The Furies – Serial #3

BP 2

The warm sun’s rays shone through the living room window panes, kissing Luz’s cheeks with the novelty of a newfound lover. She smiled at its comforting, life-giving caress behind her shut eyelids, and yawned and stretched for a few moments careful not to wake anyone from their slumber. It was an easy Sunday morning. She couldn’t recall the last one she’d had. It was always rush, rush, rush, work, work, work with her, but today she was taking it slow. She owed it to herself. No one else mattered today.

Luz stretched one more time, yawning several more before she opened her eyes to the world. Sho, Ken’s Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, had taken advantage of her once again and had buried himself between her legs. The poor thing had suffered from Syringomyelia which gave him seizures and caused great discomfort, but he lay still upon her lap at peace under her petting palm.

Ken lay curled up on the other end of the couch. He slept with his left arm cradling his head, his muscular arms framing it like a model in pose. She hadn’t seen him like this in a while. A white tee shirt and jeans, nothing more needed for a girl to get excited, but she wouldn’t bother him. He needed his rest today. There were plenty of football games to be played—fantasy, and the real ones, too. No, today she’d let him rest. She wouldn’t nag him like she always did. He hated that. Plus, today was her day anyways, though she didn’t have the slightest idea of how she’d spend it. Maybe a mani-pedi? Luz closed her eyes momentarily and smiled at the thought. Oh, and chocolate, there would be plenty of that—Ghirardelli, for sure!

Luz moved the stiff Sho from her lap and rose quietly so as not to disturb the serenity of the scene. Coffee! Ken would love some. She’d didn’t care for it, but she’d grown accustomed since she and Ken had been together. He was a drinker. She tiptoed to the kitchen and brewed some anyway, out of habit, and began to cook the eggs—over-easy, always over-easy. She always seemed to manage to mess them up even though they had been together for a year, next July 14th. Three months hardly seemed enough time to plan the anniversary. She rattled about in the kitchen for a moment, quickly peeking out to see if she’d disturbed anyone. No, thankfully everyone was still asleep. Good. She liked making Sunday breakfast. Ken liked a hearty meal before church. Sho always had to be fed and walked as well, but she was sure that they wouldn’t mind if she snuck out today.

Luz stepped back from the kitchen table after an hour, hands on her hips. She had outdone herself today. “Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart!” Luz giggled and covered her mouth, almost ruining the surprise. Mani-pedi for sure! She had earned it. She untied her apron quickly and pulled it off with a snap. She hung it back on its hanger carefully, like so. Yup, just like that—she had to make sure.

Ken and Sho hadn’t budged from their comfy spots on the couch, though she could’ve sworn that the darned dog had buried itself deeper into the couch. Luz smirked and shook her head. What she put up with! Well, today wasn’t the day to question it. She had places to go, and well, maybe she’d see people, too.

She hurried silently down the hall to the bedroom and got changed. She’d wear her Sunday finest today; a midi-skirt, lace top, and a pushup bra and thong she’d kept from Ken. Well, it was going to be a surprise. Pumps? Sure. She smirked widely now. She was bold today. The sun gleamed through the bedroom windows against her bare, fare skin and she reveled in it. Satori, rubbed herself against her calves, startling Luz for a moment. Luz picked up the stray cat that she’d let in the house the night before. She purred to her and she purred back. Her sable fur tickled softly against Luz’s cheeks. “Shush. I’ll be back. Don’t worry,” Luz whispered as she put the mangy stray back into the closet where she’d kept her for the night.

Ken hated cats, but maybe he’d let her keep her. Sho marched in lockstep with his master, so he didn’t care much for them either.

Luz powdered up before she gathered her things. No sense in getting her hands and feet in order if the rest of her looked like Hell. She snuck back down the hall and gave a last look into the living room where man and his best friend lay. She blew them a quick kiss and walked out of the door.

It wasn’t until she reached the mall that someone noticed that Luz was covered in blood: Ken’s, Sho’s, and hers. The police would find two victims on the couch and the third in the bathroom.

© J. Manuel Writes


The Furies – Serial #2

BP 2

He rose from his bed. It was dark. He reached for his glasses on the night stand just as he heard a light tap against the bedroom door. He couldn’t be sure if he’d heard it earlier. His stomach churned and cramped from the bottle of scotch that he had drained just hours ago. Sterling snored softly by his bedside and gave no hint of any disturbance. He reached down to the coarse bristles of Sterling’s fur. And there it was again. A light tap, no, more of a rap this second time, or was it the third time? The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and he froze, constricted by his own stiffened muscles as they clamped down on his breath.

His service pistol was in the top drawer of the nightstand but he was paralyzed. He knew that it wouldn’t be too much longer now. Sterling rose with a low, gurgling growl and stood pointed at the door. He dove for his pistol knocking the nightstand lamp onto the floor. He frantically pulled the .45 caliber weapon out of the drawer and wheeled it around towards the door.

