by K. Webster
“Enjoy the refreshments, and I will let you know when it is safe to move about the cabin,” I said as I got settled into the cockpit.
As I prepared for takeoff, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself about the irony of me helping couples to spice up their sex lives. I wasn’t exactly qualified to do so except for piloting the plane. I couldn’t really be described as very experienced in the bedroom. Yet, I have turned my beloved Cherokee into the equivalent of a by-the-hour hotel room.
At Death It Begins
By: Elle Jefferson
Prologue
There was too much noise making it impossible to focus. The clock ticking from an adjoining room, the wooden chair creaking every time he moved, and the sound of her foot tap, tap, tapping beneath the table were crumbling the delicate twine of his sanity. He loosened his tie using the front flap to brush away the sweat gathered along his brow.
She watched him watching her.
The thought of death, especially hers, at his hand sent waves of pleasure coursing through him quieting the hatred spewing in his mind over her misdeeds. Her eyes drifted from him to the back door. That door stood only a yard from her, but her age pitted against his strength—no doubt who’d win.
His gaze, however, fixated on the pendant—an inverted triangle with an inner cross connecting the three sides—twisting on a gold chain around her neck. The edges of the triangle kept catching in the sun lulling him. He glanced at the tattoo on his left wrist. A perfect match. How dare this treacherous woman wear such a treasured insignia. Blasphemous. His hand contracted into a fist. His breathing drew sharp, not yet.
He placed the underside of his wrist facing up on the table exposing his tattoo. Her gaze drifted from his face to his tattoo. She closed her exquisite amber colored eyes. He couldn’t keep the grin from his face.
She understood. Only one would be leaving this kitchen.
Whistling pierced the air and he drew his hands to his ears. His gaze followed hers to the stove. He couldn’t handle the whistling, the roar piercing the sanctuary of his thoughts.
“May I finish my tea you interrupted?”
He nodded, and with a bit of effort she got out of her chair and hobbled over to the stove. The noise was scattering his thoughts and he growled, “Hurry up!”
“Care for a cup?” She asked turning back to face him.
He did not respond just gave a guttural growl.
She retook her seat eyeing him. “Do I at least get your name? Seems only fair.”
“It’s inconsequential—” he cleared his throat, “—as am I.”
He leaned closer the stench of bourbon and cigarettes ripe on his tongue, “Where are they?”
She recoiled adding precious space between them, “Who?”
He scowled. “Difficulty will get you nowhere.” He retrieved a syringe from within the folds of his jacket. A yellow liquid spurted out when he flicked the vial with a finger. “One more chance, where are they?”
“Who?” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“You should think about sparing yourself the pain.” Though in earnest, he wanted her to be disobedient. It would make punishing her more satisfying, give a release to his building erection.
She glanced his tattoo, took a shaky breath and narrowed her eyes, “No.”
“I hoped you’d say that.”
“God is not on your side in this,” she said—her final defiance.
Before she could react, he plunged the tip of the syringe into her shoulder.
The lustrous yellow liquid disappeared into her arm. Her heart thumped faster, irregular.
“If He isn’t, then perchance you may hazard a reason as to how I found you?”
She tried to retort, but her words froze in her throat. She tried to move, to fight, but nothing responded except her eyes. Her body contorted before seizing up. Unable to catch herself from falling she collided with the floor.
He crouched beside her unable to keep the glee from his voice, “Digitalis is a powerful drug. It’s especially potent when mixed with Oleandrin. The toxin renders its victim immobile as it works its way through the blood stream. It can take hours, days even, before causing your heart to explode.”
He picked up her head and placed a kiss to her forehead and looked into her eyes, “I will find them.” He let go of her head and it hit the floor with a clunk. “You do not deserve this,” he said and snatched the pendant from her neck. He tucked the necklace and syringe back in his coat and chuckled as he made his way to the door. He stole one last look at her frozen body on the floor. “They will pay,” he said and shut the door behind him.
Goodbye Caution
By: Jacquelyn Ayres
Prologue
December 26, 2012
Dear Journal,
You were given to me today with an encouraging gesture to write my memories down. The task, though it needs to be done, is daunting. My head is spinning. Where do I start?
You see, I’ve been “lost” for seven years. However, it only took three months and an extraordinary man to find me. I know . . . the math doesn’t seem to add up. But it does—you’ll see.
I guess the best place for me to start is at the beginning (of the last three months, that is). Everything will fall into place for you from there, just as it did for me. I will write it as I remember it. I don’t want to leave a single detail out.
I must warn you (eye roll—only I would warn a journal!) that everything moves along rather quickly. I thought it was odd when it was happening—I couldn’t slow things down, let alone stop them. Believe me—I tried! I know . . . I’m rambling. The point is, everything does happen for a reason. They were right! Whomever “they” are. *Shrugs*
And now, without further ado, I give you the story of how this lost woman was found.
*Cue dramatic theatre music (I’m thinking Andrew Lloyd Webber–esque)!
Always,
Becca Campbell
