The Purchase

Photo Credit: Rachel
Photo Credit: Rachel

Evie had been squirreling ones, fives, and the occasional twenty since 2014.

She tucked the shopping bag into the back of the closet, where it would hibernate behind her ratty wool coat for as long as seemed necessary. That way when—if–Hank noticed her wearing them, she could look bemused and say, “Of course not, dear. I got these ages ago.”

But from time to time, when he was otherwise occupied, she might wander off and worm a hand into the bag, the box, the crackling tissue, stroking the soft gray skin, imagining her foot cradled in such heaven.

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Drive-In

Photo Credit: David Gutierrez
Photo Credit: David Gutierrez

Gagging on her fresh perm, Rhonda cracked the window of Jeff’s red Chevy. He was yammering about the movie—Texas Chainsaw Massacre–but chances were, they wouldn’t be watching. She eyed the plaid blanket in the back and the way he rested his right hand sloppily on her left thigh. It didn’t matter. She despised horror movies, anyway, and Jeff had full, red lips, which split into a sweet smile. So what if he was in Vo-Tech, tinkering on cars, while she dreamed of Harvard? He had warm hands and an eager bulge, and she had tired of being perfect.

Murder

Simone whacked Dexter with a broom until he dropped his cheeping treasure and slunk under the buffet. The cheeper was in rough shape–motionless for two hopeless minutes, then unable to do much beyond the occasional flutter. She searched for the means of its escape, in the end, grabbing a spatula and the real estate section of the Sunday paper.

One wing was askew, and one leg missing, leaving a small, black hole; still, she could not wring its neck. Instead, Simone placed it gently on the patio railing and turned away. She did not watch and wait, tail twitching.

Photo Credit: Matt Dale
Photo Credit: Matt Dale

Small Victories

Darlene took her time, reluctant to emerge and discover today’s torture.

Emily poked her head back through the locker room door. “Not bad, Dar. Just indoor soccer.”

Relief. She could run around, pretending to vie for the ball for 45 minutes. She walked across the gym floor and sat one over from her friend; Ms. Stevens always counted by twos when making teams.

Forty-three minutes in, Darlene looked up and froze. The ball veered toward her, struck her head forcefully, and accidentally flew toward the opposing team’s goal. Cheers. For her. And no one noticed her scrimmage vest was on sideways.

Bad Day

Detective Maria Cortez and Officer Sean Wilkins arrived on the scene at 8:30 sharp—seventeen minutes after the call had come in—and were immediately overwhelmed by the foul smell.

Wilkins’s face fell.

“Is this what it’s like?” He fingered his shiny new badge and gave his ill-fitting pants a quick hike.

As they neared the body, Cortez let expletives drop, and Wilkins regretted becoming a cop. One hand swatted flies; one covered his nose.

Only somewhat hardened by experience, Cortez knelt to survey the desecrated corpse, blanched, and rose.

Wilkins vomited, then spit; at 8:33, tossed his badge, said, “I quit.”