Heartless Butcher

Bills piled over our heads, and kids must eat. I sold out.

After Aaron left for work and the kids for school, I arranged the deed. A brick wall hid us from the neighbors. Still calculating at that point, I tried to forget he had a name.

I cornered him on the back porch. My hands shook. Amateur I was, I bungled the knife across his throat. He struggled but was weak. Desperate, I struck again. Blood sprayed my face and shirt.

Wearing a garden hat disguise, I dug a shallow hole, buried the remains, then rushed inside to clean before the kids got home. Blood dripped from the knife, spotting the kitchen tile.

Out, damn’d spot! out, I say!


Dinner was served. Mopped, the tile floor gleamed. My blouse was freshly dried.

Beaming, Aaron took his seat. “I don’t know how you do it on your budget, Clare. Dinner looks and smells amazing.”

Jeff ran from his room. “Chicken!”

Ally poked at a thigh with her fork and made a face. “Is this a feather?”

My son—instant sleuth. “Check the chickens in the back yard!”

“Let’s not,” I said. “Sit and eat your supper.”


Sunday Photo Fiction: 200-word stories

photo prompt: John Brand