“I’m a cop! You picked the wrong house! I’m not fucking around,” he yelled as rage supplanted his fear. His bravado was emboldened by the firepower that once again trembled in his soon to be cold, dead hands.

“Oh I know, Officer Markum!” a soft, feminine voice echoed through the thin, laminate, bedroom door as the knob turned ever so slowly.

“Don’t come in here or you’re dead!” he warned, as the door steadily opened and a small, blurry, feminine figure glided through.

The panicked policeman pulled the trigger and the pistol clicked impotently. He pulled it again, and then repeatedly, to no avail. Sterling leapt towards the figure with a shrill bark and bolted past her. He would live. Markum floundered and thrashed around the bed before bracing his corpulent body against the headboard. He pulled his heft onto his knees while pointing the pistol at the advancing figure.

The slight intruder moved towards the far bedroom wall, observing her quarry’s every move. “I want you to see Officer Markum. I want you to see how you die!” The lights flicked on, and there before him, stood a slender woman cloaked in black. Her hair was cropped short against her temples. Her eyes, terrible eyes, pierced with the darkest hatred that humanity could harbor.

He rose to his feet at the head of the bed. His hands grabbed at his naked, overhanging midsection. “Who are you?”

The slender woman reached behind her back and threw a shimmering silver-metallic object at him. It landed at his feet on top of the sweat-stained mattress. Even without his glasses, he could identify the familiar Star and Crescent badge he’d worn as a New Orleans police officer so many years ago.

“I found something of yours. Maybe you should put it on? I like a man in uniform.” The intruder’s voice sharpened, like a blade over a whetstone, as she spoke.

He’d had enough! Who was this little bitch anyway? Markum brightened beet-red and hurled curses at the insolent woman as he took two lumbering steps, jumping awkwardly off of the edge of the bed.

The woman, like a sable panther, pounced quickly into ambush. She closed quickly with her airborne prey, side-stepped his ungainly mass, and thrust a three-inch dagger twice into his liver. Markum landed on hard on his feet and rebounded into the wall. He braced himself against it as he prepared to flail around for another attack. He was too late. She was an efficient huntress, going for the jugular immediately. Markum thrashed violently as his neck was sliced by the tightening, wire-edge garrote. The woman was on his back and he could not reach her. He swung desperately attempting to free himself from her deadly clutch. His world was closing in around him as the blood flow to his brain slowed. He felt the warmth of his blood as it bubbled out of his punctured liver and down his legs.

Markum fell to his knees, his life slipping away with every spilled drop. The woman fastened the garrote and sprang off of his back. She squatted down in front of her dying prey and showed him the murder weapon, a delicate little dagger.

“They say this feels better when you’re choking”, she spoke softly into his ear, as she castrated him.

© J. Manuel Writes

The Furies – Serial #1

BP 2

He felt their presence in the darkness below. He looked up and saw the pale glow of the moon overhead. He tried to climb up the sloppy embankment, but his fingers dug and slipped through the muck of the sedimentary deposits. He flailed frantically, clinging momentarily in vain to an unsteady bundle of roots that protruded from the unforgiving slope. The roots steadily pulled away from their silty anchor which had entombed them for millennia before the river had partially freed them. He rode the torrent of mud and rocky shards down to the bank below. That’s when he heard them. A faint growl at first, barely audible above the rush of the turbulent water that drove through the oxbow a hundred feet away.

The growl grew to a steady rumble that doubled in stereo and almost instantly grew exponentially louder. He was surrounded. He whirled quickly toward the seemingly infinite directions of the sounds; a frightened marionette twirling at the end of unseen strings. A pair of fiery eyes froze him in place as their disembodied rage devoured him. Other embers soon lit the dark edge of the riverbank and drew closer like ghoulish fireflies attracted to the warmth of his body. He broke away from their hypnotic stares and hurled himself frantically toward his futile escape. He pawed at the embankment desperate for traction and salvation, but neither came.

They were upon him. The first bite was the worst because of its novelty, its power, its pain, its brutality, and finality. Canines pierced his calf, crushed his shin, and dragged him downward. Several successive sets quickly clamped onto his other limbs. He screamed, but no one heard his dismemberment. A hot canid breath exhaled onto his neck and face as it paused to inspect him. He welcomed the momentary reprieve as the pack pulled back to masticate his flesh. In the next moment, they were on him again. Jaws dragged him bodily along the rocks to the water’s edge where the feasting continued as he screamed in agonizing horror. There was no mercy. Wolves ate this way. The kill was inconsequential. It would come in its own time, though it would not come for him for several more minutes, at least not until his arms had been devoured; one to his shoulder, and the other to just above the crook of his elbow. His legs were ripped apart by the pack so that the alpha could feast on his groin and perineum. The exsanguination  was immediate and final. The last sensation that he would take from this world was that of the crushing bite that drove his larynx into his carotid arteries. He’d always loved dogs.

© J. Manuel Writes