Lumina

I wrote this for a class in college. The idea came when I was driving home with my friend for the weekend and someone on the road was driving like a lunatic. The title "Lumina" is based on her, then, car.

The sun hangs low in the horizon as Owen Cooper drives down the deserted highway in his Chevy Silverado truck, glaring rays of sunlight hitting his eyes. A country singer’s caterwauling drawl fills the silence as he taps his fingers against the steering wheel. Instead of watching the road his mind focuses on creating a devious prank to use on his best friend Pete. Owen lost the advantage in their ever escalating competition two nights ago when his play mate broke into his apartment and held a knife to his throat. At least, he thought it was a knife. After several panic filled moments his friend revealed that his weapon of choice was actually a metal spork. The bastard. In order to regain his dignity, Owen needs something good and terrifying

“Speak of the devil,” he mutters, noticing a car in front of him. “I don’t freakin’ believe it. That’s gotta be him. No way in hell there are two guys in this podunk little town driving a ’97 plum colored Chevy Lumina. Hot damn.”  

Idea forming, Owen’s lips curl into a malicious grin as his foot presses down on the accelerator. Flicking his brights on, he brings the truck scant inches from the back bumper of the Lumina. A sharp tap of his foot sends the truck lurching forward. Thunk! He chuckles as the Lumina gives a staggering wobble before speeding up. Pushing down on the pedal, Owen once again brings the vehicles dangerously close. Thwomp! Another burst of speed sends the Lumina fishtailing over the center line before it straightens. The car begins to pull over.

“It’s not gonna be that easy,” Own mumbles.

With a sharp twist of the steering wheel he rams the front of his truck into the back corner of the Lumina. A satisfying crunch resounds on impact causing him to laugh when the plum colored Chevy peals away in a shower of gravel.

“That’s it Bubba, now you’re playin’ my game.”

Tensing in anticipation Owen shoots after the Lumina, putting more and more pressure onto the accelerator. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty and still climbing. A burst of cruel staccato laughter drowns out the country music as he draws closer to the retreating car. He pushes the pedal to the floor, enjoying the sound of the engine’s roar. His body thrums with the vibration of the car. Just gotta round this corner and I’m putting a giant ass crater in the back of Pete’s car, he thinks, tightening his grip in preparation for the sharp turn.

“Just a little bit further. C’mon, c’mon,” he hunches over the steering wheel, “FUCK!”

Slamming a foot on the brakes the sharp pull of the seatbelt and the loud scream of the tires don’t register, Owen’s attention is pinpointed on the corner where the Chevy Lumina had been only seconds before. He blinks. Blinks again. Then draws in a ragged breath. Jaw slack and arms limp on the wheel; Owen’s mind can’t seem to register what he just saw.

The Lumina takes the corner too wide, pulls hard to adjust as the back swings out off the road, past the gravel, and into the air over the gully next to the highway. The car is almost perpendicular with the road before the loss of traction causes it to tip, the nose falling backwards over the back, before careening downhill into the trees. It took the corner too fast, had to have been going at least eighty-five. And it’s a sharp corner. Too fast and too sharp. 

Fuck.

Shifting his truck into park, Owen pushes open the door and slowly, mechanically, follows the skid marks to the edge of the road. There is a long, horrifying gouge in the ground where underbrush used to be. Eyes scanning for any sign of the car, he tries to swallow but gags, his throat is to dry. A flash of plum catches his eye. His gaze fixates on it. There is a roaring in his ears; belatedly Owen realizes it is the sound of his heart leaping like a jackhammer. And then he’s running.

“Oh God. Oh hell. Goddamn damn stupid freaking hell,” he mumbles, feet eating away at the ground as he races to the car. “Please. Please, please, please. Ohhhhh, Holy Mary Mother of Fuck. Shit fuck!”

Tripping over his feet he falls smacking his face off the ground before scrambling back into a run. The car has stopped, the backseat buckling around the trunk of a tree. The driver’s window is smashed out. Owen cringes at the sound of glass breaking under his feet as he goes to it, hoping his friend is still alive. The driver is slumped over the steering wheel, hands gripping loosely, with his head turned at an unnatural angle. Wide eyes and an open mouth, a face locked in a scream, peer out the window at Owen. A chill sweeps through him as his throat constricts. It’s not his friend

Staggering back, Owen feels the burning threat of tears in his eyes and nose. He swallows, gags, then falls to his knees gasping, dry heaving, trying to breathe even as his stomach revolts. It’s just a kid. Some poor, dumb kid barely into his teens. A moan comes from inside the car. Slowly, trembling, Owen climbs to his feet and staggers over to the car. Gingerly he leans over the body of the boy and realizes for the first time that there is someone in the passenger seat. It’s a woman, young probably, but the mask of blood and swelling makes it hard to tell. She’s slumped in the seat, hanging limply against the seatbelt with her head pressed against the cracked window of her door. With great effort a quivering hand is raised towards the boy.

“Please,” she rasps as fresh blood oozes from her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Owen whispers, unable to tear his gaze from her broken, quaking hand.

Cracked lips open but a whimper is all that escapes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was a mistake, y’know, an accident. This wasn’t supposed to happen because I was trying to play a prank on my friend, I thought you were my friend, but I didn’t want this, not this, not ever, to you or him, but things got outta hand, and if I’d known, I shoulda known, it wouldn’t have happened, but I didn’t know and it happened, so you gotta believe me that I’m sorry cause it was just a prank, a stupid prank that wasn’t s’posed to be like this,” Owen rants, voice gaining volume and speed.

Suddenly it’s too much for him. Those glassy eyes staring at him from the boy’s permanently terrified face and that hand, that mangled broken hand reaching out for help that he can’t give. It’s too much. There’s an accusing look in those eyes and that hand’s pointing at him, trying to mark him as a fiend. It was an accident. He said he was sorry. Nothing else he can do. Another pleading moan escapes from the woman, and something inside Own snaps. Backing away, he turns and sprints towards the road, hands digging into dirt as he scrambles up the hillside. Owen notices another car pull over as he peals off down the highway.

Owen wakes with a start, his body and sheets drenched in sweat, heart thrashing in his chest. The gray tiles of his ceiling stare down at him; stray beams of orange light filtering through the window illuminate the tiles frayed state. Dark shadows consume the majority of the room leaving it in a state of gloom. Scrubbing at his face with a hand, he tries to calm down with deep breaths. Every night for the past six months he’s been reliving that tragic accident in his sleep. He can force back the guilt when he’s awake, but the moment his eyes close his conscience won’t allow a minute’s rest. Every night the crunch of metal, those glassy staring eyes, and that desperate rasping “please” replay in his mind. Even the presence of his girlfriend does nothing to sooth the nightmares. Owen isn’t sure if it’s the fact that he accidentally killed someone, that he ran away, or that he hasn’t told anyone the truth about what happened keeping him up at night. Shivering as the after images flash through his mind, Owen looks longingly at his sleeping girlfriend before climbing out of bed. There is no way he will be able to get back to sleep

In the kitchen he decides to open yesterday’s mail while waiting for the coffee to finish. Bill, bill, ad, free coupon, and a letter he opens while pouring himself a cup of black coffee. Opening the envelope he pulls out a folded piece of paper. CRASH! The mug slips from his grasp as porcelain and coffee scatter across the floor. On the sheet is a picture of the boy he killed and written in sharp red letters that leech into the paper is one word:
MURDERER.
 The crunch of buckling metal roars in his ears, the smell of vomit and blood replaces coffee, and those glassy eyes stare at him in silent accusation. “Please,” the sound of that pleading voice drowns out everything else.

