Whiskers tickled his chin. A weight on his chest, no lighter than a bowling ball, shifted languidly from one rib to the other. His wrists bled. His ankles were bruised. His foggy eyes rolled in their sockets till they landed on hers, sharp blue and full of poison.
He whimpered, waiting for the next strike. It didn’t take long. A practiced set of crimson-stained claws flashed across his cheek, his nose, his lips. “Why?” He could hear the others, light feet pacing the room, flooding the stairwell. Some had wandered into the basement in search of smaller prey. “Why do you do this?” He wept, salt burning a trail from his eyes to the hair at his temples. She drew closer, smiling.
“It’s not your breath we want,” she hissed. “It’s your tears.”
You get two versions this week! This story was accepted by Twisted Dreams Magazine after a quick revision at the editor’s request. Though I only expanded the ending by a whole 116 words, I’ve always preferred the original so I’m including them both here. Which, if either, do you think works best? Do the additional details really add anything more to the story?
Dinner For Two
by Mekenzie Larsen
Back for another go? You’ve been in this position before. Same place, same time. You’re even wearing the same mustard-stained shirt. You don’t feel the same, though, at least not yet. But you will. It will hit you full force, and when it does you will wish you had stayed at work, wish you hadn’t taken that phone call from the wife. You will be in pain for days, just like before, and even though it will pass it will still leave a vicious taste in your mouth.
Why did you take that call? You could have come up with any number of excuses. It wasn’t as if you weren’t busy enough. But you took it, and as soon as you heard her voice on the other end you knew what was coming. You tried to talk your way out of it, tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t have any of it. You even rambled off a list of alternatives. She wasn’t listening. You had to do it.
“But I can’t do it,” you groaned. “Remember what happened last time?”
She remembered. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll do fine. I trust you.”
She trusts you. Those words run through your head in a never-ending cycle. She’s trusting you to get the job done, and done right. You don’t want to let her down, do you? Of course not. Not again.
You get started. No sense in wasting time. She could come home at any minute. You make it through the first half of the routine easily, stopping once for a quick drink. Vodka. Just a swallow. The little woman prefers wine. You make a mental note to grab a bottle from the cellar before she arrives. Nothing pleases her more than having a glass of wine with dinner.
Now the difficult part. This is where you stumbled last time. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. You reach for the knife at your side. You grasp it, pause, then hold it before you. The blade is dull from years of use but it will do. (“You’ll do fine.”) It’s served you well in the past. After tonight, though, maybe you will go out and purchase a new one. It’s always nice to have something new laying around.
You lower the blade, piercing through the first layer of skin. Clear, thin liquid seeps out from the shallow wound. You push on through until you hit the counter top beneath.
Gulp.
You make a few more slices, wincing after each stroke of the knife. It’s almost over. Your eyes begin to water and you angrily wipe away the tears. No one should be subjected to this kind of torture.
Sigh.
That’s it. Glancing at the clock, you see that it’s a quarter past. You silently pat yourself on the back. You managed to hold it down this time. She’ll be so pleased.
You place the onion slices on the platter next to the fresh liver and small bowl of bony, bloody fingers. You’d left the nails; the wife likes to tear them off herself. As you wash your hands, letting them linger under the cool water, you remember the wine. You have just enough time to retrieve the bottle before she comes in. You tidy things up, then head down the back stairs to the cellar, reminding yourself there will be much cleaning to do in the morning.
* * *
That’s it. Glancing at the clock, you see that it’s a quarter past. You silently pat yourself on the back. You managed to hold it down this time. She’ll be so pleased.
You place the onion slices on the platter next to the fresh liver and small bowl of bony, bloody fingers. You’d left the nails; the wife likes to tear them off herself. After wiping up the mess, you return to the fridge to put away the remains of your victim. Your hands reek of onion, but the stench is quickly replaced with something stronger as you open the refrigerator door.
Tupperware boxes fill every shelf, each with a distinct label: tongues, brains, fingers and toes, hearts, etc. A smile creeps to your lips as you remember the carcass of the little boy you dissected earlier that day. He’d been easy enough to catch. They had all been easy. The hard part was the damn onions. The thought makes you gag, and you quickly deposit what’s left in the designated box.
You make your way back to the sink. As you wash your hands, letting them linger under the cool water, you remember the wine. You have just enough time to retrieve the bottle before she comes in. You tidy things up, then head down the back stairs to the cellar, reminding yourself there will be much cleaning to do in the morning.
– as published in Twisted Dreams Magazine, April 2006
This is my attempt at posting a short-short story at least two Fridays out of each month. Not all of them will be mine, not all of them will be new (and on that note, not all of them will be good), but I’m hoping this will be a good exercise to trick me into writing more of my own material and sharing it with you, on the spot.
This actually is one of my stories, written in 2001 for an 8th grade English assignment. As far as I know, it is still being shown as a “good example” on the overhead projector during class.
A Light in the Night
The night sky was suddenly alit with brilliant colors, from rich purples to neon greens. They fanned out like rays of the sun from a single object, pulsing against a vast wall of blue. The base, a silver, elliptically shaped disk, seemed to hover overhead, miles and miles away. The brightly lit shape inched through the night, a sound never escaping its walls. If one were to examine it closely, they would notice the set of piercing orange orbs at the front of the disk, glowing like two large cat’s eyes.
It slid along, coming to a halt over a large crop of woods. With a sudden jerk, it sped away in the opposite direction, as if frightened. Then it flew silently once again, its rainbow of lights growing steadily dimmer. Every few moments it would rotate in a complete circle, until finally it continued spinning round. It stopped one last time at the base of a towering mountain, merely a shadow against the nighttime backdrop. Its wash of colors seemed to be sucked back into its base, never to be seen again. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it abruptly flew up and vanished behind the mountain and into the darkness.
