Tag: furiousfiction

Hubris

AmyLeave a comment

He swiped his tongue across his lips. Gathering every tiny morsel that lingered there. Every droplet. Relishing the sweetness. Sticky and exquisite.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and studied the scarlet smear left behind. How he loved the colour. Its deep intensity. The rich redness. He licked at the stain on his skin and breathed out a satisfied sigh.

Another victim was placed before him.

This one was paler than the last. But still beautiful.

His jaws opened wide, and he sunk his teeth in.

Warmth exploded in his mouth, and he smiled as a trickle of thick liquid dribbled down his chin and splashed onto the ground. A vibrant ruby dot on the grey concrete.

How long had he been living for this? This ecstasy. Had it been ten years? Twelve?

No, more.

Fifteen, at least. Yet the rush never left him. The euphoria of the conquest.

He reflected on his first time.

He had done it for her. He would have done anything for her. Anything she asked. He thought he loved her. That he needed nothing else. Until he committed to his first bite. Until he tasted that first triumph.

On that day he was changed forever.

And now he was the master. The king.

He closed his eyes, gloating at his power, and sunk his fingers into the ragged hole left by his teeth, desperate to feel the viscid of what lay inside—scoop it out and lick his fingers clean.

A gasp filled the auditorium.

His eyes snapped open, and he looked around at the sea of stunned faces.

What had he done?

As he stared at his hand, buried in the pastry with thick red goo oozing between his knuckles, the PA system crackled to life.

“Ladies and gentlemen. We have a shock disqualification. Under the rules of the international pie eating association, competitors must only touch the pie with their mouths. Which means, after a nine-year run, we have a new world champion.”

The press jumped to their feet and a mass of flashlights exploded.

Billy blinked, trying to clear the black spots from in front of his eyes. He turned towards his competitor—his fingers still buried in the crust and cherry filling.

The other man’s jaw was hanging—his own hands behind his back and food smeared across his face. “Dude,” was all the man could say.

Heat rushed Billy’s cheeks as he pulled his hand from the crumbling pie.

He had lost.

Six pies in and he forgot where he was, he forgot what he was doing, he let his mind wander and his concentration slip, and he lost.

He thought he was unbeatable. But he lost.

In one swift movement, he flipped the table over.

Jeers filled the room as empty pie tins tumbled and crashed to the floor—crumbs and jam splashing into the laps of the judges in the front row.

Billy stood, his chest rising and falling with deep, panicked breaths as the audience looked at him with wide, judgemental eyes.

He was no longer world champion.

He was no longer the master.

He was no longer king.

He had lost – and now he was nothing.

Again.

© Amy Hutton 2021

Perspective

AmyLeave a comment

My hair was dripping. Droplets trickled off my fringe into my eyes. My sweater hung sodden and heavy on my shoulders. My jeans swished, and my socks squelched.

I trudged miserably along the country road, swearing at myself for not bringing a raincoat, or a brolly, or a damn plastic bag. Anything to fend off this downpour.

I saw him in the distance, sitting on a fence under a tree, a dog by his feet.

“Nice day for it,” he said, as I drew closer.

“For what?” I thought. “Drowning?” But I laughed politely and said, “If you’re a duck.”

A smile spread across his face. “Not even ducks would go out in this shit.” He pushed a sopping curl from his eyes and peered up at the heavy sky. “It’s a little better under here, if you want to wait it out with us?” He dipped his head towards the yellow lab leaning against his leg, looking wretched.

I nodded and watched as he shuffled out of the tree’s protection and patted the wooden railing beside him.

“Now you’re in the rain,” I said, as I clambered onto the fence.

“I don’t mind. Besides, my mum would kill me if I made you sit out in this deluge, while I was getting somewhat less wet.”

“Well, thank you. This storm came out of nowhere, huh?” I felt like an idiot. Who goes for a walk, in weather like this? I tucked a bedraggled strand of hair behind my ear and gazed up at the branches offering me their meagre protection. “Apples,” I said, spying the red fruit for the first time.

He jumped down from the fence, his feet landing in a puddle and spraying mud up his jeans. He grinned. Wide and toothy and dazzling. “Whoops.”

Leaping into the air, he snatched an apple from a branch. The bough flicked back and sprayed us with more water.

We both screamed. Then laughed.

“Sorry about that. Like we needed to be more wet.” He rubbed the red fruit on his soaked t-shirt and handed it to me with a bow of his head. “For you, Milady.”

He blessed me with another stunning smile as I took the apple, then pushed himself back up onto the fence.