“…en…Owen…OWEN!” He jerks back to reality at the sound of his name being yelled. Shaking his head to get rid of the daze, Owen realizes his girlfriend is standing next to him, shaking his shoulder and hollering.

“Raina. What are you doing up?”

“The sound of the coffee mug smashing woke me.”

“What coffee mug?”

“The one smashed all over the floor!” she pauses, taking in his ashen features. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Grabbing a dish towel from the counter she crouches down to clean up the mess.

“I’m just tired. Nothin’ for you to worry about.”

“That piece of paper in your hand sure as hell makes it seem like something.”

Looking down, Owen realizes he’s still clutching the picture of the dead boy.

“Like I said, it’s nothing. Just somebody’s idea of a dumb prank,” Owen winces as the words leave his mouth.

“Liar. If it was nothing you wouldn’t be making that face.”

“What do you want from me?”

Pausing, Raina stares at his face but he refuses to meet her gaze.

“I just want to know what’s going on. That thing says murderer on it, and you’re white as a sheet.” She stands and makes him look her in the eye. “There is absolutely nothing in this world that could ever make me feel differently towards you.”

Owen gives her a weak smile and watches as she drops the porcelain into the garbage. His eyes follow her around the kitchen as she grabs a dish towel and crouches again to soak up the spilled coffee. Looking down at the photo of the smiling boy in his hands, the image of glassy eyes flashes across his mind, and he releases a loud sigh.

“You’re going to hate me for this, but I suppose if I’m gonna tell anyone it might as well be you. Six months ago I was driving home from work and I saw my buddy Pete’s car. We had this real nasty way of playing pran…jokes on each other, real violent ones, and I got this great idea. Except it wasn’t so great. I uh, kept ridin’ real close to his car, tailgating, y’know? And I’d hit it with my truck, and he’d speed up, then I’d catch up and hit him again. We started goin’ really fast and um, he lost control. The whole car just tipped over the edge of the road, way down an embankment into the woods. When I found it the car was wrapped around a tree and he was dead.”

“We, uh, we just hung out with Pete last week.”

“It wasn’t Pete’s car.”

“Whose car was it?”

“This kid’s,” he holds up the paper in his hand. “The boy in this picture died because I was screwin’ around. There was a woman in the car with him, don’t know if she lived or died.”

“Didn’t you help them?” A trembling edge of desperation enters her voice.

“No. I panicked. It was a total accident, because I never wanted anybody to get hurt. Pete’s a really good driver so I thought he could handle it, except it wasn’t, it wasn’t…”

“Pete,” she finishes, “it was some kid who didn’t know what hit him.”

“Yeah. Since then I’ve been getting nightmares about it every night. And about three weeks ago this picture of the kid has been showing up everywhere I go. His folks have started a memorial scholarship in his honor and their lookin’ for donations. People have been putting these fliers up at my job, the place I buy groceries, on my windshield, but it was all harmless. Now someone is sending his picture to my apartment with a clear message. You killed him and I know about it.”

“Have you told anyone else about it?”

“No. You’re the first.”

She wipes up the last of coffee. Owen studies her face.

“You hate me now, right?”

“No. My feelings for you haven’t changed.”

“Then why do I get the idea there’s a but at the end of that sentence?”

“I just—I don’t understand. You killed this kid and you feel bad about it, right?”

“Yeah, it’s been eatin’ me up inside.”

“If you feel so guilty, why don’t you go to the cops?” 

“Because they’ll arrest me!”

“Right, but wouldn’t they, I don’t know, be willing to cut a deal or something if you turn yourself in?”

“I killed a kid. They won’t let me walk because I feel really bad about it,” Owen points out, growing irritated.

Glaring blindly at the floor, Raina scrubs at the tiles.

“It’s the right thing to do! Don’t you want that boy’s family to have some peace?”

“Not if it means I go to jail with a murder charge.”

“You’re scared, I get that. If you want I’ll go with you to the sheriff’s office.”

“What are you gonna do? Hold my hand the entire time?” Owen sneers, scowling down at her. Hating Raina for not understanding.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Gee officer, can my girlfriend come along with me? She’s gotta hold my hand.”

Coffee starts leaking from the dishtowel as Raina presses harder on the tile.

“I sure as hell won’t anymore.”

“Guess I’m not going to the cops then.” 

Minutes pass as Owen watches the cold brown liquid seep across the linoleum. Eyes traveling up, he takes in Raina’s white knuckled grip, tense shoulders, the teeth buried in her lower lip, and the salty tear tracks drying on her face. Sighing, he shakes his head.

 “I can’t go to the police because they’ll arrest me.”

“You won’t even consider it?” She asks, voice quivering.

“I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Even if it means you’ll be free from the guilt and it gives his family a little justice?”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

Reaching down Owen takes the dishtowel from her and begins sopping up the cold remnants of coffee.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Do you think I’d like it any better drunk?”

“You might.” 

“In that case, do you have any liquor?”

“Should be some scotch in that cabinet over there,” he says, pointing over his shoulder.

Owen listens to the sound of glass clinking on plastic followed by the splash of liquid pouring. His chest feels tight. But with a little convincing, he thinks, Raina will come around. Standing up, he wrings the dishtowel out in the sink. He feels her step up behind him. Chin resting on his shoulder, her arm loops around him offering a plastic glass filled a quarter of the way with scotch. Taking it, he swallows it in one shot, relishing the burn in his throat.

“C’mon,” Raina says, taking his hand and leading him out of the kitchen.

Head starting to spin, Owen notices his body feels heavier. With stumbling footsteps he follows her out the door of his apartment, down the hall, into the elevator. Slumping against the wall, his eyes blur as he tries to focus on Raina’s face.

“Thrrr’s somthin’ wrrrong,” he slurs, reaching for her.

Owen feels her slinging his arm over her shoulders as she pulls him back onto his feet. Leaning heavily on Raina, she supports his staggering form as they lurch through the empty lobby out to the barren parking lot next to his apartment building. He feels her pushing him into a car, his body dropping like a lead weight. As the world grows dim the last thing he hears is the woman’s voice from the accident rasping her frantic “Please.”

