Another double-header today with my #55WordChallenge (55 words due between noon on Wednesday and noon on Thursday, matching with a picture prompt–seen here, hosted by Lisa Hollar) and #ThursThreads (100-250 words of flash-fiction tied to a prompt from the winner of the week before, open from 7AM to 8PM PST, hosted by Siobhan Muir) attempts.
Enjoy and if you have time (at least for the #ThursThreads), click on the name of the challenge above to go straight to the post. Check out the other great contributions, too! :)
When we got to the white cross, I turned to ask Jimmy why he’d finally visited his ma.
Something wasn’t right ‘bout his face. Then, his face was mine.
I tripped over a fresh mound, fell into my grave and wished the doppleganger had at least let me see my husband’s face last—not mine.
He’d told many a cruel joke, decorated her collar with jewels of amethyst bruises more than once. He’d adorned her body with tattoos that fit the shape of his hand, marked her hips, thighs, breasts: all the most desirable parts, all the more to be claimed.
Then, he proposed, laughing it off when she said ‘yes’: the cruelest joke of all. But it would be his last.
She made his dinner as usual, but she did not poison him. It would have been too predictable. And had she not been predictable enough these last few years? While he ate, she stood behind him, caressing the nape of his neck.
It only took one stab of the ice pick—a beautiful heirloom of his family. It was Japanese with a hickory handle and it fit perfectly beneath his chin. He didn’t have a moment to even grab at it, but fell straight into her perfectly crafted foie gras.
She’d have made a wonderful wife.