Monthly Archives: November 2012

The Dance

Some say love is like falling. Not for me.
It’s more like a bare knuckle fight with a old-school pro twice your size.
Like a fight, you think you’ve got the chutzpah,
Like love you think your immune.
Let me tell ya somethin: you don’t. you ain’t.

He steps up, I step up.
She she flirts, I wink.
Open flurry, I’m doin fine.
A smooth line, she laughs.
I feint to the right, he’s too slow.
A probing question turned aside with banter
Faster than I thought, can’t bob out of this
A shift of her bare shoulder
A jab to my face, disoriented.
She leans in, the scent of lavender.
I harden my defense, protect the face
I harden my defense, protect the heart.
An uppercut, my mouth fills with blood.
A laugh, my stomach fills with butterflies

The room spins

He throws an unexpected haymaker from the left.
She says she always thought I was handsome.

He’s closer than I thought.
She’s closer than I thought.

My guard is down
I’ve been struck.
The Hammer of Thor,
The Thunderbolt of Zeus
The Sword of Archangel Michael
My own personal Rapture.
My own goddamn Apocalypse.
my brain reels.

The room spins.

and I fall.


Posted by on November 25, 2012 in Uncategorized


Flash Fiction Challenge from Chuck Wendig. 1000 words. has to be about hiding a body.

once more, any comments, criticisms or suggestions are welcome.

A Habitual Cadaver

“I thought I hid you better” I said out loud. She just grins at me.
I look around the apartment. muddy footprints and a shattered window show how she got back in.
I plop down into a chair across from her and lean back. she stares. she always stares, no matter how many times I close her eyes they’re always open.
She just fuckin’ stares at me.
I notice the last vestige of thread still clinging to her eyelids where they’d been sewn shut.
Not anymore. just the same glassy stare. we sit there, just her and me lookin’ at each other like a couple of mannequins.
‘cept of course- I’m still alive and she’s just the corpse that follows me home. every night.
I remember the first night I buried her. the grave was deep and it took me ’til 4am. but I did the deed.
I came home stinking and dirty and there she was. laying on my couch. her pale body covered in mud. I nearly had a heart attack.
I didn’t, but I came close. instead I passed out. I wake up to find her still laying there.
The fucked up thing was my first reaction was that I thought she was a zombie. how weird is that? Of all the shit it was likely to be, some asshole extortionist,someone out for revenge, what the fuck ever. My brain just snapped to zombie. weird,right? Zombies don’t exist. she doesn’t groan or shamble.
I never see her move. doesn’t breathe or blink. but I can always follow her footprints back to the grave I buried her in. I stand up and head to the liquor cabinet. I make a highball and try to keep my hands from shaking.
I casually ask if she wants one. She gives the same old reply.
I sit back down and wonder what to do next. I could try and burn her again. I saw a TV show where they used acid. maybe acid would work. but I don’t know shit about acid, so maybe not. I tried cutting her up, but she comes back together some how. I don’t see any stitches. but the marks from the saw are still there.
I didn’t know what to do. I was being haunted by a corpse. I rarely slept. I was afraid to while she was here.
I’d even thought about a hotel.
But what if she came to my hotel room?  everyone would see. i would get caught. I would go to prison. possibly get the electric chair. do they still use the chair? doesn’t matter, they’d kill me. and I wouldn’t be showing up again afterwards.
I drained my highball in one long pull. I paced back and forth through the kitchen trying to come up with some sort of plan.
a kiln maybe? burns hot. real hot. could reduce her to ashes. where the fuck was I gonna find a kiln?
okay. maybe drop her into some cement. bury her deep. except once again, I didn’t know where the hell you get cement. maybe a construction site?
dragging her body there would be kinda risky. it’s an option though. I went and made another highball. I studiously ignored her as she sat on my couch.
I was running out of ideas. Someone  would notice eventually. some way, somehow. at this rate I might as well chop her up and feed her the homeless for all the-
Of course. I can do all the work right here in my kitchen. I’ve got cooking supplies.  I grab my meat cleaver from the rack. The crock-pot from Christmas I kept promising myself I’d use someday.
Looks like today’s the day.

I work all night and well into the next morning. over four hundred sandwiches and 30 loaves of bread later, I’ve finished. I throw the sandwiches into some plastic bags and load ’em into the back of my car.

In half an hour I’m at the homeless shelter, I offer the sandwiches to the gray haired lady in charge. She mentions something about a bunch of poisonings. I giver her a confident smile and grab a random sandwich and take a bite.
I can feel her in my mouth. sliding around my teeth and coating my tongue.  I try not to gag.  My stomach almost starts to heave, but I somehow  finish without throwing up. I smile as sweetly as possible to hide how ill that  made me. The gray haired lady gets a couple volunteers to cart in the sandwiches. She asks if I’d like to help out, I beg off saying I have an urgent appointment and leave ASAP.

I can feel her roiling around in there. maybe it’s nerves,but what if isn’t?  Halfway home I pull over and throw up. I stick my fingers down my throat and purge every bit of her from my insides. A while later I’m back on the road, feeling slightly better. covered in puke. but still slightly better.
I pull into the driveway and stare at the door. what if she’s there? what if she’s still sitting on the couch staring with those goddamn glassy eyes? what would I do?
calm down.  it worked.  she’s just meat.
sandwich meat. nothing more.
I open the door slowly. my heart’s hammering in my chest. I wipe my palms on my shirt and enter into the darkened foyer. the couch is empty. same for the living room.
the house is clear. For the first time in a week I breathe. really breathe. she’s gone for good.

I walk into the bedroom and collapse onto the covers.  Oblivion greets me in seconds.

Sunlight smiles from my window and I smile back. My muscle ache and complain as I roll out of bed. I saunter into the living room and my smile dies.
She’s not on the couch.
Instead four hobos sit there with rictus grins and glassy eyes.
I grab the phone book and look up ‘Kiln’.

A Habitual Cadaver

Leave a comment

Posted by on November 5, 2012 in Uncategorized