“Oh, no more for me, thank you.”
“Are you sure? Not even a little bit?”
“Well…alright. Just one more cup.”
Jeffrey sipped his tea with a smile.
His body would be found two days later.
Just another victim of the baffling serial killer known as Mr. Teacup.
Martin Wilkes was never on time.
A house full of clocks, alarms set on each one, and they did him no good whatsoever.
He was always running behind, trying to catch up.
Martin was the sort of man who would be late to his own funeral.
And indeed, he was.
It starts small, a gurgle here, a giggle there.
Slowly, it increases in volume and intensity, until it pierces the still air with a high-pitched wail.
Laying in bed in an empty house on a moonless night, I think to myself:
Is there anything more horrifying than a child’s laughter?
“We will take no more! We must stand together! We must fight for our right – ”
“What?! No! Our right to freedom, to make our own choices, to be our own masters!”
“Oh, yeah. All that stuff. And then we party?”
“Ugh…you are literally the worst rebels ever.”
I was always falling for the wrong girls.
She was so pretty, with flowing raven hair and snowy skin. Her lips, so pale in the moonlight, formed a perfect heart on her face.
Her once green eyes were now glassy and lifeless.
I sighed while unrolling the crime scene tape.
Bury me as deep as you like.
Six feet under? Hardly enough.
Dig deeper until you find a space light can no longer reach.
There, I will be interred. I will rest myself.
Until the day I see you smile, your mind completely at ease.
And I will rise again.
For this week’s Literary Lion prompt, my story is like a flower. Short and sweet.
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
“Very poetic, Doctor, but I don’t think plant-human hybrids qualify as ‘a rose by another name’. Grant denied.”
“Alright. What if I only use women named Rose as test subjects?”