This story was originally put up on the ever talented wordpress plugin master’s site: FiddyP. Andy, being gracious as always, allowed me to retain my rights to this story. Without further ado, here for your reading pleasure is a twisted little black comedy I like to call ‘Fresh Meat’.

Gretta stood next to a dumpster in the alleyway behind her family’s restaurant, puffing furiously on a cigarette. She fumbled with the broken zipper on her coat for a while until she finally gave up with a defeated sigh and a twinge of disgust.

That’s it. I am buying myself a new coat for Christmas. Why didn’t I throw this ratty old thing out last year like I planned? Why do I save useless crap like this? I need to just grab a few dozen trash bags and get rid of it, all of it. It’s not like I’m ever going to use old catalogs, broken cassette tapes, or a year’s supply of plastic bags. Why is it so hard to let things go?

Her feeble attempts to ward off the frigid air by clenching her coat closed with one hand were thwarted by mighty arctic blasts. No longer able to withstand the chill, Gretta dipped the half-finished cigarette into the newly fallen snow. Then she dropped the soggy butt into her coat pocket.

“Damn zipper,” she mumbled as she turned around to reach for the door.

Dieter noticed his daughter trying to shake off the bitter cold when she passed the stove to hang up her coat. “Come and have a nice bowl of soup. I made it fresh.”

Gretta sat down with her soup. Just as the spoon was about to touch the murky broth, her face soured and muscles tensed.

“Wait, how fresh?” She turned to her father.

“Oh!” Dieter grew pale for a moment while he wiped his hands on his apron. “Not that fresh…” He glanced over at a man in a tacky, red Santa sweater who’d been busy studying the menu longer than it would take Dieter to read a novel. “Just a little something I whipped up this morning.” He smiled nervously.

It was too late. She had already lost her appetite. She felt nauseated and her head was pounding. Even the soft melody of Christmas oldies playing on the jukebox were grating on her nerves. Aching to get this day over with and just jump straight into bed, Gretta glanced up at the clock. That’s when she noticed the dirty tables waiting for her.

I can’t believe that I didn’t even remember to clean up after the morning rush.

Gretta shook her head while glancing down at the barely touched mounds of food abandoned by two teenagers.

“Such a waste,” she sighed and cleared off the table.

Just like my life.

She tried to push the unsettling thought away without success.

You ruined everything! We were supposed to grow old together. You were going to toss aside fifteen years for some silly little teenage girl with bleached blond hair and bad skin. How could you do that to me? I loved you! You fu-

“Excuse me, Miss?” The raspy voice of a patron flagging her over pierced the foggy veil of her thoughts instantly, but the bitterness lingered.

Gretta forced a smile and grabbed a pen and pad from her apron. When the elderly gentleman gave her his order, she struggled to suppress the urge to giggle. The hint of a grin flashed across her face as she strolled into the kitchen.

Her panic-stricken husband made futile attempts to jerk free from his bindings when Gretta opened the freezer door. He gurgled in alarm as he eyed the knife in her hand.

“You’re an utter waste of human life, but I just can’t bring myself to throw things away, even worthless trash like you. You got off real easy last time, Franz. I mean, how many people order tongue these days?” She grabbed his crotch forcefully and met his bewildered gaze with a smirk.

“This time, it’s German sausage.”

Sometimes a writer can get a bit too ambitious. That was the case with this story. I wanted to write a story about a man who was in love with love itself. I wanted it to appear that he was just going through the motions and that all his words were hollow, as if a he were a bad actor rehearsing lines for a play. This story was also in first person perspective. The combination was a real disaster. Ah well, you live and learn.

I love you. I know it’s hard to believe right now, but I do. I know what you must think of me but I am not a monster. I am not heartless, my love, but this is for the best, don’t you see?

Your tears do pain me so, my darling. Please don’t cry. I only do what I must to preserve our love. We’ve both luxuriated in its glorious fervor for over a year now but you know as well as I that things are no longer as they once were. Just small things really, like the pauses in our conversations that seem to be growing every day or that we barely hold hands now. It’s only a matter of time before these little pebbles of a rift between us turn into an avalanche.

