I’m gearing up to start work on the next (and probably final) installment of my Deviant Behaviors series, Eager Observer, by writing some free short fiction dealing with the characters involved.
Today’s short story introduces a never-before-seen character, Millie, who writes a blog about her strange and varied tastes.
This post comes from my effort to write a Story a Day every (week)day in May. I’m not posting all of them, only those I think will be great for my blog followers. They will all be tagged [Free Short Fiction] for easier searching.
The prompt for today’s story comes from Our Write Side:
“…an obsession is a way for damaged people to damage themselves more.” ― Mark Barrowcliffe
The ABCs of Life and Death
May 6, 2016
On the Topic of Sports Innuendo and Choices, and an Update on the Deaths
I’ve never been one for sports, so the idea of boys making their way through the bases with me is laughable. I understand that baseball is a metaphor for sex, I do. What I don’t understand is why boys need metaphors for sex. Why can’t they talk about it head-on? Aren’t they supposed to be brave, opinionated, and loud?
It makes me wonder why I’ve ever spent any of my time on thinking about them. I know that I’m attracted to them, but that’s another thing I don’t understand. Why on Middle Earth would I waste my time on a species so inferior to my own, especially when there are others – female others – whose attention I enjoy more?
Maybe it’s the primate in me coming out. The need to procreate is strong in our species, and I suppose I am no exception.
Except that I am, because I’ve never actually mated with one of the innuendo-laden Neanderthals, and I don’t intend to do so. For cuddling and fangirling, they are a fun toy, but for everything else, they make a nuisance of themselves more than anything.
I guess I always knew I’d rather play ball with girls, and there are two I’ve had my eye on. One is cuddly, squishy, and loves all the same musicals as I do. The other is a puzzle I still need to work on cracking. What draws me to her? It’s not the mystery, because that would be too eye-rollingly typical. No, not the mystery. It’s those lips. I could live and die for those lips, and her hips aren’t anything to sneeze at, either.
Speaking of hips, have you heard the latest on the Initial Killer?
The police recently discovered a new victim, and this one had a letter M carved into one of her hips, and an L into the other. So far, he’s covered almost half the alphabet, some letters more than once, but the cops can’t figure out what the letters mean.
I hope it’s a secret code. I’ve always been good at deciphering these things, and if you’re going to kill people, I suppose it makes sense that you would want to give each death some meaning.
Not that I condone violence, but there’s something about the simplicity of the deaths juxtaposed against the complexity of what might be a message to the world. A request for help, perhaps?
After all, he’s killing them so quickly, it’s almost impossible to imagine that it’s the death he gets the jolt from, because who can derive pleasure so quickly?
Then, maybe I’m overthinking this, as usual. Maybe he kills so quickly because he’s a coward, and the letters are because he’s mad as a hatter. Only one person knows, and he’s not talking.
On the edge of my seat,