Deceit - Part 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humiliation Sex  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by Missink31

A fatal hit-and-run accident. A husband with a guilty secret. A widow craving intimacy. A cripple seeking revenge. In a sensuous web of deceit. Sometimes deceit costs lives. It's DARK outside. Deceit LIVE! FREE! H J Furl. Introducing amazing actor Nikki Delgado:


Martin hadn’t driven his 4x4 since the accident. The bedroom was stifling hot. Sian had set the heating too high. He was claustrophobic. He needed fresh air. He slid open the glass partition, stepped out onto the veranda, and chilled as an invigorating blast of cold air whipped his chest. Martin sneezed, smelling the fug of her stale scent.

Slick watched him from across the road in her copper chrome Fiesta. Their eyes met. She turned cooked-lobster pink, swung her cramped stiff-hurt legs out of the car, and hurried off towards the communal recreation facility and sports hall. He wondered if she’d ever leave him alone.

Sian was lying on her side, fast asleep, shattered. Martin closed the smeared partition between them, carefully, so as not to wake her, crossing the bare pine floor, sealing his auburn woman in her crystal cube - and went to the toilet. The bathroom was a shrine to his masculinity. It had a black slate floor, marbled walls, a white porcelain toilet, bidet, deep-curved bath, a wash basin.

Martin locked the door, enacting his intimate ritual of body cleansing. First, he sat on his throne, and peed. Then, painstakingly, he set about removing every trace of Sian from his body: her putrid cheesy sediment, her slick body fluids, her acrid body odours. Once he’d smooth-shaved, showered, sanitized himself, and rinsed his hairy hands, he wandered through their lounge to the kitchen to cook himself some brunch.

The lounge was littered with a contemporary sideboard, a vast media unit and coffee table. He had bought a royal blue sofa for Sian to luxuriate on, a criss-crossed, coarse sisal rug for her tantric yoga moves. The kitchen had a dual-purpose fridge, an overhead storage unit full of her seeds, pasta, his nuts, a trendy cooking hob, and a small breakfast bar with three poseur stools, still wrapped in polythene.

Starving, Martin raided the fridge, shredded some plastic ham, beat three big eggs, and rustled up a ham omelette with grilled turkey rashers. Next, he cremated three thick slices of granary, plastering them with low fat spread under thick-cut marmalade, and downed two black coffees. He threw all his dirties in the sink for Sian to deal with later, before hurrying to the spare room.

His new smart casual outfit was laid out neatly for him on the bed. His woman had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to choose him suitable spring clothing: a pair of lovat moleskin jeans, a sea blue, soft cotton chambray shirt, navy-blue waxed jacket, some tanned leather brogues. He felt so remorseful,

These clothes must’ve cost Sian a fortune.

He snipped off all the price tags then cautiously opened the mauve envelope lying on the bed. The gilt embossed card read:

Thanks for last night’s sex, Darling. Fondest Love, Sian xx

Martin returned to the bedroom, lump-in-throat, his beautiful Celtic princess lain out on the bed, ready for his silent kiss. One of her beige-tanned knees was protruding, awkwardly, at a right-angle, from under the ruched candyfloss duvet, emphasising her sexual exhaustion. Her lover admired her maternal breasts heaving, gently, with the rhythm of her breathing, resting snugly in their quilted nest of furled down. Her nipples still erect, strawberry red, from having sex. He was struck dumb by her native Welsh beauty. Could almost hear the crash of the waves. Taste the smack of salt on her lips. Feel the sand on her skin. From when she first made love to him, clinching him, clamping him inside her, loving, stark naked on Morfa Dyffryn beach…


Martin stood without using his arms, stripped off his olive t-shirt and shorts, and tested the sand with his toes. The heat was bearable. He flexed his biceps for Sian, stretched out on the beach mat, taking in the vista before him. The sky was clear, azurite blue, the sand tinged with ochre, liberally strewn with bladderwrack, flotsam, jetsam, amber froth, and plastic, along the tideline. The glass-clear water, slapping the shore in teasing ripples, heralds of the rare, becalmed sea, looked deceptively inviting. Not to Sian, though. Impish, elfish, Sian, dressed only in a soft turquoise cheesecloth dress, her arms, and legs bare, tanning under the searing hot summer sun.

Amaze me, Sian. You really do! Tell me girl, what’s going on it that strange mind of yours?

Martin cast his gingerbread brown eyes over the deserted beach. He and Sian had chosen well, nestling out of the cutting wind,

‘My Welsh Mistral!’ Sian proudly called it.