Fight it as we may, the fire between us is burning itself out. Intense passion doesn’t last for an eternity, my sweet. Once our passion is in its death throes, our love will be devoured slowly by routine and boredom until one day we awaken and realize that we can’t remember what had once consumed us so readily. I cannot bear to be forced to see you with different, less adoring eyes as the years roll by.

Please, don’t cower from my touch. I know I deserve your contempt but it tortures me just the same. I am not enjoying this, my love. I gain no pleasure from seeing the raw anguish etched into your face. I only wish to comfort you, even though I realize I am the source of your pain.

I am sorry; so very sorry for robbing you of the future you’ve always wanted. It’s a sin that you’ll never get to know the thrill of having your first book in print, the big family we’ve talked about, the horses you wanted to raise, or the cozy home up in the mountains. I wanted those things for you too darling, for us both. Sadly, dreams perish with us but much like Romeo and Juliet, our unmarred romance will be preserved throughout the ages. In this way, we will be granted immortality.

Don’t struggle so much darling, you’ll just hurt yourself. You could scream until your voice caves in but the only savior to be found this night, is the one that I hold firmly in my hand. Shhhhhhhhh… Please don’t be afraid. Wherever this road may lead us, at least we will be traveling it together. They say love is sacrifice. Few people understand to what extent. Now be a good girl and close your eyes. This won’t hurt a bit.

This is the only story that I’ve ever written that contained a good amount of gore. If that kind of stuff bothers you please do not read further! I wrote this for a flash fiction contest and I must say shows one of the many reasons you should refrain from pissing off a horror writer. We can be some sick, twisted little puppies. Oh, just so no one gets the idea, the woman in the story is NOT me. This is not a personal revenge fantasy.

It’s amazing what plastic surgery can do. He didn’t even recognize my name. Then again, it’s been years since he took my virginity on a dare. I thought he saw past the weight and crooked nose. He ripped my dignity from me then he dropped me cold. Tonight, I showed him what it feels like to be ugly.

He thought he was getting laid tonight and let me restrain him for a bit of play. I laid out my bag of “toys” and watched his beautiful face curdle with panic. I tore into his flesh the way he so callously tore into my heart and delighted in marring his perfect skin.

I carved one word all over his torso and limbs so everyone would see him for what he really is: a pig. How the lying, little piggy did squeal for me too, especially when I showed him my blow torch.

I hacked away at the charming smile that once fed me seductive lies using a steak knife. I allowed a few small chunks of meat to dangle for flames to feast upon. The smell of the remaining fragments of tissue from his lips being burned off of the bone reminded me of a pig roast.

This whole thing has really worked up my appetite. I think I’ll make myself a ham sandwich. After all, he’s got plenty of meat left. Hell, maybe I’ll make him one too.

This is the first short story that I wrote back in ‘06. I wanted to hint at some of the things that transpired without actually mentioning them. I wanted it to be like a puzzle you had to piece together. Some people got it, many didn’t. Oh well. It’s still not bad for a first attempt. At least, I don’t think so. Are you able to make sense of the plot?

Elizabeth watched, numbed to the bone, as her home burned to the ground, the flames devouring everything she held dear. Everything her parents worked so hard to achieve, all her childhood memories, lost in an ancient dance of embers.

She wasn’t sure when the tears began to well in her eyes but the wall of numbness that had enveloped her was rupturing. How she wished her father had been alive to see this. He was always so obsessed with his possessions. Better yet, she wished that bastard had been inside the house before she had set it ablaze.

They say fire can be a cleansing ritual. The blood on her hands could never be scrubbed away. Perhaps, the flames could sear that memory from her brain. Let her forget.

That night. Would it ever stop tormenting her? The echoes of a crying newborn mixed with her mother’s terrified screams as she guarded the doorway frantically trying to protect her child. Her father’s nearly inhuman bellows of “He ain’t mine, you god damn whore! Your son ain’t mine! You slut… You fucking slut!”

One shot was all it took. Crimson rivulets poured down the wallpaper like raindrops. This madman whom had once been her father, stepped over his wife’s lifeless form, gun in hand, into the nursery.