Reality Roamer

It's a poem that touches upon imagination, large parts of childhood adventures, and the fact that all kids should dream impossibly big dreams without the fear of waking.

She dreams of reincarnated angels loving three-eyed demons

as pink tigers eat marshmallows and

Prince charming is murdered by the damsel in distress.

Goddesses of insanity join wicked queens

 to splice and torture witless corpses

while rich men get richer destroying the world.

Masked men marry moon princesses

as celestial soldiers become landlords and

heroes settle together in a town.

Fourteen brings destinies

where children are saviors defending the world

and average life is forgotten days.

Innocence becomes a weapon

when age loses meaning

and dreamers are forced to wake.

Waking Dreamer

Poetry isn't really my thing, but every now and again I get the urge.

Life is ever changing.

Memories rot in copper caskets,

buried in oblivion.

The heart thumps a rhythm,

making blood sing,

as the body sways.

Time slips and falls,

its face a jagged mirror,

reflecting broken sentiments.

Covet it in your box,

of shattered, broken dreams.

Your living graveyard.

Happiness born in a moment,

dies in an instant

Chocolate and Honey

A short story with the same female lead as "Mock Orange Blossoms" I do adore her.

“Scream and I’ll kill you.”

Bent over a row of violets a woman pauses. The sharp threat comes from a man just behind her, pressing a gun into her head. Minutes earlier he abandoned his car after a shot burst a back tire. He’d ducked into the flower shop as the sirens drew closer, luck on his side that the sole occupant was distracted.

“Slowly stand and turn around,” he commands, stepping back as she does.

He studies her, mid-twenties, body language timid. Hands raised in surrender she waits, silently submissive, but something about her makes his skin crawl.

“Move to the register,” he orders, following her. “Hands flat on the counter.”

Standing behind her, barrel touching her spine, he scans the street through the front window.

“If a cop comes in looking for me tell him you’re alone, understand?”

 She nods.

“Good girl. Keep it up and you might live.”

Fingers drumming on the counter he surveys the shop, eyes stopping on a pouch next to the register tied with a perfect white ribbon.

“S’that?” He asks, tapping the pouch.

“Candy,” her voice is soft, calm. The hair rises on his neck.

Opening the pouch he pops a chocolate into his mouth, pleased by the unexpected honey center.

“Pretty good,” he mutters eating three more.

“The police are here,” she says with a nod towards the window.

Startled, he spots the cruiser parked across the street. Ducking under the counter he presses the gun against her stomach in warning, holding his breath as bells chime above the door.

“Can I help you?” She asks, as footsteps draw closer.

“Ms. St. Ange we’ve reason to believe there’s a criminal in the area. There was a shooting at the courthouse and the perpetrator’s car was found several blocks from here.”

“How terrible,” she says, concerned. “Is everyone alright?”

“Only a minor injury was sustained. Have you seen anyone in the last thirty minutes?”

“Just you.”

“Then for your safety close your shop and stay inside until an officer tells you it’s safe.”

“Of course, Officer. Good luck.”

Retreating steps followed by the chime of bells. A heartbeat. Two. Ten.

“He’s gone now.”

“Your name’s St. Ange?” He asks her, standing close enough her arm brushes his chest.

“Yes.”

“Any relation to Cedric St. Ange the district attorney?”

“My brother,” she replies coolly.

With a whooping laugh he grabs her face forcing her to look at him.

“That’s the bastard I just tried to kill,” he leers, “but this is better. He puts my brother away and I get to take it out on his sister. Once I’m through with you sweetie pie he’ll wish I’d shot him.”

Another guttural laugh as he looks into her eyes, wanting to relish in her fear. A chill races down his spine, slithering through his veins. Her eyes are empty. No fear, no panic, just flat pools of cinnamon. Raising the gun he presses it into her temple hard enough to bruise.

“Maybe you don’t understand the situation you’re in, but it’s time to be afraid you stupid bitch,” he snarls.

Quirking an eyebrow, she remains stoic. Another shiver wracks his body. Her expression doesn’t change but the air around her seeps malice. He swallows, throat suddenly dry, as fire erupts in his stomach and the world grows dim.

Heady fuzzy, mouth feeling like cotton, blurred eyes open. He tries lifting a hand but it won’t move. Struggling, he finds his body immobile, crying hoarsely when he can’t lift his head.

“You’re awake,” a pleased voice says. “I wasn’t sure you’d rouse after eating so much candy. Chocolate and honey cover the taste of henbane, which is what’s caused your muscles to go into a state of paralysis. Of course, if you aren’t properly treated it will eventually spread to your heart and lungs, killing you. But we’ll have plenty of time before that.”

Cecily St. Ange fills his vision, leaning over the table he’s prone on. Eyes alight with bloodlust she purrs darkly, “Now then, shall we start with needles or the blow torch?” 

Mock Orange Blossoms

I love this story. It's got a special place in my heart.

Behind the darkness of my eyelids I see flashing lights. The red and blue strobe of police cruisers parked in front of my house disturbs the quiet neighborhood as I wait patiently across the street. Officers search my home as the local district attorney, my brother, waits impatiently. Silently leaning against the hood of his black BMW I watch as he paces. He is agitated. It shows in the tension of his shoulders and the sharpness of his steps. Three to the left. Quick turn. Three to the right. Hard stop. Repeat. His world is askew because my home is being violated. How odd that he’s taking it worse than I am.

“Sir, we’re almost done searching,” a patrolman says to my brother, casting a fleeting glance in my direction.

“You’re almost done? Search it again. I don’t want any mistakes when you’re looking through my sister’s house. I want this mess straightened out.”

The patrolman’s face hardens as my brother yells, his mouth thinning into a tight line. I give him a small apologetic smile as he storms across the street. Thanks brother, you’re overprotective zeal is going to have every cop in town out for my blood.

“They’re trying their best Cedric,” I rebuke softly.

“Don’t say that. They’re digging through you’re house, Cecily, and for what?”

“For evidence of a crime.”

I had gotten home around six-thirty in the evening after finishing some last minute floral arrangements at my flower shop. My constant companion Ritter, a well-tempered german shepherd, entered the house first while I collected the mail. A low whine caught my attention as I sifted absentmindedly through bills, and I looked inside the house. Ears flat against his skull and hair rising on the scruff of his neck, Ritter had taken a firm stance in front of the door. Perplexed, I looked behind me at an empty street.

“What?” I asked, turning back to him.

He gave a growling bark in response, fixated on something within the house.

“Oh.”

Putting my mail back into the mailbox I pulled out my cell phone and typed in 911, my finger hovering over the call button just in case. I cautiously entered my house, leaving the front door open behind me for a hasty exit. Ritter gave another low growl, slowly padding towards the kitchen as I crept behind him. Peering around the doorway, I was greeted by an empty room. Another sharp bark and I knew the cause of his distress was somewhere in the kitchen. Nothing was open, there weren’t any mysterious packages, and my laundry was neatly folded on the kitchen table where I had left unfolded this morning.

