#ThursThreads Week 277 : Nothing Is What It Says It Is

Having caused sufficient chaos where Michelle once worked, it was time to spread the chaos to the rest of her social world. Starting with the church she’d once been a member of. A church that had disowned her.

Churches always have leaders. These are usually called pastors. This one was no different. The pastor’s name was Greg Bishop. It was most entertaining to listen to his prayers to God for several nights. “Thank you, God, for removing that vile, evil demon from our presence, and protecting the good people of this world.” Of course, the other half of his prayers were just as entertaining, “Please, God. Find the foul, vile spawn of Satan that is blowing up cars, and ruining people’s lives, and bring that demon to your justice.”

Ah. Christians. So predictable. Most of them, anyway.

Of course, Pastor Greg wasn’t happy at all when his prayers started showing up on social media. Word for word, thanking God for murder, and asking God to stop vengeance. Pastor Greg had a bit of explaining to do on that Sunday morning, when people at his church started asking why he thanked God for someone’s murder. Although they did kind of understand, since Michelle had been, obviously, a vile, evil person.

Of course, I’m certain Pastor Greg had much more difficulty explaining why the church burned to the ground that Sunday night. “Nothing is what it says it is, Pastor. Like how you’re not a man of God.”

246 Words
@mysoulstears


I finally got around to writing part 13 of the Armor 17 story I started in Week 239 of #ThursThreads. I really should write more. It’s Week 277 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read.

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#FlashMobWrites 1 x 49 : Now And Again

Bob started staying home instead of going to work. He drank until he threw up, then he drank more. He couldn’t turn on his TV, because Darla was on all the channels. He couldn’t use his computer, because Darla always opened a video chat with him. He couldn’t use his phone because every number he called, everyone he texted, Darla answered. He couldn’t even play because when he opened a game, it turned into the video of Darla’s ghost standing beside that place they’d buried her body.

Charlie did his best to ignore everything. He called the blonde when he couldn’t take it anymore, and she always chewed him out, “There’s no such thing as ghosts, you asshole!”

After 17 days, Charlie was driving home from work, passed out, and drove his car across the median, into the oncoming traffic. His car side-swiped three other cars before an SUV t-boned him.

I was glad no one he hit died, although a couple of people did have to spend the night in the hospital.

Charlie didn’t survive. The collision with the SUV snapped his neck. I wished that hadn’t happened. I’d wanted him to spend the rest of his life in prison.

The next day, when Bob heard about Charlie’s wreck, he’d had enough. He called 911, and told them to come get him. “Save me! She’s after me! She killed Charlie, now she’s after me!”

The police, of course, found it entertaining how a dead woman had killed Charlie, and was haunting Bob.

Bob told the police everything. I suppose it helped when Darla showed up while he was waiting for the police, and told him, “Tell them everything, and I’ll stop.” He told them names, places, times, dates. Hell, he even told them what the blonde did to Darla while she was tied up, before they killed her, and what she’d done to Darla’s body after they killed her.

The blonde, it seems, was one demented soul.

Of course, I made sure the blonde knew Bob had turned himself in. It was easy to put it on her car radio while she drove home from work. “Murder turns self in, names accomplices. More at Eleven.”

She checked the news when she got home, and Bob’s picture was on the news report, with his full name, “And the police are collecting the accomplices. More at 11.” It was the first time she’d been nervous about anything. She’d never batted an eye about killing Darla. But it was different when her life was at risk. She’d be going to jail for murder, and she knew it. She’d watched the windows, and knew when the police cars pulled up, and the officers got out.

They heard the gunshot while they walked toward her front door.

Seems the blonde had no intention of going to jail.

She got what she deserved.

Just another day in the life of an Armor.

I am Armor 17. I am the violence.

491 Words
@LurchMunster


This is Part 7, the final part, of a story I’ve written using the prompts for the #FlashMobWrites challenge. #FlashMobWrites is hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels.  Please, go read all the stories for #FlashMobWrites Week 1×49. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?

#FlashMobWrites 1 x 48 : I’m So Happy I Could Die

They got in Charlie’s car and Charlie turned it on. The satellite radio started playing the song from the bar, and Darla’s voice kept singing along with it. Charlie changed the station, then changed it again, and again. Every station had the same song. Darla was everywhere.

Charlie turned the radio off. Bob stared at him, “She’s come back to get us, hasn’t she?”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts!” Charlie put the car in gear, looked over his shoulder, and backed out of the parking space. When he put the car in drive and looked out the front windshield, Darla was standing there, pointing at him and Bob.

The look on their faces was priceless. “Remember, Charlie. There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I chuckled. “God, I love holograms.”