Murder-suicide they called it but Elizabeth knew better. It had been her fault. All her fault. She hadn’t meant to tell but the words just somehow slipped out like grains of sand through narrow fingers.

If only she had just kept her mouth shut… If only her dad had been sober… If only. Those two simple words put together have the power to torture one’s mind for an eternity. Yet, Elizabeth knew the truth. It didn’t matter now. All the “what ifs” in the world wouldn’t change the fact that modest markers in some dilapidated cemetery upstate were all that remained of the people she loved.

The billowing smoke signified that the god of fire had accepted her humble offering but she knew then, as the flames flickered all around her like a lover’s caress, that she was the sacrifice for which he lusted.

If she accepted his invitation she would be stripped of her burdens; her flesh purified as it burned away. The crackling embers beckoned to her, inviting her to join the merriment that raged beyond the foyer. The flames twirled like acrobats; their mesmerizing performance for her eyes alone.

Slowly, she crept closer to the front door, her hands balled tightly into fists of determination. Crossing the threshold, Elizabeth knew there was no going back. The deal had been struck. It was a fair trade; her body for her soul. Atonement always comes at a price.

Can you guess what horror legend this micro-fiction horror story was written in tribute to? He is one of my idols. He wrote some of the top horror flicks of all time and as far as I am concerned will always be the master of suspense.

I always said Mama was rotten. Her sour face and gruff demeanor could chase anyone away. That’s when it dawned on me; she really was rotting on the inside.

Her heart was fermenting from years of neglect. I knew the decay had surely spread to her other organs as well. So, I did what any good daughter would. I scraped out every last trace of tainted flesh and muscle. Then, I filled her gaping emptiness with sawdust, the way Daddy used to with squirrels and rabbits.

She’s much happier now. I know because she’s always smiling. She doesn’t talk much anymore, but I don’t mind. I just wish she’d change the channel now and then. I’m tired of watching PBS.

Ben climbed into the Taxi awkwardly with a massive tangle of balloons that he had stopped trying to gain control over long before the cab arrived. As the newest partner in one of the largest law firms in LA, he had always prided himself on looking neat and dignified.

He felt utterly ridiculous. Thanks in large part to the chocolate-smothered four-year-old little girl that had slipped away from her mother and taken a liking to his pants. To add insult the injury, the chilidog he hastily purchased on the way from the airport had decided to become one with his shirt. Not to mention the large bouquet of oversized balloons fwaping him in the face every five seconds. If there was a god, he was peering down from the heavens and laughing at him right now along with the Tweety Bird balloon pressing against the side of his face.

Tweety was his daughter’s favorite cartoon character. The year before her entire birthday party had been Looney Tunes themed. At least that’s what his ex-wife had told him. He had gotten caught in negotiations on the behalf of a very important client. While he hated the idea of not showing for the first important milestone in his daughter’s life after the divorce had been finalized, he needed to make partner in order to give her the life that he felt she deserved.

When he finally worked up the nerve to call, his ex-wife was livid. Their daughter, Emma, had been waiting by the window for him to arrive all morning. He promised his daughter that he would be there to help set up her party but there was still no sign of him after guests started to depart. Emma was crushed.

His ex-wife, Sarah, angrily reminded him that this was the reason she had to divorce him in the first place. His work always came first. While that was true, she seemed to dismiss the obvious fact that his work had come first because he wanted nothing but the best for his family. Even though he knew that they both still loved one another, his work had become a very demanding mistress and his Sarah was not the type of woman who was willing to share.

“Ben, you really need to talk to her. She won’t even go play with the other kids.” The hint of desperation in her voice made him feel lower than dirt.

The elderly cab driver’s raspy voice snapped him back to the present. “Here we are, do you want me to wait for ya, buddy?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” He mumbled as he ungracefully stumbled out of the cab. As he walked in a foggy daze, a lump began to form in his throat.

It had been too long since he last visited them and he felt overwhelmed with guilt that he was unable to find them right away. The balloons whipped around him and beat on him as the wind began to pick up once again. Before long, a familiar name caught his eye, “Emma Rose Dawson”.