Wait.

 Body tensing, I turned back to my laundry. Atop the table, sitting innocently, was my clean laundry folded into neat little piles. I stared at the clothes, unsure of what I was supposed to do. I mean, who breaks into your house to fold your laundry, an out of work maid? Ritter whined again, butting against my leg. I didn’t know how to relieve his distress when I wasn’t even sure of what happened myself. The only other person with a key to my house was my older brother Cedric, and he hardly folded his own laundry. It was then I noticed the absence of my green nightgown. A feeling of dread grew as I carefully picked through my laundry and the nightgown did not appear. I began to inspect the kitchen more closely, finally noticing the hole in the window of my kitchen door, just above the deadbolt. Ritter and I beat a hasty retreat from the house as I pressed the call button for 911.

“He gained entry through your kitchen door by breaking the window with this.” An officer explains holding up an evidence bag containing a flower pot from my back yard and the mangled remains of what had been pansies. The interloper not only violated my house but murdered my flowers. What had happened to common courtesy?

“I understand that you’ll need the flower pot for evidence, officer, but would it be possible for me to have the pansies back?”

“I’m sorry, but the flowers are evidence too. We need to check them for clothing fibers and hair,” he says with soft sympathy.

The thought of flowers I had lovingly grown for years being picked apart makes my chest tight with misery. It is said that in some cases people under severe emotional distress fixate on something small and give it a much greater meaning. His pity was victimizing.

“Thank you, officer,” Cedric says, shaking his hand before the officer walks away.

“Are they done?”

“Yeah, Cecily, they’re done for now.”

“Good. All I want right now is to have a cup of sweet tea and go to bed.”

“I bet. I guess we’d better go then.”

“Go?”

“Yeah, to my apartment so you can get some sleep,” he answers slowly, as if I were brain dead. “Y’know, the place where I live.”

“I have no intention of going with you when my house is right there.”

Leave me in peace so I can deal with this on my own without you pecking me to death like some nosey mother hen.

“You idiot! Someone broke into your house, went through your laundry, stole your clothes and you want to stay. Do you want to be murdered in your sleep?”

No, I want you to leave me alone so I can put my life back in order.

“I’m sorry Cedric, you’re right.” I keep my tone apologetic and drop my head, looking like a scolded child.

My brother sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, guilt already eating away at him.

“I shouldn’t have yelled. It’s just…I forget sometimes that you’re still naïve about how the world works.”

That’s very true Cedric, I don’t see the world the way you do.

“To your apartment?”

“That’s right little sister,” Cedric says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “And I’m not going to leave your side until this thing is resolved.”

Isn’t that just lovely.

The next morning I sit in silent suffering as Cedric lectures me on the proper rules of safety while he drives me to work. If I see anyone suspicious call the police. If anything is missing at work call the police. If anything strange appears at work call the police. If anyone is harassing me call the police. I wonder if that includes bothersome older brothers.

“And another thing Cecily, if any—“

“That is enough Cedric,” I interrupt, “nothing is going to happen. Besides, I’ve got Ritter to protect me.”

“Yeah, right. As if that mutt was any help yesterday when someone was breaking into your house.”

A snort was the dog’s only response to my brother’s glare in the rearview mirror.

“It’s rather difficult for Ritter to protect the house if he’s across town in the flower shop with me.”

“I’m just saying, a real guard dog would have protected you.”

“Yes, I see your point. How dare Ritter not know how to be in two places at once.”

I decided not to tell Cedric that my dog was leaving a sizeable puddle of drool on the backseat cushions.

Tucked away in the back of my flower shop, safe from my brother for a few hours, I finally begin to feel a sense of peace return. I prefer to live quietly under the radar of society, and the thoughtless actions of the interloper who vandalized my home has dragged me into the spotlight. With my home a crime scene and my brother underfoot, my solitude is shattered. But among the flowers of my shop there is nothing but tranquility.

“Hello? Miss. St. Ange, are you here?”

I listen to the sound of the front door close as Ritter enters the main shop to investigate. If the person is safe he’ll be a lovable puddle; if not, he’ll eat them. The click of his nails against the tile and a tentative warning bark as he spots the person. Thump. Thump. Thump. Ritter’s tail beats a rhythm onto the floor. I’m safe to come out.

“Nice dog. Just a big softy, huh?” says a uniformed officer crouching on the floor, rubbing Ritter’s stomach.

“If you think he’s nice now, give him a treat and he’ll be your friend forever,” I say with a mock sigh. The officer looks up as I enter, a semi-embarrassed smile on his face.

“Bark worse than his bite?”

“Exactly. I’m much more dangerous than Ritter.”

The officer laughs as he stands, and I smile in pleasure at his humor.

“Is there something I can help you with, Officer?”

“As part of the investigation following the recent incident at your home, I’ve been sent to ask you for a list of your customers while my partner canvases the neighborhood for anyone who’s witnessed any strange activity lately.”

“I can’t give you a complete list, but I’m happy to provide you with the names of anyone who paid with credit card or check.”

“That would be perfect Miss. St. Ange, also if you could provide a list of everyone who frequents your shop often that would be a big help.”

 “Of course, if you’ll just wait a few minutes.”

I take my time in the back of the shop, easily finding the information in my meticulous records. The police think the interloper is probably one of my customers. That makes sense, considering it would be an easy excuse for a stalker to target their prey. While the police start to question people, I’ll make my own list of likely suspects. Collecting the information, I return to the front of the shop and give it to the officer, hiding my thoughts behind a perfect mask of polite kindness.

Mid-afternoon I stand in the back of the shop, heating water for tea, enjoying the lull in business. It gives me time to focus on the possible suspects that could be the interloper, and I’m happy for the opportunity. There is one candidate that stands out among the rest, but without solid evidence there isn’t anything I can do. The strong stench of cheap cologne overpowers the heady scent of flowers as Ritter growls. Sal Anders, a timid man in his mid to late thirties, is one of my best customers. He comes every week to buy a new bouquet of flowers.

“Good morning Mr. Anders,” I say entering the main shop. “How may I be of service today?”

“Oh! Miss. St. Ange, how are you? I’m here for my weekly flowers.”

He fidgets nervously in front of the counter and I give him a gentle smile.

“You bought flowers for this week three days ago Mr. Anders.”

“Did…did I? Well, you see, there was um, a different type of flower that I considered at the time, and uh, well, I’d like to get it now.”

He flushed and looked away.

“Of course, what did you have in mind?”

“I’d like this,” he says removing a small bush covered in white blossoms from its place on a table. “These are orange blossoms aren’t they?”

“Orange blossoms? Actually—“

“Orange blossoms mean eternal love and marriage,” he interrupts, “don’t they?”

“Yes, that’s what orange blossoms mean.”

“Then this is what I want.”

As I ring up the plant I notice his timid stare fixates on me every time my attention is drawn away from him. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I notice a harshness to his expression that I’d never seen before.

