Samantha Crites
Stories (2)
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Aged
"How did it come to this?" His lip quivered as he held the weapon over the young woman's body. Guilt pierced through him like a gust of winter wind. He studied the new corpse with pain, but he felt that he owed it to her to at least look. He could pay her that much respect, this unfortunate stranger. Blonde, acne-stricken, thin. Just skin and bone, really. Maybe she was hungry, out looking for food at the wrong place and the wrong time. She shouldn't have been out by herself. One thing that stuck out to him, one thing that was a rarity now a days, was her necklace. It was a heart-shaped locket, probably contained a picture of her family or something. He wondered how she had held on to that for so long, people would kill for real silver like that. He wouldn't. He would let her keep the locket close to her heart, perhaps it would do her some good by escorting her to the afterlife. He liked to think that he would be pleasantly escorted to Heaven (which, coincidentally, looked very much like Florida in his mind) when he passed on.
By Samantha Crites5 years ago in Fiction
The Mistakes He Made
Watching the wind rustle the hair of the dead is often unsettling. I walked by a killed raccoon just the other day, and the breeze slithered through the animal’s fur. It looked as if it was taking a shallow breath. I wondered why the image disturbed me, and I thought, Maybe because we know dead things are not supposed to move. It is almost like the wind is playing a cruel joke, tricking me into thinking that life still courses through those veins. Or perhaps I misjudge the wind. Maybe it is desperately trying to revive the dead. Give it up, then, what is dead will not come back no matter how hard you will it. Poor wind, I would guess that it gets lonely. Its’ air is the substance upon which we live, what failure it must feel when it can no longer fill our lungs.
By Samantha Crites5 years ago in Fiction