Charlie ran over Darla. Bob turned whiter than snow. Neither of them realized I was in the back seat, trying not to laugh, waiting until the first stoplight for my next move. It came soon enough.

I did have to wonder what they thought, sitting at that stop light, watching Darla drive by in car after car. Watching her sit in the driver’s seat of the car behind them as she pointed an accusing finger at them, and mouthed the silent words, “You murdered me.”

Bob wet himself.

Charlie bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood.

Darla was everywhere they looked on the drive. Bob gave up, closed his eyes, and put his hands over them. Charlie drove, and was stuck seeing her everywhere. I wasn’t the least bit sorry for torturing them the way I did. I planned to torture them endlessly until the ghost of Darla forced them to confess to their actions.

The drive ended when they reached Charlie’s place. “Finally,” Charlie mumbled. Bob excused himself, and headed to the bathroom to clean up. Charlie went to his kitchen, pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He called out to Bob, “You drink your whiskey neat, right?” Bob answered yes, so Charlie poured two shots, neat and carried them to the main room. He grabbed the remote, and switched on the power for his entertainment system.

Charlie picked a channel from the online guide that was showing a favorite movie of his. He sat on his sofa, and pushed the play button.

And was greeted by Darla’s hidden burial site in the woods, displayed in full color, in high resolution, on his 70 inch screen, accompanied by the sounds of leaves rustling in the wind, the birds singing now and then.

Charlie sat there. He couldn’t move. He stared at the screen. The remote fell to the carpet.

Bob finished what he was doing, and returned to the room to see the same scene.

That’s when Darla showed up on the TV. She stood next to her shallow grave. “You did this to me,” she whispered. “I’ll never leave you alone.” She looked out from the screen, “You stole my life. Now I’m stealing yours.”

497 Words
@LurchMunster


This is Part 6 of a story I’m writing using the prompts for the #FlashMobWrites challenge. #FlashMobWrites is hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels.  Please, go read all the stories for #FlashMobWrites Week 1×48. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?

#FlashMobWrites 1 x 45 : The Hurt

As expected, the police reached a dead end in their investigation. They determined the cause of death (blunt force trauma, basically she’d been beaten to death). But they found no signs of sexual assault, and no trace of any DNA other than Darla’s.

They’d determined where she’d last been seen (at a grocery store, buying a bottle of wine with a blonde man). They couldn’t identify the man, and until they could, their investigation stalled. They found where she worked, interviewed people there. “Was there a significant other? Did she have a male friend? What was his name?” They got several answers, several males to investigate.

It was their job to investigate.

It was my job to make a big fire, burn down the things they could not. “I’ll be your match, officers. The one who starts the fire.”

The police had their search warrants, their interrogations, their stakeouts. All legal. All by the book. I was Armor 17. For an Armor, there were no laws, no rules, no limits.

I visited her male friends, one at a time. They never saw me, of course, never knew I was there. I watched them, how they slept, their daily routines. Reactions varied to the news of Darla’s murder, some had sleepless nights, some slept like nothing had happened. I left a picture of Darla here, a piece of her jewelry there, an exact copy of the bottle of wine she’d bought that last night, a copy of her car key, an earring. Little pieces of Darla, here and there. Where they’d be notice. I watched. I studied. I learned.

There were three of them. Three who were disturbed when they spotted memories of Darla. Three who kept seeing memories of her. Two of them slept poorly at night, one slept without guilt, without nightmares. Two were male, one was female. The female was a blond.

Always I left them mementos of Darla, pictures, her favorite drink, her favorite book. Their phones took them to her favorite WEB Sites, at random. It took three weeks until the weakest of the three cracked. He called the blonde. “I can’t take it anymore, I’m going crazy! I keep seeing her stuff, her things, everywhere. I can’t sleep at night! I haven’t slept in days! I can’t take it!”

The blonde was ice, “Be calm. What you’re feeling is normal. Have a drink. Eat a good meal somewhere. Watch a movie. Do something fun.”

The blonde called the other male. “Take him out for a fun night.”

The fire had been lit, it was time to fan it, grow it, until it ran uncontrolled. “I’ll be your match, officers. Soon, there’ll be a fire.” I was looking forward to watching the blond. Ice, I’d learned, didn’t last in a fire.

464 Words
@LurchMunster


This is Part 4 of a story I’m writing using the prompts for the #FlashMobWrites challenge. #FlashMobWrites is hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels.  Please, go read all the stories for #FlashMobWrites Week 1×45. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?

