Death Is For Amateurs

Nicotine’s tarry welcome slipped down my throat and made the world a better place.  Briefly.  I needed it.  I breathed fast and tried to calm my nerves.  This case spiralled out of control so long ago that I forgot what having control even looked like.  I only knew that dead bodies had started stacking up all around me, uncomfortably close.  I never was a people person.  I always needed my own space.  And this was doubly true when all the people crowding round me were violently dead.

“Death is for amateurs,” I muttered between deep, hurried drags on the smooth Virginia tobacco.  Then I got back to ransacking the place, as quietly as I could.

I fumbled through the dark with just a feeble torch to guide me, its light shaking.  There was still that trembling in my hands and my breathing still came in quick, shallow gasps.  But breaking and entering always did disagree with me.  All the sneaking around got tired real quick.  It was too apologetic for my taste.  I preferred a more direct confrontation, given the choice, even if it had got me a few more dents in the back of my head than I’d have liked over the years.  That big stubborn ol’ head of mine could take its share of abuse and still pick itself up to lean on the nearest bar before closing time, nine times out of ten.  But, like I say, this case had changed the rules some – bullet-ridden bodies were a different proposition to dent-ridden heads.  So, some sneaking was in order.

The doctor’s office was airless and clammy from being locked up so tight.  The bars across the windows and the bolts across the door made a little zoo for all his patient’s wild secrets – all the dirty secrets, all the dangerous secrets, and the secrets that had a bit of both.

A doctor like this one costs a fortune, not because of his skill with a scalpel or for the pretty bows he can tie in a bandage.  No, the real skill he learned at medical school was how to keep his educated mouth shut.  The right kind of people (or the wrong kind of people) paid a lot for that kind of bedside manner.

I felt my skin crawl.  Ah well.  Once I cracked this case I’d quit this racket for good, quicker than bribes lose themselves in a senator’s pocket.  Ah-huh the reward would be vast if I pulled it off – I’d buy an expensive big ol’ beach house and an expensive little blonde to go with it.  Well, a house like that needs the proper accessories, am I right?

In my line of work I knew a fresh start is the wisest investment you can make.  So, I prised open the filing cabinet I needed, held the torch steady, as I rummaged.  I didn’t get far.  There, in pride of place, I saw my own medical file staring back at me.  I didn’t know how they got hold of it, or why.  Maybe they thought they’d try blackmailing me with some seedy secrets of my own?  I only wish I had any secrets worth the trouble.

Out of curiosity, I flicked open the file and found myself scanning the page of the last medical exam I shivered my way through, barely a fortnight ago – “Emphysema,” it read; “advanced, inoperable.”  They didn’t need to blackmail me at all.  I was finished.


This short story was written in response to the latest TipsyLit writing prompt: For this week’s prompt, your character must face a new beginning that is both the result of loss and new possibility.  Hmm it turns out that when I wrote the story I only half-remembered what the prompt had said.  Ah well, sod it.  All of the stories written for the prompt can be read by clicking on the image below.  

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What We Call Mother’s Day

It was a feast unlike any other meal we ever sat down to in our sheltered little lives, my brothers and sisters and I.  No one spoke much as we got settled; we never were a chatty family and mother had on her most serious face for the duration, so none us were minded to cross her.  It was her special day, after all.  It had been ages in preparation.  Well, you know what mothers are like: always fussing over the tiniest details, always wanting everything just so.

Sat at the head of the family, mother folded her arms, proudly, as she looked over my brothers and sisters and I; our eager, hungry little faces all aglow.  Then she folded her arms impatiently, I thought; because we were all standing on ceremony a bit and none of us had started tucking in.  Then she folded her arms with resolution and a sigh.  I knew what she meant.  All my brothers and sisters say it’s always been me who was closest to our mother.  I suppose there’s a bond that grows up between mother and eldest daughter, a recognition of sorts.  Everyone says I have her eyes and some of my mannerisms are the spitting image of hers, I’m told.  So, mother and I never needed to rely on words to spell out our ideas to one another.  Between us, a look or a shrug or a smile or a sigh was always enough.

So, it was me who first sampled the feast.

I heard there’s a celebration called Mother’s Day that originated in the United States somewhere; it was probably designed to sell some more greetings cards, flowers, etc.  Well, we Stegodyphus aren’t at all a commercial species but we’ve been celebrating our mothers since we first evolved from the web.  We celebrate every delicious part of her.

So, my siblings soon joined me as my smiling, venomous, spiky, little fangs sank deep into mother’s sparkly, loving eyes.  And as the goo of her filled me up, nourishing me for a final time with all that maternal tenderness she always swore by, I wondered about the little family I’ll hatch myself one day.  And will any of my daughters have her grandmother’s mannerisms, that same generous glow I always saw in her eyes?


This short story was written in response to the latest TipsyLit writing prompt:This week’s prompt must include an unusual or unfamiliar food. Your character could love it or hate it, struggle to determine how to eat it, not recognize it as food, there are so many possibilities.

So, I thought I’d focus on the most incredible meal I can think of.

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