“And who is it you are pledging eternal love to Mr. Anders?”

“I think it should be obvious by now Miss St. Ange. Cecily.” Reaching out he takes my hand in his, drawing it towards him. “Surely you’ve noticed.”

“I knew you were not indifferent to me, but to what extent I had no idea.”

Another disruption to the tranquility of my life. Dreadful little man. Just how much do you love me? Would it be enough to enter my house and draw attention to my life?

“I love you! I have for some time but have never had the courage to tell you. I really love you,” he rambles anxiously, “Some nights I follow you home and park in front of your house just so I can be near you. And yesterday I, I, I couldn’t help myself any longer! I went into your house.”

“Yes, I noticed. Thank you for folding my laundry, it was very thoughtful.”

It was you. How could you? I was nothing but kind to you. Well, that was the problem wasn’t it.

“I knew you’d understand Cecily. You’re so different from most people. So serene and thoughtful.”

I’m being punished for being a polite person. Aren’t people supposed to fixate on glamorous celebrities, not quiet florists?

“I understand all to well Mr. Anders. Uh, Sal.”

“Now that everything’s out in the open you and I can finally being our life together.”

“But that’s impossible,” I say, wrapping my other hand around his. “Because of what happened yesterday my brother is watching me very carefully. There’s no way we could be together without him growing suspicious.”

Face darkening; Mr. Anders tightens his grip on my hand. If I don’t take control of the situation something very unfortunate is going to happen.

“I doubt we’ll have to worry about your brother, Cecily, darling.”

“What do you mean?”

I’m pleased when my voice and expression stay neutral, but my body betrays me by going perfectly still. He doesn’t seem to notice, fortunately, the cold detachment spreading through me.

“He went with the police to my apartment, but I’m smarter than they are. I knew they would find me eventually, so I had the entire place set up with bombs. I had a home made bomb rigged to the door. If it was opened the pressure on the bomb would shift and it would explode. They set it off just before I came here,” his face is triumphant as he presents the news like a child looking for a parent’s recognition.

I must have heard him wrong because he obviously didn’t say…Why would he say…Blink. Unclench your jaw and breath. Now isn’t the time to perfect the art of becoming a statue. It’s time to shut down; to take my emotions and lock them away inside until I have time to deal with them. Once I’m safely free from Sal Anders. Rage and sorrow will not help me now. Cedric. Cedric, you cannot be dead. Lock away this feeling. Lock it away because Sal Anders is waiting.

“How terribly clever,” I say softly, giving him my most charming smile, “if we don’t have to worry about my brother, then why don’t we have some tea, and discuss the next step of our new lives.” Our new lives which consists of you going away forever and me finding my brother. “You’ll need to lay low for a while, of course, while I get some things, but I have the perfect place for you to stay hidden. Then we can go somewhere secret where the authorities won’t be able to find us, making everything perfect. Don’t you agree?”

“Somewhere secret for just the two of us.” A pause. “It sounds perfect.”

Thirty minutes outside of town, leaving behind the beat up truck I use for transporting supplies, Mr. Anders and I walk along an overgrown path through the woods. Ritter stays close to my side, occasionally giving a low growl. Mr. Anders wraps an arm around my waist, because he insists it’s what couples do, as I lead him deeper into the trees where people rarely go. The woods become denser and darker as old Cedar trees blot out the sun. But Sal Anders pays doesn’t seem to notice as he chatters without pause about the life we will have together, while I smile and make non-committal sounds of agreement. Of course you can move into my house. Who doesn’t want to honeymoon at the world’s biggest ball of yarn? Certainly we’ll get rid of Ritter once we’re married. I agree, he doesn’t seem to like you.

“How much farther do we have to go, dearest? I’m anxious to show you just how strong my feelings for you are,” he says with a suggestive squeeze of my hip.

“Not much farther at all,” I say forcing an inviting smile on my face as my internal organs shrivel. Pausing, I point to green stalks covered in purple flowers. “It might interest you to know that particular plant is what I use to make the tea you drank earlier.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

I watch, humming in satisfaction, as he grabs several large handfuls and inspects them with interest. His face becomes a palate of emotion as curiosity turns to surprise followed by dread. Quickly dropping the flowers he grinds his palm against his thigh trying to rub his hand clean. I hide my grin behind a mask of concern, but it is difficult to keep the delight from my eyes.

“Is something the matter?”

“I don’t, I don’t feel good,” he wheezes.

“Oh dear, what’s the matter?”

“That plant. Do you—huckgh—do you know what it is?” he gags breaking into a sweat.

Panicked confusion colors my voice, drowning out the mockery, as I shake my head. “Is that important? Are you allergic?”

“Allergic,” he snarls, rounding on me with a stumble, “it’s poison! Can’t you recognize fucking monkshood?”

“Of course I can. It’s so toxic that just touching it is dangerous.”

His body trembles with every labored breath as anger gives way to suffering.

“Then why would you make—glaugh— Why make tea with it?”

“Because,” I say in a satisfied purr, “it’s much easier to kill someone when they willingly take the poison.”

 “What? What do you heaugugh—” he cuts off with a round of violent retching.

“Since you ingested the plant, Mr. Anders, fatality is assured and as it works through your system you will asphyxiate to death. Considering you are so fond of me, rest assured that the police will never find your body. This marshy area is known as a cedar bog, which happens to be highly acidic, and can decompose a human corpse within six months if it’s buried, easily disposing of your wretched little body.”

I sit several feet away watching while he writhes upon the ground, vomiting and moaning, as the toxins slowly shut down the circulation of his blood. Ritter curls against my side and I bury my fingers in his fur, petting contently. This is punishment for violating my home. The final judgment for his unmitigated gall. I wait until the convulsions start to slow and the moaning grows soft before speaking to him again.

“I was willing to ignore your crush, and I may have been convinced to overlook your invasion of my home, but how dare you, a rank amateur, even think of harming my brother,” voice shaking in low venomous fury I clench Ritter’s fur in a white knuckled grip. “This death is a mercy you don’t deserve. If there had been more time I would have made it last for days, and you would’ve screamed apologies. Sadly, this will have to do.”

He doesn’t respond and I don’t expect him to. Patting Ritter’s head I make my way back through the woods to get my shovel.

Forty minutes later Ritter and I enter my shop through the back door. My answering machine is flashing with sixty new messages and the phone is ringing shrilly, but it doesn’t matter. There was little satisfaction in the death of Sal Anders, a quick revenge lacking precision and style. Poison tea and hatred for the murder of my brother. It is weak in comparison to the things I can do, the things I have done, but it hardly matters. Abandoned even by my cold detachment, knowing it is the police calling to inform me of my brother’s death, I answer the phone feeling absolutely empty.

