"Flash fiction is like a bite of a strawberry that makes you feel like you got the whole pie." Krista Lynn
Flash Fiction from the Garden
Roger by Linda Lee Kane
Latest Submittted Flash Fiction
Roger sat at his kitchen table drinking his first cup of Nescafe coffee. Looking out his laced curtained windows, he saw police, fire trucks and an ambulance in front of his next door neighbor's home.
Under the table, across the room, Roxie lay cowering, as if she knew what he had done. Getting up, he picked Princess up, his little doxen. She began to lick him all over his
face and hands, as if he she knew he were unclean. Roger decided to take a shower before his shift at work. There really had been so much blood, who knew? But the bitch had crossed the line one too many times. How could he help it if his two little dogs, Princess and Roxie ran over to Etta's yard and defecated and peed on her lawn before he could stop them?
Just yesterday, Etta tore out of her condo, turned on the hose, and sprayed Princess with water. When he saw what Etta was doing he calmly, walked over into her yard and ripped the hose out of her hand. Etta, with her dyed black hair, and orange tinged skin had nothing but four letter words spewing out of her mouth at him and his precious darlings.
Princess was very special; she loved him like no other person had. Some days he would dress Princess up in a pink frilly, laced skirt and tiara. How she loved modeling for him. He took so many pictures there was no space on the mantel any longer for his little girl.
"Etta," he said. "Leave my dogs alone, I'm a very dangerous man to be around and you really don't want to screw with me."
"You skinny, fucking fruit cake, keep your weenie dogs in your yard or next time, I'll drown them."
Turning on his heel, his head held high, he picked up Princess and Roxie and walked back into his condo. Grabbing a towel out of his bathroom closet he proceeded to briskly dry Princess and Roxie. “You’re good girls. That nasty old lady doesn’t know what’s in store for her. The psychologist said I have anger management issues. How could she say that? No one hurts my girls, certainly not Etta. My Dad had to be taught that lesson when I became a grown man. “Didn’t you Dad?”
Roger looked over at his father, sitting in his wheel chair, head to the side, drooling. “I used to be so afraid of you; you were a mean son of a bitch. But look at you now, you understand me, I know you do,” Roger smiled kicking his father’s chair.
Turning back to his dogs, he said, “My poor little girls, what has that fat, evil witch done," he cried out. "She could have given you a cold." He rocked Princess in his arms and Roxie came over and lay beside him on the couch.
That night after Etta had hosed his dogs, and long after the lights had been had turned off in Etta’s home for the night. He had written a note on her window to run. But she didn’t heed his warning to run. Roger crept over to her home and jimmied the window open. Silently he walked toward her bedroom.
Quietly; he opened the door and saw Etta dressed in a pink night gown with her back turned away from him.
Silently, he took his garrote out and quickly wrapped it around her neck. She kicked and fought. She tried to throw her weight against him to knock him down, but he continued to pull the garrote tighter. Blood was spurting in every direction. Suddenly, her head fell to the side. He was amazed that he had almost torn threw her neck completely.
After putting the garrote back into his pocket, he went home and removed all his clothing and
carefully put them into a hefty bag. After a good night's sleep, he would take Etta’s body to the Pizza Parlor where he made pizzas. He was always first to arrive at work. He was in charge of preparing the ovens and getting the dough set for the day. There he would incinerate his clothing, and Etta while baking pizza for his customers.
Etta really got off easy compared to his father; I guess he was getting a little bit more tolerant as he grew older. He smiled as he took another sip of his morning coffee, petting his girls.
October's Writer's Challenge
Masquerade by Sandra Masters
The road to hell started five years ago when Lady Viviana met the notorious Garrett Belmont, Marquess of Stamford. After a whirlwind courtship, they married, spent sensual honeymoon weeks in Italy where they enjoyed every pleasure never before known to her. They never stepped outside the room and hours spent in bed sport were guilty pleasures on her part. So in love with him, she marveled that he chose her to marry from the bevy of women who threw themselves at his feet.
Five years gone, without a goodbye, she caressed the empty pillow beside her with gentle seeking fingers. Alone in her opulent bedroom in the family mansion, her son was the only reason she lived. Lady Viviana sat in the canopied four-poster regency bed, her mind restless as usual, and thought about her useless life. She sunk deep into the down pillows to cradle her head. A single long candle flickered in its holder and undulated shadows on the wall casting mysterious figures.
She clutched her nightgown to her throat, too tired to arise and close the partially opened window where the wind rustled the sheer curtains into ghostlike flutters. The pale crescent moon hung in the midnight sky and only the planet Jupiter was visible through the upper transom.
About to welcome slumber, a noise caused her to open her eyes wide. The shape on the wall grew larger, menacing into an eerie figure and came closer, closer and closer. An arm extended and doused the candle, and the pitched blackness choked her scream. The sound of her racing breath thundered in her head like violent pelting waves against a barren shore.
“Who’s there?” she managed to ask in a low voice.
A dangerous silence, suffocating, deep and dark, enveloped the room. Something or someone was near. Afraid to move, about to scream words that were difficult to voice, the candle reflamed and cast its glow as it brightened only to display a note by Viviana’s bedside. She focused her eyes on reading the one word. “Run!”
A macabre thought caused her to jump out of bed, barefoot, as she ran to the window and slammed the sash shut, her hand on the panes. Viviana moved away and checked behind each drape and dressing screen, but saw nothing. Next, she ran to the massive oak and metal door and sighed in relief; the lock was undisturbed. She then scanned the room, where her glance went to the vanity. A black scarf covered the mirror. With tip-toe steps, she went toward the dressing table, took a deep breath, and as her hand reached slowly for the scarf, she uttered a quick prayer and stripped the mirror.
It was cracked! Seven years of bad luck it portended. If the superstition was true, she already served five difficult years since her husband abandoned her. She might have understood whatever reason caused him to leave, but without a goodbye, she’d forever wonder just what she meant to him that he could be silent for so long. Of late, too many frightening incidents occurred and always when she was alone.
She didn’t believe in the supernatural until lately as these manifestations haunted her. It then occurred to her that someone conjured a plan to drive her insane. Viviana ran to the note she’d discarded on the floor, retrieved it. Who, what? Why? The paper singed her fingers, yet she continued to hold it. Good versus evil. She needed to protect her son at all costs.
Her hysterical laughter rang through the air. Run? Where? There was no place in the world large enough where she could hide.
Masquerade by Sandra Masters
5 Secret Tips to Writing a Successful Short Story.
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