Tag: murder

Memento Mori

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She brought him a hot drink
to place among other cups,
cold and filled to the brim.
Easily distracted, despite reminders,
he never drank enough to kill him.

She asked him to drive to the shops
while she stayed late at work,
to fetch dinner – maybe steaks.
But he ordered delivery
and never noticed the cut brakes.

She left him at home with traps on the stairs,
trusting his inattention to not notice
a roller-skate, toy cars, balls and a sled.
She returned to see it all unmoved,
He never came down from bed.

The life insurance would give her a new life,
free of boredom, drudgery, tedium.
Free from a husband who paid no attention.
But her plan was destined to fail:
her husband had forgotten to pay the premium.

Needs

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It’s incredible what can change in a person the moment they become a parent. For Carla, she found that nothing about her baby seemed to disgust her.

Spit up, wet nappies, drool, even blow-outs were addressed quickly. Things that would have made her gag were now everyday jobs. After all, her baby needed her.

She fed him on demand. The suckling sounds which would horrify her from an adult mouth were endearing. As he grew and tried new foods, Carla experimented with all kinds of purees. Bananas, which never failed to make her queasy, were his favourite for a while. She could get through mashing them into a horrid sludge by imagining his gummy smile.

As he grew even larger, she found he enjoyed other things she would have once thought distasteful. But when it was all he would eat, she made sure he had it.

A staunch vegetarian, she learned to cook meat.

A lifelong adherent to food safety guidelines, she cooked it rarer and rarer.

A pacifist, she began to bring him fresh, dripping meat.

When he was finally able to verbalise his needs, Carla carried out the job she’d been avoiding, certain she couldn’t stomach it. As she stood over the stranger, dripping knife in hand, she was surprised how easily she could now see the body as just another task in an endless rota.

After all, her baby needed to be fed.

Intentions

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For her birthday, he gave her flowers
With a glass vase to place them in
But she reminded him of her hay fever
And he threw the shards in the bin

For their anniversary, it was chocolate
She placed it on the shelf
She had always been allergic
So he ate it all himself

For Valentines it was a book
That she had already reviewed
She had told him about it years ago
An article he said he’d viewed

For his birthday she gave whisky
His favourite drink, she knew
She encouraged him to drink it all
And an old dependency renewed

For their anniversary it was a laptop
With all the newest software
And hidden in the hard drive
Were sordid details of his affairs

For Valentines it was dinner
With ingredients made covert
She worried she’d used too little
Until his heart stopped before dessert

Imposter

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It was thrilling, sitting in the crowded restaurant, waiting for my date.

Her photos caught my attention immediately: her soft, wavy hair resting atop heavily tattooed shoulders. Twinkling blue eyes and a small smile. I immediately matched with her, wondering what would happen.

Those weren’t my date’s photos. I had met Amanda weeks ago. The blonde and went on 3 dates before I ended things.

But now I waited for ” Samantha”, keen to find out what the scam was.

I had picked a local restaurant I regularly visited. If the point was to waste my time and stand me up I’d come out ahead.

As I waited, I mulled on my few dates with Amanda. She had told me the meanings of the vine and rose tattoos around her shoulders. She tossed her hair behind her should so many times I wanted to tell her to tie it back. She had bored me.

But I remembered her fondly, in the end. We had what fun we could together, and I always treasure those memories.

I kept an eye on the door. My bet was that a blonde would come through them. She would be a little older, fatter or less attractive than my Amanda. Claim the photos were old, or in bad lighting. I planned to play along, just have some fun and make some new memories.

She looked exactly like the photos.

Tossing her hair back as she looked around, I was so surprised that my date was able to approach and sit down before I could react.

“Hello again” she said in Amanda’s voice. Huskier, deeper than I remembered.

I went to stand, but she grabbed my arm tightly. Too tight. Amanda never had that kind of strength.

My arm was pulled across the table, drawing all of my body closer to her. To anyone else, it would look like a quiet conversation between lovers.

