing lacerations, reattaching her head. The embalmer thought I wanted an open casket (he made her beautiful), not knowing that there would be no funeral.
I cashed in the rest of her policy to have her body encased in ice and stored in my newly-purchased freezer. “You said I could,” I muttered the first time I laid her frozen body on the bed and, with my newly-purchased icepick, chiseled out her sex organs.
She was at the height of physical perfection when she was murdered. And thus in preserving her body, I preserved her sexual attractiveness. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday I wheeled her out of the freezer, liberated the parts I needed, performed the acts I needed to perform, and wheeled her back in.
Yesterday she escaped from her block of ice. I placed her body on the bed but received a phone call. My mom. “K! Why don’t you call anymore?!”
When I went back to the bedroom she was gone. So was the icepick.
If you’re reading this, whoever you are, help! There may still be time.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, body, death, flash fiction, freezer, funeral, help, icepick, mom, money, murder, organs, relationships, saturday, sex, sex organs, Short Fiction, short story, thursday, Tuesday | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
“Here, give this woman a call. She seems to have your”–she paused–“aesthetic sensibilities.”
Spinning her interior design book toward me, she pointed at a woman cradling a bronzed human skull the way you might show off your newborn. Below the photo, a caption:
I just like body parts. I use them all the time. People ask why. I don’t know why. I just like body parts.
I looked her up and sent an email detailing my own fondness for body parts: disembodied limbs, torsos of in-shape women, etc. I moved into a new apartment, my email continued, and would she be available for consultation?
……….
The woman had on the same brand of perfume my girlfriend wears, which I found off-putting. She padded across the floor (I have a no shoes rule) and my girlfriend’s scent followed, like a pet.
“I can do a lot with this space,” she said to my ceiling. “In fact,” she turned toward me, “I brought you a housewarming gift.” She pulled a lacquered head from her oversized shoulder bag. She held it toward me, gripping it by its long, brown hair.
“Is it real,” I asked?
She smiled and the scent of perfume overtook me.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, art, artist, body, body parts, book, death, decoration, designer, interior design, murder, perfume, relationships, Short Fiction, short story, skull | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction, Woman
I stole my neighbor’s luxury hatbox.
Repair men were in her apartment replacing the floor. They left the door open and when I walked past I saw the hatbox resting on an ugly sofa.
I walked past again. And again. The repair men were probably taking a break. I ran in and snatched the hatbox. After reaching my apartment, I took in my new acquisition. I didn’t know why I decided to steal her hatbox. Perhaps I wanted to sell it. Perhaps I just wanted something nice.
I inhaled and opened it, not really expecting to find anything inside. (Who keeps a hat in a hatbox?)
There was a note inside–something scribbled on the back of a receipt in an oval, feminine hand. It was the beginning of a love letter to me. “Dear K,” it began. She had written nice things about me, but entirely in past tense as though I were dead: “You were this, you were that.”
I had the sudden urge to return the hatbox. Then I turned her love letter over and inspected the receipt.
Rope, tape, saw, shovel, bleach, trash bags.
I decided not to return the hatbox after all. I locked the door.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, death, fashion, flash fiction, hat, letter, love, murder, neighbor, relationships, Short Fiction, short story, sofa, theft | posted in Her, Me, Short Fiction
K had heard it before, from other women less attractive than the one whose tongue was slowly constricting his neck:
“I just love your eyes. They’re so dark–I can’t even see your pupils.”
She flexed her tongue and K’s eyes bulged a little further from his face. She brought her face–eyes green, I think, but maybe they were blue–to meet his. “Amazing. Your eyes are just these black puddles.” She brought a well-manicured fingernail to his face. Then she tapped it on his left eye, creating mild undulations.
He had heard that last line before, too. As K lost consciousness he envisioned all of the women who got lost in his eyes. He thought of the woman who climbed in his left eye and drowned in the darkness. Her name was in the paper for a while and on TV. He thought of the woman who ran screaming from his apartment–underwear balled up in her fist–because she was convinced K’s eyes betrayed a darkness of a different sort.
From the depths of asphyxiation, he heard her jaw unhinge. Then he heard him being swallowed hole. “I guess I’m finally inside her,” K muttered as her digestive system pulled him down.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, asphyxiation, cannibalism, darkness, eating, eyes, food, jaw, love, murder, pupils, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, snake, tongue, TV, underwear | posted in Her, Him, I, Man, Short Fiction, Woman
The woman, whose heavy foreign eyes and striking hair/eye composition give her the air of a sleepy Scarlett Johansson or a strung out Courtney Love, will kill him.
Here is how:
She will go home with him.
He will tear her gown from her body. Then he will realize that she has wooden legs.
He will not know how to proceed but he will notice that she has grown uncomfortable. He will know immediately that she has become self-conscious.
He will think back to their “dates” and her countless long dresses.
He will recall the way she hobbles about.
Briefly, he will get mad at her (“You could have told me!”).
