She Lied To Me

Crystal lied to me. I know she did. I don’t know why I feel that way, but I do. I don’t actually have proof that she lied, but I know she did. It’s one of those things you just know. You can feel it through your entire body. Even the marrow in my bones knows she lied to me. It’s pretty sure anyway. At least eighty percent sure. That’s good enough when it comes to lying. That’s what my mother always used to say. That’s why I got a wooden spoon across my backside so often. God, I hated that spoon.

Thing is she was wrong more than she was right. At least in the beginning. By the time it ended, I knew she wouldn’t believe me anyway, so I lied out my ass. Each one was larger and more elaborate than the last. They were the kinds of stories that could only be lies, but if I was going to get hit anyway why not make it interesting, right?

That’s how it was with Crystal. She had to be lying. At least I think so. I’m at least sixty percent sure she was lying. There’s no other explanation, really. She had to be lying.
Her story just didn’t jibe with reality. That’s how you get caught. That’s what
my mother always said. Thing is, my stories jibed perfectly in the beginning.
How couldn’t they have? I was telling the truth.

Crystal had to be lying. She knew that guy and something was definitely weird with their dynamic. I’m at least forty percent sure she was lying. There’s no way that was the first time they’d ever met. They knew each other. They got what they deserved.

But what if she didn’t know him? What if she wasn’t lying? No. She was lying. I’m at least twenty percent sure, and twenty percent is good enough, right?

I probably should have given her the benefit of the doubt. I should give her a call. I want to. I want her back. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.

I can’t call her though. She wouldn’t answer. How could she? She’s at the bottom of a lake with that piece of shit who tried to take her from me. Besides, she lied to me. I’m at least eighty percent sure. I think.

—

Just a quick, barely edited story for you today. What say you, Minion?

Also, If you aren’t aware: the newest volume of 100 Tiny Tales of Terror, Rotten Little Things, just hit the digital shelves. You should pick up a copy. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

US: http://a.co/9SGoWlq

UK: http://amzn.eu/7UrzDNi

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They Haven’t Left Me Since

PHOTO PROMPT © Karuna

Filthy, and with matted hair, the children walked down the street. No one else seemed to notice them, so I approached. They stared at me through narrowed eyes. For three days they followed me everywhere, never saying a word, nor ingesting anything as far as I could tell.

By the end of that third day I’d had enough. When I confronted them, they still stared, unspeaking. Eventually, I’d become fed up and turned away. In unison, they finally spoke. Just three words. “Helen sent us.”

Helen was my wife, until the day I killed her.

They haven’t left me since.

—

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Yes, I know. It’s been a long time since I’ve participated, but I’m back now, and I come bearing gifts.

Click here for stories from the other Fictioneers.

 

The Boat Graveyard

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Georgia Koch

It’s hard to believe she’s still there, exactly where I left her, completely untouched after all these years. She’s just sitting there at the edge of the river rotting away to nothing, a mere shell of what she once was. I told myself I would never come back to this awful place, that it was best left in the past, but the gnawing need to apologize for leaving her this way grew too intense. I’ll always regret abandoning her on the edge of that dirty river in that little run down boat. I just wasn’t ready to be a father.

—

This is pretty dark for a story written on my birthday, but I tend to go that way with my writing, so I can’t say it’s much of a surprise. I’m not sure if the “she” in the boat is the baby or the pregnant woman. Either way, it’s bad.

On a lighter note, my wife (to my knowledge) still hasn’t hired that hitman yet. Another year older and I get to carry on awhile longer. Hopefully I can avoid making her too mad until my next birthday.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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Divorce Is Messy

PHOTO PROMPT – © Me

His boots thumped against the wood as he walked toward the end of the boardwalk. Her silhouette beckoned him in the distance. He didn’t think she’d actually show. They usually don’t. They usually have a change of heart. Not this one though. This one meant business.

He grinned as he approached. She looked nervous. Most of the ones who made it this far did. He didn’t trust the ones who didn’t, refused to work with them.

“You got the money?” he asked.

She extended a shaking arm to him, a bag clutched in her hand.

“He won’t bother you anymore.”

—

I figured it only appropriate to write about marriage for this photo as I snapped the shot while on my honeymoon almost 9 years ago. Sure, this story is about a broken marriage and a hitman hired to kill the husband, but it’s still about marriage. If you’re wondering, this story is not a reflection of reality. To my knowledge my wife hasn’t hired anyone to kill me and as far as I know she isn’t planning to. I’ve been wrong before though.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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Purgatory

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Marler Morrill

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, walking this endless labyrinth of concrete blandness. I remember a time before this place, but I don’t know how long ago that was. It could be hours, days, weeks, months, even years. There’s no way of really knowing. Time is funny here. It slips through your fingers like water. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow.

Not even the sweet release of death can free me from this God forsaken place. The last memory I have from the time before I came here is of the day I died. I fear I’m stuck here forever.

—

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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