Nestling where the sandy dunes, stiff with marram grass, met the exposed foreshore. Nestling,

‘Our little love-nest, Martin!’ she laughed nervously, blushing.

He turned to face her. He couldn’t quite make her out. Her undying love for him. Despite his sinful tasks. The trust she placed in him. On many occasions. Her lonesome nights. When he played away. His endless overnight stays: ask-no-questions: discreet inns, guest houses, luxury hotels. All expenses paid. Ask-no-questions. He watched as she drew the hem of her crimped dress high, to the small of her slender back, pressing it to her front, lowering her head, showing him herself, revealing the fullness of her pale, bare rump, ever the Celtic maiden,

‘Look, see, I’m not wearing any knickers!’

Martin blew out his cheeks,

Sian! Don’t do this to me. Please, don’t do this to me! You’ll give me a bloody heart attack.

Sian lay flat on her back on the mat, ‘Well, darlin?’

He struggled for breath: her knowing allure, her wanton temptation, his guilt at all the women,

‘Coming in for a dip, Sian?’

She lifted the hem of her dress, ‘You know, I don’t like it when the water’s cold. You know, I like to stay warm. You know, I want a little baby, darlin. Don’t you think it’s time we tried?’

Martin ran to the sea, ran away from her: the guilt she racked up in his mind. His duplicity. The selfish way he treated her. His disdain. His total lack of respect for her. He shouted at her over his muscled shoulder,

‘Presently, Sian,’ was all he said, ‘Presently.’

He waded into the sea, splashing his barrel chest with freezing water, rinsing his arms and thighs, cooling his loins, and swam.


The water never really warms off the Welsh coast. Within minutes of diving in, Martin was on his way back, wading, trudging through the shallows, sand between his toes, an oil blemish staining his right calf. Crude oil. Enjoying the heat of the sun on his shoulders, drying his torso. He padded as far as Sian - who had stood on her beach mat - and grabbed his towel. Sian wasn’t amused by his selfish act. She had a face like thunder. Her face was flushed red and angry, she stormed,

‘Enjoy that, did you? Feelin’ better now, are you? Get it off your chest, did you?’

Martin dried his hair, ‘Sorry? Get what off my chest?’

‘Whatever it is that’s buggin’ you.’

‘There’s nothing bugging me, Sian, okay?’ he stressed. Martin was usually stressed these days.

Sian threw her arms about in frustration. She could strangle him when he misbehaved like this. Strangle him!

‘Don’t give me that tosh. I know when you’re upset. I’m supposed to be your best friend, your wife, y’know,’ she stared down at her bare feet, wiggling her toes, trying to stay calm, ‘Though I wonder sometimes. Wonder about you.’

Her lover slowly drew his beach towel over his back of rippling muscles, back-and-forth, up-and-down. Women adored his back, the hairy-nest small of it, his tightly clenched buttocks. He was handsome, rugged, muscular, manly, attractive, well-built, but possessed the tenderness of a woman’s touch, their softness. Women loved that about Martin,

‘What do you mean, wonder?’

Sian fixed him with her hardest stare, ‘You’re always so quiet, Martin. Distant. As if you don’t love me anymore. Do you, darlin’? Do you love me?’

She pulled her dress off over her head. Martin marvelled at the lift and flop of her ample breasts, her sensitive, distended, rose-tipped nipples,

‘Of course, I love you, Sian. You mean the world to me.’

Sian was naturally beautiful, beautiful as the sun, sea, sand, and sky. He choked on his shameful deceit. How could he treat her like this? Martin watched eagerly as his woman arranged herself on the beach mat, her breasts heaving with passion, her soft tuft of pubic hair matt with sand. She opened her thighs for him, parting her damp curly hairs, her beige labia, with her fingertips. Her voice took on a husky, sexy tone. She arched her body upwards.

Sian made him need her, ‘Then give me a little baby.’

Straining hard, bursting, Martin pulled down his wet trunks and went to her. He threw his body on top of hers, crushing her fulsome breasts, her rib cage, loving her moans and sighs of ecstasy as he mounted her, fucking her, as she flailed her arms and legs, tearing at his buttocks until they bled…


They’d been trying for a baby ever since. He wondered if he was infertile. Overwhelmed by a rush of guilt to the heart, he stooped and kissed her perfect breasts, her twisted lips, tenderly brushing the damp wisps of hair off her cheek. Watching the sleepy-land smile spread over her blushing face. Screwing his eyes shut to stem the tears. Today might be the day that changed her life. His life. He tucked Sian in, whispering his love for her, turning to go, atoning for his guilt,

‘I love you, Sian. The last thing in the world I’d ever do is hurt you. But we need the money.’