Then he will compose himself and gaze into her eyes, uttering romantic things. They will have sex. She will stay over but vanish by dawn.
In the morning he will find a splinter in his hand. Rubbing it, he will think fondly of her until his hand becomes infected.
As the infection spreads, he will not wonder if she planned the whole thing; but he should. Then he will die.
But he will not mind. For he will have fallen in love with the woman and her wooden legs.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, body, dating, death, hands, infection, legs, love, murder, relationships, sex, Short Fiction, short story, wood | posted in Her, Him, Man, Short Fiction, Woman
“That’s her,” I gestured with my chin toward a woman sitting at the end of the bar. I watched her order a martini. If she noticed me, her neighbor, she pretended otherwise.
I turned back toward K. “She brings me a cucumber every so often–she has ever since I moved in. Winter, spring, summer–whatever. And never anything else. And always just one cucumber. She leaves them in front of my door with a note attached: FOR YOUR HEALTH.”
I could tell by the way K was eyeing her that he was interested. “Don’t,” I said. “Every man she gets involved with goes missing.”
K scoffed.
“That’s the gossip, anyway,” I clarified.
K waved away my warning and marched over to her. K was good with women. She smiled at him. I finished my drink and left. I never saw him again.
……….
A few months later an article appeared in the newspaper. K’s body had been found in a shallow grave along with the remains of ten other men. Their penises had all been severed.
What a shame, I thought, still pissed at K for ignoring my advice, as I bit into my freshly delivered cucumber.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, bar, cucumber, death, drink, flash fiction, food, gossip, health, love, martini, murder, newspaper, relationships, sex, vegetables | posted in Her, Him, Me, Short Fiction
Ever since K woke up dead, or so he was convinced, he had turned into a bit of a jerk.
That won’t do at all, he said in a huff. That’s how you choose to remember me? He snatched up his eulogy and tossed it in the garbage. I tried to feel sorry for him, because whatever mental affliction he was suffering from seemed to be rather burdensome. Then I began writing a new one.
Help me, he pleaded several weeks ago. I’m dead. I could see the fear in his eyes, and though I didn’t believe him, I was sure that he at least believed he was dead. I made a joke about zombies. But that only irritated him.
As the weeks went by he lost interest in everything that used to be meaningful. The only thing that seemed to jolt him to life–so to speak–was discussing how the life that was now, according to him, over would be remembered.
But the novelty of having a dead friend was eroding quickly.
Are you done yet, he barked? I lunged from my desk and sunk my pen into his neck.
Thank you, he said, as he died a second time.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, death, eulogy, fear, friendship, irritation, life, murder, pen, zombie | posted in Man, Me, Short Fiction
“She likes you,” her little dog said. “But here’s what’s going to happen: sometime soon she’s going to offer to make you soup. She’ll ask your favorite kind. You’ll tell her. Then she’ll show up with groceries and wine and you guys will cook your favorite soup and drink nice wine. You’ll sit down to eat but you’ll die. I’ve seen her do it countless times.”
“Why? You said she likes me.”
“She does. But like will turn to love which will eventually turn to hate. Kind of makes sense if you think about it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I like you too…. She’ll be back soon. So just act normal.”
I did.
“Know what,” her voice was sincere. “Let’s make dinner tomorrow. Why not soup?”
I glanced down at her little dog, which was avoiding eye contact.
“What’s your favorite kind?”
“Clam chowder,” I said confidently, knowing that clam chowder takes all day.
“Great. I’ll take the day off. Clam chowder takes all day, you know?”
I was somehow okay with such an extended death ritual. Her previous boyfriends probably hadn’t received such preferential treatment.
We smiled at each other. Her little dog probably rolled its eyes.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, boyfriends, chef, cooking, death, dinner, dog, flash fiction, girlfriends, hate, love, murder, relationships, soup | posted in Me, Short Fiction, Woman
“She was my heroin,” I said gazing into the pond. “I was addicted,” I continued the metaphor, as I continued gazing into the pond. A few ducks nodded in tandem. Most swam away, bored, no doubt, with the same story told by every guy who sits alone on a bench by a pond.
One duck spoke. “Tell me more,” it said, and by the by, we got to know each other. I invited the duck over for dinner. It accepted my invitation, probably out of sympathy.
……
I told K about my unexpected friendship. “What should I serve for dinner,” I asked him.
“Duck,” K replied feigning seriousness. We laughed in that way you laugh about things like cannibalism.
I served pasta instead. The duck was a gracious guest. We ate mostly in silence, each unsure how to proceed. “You know,” the duck finally said, “I thought you invited me over so you could eat me.”
We laughed in the way K and I laughed earlier. “I’m a vegetarian,” I explained. Then I attacked and killed it.
……
I called her for the first time in a long time. “I made you duck,” I whispered to the voice on the other end.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, appetite, cuisine, death, dinner, drugs, duck, food, heroin, murder, pond, relationships, vegetarian, water | posted in Her, Me
