She tapped her foot; smoking and waiting. Nervously glancing about the room.
Peter watched her from the bar – wary, patient.

Her pulchritude beckoned,
pulled him to her.

They locked eyes and he glimpsed her tortured soul.
Entranced, he stood to go to her,
sensing that she already knew who he was.

The window cracked when the bullet passed thru,
audibly leaving the tracks of a spider web in its wake.
She dropped and was gone; long before chancing to realize her own mortality.

Peter slipped the envelope back into his jacket pocket and turned away,
looking for a back door.





Rest in Pieces


Image Courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Image Courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham


After losing her head, she realized that the rest of her body was falling apart.

When your head is gone, your eyesight goes too. It’s difficult to look for things when you are suddenly plunged into an inky black darkness and have no eyes.

She wondered how she would ever find her head.


She thought she should check under the sofa in the parlor. Maybe it was there. Perhaps Buster had taken it.

But she stumbled when she stood to begin her search. It was her left foot – gone too.

What’s happening?

Her right arm dropped as she groped towards the house. The left one hung up in the sleeve of her pajamas for a while. It finally slipped out though, gone too.


When the authorities came, that’s how they found her. No arms, one foot, no head, sprawled in pieces on the concrete garden wall. Searchers later found her lost head in the linen closet. She should have looked there first.