The Bodies Are Piling Up

She killed another overnight. Now what, she thought, as she headed to the woods with the dead body. She had to be careful not to draw carrion eaters near her house, that would lead to other problems.

How many did this make, four, five, six? She lost count. Meaningless lives, they disgusted her. No one would miss them. Any of them. How many more would she have to kill before she could sleep soundly? She stopped and thought. Five dead, she was sure now, then proceeded to open the mouse trap and let the lifeless body fall to the ground.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Guilt-Free Murder

Carlos dragged the body onto the street. Veronica screamed about the neighbors, but if anyone was awake, it was because she was screaming. Besides, he didn't care who knew.

Mr. Caspar had deserved to die. He'd hit Veronica. He'd hit Mrs. Caspar. He'd hit the dog. If Carlos had to go to jail, at least he'd know Veronica was safe.

Veronica screamed again. It made Carlos mad to see her crying for her father, but he'd never admit to a mistake.Today, we're deviating from the 100-word format. Today's story is exactly 81 words, and is a submission for this writing site.

Confession

I did it. I killed her in cold blood. I hesitated at first, but she finally got on my nerves.

She tickled my ears, sat on my lap, and touched my private body parts. I asked her to stop but she kept going.

I slapped her in the face. She dropped onto the floor at once. Her skinny, crooked legs twitched a few times in utter disbelief and then she went silent. I picked her up, dropped her dead body in the garbage can, washed my hands, and went back to work.

My office is a “No-Fly Zone.” No exceptions.

From Guest Contributor, Olga Klezovitch

Olga is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and Necon E-Books.

The Final Body

Once the police left with the final body, the reporters scattered their separate ways, much like vultures after a dinner party. I headed to my favorite diner, hoping some scalding coffee and room temperature pie would scrub away my lingering sense of insignificance.

Denizens of a past-its-prime diner also tend to be past-their-prime, but on this night, the man staring at me from across the booth reminded me of an aging but still dangerous predator, albeit one missing his front teeth.

Staring back at him, I had no way of knowing I was about to be embraced by eternal irrelevance.

Thunder Shook The Bibelots

Ralph hated thunderstorms. Tonight's had him cowering in his father's study. Each crack of thunder shook the shelves, rattling his father's war memorials and the family bibelots, and left him cringing abjectly in the corner.

When the storms came, Ralph would rarely understand the reason. His father would have to explain, with varying degrees of patience, that hadn't cleaned his room or had embarrassed him in front of strangers or hadn't done a good job of listening.

But tonight, he knew exactly why the storm had come. His bloody hands and his father's limp body told the story in full.

The Attic

The Smith's attic had been used sparely in recent decades. Occasionally, one family member or the other would allow the ebullience of Spring to convince them to open the trap door, but the thick dust cloud that emerged always changed their mind.

As such, an entire ecosystem had erupted. New lifeforms unknown to science inhabited the various niches created among the forgotten furniture and boxes of National Geographics.

The Smith's often felt guilty for their neglect. Their cousin Tommy had once visited the attic and his body was probably still rotting up there. His parents always nagged them about it.