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Short: question!

To those who read and liked yesterday’s short, can I pick your brain boxes, please? 

I have revised the realism and wondered what folk preferred.

Fanks and hope you are all well.
The Incarceration of the Early Bird. By CpSingleton © 2017

 

 

 Stacy Faversham lay back in her bed, struggling to fall into a forgetful sleep. The hard, back-breaking, board for a mattress and Mad-axe Annie’s chainsaw snoring, in the bunk above, also did little to ease her mind. Stacy knew the lack of rest was more to do with the spirit crushing news the post-mortem and doctor’s report had delivered when presented in court four hours earlier. Oh, how the girls on block C laughed at her when she arrived back. Stacy couldn’t understand how they found out so fast. The prison prohibited telephones and news reports, yet word was out twenty minutes before she’d returned, overwhelmed and feeling foolish.

 To stem the rising acid panic she allowed her thoughts to drift back a mere three months. It was a time that didn’t see her in grey polyester and cheap lingerie. Stacy wore Westwood, and her cherished, red-soled, Louboutins. She dined in restaurants such as The Fat Duck. As she was doing on the last day she was to spend with her ageing husband.

 Stephen had appeared jittery that night. His lopsided grin and incessant chatter seemed forced, like he was a nervous lettuce on a first date.

 His happiness bored the far younger woman beyond description, so she didn’t bother asking him if he was okay.

 She was only certain no eighty-three-year-old should be as full of vitality as he. Stacy, forty-five years his junior, viewed it as her future to make sure it would be the last night he smiled.

 She’d planned for the assassins to be waiting by the front door as Stephen parked his prized possession.

 Weapons weren’t necessary. During the first meeting in The Dog and Duck, Stacy banned guns outright. She knew accidents could happen. Her beloved father had suffered a fatal wound after a gunshot fired by one of his own men during a raid in Belfast. Decades of bitter pain passed before she realised the only way to take the tragedy was as a lesson to learn.

 Stacy had told the leader, Billy, that Stephen would only require a slight shove, and he’d drop like a heavy curtain. Billy, not being too bright, frowned at the analogy, until she’d explained the meaning. He then roared as if he was a drunken baboon.

Stacy, with Stephen driving, arrived back at the mock Tudor mansion at ten minutes to midnight. The gravel crunched under the thick tyres.

 She thanked the autumn for the cloud covered sky. Stephen’s red E-Type Jaguar looked black as she climbed out. Stacy cast a beady eye around the garden although detected no sign of Billy’s group of three. Her stomach twisted as she questioned if they might have reneged on the deal.

 As Stephen jabbered about his luck in finding her, Stacy stood back to watch him approach the huge oak doors, her breath caught in her chest. Only exhaling moments later when he was on the floor groaning and moaning, surrounded by the balaclava clad shadows.

 It pleased her to see the fear flooding from his wide eyes. She had never seen such terror. The power it gave her also leant her a level of stupidity she only ever saw in others. Folly she came to regret in her cell.

 ‘You bore me, Stephen,’ Stacy hissed, before stamping on his temple with her needle-sharp heel.

 It turned out to be her downfall when the forensics team came calling, but for that one moment it filled her with power. An immediate rush flooded her body as she pierced his skull. It was the sweetest orgasm the ancient tortoise could ever have given her.

 She believed everything once his was now hers. Society would sit up and notice her. The stars were at her command.

 As Billy and his boys slapped her around the driveway and bound her to make it appear as if a burglary had taken place, she thought only of the money. The thrill in her belly dulled the pain they attempted to inflict.

 The only orgasm Stephen afforded her, however, was to be during Stacy’s final full day of freedom.

 After Billy and his boys had sped off, leaving her on the cold lawn in binds she could wriggle from, she threw up her dinner and shook from jaw to knees. It didn’t stop until the first policeman on the scene offered her a brandy, assuming it was the shock of her loss.

 All that night she felt certain she had fooled the law. She found herself unable to sleep then too. She had plans to savour and holidays with bronzed young men to imagine.

 The next morning, as she sipped her morning coffee, the lead detective arrived to kick her stupid legs from underneath her. The first question he asked was about the blood on her shoes and legs. Questions she had given no consideration to answering. Questions that drove her into custody, to be queen of her own pee-smelling cell.

 That wasn’t the worst part of it all though.

 The rusty iron crown to sit on top of the whole stinking, stupid mass of manure was the hospital reports read out by the prosecutor. The smarmy bastard grinned for the briefest moment as he told the court that Stephen had less than a month to live. Unbeknown to Stacy, his doctor had informed him the day he’d died.

 If only the silly old bastard had opened his stupid mouth and told me, she thought, on the verge of tears.

 Stacy felt a scream of frustration building in her throat. She clamped her hands to her mouth and banged her head against the paper-thin pillow.

 She didn’t notice Annie’s snoring stop. 

 ‘You carry on doing that, lady,’ Annie growled, without looking down at her. ‘And I will twist your head off myself. Do you hear?’

 ‘Mmmmm,’ Stacy replied through her fingers.

 ‘Good. Now go to fucking sleep! You’ve got twenty years of self-reflection. Pace yourself.’

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About Chris42

I am a liar! A maker-uper of stories! If this was the 16 (c) I'd be burned as a witch. Fank goodness it is not, eh?! I have four children: two wonderful girls, a fantastic lad and Leeds United. I have no strict genre. I write children's poetry and stories, to edgy, stronger themes. Up until now I have stored them for my own and my family's viewing. Last year i thought bugger it and starred in several short films. One, Playground, which is on the BBC Film Network, used the monologue that I wrote for the audition. You should've seen the face of the receptionist, of the Manchester hotel, where the audition was being held, as I turned up dressed as the psychopath, Gordon. It got the desired effect! I then moved up to Cumbria and wrote and appeared in several live performances on stage. 2012. A local artist, Kayleigh Richardson, commissioned me to write a poem for her to paint a representation. I sent her, The Rise of the Robot Monkey Army. Kayleigh painted a fantastic piece that blew my mind! From that we are collaborating on the Jacob Bear series of stories. Oh and Two's Company is to published, along with seventeen other Sci Fi short stories as part of a collection. Not a bad start to the, so called, last year of the Earth. Now is the time to show the rest of you. I take my themes wherever i see them, whether in reality or dream-world. I hope you enjoy. If not tell me why. If so tell me why. Many thanks and be safe. So far I have published: Jacob Bear's first Christmas,https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007GK872A (UK) http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007GK872A (USA) Jacob Bear Goes to School https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007JD3OKY (UK) http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007JD3OKY (USA Jacob's First Words https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007VZWPSC (UK) & http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007VZWPSC (USA) Space Here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007H96M90 (UK) &http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007H96M90#reader_B007H96M90 The Rise of the Sponge Cake Moon https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007WWZ16M (UK) & http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007WWZ16M (USA) © Madstoffa, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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© C.p.Singleton, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Don't make me have to take the shirt off your whipped back if you break the rules! I will you know! Us writing folk work hard to make rubbish up for you to enjoy, so don't abuse or you lose! Tha's right!

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