“CECILY! Thank God I’ve finally got you. I’ve been going out of my mind with worry. Where the hell are you? There’s a maniac named Sal Anders who goes to your shop that tried to blow me to mars and back, and you aren’t answering your phone, so I’m going out of my mind with worry. I told you to stay at the shop. Can’t you listen to the simplest of ord—”

“Cedric?” I interrupt my brother’s tirade, unable to keep the bewilderment out of my voice.

“Of course, Cedric, who else would talk to you like this? Does somebody else talk to you like this? Because if they do, so help me God, I’ll—”

“Cedric!” I clutch the counter for support as my legs go weak with happiness. “I’m fine. Really. I was just out with Ritter, we’re completely safe. But what’s this about you almost getting blown up?”

“Out with Ritter? I told you that dog was bad news. And getting blown up. Christ, Cecily, this Anders guy had his whole apartment rigged to blow the moment you open the door. We got really lucky because the bombs went off before anyone managed to get into the apartment. Some of the cops that were with me are pretty beat up, but nothing too serious. And where the hell are you?”

“Calm down, Cedric, you’re talking a mile a minute. I’m in the back of my shop.”

“Well let me in, damn it. I’ve been waiting out front going out of my mind for half an hour. And don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook for leaving.”

I don’t care brother; even your blustering can’t ruin my good mood. Entering the front of my shop, I unlock the front door and hang up the phone. Without a word, Cedric enters and pulls me into a tight hug. It doesn’t matter that he smells like smoke or that my face is being crushed next to his armpit, order has been restored to my world.

“Would you like some lemonade?” I ask as we walk into the main area of the shop.

“Sure, why not,” he answers leaning against the counter. “Hey, this is pretty. What is it?”

On the counter next to him is the abandoned plant that Sal Anders bought this afternoon. He wanted orange blossoms to symbolize eternal love, but that isn’t what he bought.

“Mock orange blossoms, they mean deceit.”

The Suicide King

This was my first serial killer/dramatic thriller type story. Originally, I wrote it in high school, and smoothed it out a few years later in college. Now, I'm posting it here because it still remains one of my favorite stories and characters. The Suicide King and his way of killing is mine. The hat belongs to my former creative writing teacher. :)

On a warm night in a suburb outside of Port Huron, Michigan a lone figure strolls leisurely down a deserted sidewalk. As the person skirts along the edge of a street light it becomes apparent that the individual is, in fact, a man dressed in a black cat suit fitted like a second skin hidden underneath pants just loose enough to allow free movement and a light weight coat. Thick leather gloves fit snugly to his hands providing a slick-free grip. A nylon mask covers his entire head ending at the base of his neck. It is thin enough to allow sight and breathing but dark enough to obscure his features. On top of the mask is an odd sort of hat that comes down past his nose and doesn’t appear to have eyeholes. It consists of festive wrapping paper and bright holiday bows, creating a sharp contrast to the rest of the man’s attire.

Melting into the shadows cast by the silent houses lining the road, he disappears save the barest hint of light reflecting off the bows. Sliding along the side of a modern two story home he travels to the back door. Casting a surreptitious look for any sign of movement he slips a set of metal tools from his coat pocket and proceeds to pick the lock. A sneer twists his lips as the deadbolt clicks and he slithers into the house. Noiselessly he stalks through a darkened kitchen, pausing for a moment to gaze at a child’s drawings stuck to the fridge, before ascending the stairs leading him to the sleeping occupants of the house.

A partially open door catches his attention. Surely an invitation he reasons, gently gripping the knob and slipping inside. Curled upon the bed with one leg sticking out from under the covers is a little girl, fast asleep, clutching a stuffed blue duck. The dim glow from the night-light next to the bed gives her skin a golden blush. Reaching into his pocket he removes a playing card rimmed with steel. It is sharp, deadly, and gleams in the dim light. He walks to the child and with a flick of his wrist slices her throat. She wakes, attempts to rise, and releases a strangled gurgle before lying back, eyes blankly staring at the ceiling. With a grim smile he takes the card, the jack of spades, and places it on the child’s chest.

Entering the hall he pads along the floor to the master bedroom. There is a whisper of sound as the door brushes against the rug but the sleeping occupants do not rouse. He steps inside, stopping at the foot of a bed to glare upon the dead child’s parents. Removing two cards from the deck he releases one, the queen of spades, with a flip of his wrist. It slices through the air before sliding into the man’s throat, stopping before it reaches his spine. The woman wakes from the death spasms of her husband’s body. She looks at him with blurry eyes, focusing on the bloody wound as a shriek rips from her chest. A hand clasps onto her mouth muffling the scream. She looks up at the killer with terrified eyes, whimpering when his grin twists into a snarl.

“Did I say you could look at me? No one may look upon me until my transformation is complete. But, since you’re so curious, fine! You won’t look at anything anymore,” he hisses as he takes the king of spades and cuts through her eyes.

Another wailing shriek is muffled by his glove as she brings flailing arms to her now sightless face. Features contorted into a visage of murderous delight he savagely slashes the card across her throat, places it next to her, and leaves the house.

The next afternoon the family’s housekeeper lets herself into the home using the spare key under the doormat. Figuring her employers are out she follows a standard routine and proceeds to clean the first floor of the house. It is only once the kitchen is scrubbed and shining that she bothers to go upstairs. After placing freshly washed towels in the linen closet, she goes to the bedroom of the child intending to straighten up. Entering the room she stops and stares in confusion at the girl lying motionless on the bed. Stepping closer the housekeeper notices the child’s slit throat and glassy eyes. Placing a trembling hand to her mouth, she chokes back the sudden upsurge of breakfast and runs downstairs to call the police. When the authorities arrive they find the housekeeper sitting on the front porch, the phone clutched in her white knuckled left hand, obsessively making the sign of the cross with her right hand, and unwilling to say anything but the Lord’s Prayer.

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” she continues to mumble twenty minutes later when Special Agent Raven Wyndam of the FBI arrives.

Walking over to Special Agent Sable from the local field office he asks for a status report.

“Entire family murdered last night. Preliminary exams say they were dead at least ten hours before being found. Point of entry was the kitchen door; there are signs of tampering on the deadbolt. Our victims are the Lefop family: Raoul, Christine, and their daughter, Laura. Found on the bodies were—”

“Playing cards rimmed with steel which appear to be the cause of death. The jack, queen, and king of spades, right?” Raven interrupts, filling in the answers.

“You got it. This is definitely the work of your killer.”

“Sick bastard strikes again,” he says with a sigh. Noticing the trembling housekeeper sitting in the open door of a police cruiser he asks, “Frig, what’s her issue?”

“She’s the housekeeper who found the bodies this afternoon. The thing is before discovering the family upstairs she was downstairs…“ Sable trails off with a grimace.

“Don’t say it,” Raven pleads, running a hand through his spiky blond hair.

“Everything is scrubbed to a shine. Any possible DNA evidence or fingerprints will have to come from upstairs.”

“Damn! Is it really too much to ask that people not screw with the crime scene?”