He frowned in extreme displeasure when he realized that the person he was paying to tend their graves had been slacking. Tenderly, he set about the task of clearing away every minute piece of debris from the area and his mind began to wander.

“I hate you Daddy!” he could still hear the words being shouted from across the room as Sarah tried to hand Emma the phone. The words stung him horribly but he knew that everything would be all right once he got there.

“Just tell her I’m going to be there bright and early on Friday once she calms down. We can do whatever she wants and I have that special birthday present for her too but she needs to promise to take good care of him.”

The puppy that he bought for her quickly became the only thing that kept him sane after the accident. It’s funny how one’s entire world can fall apart within mere moments. The truck driver only closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. A fraction of a second had taken his family from him forever.

“I hate you Daddy!” His heart wrenched in his chest as his daughter’s words echoed mercilessly in his mind.

Already on his knees, he traced the lines etched in Emma’s stone and said a silent prayer. Tears freely rolled down his cheeks for the first time in nearly a year as he asked for some sign of his daughter’s forgiveness.

It had been the only birthday he had ever missed and yet it was the only one he could recall in vivid detail. He would give anything to go back in time and spend that one last day with the woman he loved and his beautiful little girl; anything at all.

One year ago to the day, he had promised Sarah that Emma’s next birthday would be much different… if only he had known how much.

If you are offended by swear words, DO NOT read this story. It’s a dark fiction about a woman who’s become painstakingly obsessed with her cheating ex. This is the second story I wrote when I first started dabbling in writing fiction and I would love some feedback on it!

It’s that time of year again boys and girls, Valentine’s Day. You can’t walk by a single store without some grotesque pink and red tribute to the vilest holiday ever to be spewed from the festering underbelly of hell. Worse yet, you get to see happy couples frolicking about blissfully unaware that they are making people ill with their toxic cuteness. I’m sure that’s what people must feel when they see Bill with his whore. God knows, it makes me want to retch every time.

Like me, Bill was never big on holidays. I never received so much as a card on Valentine’s Day. Not that it bothered me, mind you. We had plenty of ways of expressing our love without overpriced flowers, crappy chocolates oozing with unidentifiable fillings, and sappy Hallmark cards. Love doesn’t come from a store. All that mattered was that we were happy. Or at least I thought we were.

Then it happened: February Fourteenth. It turned out to be our tenth and final Valentine’s Day as man and wife. Now, I wasn’t in the habit of poking around in his things but when the neatly folded piece of paper happened to fall out of his pants as I was putting them in the wash, I just had to peek. What I read left me so enraged that I seriously contemplated taking out my Daddy’s old hunting knife and removing his twig and berries. After much thought (about prison life) I settled for confronting him with the damn letter instead and toyed with the idea of shoving it down his gullet.

Although he refused to tell me how long he’d been seeing that “woman” or why he would decimate our lives together just so he could go sniffing around the crotch of the office tramp, he admitted to being in love with her. Imagine that. He fell in love with a skank whose idea of class is wearing press-on nails the same color as her cheap shoes. It wasn’t until he started throwing his work clothes into a plastic bag that I was suddenly jolted into panic mode.

You know all the stuff they tell you not to do in these situations? Well, I did them all. I fell to my knees and clung to his pant leg so tightly that my fingers hurt. I pleaded with him not to abandon me in barely audible mumbles between sobs of hysteria. When he failed to even attempt to comfort me after awhile, I bubbled over with righteous anger. It was a rampage that was worthy of Godzilla. I hurled every curse word I could think of at him and a few lamps too. Not to mention the remote control, our wedding album, his favorite mug and a curling iron. He still has a slightly noticeable scar on his upper right forehead to remember me by. Lucky bastard; how I wish I got away with such little scarring.

I don’t understand how he could just leave a person behind and be completely unconcerned with their fate but other than the short duration of our divorce negotiations, he hasn’t bothered to contact me at all. It’s like I never even existed to him. How do you get over being cast aside like an old plaything headed for the dumpster? Yet, out of everything that’s happened, I think it bothers me the most that he’s still with that homewrecker.