I saw her tattoos, intricate and expansive. I saw her unblemished skin, without scars or marks where I knew there should be. Where wounds should be. In those places I instead saw the tattoos not quite aligning: lines separated, flowers cut in bisected and not quite made whole. As though the skin healed perfectly, but was pulled over a different shape.

As her smile widened, I saw the corners of her mouth bleed, like the skin was pulled too tight.

As her nails drew blood, I realised I was wrong. That this person didn’t look exactly like the photos. Those sparkling blue eyes, which I last saw glassy and unblinking, which I closed myself, were a different colour.

A Good Neighbour

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Bill has always been an excellent neighbour. He kept to himself mostly, but he would give you the shirt off his back if he thought it would make you happy.

It was odd, Steve supposed, that he still lived alone. It was a big house, so he must be doing well at his job. Something in finance, Bill would murmur if asked. He was also handsome by any standards, although his smile always seemed a bit forced.

Still, it was surprising when the police came by. They asked Steve if he had noticed any odd behaviour, or if he could recall any large garden projects Bill had been working on. They wouldn’t explain what they were looking for, but Steve had seen enough TV to have a suspicion. He told them that he wasn’t aware of anything.

That afternoon, Steve stared from the kitchen window at the garden shed his friendly neighbour had helped build months back. Bill had insisted on pouring the concrete for the base and was even willing to pay for the supplies, as he “could use the practice for later”. Due to his odd working hours he had worked on it at night, so Steve did not need to help.

The amount of dirt left displaced had seemed a little much, he had thought. Still, it would be a shame to ruin such good work. Plus, Steve had kept the bloodied earring he had found in the dirt pile, just in case Bill wouldn’t agree to help build the pool he was planning.

A Writer’s Circle

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Feedback welcome!

He had thought it would help his writing to join a writer’s circle.

Alan had been sitting on his first draft for months, terrified that there would be more work in editing the thing than there had been in writing it. He had basked in the pride of having written an entire story and couldn’t bare having to cut away pieces or to reshape it. As he walked towards the apartment block with a printed copy of his first chapter, he hoped they would not have many notes for him. Surely they would at least go easy on him for the first week?

It had been difficult to find this group. They had actually advertised in the newspaper of all places. Even to someone who bragged to his barista (who knew his order by heart) about writing a crime novel, it seemed pretentious. However, he had needed to find the right audience for his work and the ad reading “crime writers meeting – serious interest only” had given him a good impression. After he sent the listed email address his first chapter, he had quickly received an invitation to the meeting.

It seemed odd to invite a stranger to an apartment, rather than vetting them in public first, but he assumed the group outnumbering him made them feel that there was no danger. He supposed the real risk was to him, but he carried a pocketknife just in case. Not that he thought it would come to that.

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Stowed

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It was very trying
He thought, compressed
To be trapped lying
In a crate perhaps five feet abreast

It was awfully cold,
He thought, making do
the padding was old
and smelled strongly of mildew

It must be quite a gale,
He thought, feeling queasy
It was better than gaol,
though the swaying made him uneasy

It was annoying, however,
To have nothing to do
He had a letter from his lover
But she was not there to screw

She had convinced him
To get rid of his wife
While the task had been grim
His desire was worth more than her life

He had taken her sailing
An outing she would often demand
And to reward her failings
He made sure she did not return to land

It should have been straightforward
To restart life as a widower
But he was soon cornered
And he made a deal with a ship owner

It had cost him dearly
To ship him away
More than he made yearly
But worth it to finally escape

The storm was growing worse
He thought, his calm beginning to fail him
As he pressed upwards, he began to curse
The idiots had put real nails in

It was more than damp now,
He realised as he heard splashing
Then the grinding of the ship’s bow
And he knew they were crashing

He clawed and he hammered
But he was already entombed 
And no matter how loud he clamoured 
There was simply nothing to do

He now heard words he had tried to ignore
Which his wife had spoken, before the screams
"This is all I have ever wished for, 
For you and I to take a trip to the sea!"