“I understand you’re frustrated, but she didn’t know. Put that aside for now, come inside, and do your job. Throw as many hissy fits as you want later, but right now you have work to do.”

Grumbling under his breath Raven follows Sable into the house. Stepping from the stairs a mingling of lemon cleaner and blood invade his senses causing his stomach to clench as he enters the girl’s room. Her body still rests on the bed as photos are taken of the crime scene, and the entire room is scoured by a team of local police and FBI forensic agents looking for any sample of DNA or fingerprints that could lead to the identity of the killer.

“He killed her first?” Raven asks looking down at the sleeping child.

“Yes. From what we can tell from the state of the bodies he entered the room, killed the girl, then went into the parents’ room,” the head medical examiner, D, informs him as they walk down the hall to the master bedroom.

“He entered, killed the man, and it looks like the woman woke up. See these marks on her face that had just started to bruise? He must have grabbed her to stop her from screaming,” D explains, pointing to faint purple imprints on the dead woman’s face.

“Sable said you found things on their bodies,” Raven says drawing his eyes away from the grisly sight.

“We found the playing cards he uses to kill with, as usual. But he left something else behind this time,” D answered pulling out several items placed in individual bags.

“What is it?” Raven asks reaching for the items.

“As far as we can tell it’s text from a book. Each passage describes a person being killed with a playing card. I’ll have to run some tests and then I can give you better results.”

“Text describing people being killed with playing cards…he’s taunting us,” Raven says looking at the slightly bloodied paper in his hand.

Two days later Raven is back in the Behavioral Science section of the building for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He sits at the desk in his office once again going over the information they have on this horrific serial killer. He calls himself the Suicide King. When the first victim was found there was a message scrawled in the dead man’s blood. I am the Suicide King. This is but the first step on my path of becoming. That was almost a year ago, and he has killed periodically since then. Sometimes months will pass between murders, at other times he’ll cut a blood swath across the country. There is not pattern to his killings; men, women, children, and not necessarily families are all his prey. He doesn’t follow any of the normal patterns serial killers have. Generally a person kills within their ethnicity, but the Suicide King murders people of every race and background.

Even the way his victims are killed doesn’t  reveal much about him. If he kills quickly and attempts to give the victim some form of dignity after death it could show a feeling of remorse. Were he to kill in a slow manner it would show that he enjoys the suffering caused before death. However, the Suicide King does neither. In every case he has killed in an efficient manner that brings a grisly demise that, for most victims, is relatively fast. Thirty-six people, thirty-nine now that the Lefop family has been found, have already been killed. He seems to follow the suits; starting with clubs and the ace, he moved on to diamonds, and now that he has finished spades he will be moving on to the final suit, hearts.  

Picking up a copy of the text left next to the body of Laura Lefop, Raven copies the text into a search engine, hoping something will come up. In a matter of seconds he has a large listing of websites with one connecting factor; they are all dedicated to the novelist Juliet Strat and her book The King of Hearts. A feeling of triumph washes over Raven at the unexpected lead. Reading a summary of the book, his feeling of excitement grows. It is a novel about a serial killer known as the Suicide King, who kills people using standard playing cards with a steel rim. He follows the suits, starting with the ace of clubs, and kills without distinction. Crowing in victory, Raven grabs his phone and makes arrangements to meet Juliet Strat.

Six hours after Raven’s discovery a very disgruntled author named Julie Stratford waits in a conference room in Behavioral Science. She had been in her house working on her latest novel about an assassin when her doorbell rang. Upon answering it she was manhandled by the local police to the Houghton airport, given to several FBI agents, put on a plane, shuffled into a car, manhandled again, and brought to the room she now sits in stewing with anger. When demanding to know why she was being kidnapped from her home by the government, Julie was informed she would find out in due time. With an irritated hiss she swipes a lock of black hair out of her furious blue eyes.

“You are a very difficult person to find, do you know that Miss Stratford?” Raven asks as he steps into the room, barely able to contain his pleasure at having found her.

“Fantastic. Instead of worrying about that, why don’t you tell me why I’ve been taken captive by the freakin’ FBI,” she snarls, slamming her hand onto the table before her with a bang.

“Juliet Strat is a penname you use for writing novels, right?” Raven asks sitting across from her.

“Why don’t you read the file in your hand and tell me,” Julie replies with false sweetness.

“And you wrote a novel called The King of Hearts about a serial killer named the Suicide King?” he inquires further.

“You know I did,” she grits out, clenching a fist.

“Excellent. The reason you were taken so suddenly from your home is because I need your help,” Raven tells her with a sympathetic smile.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she says in disbelief.

“Wish I were, really I do. Sadly, I’m not. The FBI has managed to keep it out of the media, for the most part, but there is a serial killer on the loose who alls himself the Suicide King. In fact, he seems to be an imitation of your Suicide King,” he says, all traces of earlier amusement gone.

“What?” she exclaims in shock.

“It seems ridiculous, I know, none the less it’s the God-honest-truth. He kills people with cards rimmed with steel. He doesn’t follow any pattern as to who he’ll kill next. He even has a stupid hat made of wrapping paper and bows, for Christ sake!” Raven exclaims, becoming more and more riled.

“He made the hat? Are you kidding? Wait, how do you know about the hat if you haven’t caught him? Julie asks looking at Raven in suspicion.

“About two months ago the Suicide King slaughtered everyone in all night clinic. Doctors, nurses, patients, everyone. The security camera managed to pick up thirty second of him on tape in the reception room before he disabled it. It’s just enough time to see his victims become hysterical before he butchers them. That’s how we know,” he snarls in disgust, seeing the thirty seconds of tape in his mind.

“I…I see. But, surely you have to have some lead. I mean, why…why do you need me?” Julie asks, shaken to her very core.

“This guy is careful. The cards he uses could be bought anywhere. From what we can tell he adds the steel rim later and files it down to a razor edge. The supplies used to make that ugly hat could be bought at any stationary store, or Wal-Mart, or a million other places. And he’s always very neat about making sure he never leaves any evidence behind that could tell us who he is. I’m hoping that just maybe, since you created him, you can help stop him,” Raven tells Julie, placing pictures of the newest crime scene on the table before her.

“I didn’t create him. I made a character in a novel. This is some guy off his nut,” she corrects, eyes drawn to the gruesome images before her.

“Whatever. The only reason we know he’s imitating your freaky book is the fact that he left these with his latest victims,” he says placing copies of the text on top of the pictures.

With trembling fingers Julie picks up the passages from her book and looks over the familiar words. Blanching, she puts them down and looks upon the images of the Lefop family. Blinking, she picks up the text again and begins to look between the two.

“Do you have…uh, do you have reports on how the other victims were killed?” Julie asks, distracted by the fact that her book could inspire such horror.

Silently Raven hands her the folder containing the coroner’s reports of all thirty-nine victims. Julie begins to skim the pages, flipping through them with growing haste. Watching her intently, Raven notices her tan skin begin to grow paler with the turn of each page.

