Posts Tagged ‘serial killer’

My project for National Novel Writing Month derailed my short fiction writing this week.  In fact, I am becoming convinced that NaNoWriMo actually has the ability to speed up time during November.  This week researchers at CERN discovered particles that travel at rates exceeding the speed of light.  I think they should designate them NaNos.  At any rate, although Flash Fiction Friday has come and gone, I’d still like to offer One Drop, Then Two, a 300 word piece which I hope unnerves you as much as it did me while writing it.  Enjoy!

One drop, then two.

The faucet had a slow leak with a rhythmic, almost hypnotic pattern.  The sound was the only thing keeping her anchored in the moment as panic tried to pry its way in and overcome rational thought.  He was sly, she had to give him that.  She’d thought she had been the one with the upper hand.  After all, she’d recognized his MO and put in the long hours of interviews and investigative work that was certain to get her a byline, and maybe a Pulitzer.

One drop, then two.

She’d posed as a hooker, haunting the truck stops between Kansas City and Salina.  She’d found him in Junction City.  He’d invited her into the cab of his Freightliner tractor-trailer.  He poured them both a glass of cheap wine.  She watched him fill her glass, but hadn’t seen him slip in the sedative.  It hadn’t taken much to knock her out.

One drop, maybe two.

When she came to, her wrists were in shackles, chain looped over a steel bar set into the concrete walls of a stark, utilitarian bathroom.  The bar was supposed to serve as a rod for a shower curtain, but she was the only thing dangling from it now.

One drop, then two.

She had no idea when he would return. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious.  She did know that the remainder of her life was being measured out in the interval between drips.  She was certain he would slit her throat, just as he had done to the 37 women before her.  She wondered what it would feel like when the wickedly serrated blade of his knife pressed into the soft flesh below her chin.  She knew there would be blood.

It would start with one drop, then two.

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It’s Flash Fiction Friday, and to celebrate the start of the weekend, I’d like to share Dry Run.  I stumbled on a challenge earlier this year to write a story of precisely 100 words, on any topic, as long as it included three of the five random words that were provided.  The three words I chose were: black, barrel, and soap.  I went for a short waltz with those words, and the result was Dry Run.  Enjoy!

He won the mannequin on eBay.  It arrived five days later.  He removed it from a shroud of tissue paper and bubble wrap, washing it with a delicate lavender soap.  They sat together on his porch as the sun set, drinking red wine and making light conversation.  Under the pale light of the moon, he strangled her with a length of sheer black nylon hose.  He dismembered her with a hacksaw and placed her arms, legs, and torso in a steel barrel filled with quick lime.  When all was in order, he returned inside to visit another social networking site.

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