Oh, my friends and family are always telling me that I need to move on. I’ve tried and I can’t. I simply can’t stop obsessing over what she’s done to me. What that conniving succubus has done to my life. She sleeps in my old bed, with my ex husband, in what used to be my home. They go out to eat at all the same places that we did and enjoy all the same activities. He even celebrates Valentine’s Day now, can you believe it? That man, who was once too cheap to buy me a single red rose when we were out on a date, dotes on her as though she’s some almighty queen. Yeah she’s a queen alright; the majestic queen of the whores!

You may be asking how I would even know all these intimate details about their relationship. Let’s just say that I have a whole lot of free time on my hands now that I am unemployed. I know you might be thinking that I sound like a stalker but I like to think of myself as a private eye. You have no right to judge me unless you know what it’s like to be neatly extracted from your own life and replaced by another. Besides, it’s not like I break any laws. At least I haven’t yet.

There’s no law against learning to lip read. It’s certainly not my fault that I can easily see into my old home from the park across the street with a pair of binoculars. If they wanted privacy they would learn to close the blinds. Plus I have an old friend from the office picking up juicy tidbits for me here and there when she can. Thank God for cubicles! All in all, I keep myself pretty busy these days.

The ultimate slap in the face came when I discovered she was pregnant. The whole time we were together, he told me he never wanted children. He even talked me into getting an abortion once. My son would have been eight this March. I can picture him so vividly in my mind. He’d be tall with his Daddy’s thick sun kissed hair and soulful brown eyes. He’d have my freckles; the ones that faded as I grew into a woman.

If I close my eyes I can visualize the three of us goofing around in our oversized backyard; our son wrestling with his father while the family dog watches impatiently for the opportunity to join in the fun. I would ambush my husband, tickling him without mercy in all his most vulnerable areas and he would chase me clear across the yard. He’d catch me, pull me in for a quick kiss and envelop me in a hug. I swear I could live off of his hugs. I have never felt more safe or loved than when I was in his arms.

All I have left are my daydreams. His arms belong to another now and the window of opportunity for me to have a family has passed. I gave up my dreams of motherhood for him and that creature from the Black Lagoon is now ripe with the child that should have been mine. He’s been carrying on like he’s father of the year ever since he knocked her up! What was wrong with our son? Why did I ever allow that man to convince me it was for the best? It was the best for him. It’s always been about him. He’s such a selfish prick.

I got an email from that office friend of mine yesterday. She overheard him making reservations for Valentine’s Day. The kicker is, it’s at the same restaurant where he asked me to be his bride. Can I not have just one memory that is mine alone? Can’t they leave me just one memory of my marriage that isn’t tainted?

People used to tell me that bad people would get theirs in the end when I was younger. I wish it were true, but the longer I await the Karma Bus to run them down, the more I realize that sometimes you have to give justice a little nudge. The truth is, I can’t remember what happiness or joy feels like. Why should they get to be happy at my expense? Why do they get to suck my life essence dry like a pair of overgrown mosquitoes? Everything in my life, everything I’ve ever wanted, was pried from me and given away without my consent. It’s time I do the same to him. He needs to know what real loss feels like.

So here it is, quarter past six. I have to get ready to go soon. I have the dress all picked out. It was Bill’s favorite. I’m going to make sure I look my absolute best for this last special occasion. I’m going to go to that restaurant and do what I should have done in the first place. She thinks she’s won but she hasn’t. She’s going to find that out tonight.

You see, I am no longer afraid of what awaits me in jail. Prison can’t be any worse than the endless nightmare that has become my existence. At least tomorrow I’ll be able to wake up and revel in the knowledge that his child is as dead as mine and his life every bit as destroyed. Live and let live doesn’t apply to cockroaches, and that’s exactly what they are. I am going to squash them good.

Here are a couple of stories that define the meaning of short stories. They are 55 words long exactly. It’s a great writing exercise to create these because they still have to have a beginning, middle and end. My first story of this nature is a tricky one because I only use hints to describe the true meaning of the plot. See if you can figure it out. The second story is much more lighthearted in nature and a bit easier to follow. Try doing one for yourself. They really are a lot of fun!

