The Plot

“See,” he said as he pulled out a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Golden Highs and lit it. “You don’t want this to be just another suspense novel” he said, pausing for a puff, “you want people to see this guy and not hate him right off, cause then you’ve lost em.” “So how do we do that?” his friend asked, typing away furiously on his tiny notebook sized laptop. “Well,” he pondered as he rubbed his goatee, “the first one has to be an accident. Some chick in some European country while he was on vacation. He got drunk in some tavern in… Scotland. Met some dumb busty blonde who thought his accent was amusing. They sneak off to some hut in the middle of the night. Fool around. She likes it kinky. Asks him to choke her. He plays along, hesitantly at first, but soon he finds he can’t stop himself. He feels her blood pumping through his fingers, squeezing the last of her life from her body.” He paused, taking another drag. “Afterwards he feels nothing,” he continued “none of the shame or guilt he’s supposed to. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the better he feels. More in control.”

“Okay,” the typer said, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them to prevent his fingertips from numbing up, “what happens next?” “The next two are easy,” his friend replied “Two bit hookers in some back alley in the Red Light district.” “How does he do it? He has to evolve over the intermediary kills. Maybe piano wire? Or a rope?” the typer asked, reaching for the cigarette to take a drag. “No No!” the narrator protested, “I thought of that already. Too filmy. He has to use his bare hands. That way he feels every moment.” He paused suddenly, thinking about where the story went next. He pulled out a fresh cigarette, handing the stub to his mate. “The ending is gonna be important,” he said after a few minutes of puffing his fag silently. “He can’t just get caught or die in a shootout. He needs closure.” “So how do we give it to him?” his friend asked coughing from the disgusting taste of the last drag. “With a final kill. The important one.” “Who is she?” “The one that broke his heart. The one who started the entire cycle of pain and anger.”

He took a deep drag, sighing loudly as he exhaled. “She has long brown hair. Plump breasts. An ass that used to drive him crazy. He’ll take her out to dinner first. Pretend he wants to meet up and talk about old times. To catch up. This one’ll need a lot of detail, and don’t forget the eyes. The eyes are important.” “So where does she die?” his friend asked, trying to type fast enough to keep up with the narration, “What is she wearing? Does he fuck her?” “Don’t know yet” the narrator said as he stood up, crushing the cigarette butt under his all-stars, “I’m picking her up tonight.”

The Face In The Mirror

She walked back from school swinging her sling bag as she skipped to the beat in her head. As she passed the old mill near the school her classmates pulled alongside to ask if she wanted to join a bunch of them down at the beach for the day. “No thanks,” she said as she continued walking, “think I’ll head home early today.” “Suit yourself!” the driver of the blue pick up yelled out as the car pulled off, its wide breadth tires kicking up a large cloud of dust.

The walk to the little cottage where she lived wasn’t very far from the local high school, especially if you took the shortcut through the forest. Which she loved to do. She was soon bouncing through the quaint white fence of the quaint white house up to the quaint white door. She went into the kitchen, kissed her mother on the cheek and told her she’d come right down to help with supper once she’d changed and put her school clothes away for the wash. “Sigh. What a nice girl she is,” her mother thought to herself, the moisture on her cheek still warm from the loving kiss it has received. Her father was in his study, reviewing some papers which she cared not ask about, but would have gladly listened and pretended to be interested in had he spotted her on her way up to her room and asked her in.

There was a spiral staircase that led to her little attic room. She used to call them the ghost stairs. Not because they were scary, or even creaky for that matter, but because they would wind upwards for a while and then disappear suddenly into the ceiling. “Vanish like ghosts”, she used to her her mother.

She threw her bag on her impeccably made bed, turned on the hot water in the shower and picked out some comfy sweats. As she took off her hairband at her vanity she opened one of the secret drawers and pulled out a collapsible mirror. As she opened it up she smiled, gazing menacingly at the tiny reflection of herself beating against the mirror from the other side.