Second Fiction Post

And now for another brief fiction story...


The smoke finally cleared and John Fleming looked down at Scarlett Hawkins's body as it laid face down on the garage floor. "No!" he said and then looked at the pistol in his right hand.  Everything went wrong.  It wasn't supposed to go like this. The incident replayed in his mind.  His hand touching her buttocks, her struggle with him, his attempt to kiss her, and then her threat to not only tell her parents, but to tell his wife, Lisa, what he had done.

"Two years I've waited for this chance," he said.  "What have I done?  What am I going to do now?"

The man turned and laid the pistol on a workbench.  His hand shook as he did so.

"Do you realize just how freaking irritating that is?"

The 48-year-old man froze in place as he heard the redheaded teenager's question.  Finally, he turned around and looked in shock at her as she stood there in front of him.  The bullet hole in her chest slowly closed up, though the blood she had lost still decorated her black shirt around the hole.

"How dare you!" she said.  "I HATE BEING KILLED, YOU PERVERTED JERK!"

The teen advanced on him and he grabbed the pistol, cocked it and fired it into her chest once more.

Scarlett fell onto the floor again and and he looked at her still body.

Several seconds later, John turned around, stumbled to a trashcan and fell to his knees.  He sobbed for nearly a minute, then vomited.

As he got sick, the girl's left hand twitched and she sat up and looked at a hatchet on the workbench.  As she stood up once more, blood poured from the bullet hole onto the floor.

She gripped the wooden handle as she hefted the hatchet and moved towards the sick man.


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Not all of my stories will be nice, either.

Peace be unto you.