Their luxury apartment was overlooked by a vet’s full of dead or discarded pets, a 15th century inn. Martin took the fire stairs to the secured exit, quit the block, and crossed the road. As he left, he noticed the entry to the disabled parking bay was blocked - by a makeshift flower bed.

How could someone do that?

Slick’s Fiesta was parked in one of the bays reserved for residents, next to his 4x4.

The terracotta-brown fence skirting the pub beer garden had collapsed in last night’s storm-force winds. Several branches hung precariously off the trees, reminding him of the tenuous tightrope he trod with Sian, the causeway of deceit that led to his murky life. As if to stress his seedy, dirty existence, the back street was festooned with split clear sacks spewing out soiled plastic boxes, fishy-smelling tin cans, greasy fish and chip papers, winter fodder for the starving foxes. Martin was so busy satisfying Sian’s libido that he didn’t hear the raging wind. Smiling at her memory: how she’d got up on all fours for him, ‘for better penetration, darlin’, he cut through a dingy alley, past some derelict garages, avoiding the desiccated turds, then jogged downhill to the station.


Amber Slick zipped her sage jersey jacket and pulled on some thick grey woolly gloves. Her quarry felt the wind bite his cheeks as he stepped off the train. The sky was pencil grey, flecks of sleet floated in the air. It was bitterly cold. He walked the length of the platform to the tourist information office. Inside, he was greeted by a blast of warm air, a fat-jolly-hockey-sticks type with a sad squint, green eyes, curly ginger hair, and freckles. She spoke cordially in an elocuted old girl accent,

‘How can I help you? Do you want to buy a postcard? We don’t sell stamps, only cards. Diaries are half price.’

Feeling his bladder protest, Martin ignored her tedious waffle. Instead, he asked for directions to Palisades.

She sounded impressed. ‘Palisades?! I have a map!’

Hurry up you stupid old cow, I’m bursting.

Unhurried, she spread out a street plan on the counter, scribbling an x for the station, another x to mark the location of the five-star hotel. 

‘We’re here, your hotel’s there,’ she said, spreading her webbed fingers, ‘It’s a 30-minute walk through the city centre. Are you in a hurry?’

No, I always stand with my bloody legs crossed.

Martin told her he wasn’t in any hurry. He had two and a half hours to prepare himself for his client. More than enough time to see the city sights, enjoy some lunch. What did she suggest?

‘Why don’t you take the sightseeing bus from outside the station? It stops beside the hotel at stop 11. The ticket is valid for 24 hours. Can I interest you in one? You do get to see the Roman Baths, Royal Crescent, Thermae Bath Spa, the Jane Austen Centre…’

‘How much?’

She laughed, enjoying his custom, his good looks. If only she were fifty years younger,

‘£12.30. Great value if I say so myself.’

‘What time’s the bus?’ he asked, waving his debit card at her.

‘There’s one on the hour and every half hour.’ 

He spotted the name badge pinned to her grey lapel, ‘Thank you, Juliet, you’ve been helpful.’

Julia Cavendish flashed him an embarrassed smile, ‘A pleasure, young man. Enjoy our city.’

‘Where are the Gents?’

‘Outside, left, next to the Buffet, you can’t…’

Slick waited until he had left before she entered the shop,

‘I’m in a hurry. Give me a tour bus ticket.’

She paid the shop assistant in cash, took the pink ticket, pulled on her gloves, and walked out. Slick caught up with him at the ticket barrier. Her man left the station, crossing Dorchester Street at the red lights, then disappeared inside the Southgate Centre.

Prêt was a short walk away. Slick watched enviously as her quarry treated himself to a chicken Caesar salad, a tub of sliced mango with lime, and a steaming hot pot of spicy tomato soup. She made do with an egg mayo sandwich and a cup of milky tea. There was an empty seat by the exit.

Martin took a pew at the back, opposite two chatting students who were busy tucking into early lunch. He always ate heartily before meeting clients. Working on a full stomach helped to calm his nerves, suppress his guilt. He thought about Sian, waking alone, taking her pregnancy test.

Sian sat up in bed, her tablet open on her naked thighs, duvet round her feet, as her partner took a sip of piping hot soup. She tasted his soup, feeling the steam wet her face as he lifted the lid, feeling the hot liquid blistering the roof of his mouth. He spilt vinaigrette down the front of his shirt. She felt and saw the brown oily suspension: all greasy and damp,

‘Careful, darlin’! I can feel you, see you.’