#FlashMobWrites 1×42 : Graceland (First Try)

I stood beside her shallow grave, in the steady rainfall that February night, and made a promise to her, I’d find who put her there and when I was through with them, there wouldn’t be enough left to bury.

It was them, that much I knew. The armor had digitally enhanced the area around the grave, using edge sharpening, and color spreading. I knew there were five of them, from the footprints in the ground, the damage to the grasses, the way the rocks had been displaced. Five distinct footprints.

“They knew who you were,” I spoke the words, though the armor silenced them. “It’s how they got to you.” I knelt beside the grave, used the armor’s scanners to look through the dirt and rock, to see her remains in the ground. “They beat you pretty badly, didn’t they.” The armor recorded the fracture to her skull, the dislocated vertebrae in her neck, the torn skin and bruises on her wrists and ankles. “How long have you been missing?” I had no way of knowing how long she’d been missing, or who she was, without digging her up, and getting a DNA sample, or fingerprints.

“Marker.” A slot on the left forearm of my armor opened and a small, black box with an LED on it popped out. I pushed a button on the box. The LED came on, a blinding red, visible for hundreds of feet. “Test.” The armor tuned a radio receiver to the frequency the box was broadcasting. The signal was a very clear “PING!” I pulled the plastic sheet off the bottom of the box, and put it on the rocks she was buried under. That box adhered to the rock.

“911.”

I spoke into the phone, my voice altered electronically, “They killed this woman, and they buried her in the woods! Oh, God, they killed her!” I had to explain where, “I have an emergency beacon in my backpack. I’ll put that out.” I gave them the frequency of the beacon. They asked me to stay where I was. “I can’t do that.” Of course, they wanted to know why. “It’s not safe here. They might find me.” I hung up.

I moved into the trees, and waited five minutes. I called 911 again. “They’re after me! They found me!” I fired two shots from my hand-held into the ground. “Jesus, they’re gonna kill me!”

I waited.

Shortly, there were sirens, followed by lights, and several law officers. They found the beacon.

So it began, the next hunt. “Armor 17.” I called headquarters. “Going silent.” That was the signal headquarters knew meant I was actively pursuing a case. They’d wait to hear from me.

I waited in the steady rainfall that night in February, for the authorities to come for her body. I’d let them identify her, and I’d go from there.

“I promise you, I will find them.”

482 Words
@LurchMunster


I wrote this for #FlashMobWrites 1×42, hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels.  Please,go read all the stories for #FlashMobWrites 1×42. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?

#ThursThreads Week 169 : I Just Killed A Man

“But, you don’t understand!” I looked around the room. Two police officers, with guns pointed at me, looked back.

“Nothing to understand.” The one on the left spoke. The one on the right never said a word. “Now, put the knife down.”

Dad always taught me never argue with someone packing a gun. Said it was the fastest way to get dead. “And always do exactly what the police tell you.” I held the knife out, by the hilt, with my index finger and thumb, so they could see it. And I dropped it.

The one of the right pulled out handcuffs, and put them on me.

Sheila’s mom was a pathetic pile of rubble on the living room floor, crying like a baby, wailing away. Sheila was trying to comfort her.

“I just killed a man.” It’s what I’d done. “I had to kill him.”

The one of the left waved his hand, “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I don’t have anything to hide.”

He nodded.

“He slept with his daughter. Every night.”

Sheila screamed, “I told you not to tell!”

“He slept with her. Raped her. Fucked her. Every night.” I looked straight into that cops eyes. “So, I stopped him.”

Sheila started wailing, like her Mom. The officer on the left spoke into his radio. He requested a team come out to help Sheila and her mom.

“Time for me to go to jail, ain’t it?”

They nodded.

“He fucking deserved it.”

246 Words
@LurchMunster


I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 169. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.

#SatSunTales 55 : Scraping Back Skin

I saw her picture in a magazine. Her face was perfect, and I knew no male could unable to resist her eyes and lips. They were just his style. I tore the picture from the magazine, put it on my computer, scaled it up to my size. I printed it out.

She’ll plead innocent when she’s arrested.

I glanced at the male to my right, his hand resting on my thigh. He believed he was getting laid tonight. Too bad he didn’t know he was getting laid to rest. As I leaned against his shoulder, I pulled my Derringer from my handbag, pressed the barrel against his chest, pulled the trigger five times, then walked off.

Everyone saw her murder him.

When I got home, I’d be scraping back skin, putting her face back on her picture, then shredding it. Tomorrow I’d start another game, with another random human’s life.

150 Words
@LurchMunster


This is my entry into Rebecca Clare Smith‘s 55th #SatSunTales. Please, go read the other entries. It’s a tough challenge, and brings out some wonderful tales.