“My mum planted this tree,” he said. “This is where she met my dad. On this very spot. On a day like today. Apples were his favourite. He died a couple of years ago.” He gazed at the dog by his feet, reached his hand down and scratched the pup’s ears. “She died yesterday. My mum.”

I drew in a sharp breath. “Oh gosh. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “Thanks. You’re the first person I’ve said that to. “She died. My mum died. It sounds so weird.”

We sat wordlessly for a time, as the patter of raindrops on the leaves above us filled the silence. Two strangers side by side but a million miles apart.

On another day, we might have exchanged names. We might have gone for a coffee. We might have become friends, or maybe something more.

But he was at the beginning of a storm that raged beyond the one churning in the skies above us. A torrential, lashing, sunless storm.

He breathed out a weighty sigh and dropped onto the road. “Anyway, I guess I should go, I’ve got a bit to organise. Thanks for sitting with me. Enjoy the apple and your soggy stroll.”

I watched as he jogged away with his dog by his side.

I looked up at the gloomy clouds that hung dark and pendulous above me, closed my eyes and let the rain pour down over my face. Then I wandered back towards the village, no longer bothered about being soaked. If getting rained on was the worst thing that happened to me today, I was lucky.

©Amy Hutton 2021

A Devil Of A Romance – A Holly and Callum short.

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Longlisted for Australian Writers’ Centre October 2020 Furious Fiction competition

 ______________________________________________________________________________

“This is kinda romantic,” Callum said, nudging Holly. “A cabin by the lake. You and me…

“Tied up, waiting to die.”

“Well, I said kinda.”

They sat on the floor, back to back, wrists and feet bound, a band of rope pulled tight around their waists.

It was supposed to be a routine haunting. Holly would clear the spirit, and Callum would back her up. Except there was no spirit. Just an elaborate ruse by a pair of amateur Satanists looking to sacrifice a psychic to their dark lord. That’s where Holly came in. Only the idiots forgot the ritual candles and ran into town to pick some up, leaving Holly and Callum alone. Holly would laugh if she wasn’t so damn angry.

“You shouldn’t have come, Callum. They wanted me. Now we’ll both die.”

“We’re not gunna die. We’ve been in worse fixes than this.”

His pinky finger caressed hers, causing a familiar tingle to zip up her spine.

He was right, they had been in worse fixes. Like the time they were trapped in the basement of a condemned house with a furious spirit who sent Callum soaring across the room, splitting his head against a wall. He still carried the scar from that wound. It ran through his left eyebrow. Holly found it sexy.

“Can you wiggle out of the ties?” Callum said, bringing Holly back to the present.

Holly tried to move. “No. But what if we drop to the side?”

They rocked back and forth, falling sideways onto the fluffy white rug that covered the cabin floor.

“What Satanist buys a white rug,” Callum said, as he puffed the long pile away from his mouth. “I mean, blood sacrifices and white do not go.”

“Focus, Callum. Move around a bit. It might loosen the knot.”

They flipped and flopped like two fish beached on the sand until Callum squirmed out of the rope with a “Ta-da!”

“Give me your hands,” he said.

Something wet and warm ran along Holly’s wrist. “Did you just lick me?”

“Maybe.”

“Callum. Focus!” She tried to ignore the goosebumps that erupted across her skin.

“Couldn’t help it,” he mumbled, as he tugged on her ties with his teeth.

The second Holly was loose, she crushed her lips to Callum’s, kissing him hard and deep. He didn’t object.

She forced herself to pull away. “Later,” she said, through heavy breaths. “We need to go.”

They clamoured off the floor and darted to the door.

“Hang on,” Callum said as he dashed back inside. He returned brandishing a bottle of red wine.

“Is that their sacrificial wine?”

“They ain’t gunna need it now. Besides, they owe us. We can grab a pizza on the way home!” He flashed a dazzling grin.

“You are unbelievable.”

“That’s why you love me.”

“That’s why you’re lucky I love you.”

“To the moon and back,” Callum said, and he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Holly smiled. “And then back to the moon.”

© Amy Hutton 2020

Turning The Page

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The door opened with its usual creak. The bell chimed cheerily from above, as it had for fifty years. Sarah reached down and gathered up the letters strewn across the floor, flinching at the envelope with overdue emblazoned across it. She side stepped the untouched boxes on her way to the counter. She meant to sort them yesterday. But she could no longer see the point.

Heading to the backroom she put on the kettle and sniffed the milk from the mini fridge to make sure it hadn’t curdled. She poured herself a tea and blew on it as she walked back to the store counter. Dropping into the well-worn chair, she sipped her tea, and wistfully glanced around.