“What is it? What have you found?” he demands rounding the table to hover over her shoulder.

“He’s been following my book the entire time. The order of the cards, the time between the murders, the location they take place, the number of people for each one. It’s exactly like my book,” she says, her voice a wobbling thread of sound.

 “I don’t understand. The passage he left with Laura Lefop described the murder of a little boy. How could he be following your book exactly?” Raven demands pointing at the passage of text and the image of Laura.

“I wrote that the jack, queen, and king of spades would kill a family of three in Port Huron. Two parents and a small child. He chooses the victims, but they correlate to my book,” Julie answers leaning back in her chair.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know what I wrote and these deaths match. Like the clinic, I wrote that a clinic of people was killed.”

“So the pattern should continue with hearts. We’ll be able to know when and where he’ll strike next,” Raven announces with growing excitement.

“Well, not exactly. Some of the locations I gave were vague,” Julie reasons.

“Even knowing the city or state he’ll strike in next, and when he’ll strike next is a lot more than we knew a few hours ago,” he says giving her a slap on the back. “You did it.”

“Shouldn’t you wait to celebrate until after you catch him?” Julie says mildly disgruntled.

“Probably, but you have to understand this is a big break in the case,” he tells her, mind racing. “Your book, how did it end?” What did he do with the final card?”

“He didn’t. In my book the killer was caught before he could use the kind of hearts,” she tells him with a shrug.

“Do you think he’ll come after you? He is obsessed with your character,” Raven says loosing his exuberance.

“I think it would be difficult. My personal information isn’t given out with the pen name Juliet Strat. My image has never been shown with the book, and all of my press conferences and appearances have been done over the phone. I’ve been very careful to make sure people don’t know who I am,” she tells him.

“Why go to such lengths?” Raven asks perplexed.

“I write novels about serial killers, and didn’t want some crazed fan coming after me,” Julie says in all seriousness.

Raven sits in his office, eyes blurry with purple rings from lack of sleep, pouring over the information pertaining to the Suicide King’s latest victims. Over six months have passed since the Suicide King’s pattern was cracked. Instead of following the killings described in the book the newest murders have been even more random and unpredictable. While the Suicide King is still following the suits, the lapse in time, and the city where the person should be killed, he has stopped killing people that have any connection to the fictional victims of Julie’s story. Why deviate now from an otherwise steady pattern? It just doesn’t make sense. There must be a reason behind the change. Some key element to the killer’s ultimate goal, but what?

Sighing, Raven leans back in his chair and stretches muscles stiff from sitting hunched for hours. Out of clues and out of time he allows a wave of despair to wash him. The queen of hearts was found three days ago in Baltimore. The body was discovered in a garden upon a bed of white roses splattered red by blood. Her wrists were slit and the card was pressed gently against her heart. It is finally down to the king of hearts, and the book can’t supply anymore help. Rubbing tired eyes Raven once again begins looking over the victims of the last suit. Opening the file containing the coroner’s reports on the latest fatalities he discovers photos of the dead before they were killed. Picking up the first photo he sadly looks upon the frozen image before blinking in slight confusion.

“What the hell, this woman looks kind of like Julie,” Raven mumbles looking at a picture of the woman killed by the queen of hearts taken before her death.

He stares at the image for a moment longer before his entire body stiffens. The woman looks like Julie. Throat suddenly dry, Raven begins looking over the physical descriptions of the victims before death. The ace had black hair, brown eyes…wait, black hair. Julie has black hair. The two of hearts had blue eyes, the three was female, the four was five foot four, the five had tan skin, the sixth had black hair and blue eyes, and so on down the line of victims. With each new card came a closer resemblance to—

“Julie,” Raven whispers with horrifying comprehension.

Grabbing his cell phone he runs off down the hall dialing her number as fast as his trembling fingers can move. He only hopes he can reach her before it’s too late.

In a rural Michigan town a woman sits in her living room typing furiously away at her laptop. She is so absorbed she fails to hear the slight click of her lock, or her front door opening. A man dressed in black with an odd hat closes the door and stalks silently into the living room. Standing behind the couch he reads the screen over the woman’s head. She stops and leans back, satisfied with her work.

“God, first I write about serial killers, now assassins. People must think I’m a stones throw away from a homicidal episode,” Julie speaks aloud to herself, oblivious of the figure behind her.

“Homicidal episodes really aren’t so bad. I’ve found them to be rather therapeutic myself,” he says casually, mouth beside her ear.

“Holy freakin’ GOD!” Julie shrieks bolting from the couch only to be roughly pulled back.

“No, no, no precious thing, you don’t get to leave just yet,” The Suicide King hums, sliding a gloved hand to her cheek.

“How did…please no. I, and you’re…you’re him. Why?” she stutters trembling.

“Why what, you ingenious girl?” he inquires rubbing his face against her hair.

“Stop! Why are you touching me? Why the Suicide King? Why me? Oh please, God, stop touching me!” Julie bursts out, hysteria bubbling within her as she feels one of his hands slip around her ribs in a mocking hug.

Slightly lifting her from the couch the Suicide King slides behind Julie. Her body gives a convulsing shudder as he pulls her tightly against him. Nuzzling silky black hair he inhales the scent of lilac and roses. With a delighted sigh he tightens the embrace and stretches his legs to rest on either side of hers. A wrenching sob rips her from her throat as her stomach begins to revolt.

“Hush, hush. Don’t you see I’m not going to hurt you? Your death will be beautiful, painless, and oh so sweet,” he sooths stroking her face.

“Why?” Julie rasps as tears slowly trickle from terrified indigo eyes.

“Because you are the creator,” he breaths reverently.

“I don’t understand,” she whimpers.

“You created  the Suicide King, the perfect killer. He deals death without bias or malice. Without any feeling at all. A perfect being who decides who lives or dies with an act of whimsy. He is free, exalted, fearsome, and just. I knew when I read your book that I was destined to be the living embodiment of the Suicide King. However, I couldn’t just suddenly be him. It was necessary for me to match him kill for kill in order to become, to change, into him. For my transformation to be complete it is necessary that the thing which created him be killed. That would be you, Julie Stratford,” the Suicide King explains with growing fervor.

“No. Please,” Julie chokes out.

“My darling giver of life, just as your hand gave him birth on the page your death will give him birth in reality. I am his vessel and you are his source. Fear not precious thing, your name will be held sacred the world over for all time. You’ve left your tale unfinished, please; allow me to provide an ending. The killer saved the last card for his ingenious creator,” he purrs with utter delight.

The hand slips from her face and Julie hears the rustling of paper. Carefully he places the wrapping paper hat on the table next to her laptop. She turns fearful, and wide-eyed to find the true face of the Suicide King. Dawning horror of realization lights Julie’s face as he holds up the last card, his grin the last thing she sees.