Weapon loaded, I exit the elevator, striding past the reception.
Weeks of building trust, flirting, stalking. The habits of my prey learned. A lioness with her rhinoceros in sight. Armoured in innocence and Gucci, I hand it over.
“Brought you lunch, babe.”
Peanuts in a sandwich; who could have guessed?
L. S. Muller is a Swiss Swedish tea drinker, who reads too many books, loves canines and writes fantasy and horror.
I took his measure, as was my practise.
A calm demeanour, but behind that, an absence. A void where emotion or perhaps empathy should have been.
I sat down opposite him.
“Hello Detective.” He grinned. A predator, used to being in control.
It was going to be a long night.
Bill is from Aberdeen, Scotland. Like his home city, he is trying to re-invent himself, but for both success has been somewhat limited so far.
The phone rang after he arrived home.
“This is Winchester Hospital. Is this Michael Faulkner?”
“It is.” He wiped the blood from the Mercedes’ right fender.
“I’m afraid your daughter was involved in a hit-and-run accident on Salem Street.”
Michael didn’t reply, instead staring at the blood-stained rag he held.
S.D. Curran wrote this story.
As I sit in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit, I reflect on my life as a killer. All the lives I’ve taken, all the families I’ve destroyed forever. It’s mildly disconcerting.
I barely make out the judge giving the sentence of life without bail.
Oh well. Win some, lose some.
Eric has been writing for around a year with varying degrees of success but with unwavering joy.
In Theo’s experience, when you showed someone a blindfold, they tended to interpret it in one of two ways: it represented either a game, or kidnapping.
The interesting part, to Theo, were those few wavering moments, as he tied it on, while they tried to decide which one it was.
This story was based on the prompt “a blindfold” at TypeTrigger.