 

She knew every inch of the bookstore. Every nook. Every cranny. She grew up there. Had adventures there. She visited Narnia from the grubby old seat by the window. Fought the pirates of Neverland on the floor in the history section. Went on a journey with Bilbo on the sofa by the magazine rack.

She had her first kiss in the same back room where she had just made tea. Sarah was twelve, he was thirteen. He held her face and pressed his lips tenderly to hers. She still remembers the tingling sensation that rippled along her entire body. She touched a finger to her mouth at the memory of it.

 

She wandered through the shelves, running her hands along the rows of bindings. Opening a copy of Misery, she breathed in the pages. How she loved the way books smelt. The feel of the paper between her fingers. The promise of what was to come. Nothing could ever replace a good book, she thought. Except it had.

When Sarah’s father passed away, he left the store to her. With all its memories, and all its debts. She tried to turn the business around. Tried to make it work. She put in a few computers. Added a coffee bar. Ran some book signings with upcoming authors and hosted a series of poetry readings. Anything she could do to get people across her threshold. But who was she kidding, no one wanted books anymore. They had their Kindles, their podcasts, their quick hit of entertainment on their phones. Books were obsolete, and now, Sarah was too.

Tomorrow she would meet the men who would buy her stock, and Monday, she would hand the keys to the new owners. They were going to open a cafe, with organic beans, and vegan muffins. Or something like that.

 

Sarah sighed deeply. She took the copy of Misery and tucked it into her bag. A keepsake to hold onto. She flicked off the lights and turned the open sign around to closed for one last time. Then steeling herself, she stepped onto the street and shut the door behind her.

The bell chimed cheerily from above, as it had for fifty years.

© Amy Hutton 2020

Crime and Sacrifice – A Flash Fiction

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Five bodies lay sprawled across the small auditorium stage. The rest were slumped inelegantly in their seats. Senior Detective Wesson did a rough count. He figured there was twenty plus people in the room. Twenty plus very dead people. He pulled on his gloves with a sigh, and made his way towards Remington, who he nicknamed Steele, even though Remington was too young to get the joke.

“What’s the story, Steele?”

“Twenty-three people deceased. Cause unknown.”

“A mystery! That should be right up your alley.” Wesson slapped Remington on the back. “By the way, how’s the book coming?”

“Slowly,” Remington said, picking up a water bottle. He unscrewed the lid and put the bottle to his nose.

“What are you looking for? Poison? You’ve read too much Agatha Christie.”

“Poison, or airborne,” Remington said, ignoring the jibe. “Something killed these people, and it was either ingested, or inhaled.” He replaced the lid and carefully repositioned the bottle on the fold-out table attached to the arm of the chair.

Wesson surveyed the crime scene. He hated a mystery. Never understood why people read them. He liked things cut and dried. Questions led to more questions, which led to long nights, and he was too old for long nights. “Where’s the person in charge?” he said. His mood already beginning to colour his voice.

“Over there. The one with puke on his shoes.”

***

Wesson walked towards the gentlemen with the puked-on shoes, who was sitting by the door with a paramedic crouched at his feet.

“You in charge here?” Wesson said. His mood already making him brusque. “Up for some questions?”

The man wiped a handkerchief across his face camouflaging a sob. “I’m not sure what I can tell you?” he said.

“Let’s start with why they were here.”

“For a writing workshop. True crime”

Wesson stifled a laugh. “Well there’s some irony for you,” he muttered. “Hey, Steele,” he called to the younger man, “You should include this one in your book! A silver lining, yes?” He nodded enthusiastically.

***

Remington gave Wesson a tight smile. He hated Wesson. The moron. The man had never opened a book in his life. Remington was sure of it.

He cast an eye around the room. Twenty-three bodies with no obvious cause of death. The press will have a field day, he thought. He could see the headlines now. “The True Crime Murder Mystery.” He’d make sure to drop that line in the interviews he was bound to do. Then naturally, that would become the title of his book. His best-selling book. He smiled to himself at the genius of it all. Write a brilliant true crime story, and then turn that story into a reality. All it took was a little research and a dab of poison on a heating grate. He’d have to wait a while before he could publish, of course. He wouldn’t want to raise suspicions. But he should have the book on the shelves by Christmas. Then there would be the television appearances. The podcasts. Fame and fortune were in his grasp. And all he had to do was kill a few people. Well, twenty-three people.

But then, doesn’t all good writing require sacrifice?

© Amy Hutton 2020