In this Month of the Dead, I’m featuring the awesome writers of RMFW’s Southwest Critique Group and their horror flash fiction tales.
Today’s macabre morsel comes from Chris Winiecki, self-described “sixty-year-old woman with the brain, raging hormones, and common sense of a teenage boy.”
Ladies and gentlemen, The Artist.
She plunged the knife until she heard the satisfying scrape of steel against bone. She withdrew the blade, and watched happily as the blood spattered onto her white uniform and dripped onto her shoes. The shiny red drops contrasted nicely against the white. She found it pleasing, as if she was creating her own personal Rorschach test.
But it was hard work. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, then drove in the knife again. This time she didn’t hit bone, just muscle and tissue. She tried again.
Good. This time she’d hit an artery. The blood actually spurted onto the supply closet wall, a wonderfully vivid spray of bright red. Like Jackson Pollack, she thought. It’s beautiful.
Her fingers were slippery with blood, lovely blood. But it was difficult to hold onto the surgical knife, so she dropped it. It rattled onto the floor, creating another thrilling pattern on the tile. She smiled and sank to her knees.
They’re going to be so pleased when they find me.
Sleep tight! Don’t let the bedbugs or monsters or Karen Black’s toothy little Zuni doll bite.
Shorts photo courtesy of Shakinit clothing online. Buy them here.