Arising from the Ashes

Not wanting to accidentally initiate contact with the snoring beast beside her, Jamie lay rigidly at the very edge of the bed. They say a watched pot never boils, but she couldn’t help peering at the clock through her half swollen eye.

The anticipation was killing her. Tomorrow she’d finally break free or die trying.

The Only Child

Mary’s mother let out a gasp as she noticed the battered remains of a priceless family heirloom by the young girl’s feet.

“I didn’t do it!” Mary wailed as her mother dragged her into the bedroom for a time out.

“Now, that’s entertainment!” The ghost chuckled. “Hmmmm, this hallway could really use some red crayon…”

The following flash fiction is a story about a man seeking forgiveness from his wife, with a twist:

“C’mon Maggie,” Erik whined. “You’re being such a child. How much longer are you going to continue giving me the silent treatment?”

The woman sat quietly in a comfortable looking armchair. Vases containing bouquets of exotic flowers in various stages of death cluttered the end table at her side. Her eyes were transfixed upon the wall in front of her, as if spellbound by the cheerful yellow stucco. He moved directly into her line of sight and gently grabbed her hand.

“I told you I am sorry a thousand times,” he said softly. “Look, I am getting worried about you, Maggie. You aren’t taking care of yourself. You just sit around all day. You look like you’re putting on weight, you’re still wearing that same nasty old robe, and I know you haven’t been bathing.”

Erik held her gaze, awaiting her reply. After a few minutes passed he sighed in irritation and glanced at his watch.

“Shit, I’m gonna be late.”

He retrieved his travel mug and briefcase from the kitchen and nearly walked right past his wife without giving her a goodbye kiss.

“Try to get some errands done today,” he said in a stern voice. “The house is going to hell. Take a fucking shower at least! I mean it, Maggie.”

He placed his belongings on the floor, leaned over and kissed the side of his wife’s brow. As he pulled away Maggie’s head slumped forward and hung in an awkward angle, revealing heavy bruising to her neck that had once been concealed by her terrycloth robe. The sudden sharp movement caused a fly to abandon her cheek and take to flight.

He held her head up by her thick, auburn hair and clenched his jaw, the anger visible on his face.

“How long are you going to keep reminding me and punishing me?” he spat. “I told you! I told you it will never happen again! It was an accident, Maggie! You haven’t always been the perfect wife either, you know. What do you want me to do? Blow all of our savings buying you flowers and jewelry day after day, while you sit here pouting? I can’t take much more of this, Maggie. I really can’t.”

Quickly losing momentum, Erik carefully brushed the hair from Maggie’s face and rested her against the chair.

“You always prided yourself on being a good Christian woman. Well, the last time I checked, Christians were still pretty big on forgiveness.” He said. “You think about that.”

He grabbed his briefcase, accidentally leaving the mug behind, and rushed down the hall. He paused for a moment as he opened the front door.

“I have to go or Frank’s going to have my ass but we are going to discuss this as soon as I get home. You can’t stay mad at me forever, you know. You’ll have to talk to me sometime, Babe.”

She sat in her chair, remaining silent and still, even as a fly landed on her upper lip and wandered into the intimate cavern of her nostril to deposit its eggs, alongside the others.

The following story is more of a dark fiction than a traditional horror and has a subtle sort of story line. However, there are some writers who claim that a cloudy day can be written as a subtle horror story. I am not a huge fan of gore, if you have not yet noticed. As a matter of fact, I have only written one very descriptive story.

I tend to try and find other ways to spell out what’s happening without buckets of blood. Sometimes I only use a hint or two but I think it works well in this 120 word micro-fiction. Would you classify this as a horror story?

Timmy knew exactly what to do. He just had to turn the big hand on the clock backwards. Grandpa called it “Daylight Savings Time”.

He prodded the clock in the kitchen with a broom, until it fell down. Relief crashed through him when the clock remained intact. He picked it up and slowly spun the big hand.

He paused for a moment. Had it worked? He peered into the living room. His mother was still passed out drunk, but she was like that a lot. He still couldn’t tell.

He apprehensively crept to the bathroom. His sister was just as he found her. He hadn’t turned back time at all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and stroked her tiny, blue hand.