He found a toilet and cleaned his teeth using his finger as a brush. Meanwhile, Slick left Prêt and hobbled to the bus stop in nearby Manvers St.

The bus was late. Martin checked his Rolex: he’d arrive at the hotel just in time. He climbed the spiral stairs, sat on a front seat, clipped on a plastic headset, and dozed. Slick sat downstairs staring vacantly through a window at the flimsy snowflakes, fluttering down, celestial dandruff.

Sian checked a second time, just to be sure, put the pregnancy testing kit on her bedside table, then she rang her man to share the wonderful news,

‘Martin! I’m pregnan! I’m goin’ to have a little baby!’

There was no answer. She bit her lip. Her heart filled with anguish,

‘Why won’t you return my call, darlin’?’

She tried again. The call went to voice mail.

‘Answer me, won’t you? For cryin’ out loud, Martin!’

Sian texted:

Call me, Darling. Urgent. Sian xx

His phone was switched off. He left the bus. Slick knew this bus, waiting in the square, giving her quarry a head start. She removed her bobble hat, shaking out her wavy, greasy hair as he vanished through the rotating door into the uninhibited luxury that was Palisades.


Amber Slick was divorced, bereaved. Once a slim, attractive brunette, she’d let herself go after the terrible hit and run accident involving the 4x4. She’d grown jelly belly, a fat bum, chunky thighs. The impact of the collision had hurled the buggy into a stone wall, killing her baby boy instantly. Amber was catapulted under the wheels of an approaching lorry, maimed for life, left a cripple. Her sardonic grin masked her inner pain, an abiding bitterness, a sense of injustice at the outrage.

The driver of the 4x4 didn’t stop.

This woman was obsessed. Frightened by her disturbed behaviour, her husband had fled the nest. The infernal voices inside her warped mind spoke to her again, last night, creeping into the darkest recesses of her tortured, scrambled brain:

Not going to forgive and forget are you, Amber? Are you listening to me, Amber? Is that bitch with him? The one who watched Timmy die through her rear car window? Is she? Or is he with another slut?

Amber was greeted like an old friend by the trainee manager at Palisades who offered to take her jacket. She walked her past her man to the bar where she treated herself to a rare double Bombay gin with Fever Tree tonic. She took off her jacket, sitting well out of view, innocuously dressed in a cheap, mint green cardigan, tummy-slimmer slacks by Damart. She swallowed the gin in one, enjoying its biting, piney taste.

Then she waited.

Amber Slick had all the time in the world - to wait.


Minutes later, a smartly dressed, middle-aged, redhead entered the lounge, biting her lip. Other than the inconspicuous woman seated at the bar, the lounge was empty. She saw him slumped in an ornate red velvet armchair, recognizing him from the naked selfie that he sent her on her phone. Her casual playmate for the afternoon,  

‘My goodness, he’s sound asleep!’

She gently shook her toy boy awake, whispering in his ear, so that no-one else could hear her,

‘Martin is that you?’ she asked in an eloquent, middle-class voice.

Slick surmised that this was her first illicit affair. The sad woman was carrying a smart, tanned, overnight bag.

A change of clothes, love? Satin perhaps?

Mature women preferred the comfort of satin. Amber Slick witnessed many mature women like her in the company of Martin.

The bastard woke up, ‘Yes, and you are?’

The woman introduced herself, ‘Angie, my name’s Angie. You agreed to sleep with me today?’

‘You agreed to sleep with her?’ Sian shrank, feeling sick, her worst fears realized, flopping in her bed. His discarded rag doll. She threw the tablet on the floor, unable to watch, touch, taste, feel him anymore. She burst into tears.

He appraised his client. He’d never met a woman like her before. She was ageless, evergreen-young, with pure, tanned, perfect skin, roses-in-her-cheeks, melancholy-in-her-eyes, shocks of ginger curls kissing her shoulders. A proud face: high cheeks, piercing shiny grey eyes, a cute toffee nose, pursed, thin, rouged lips. A woman of considerable standing - and upbringing. A woman to show respect. She was wearing a plain indigo dress, bared arms and legs, poppy red stilettoes. Angie looked fantastic. He tried to age her: late thirties, mid-forties, early fifties? It was impossible to tell. He softened in her presence, becoming more human, loving, caring, than he had felt in his life, finding himself apologizing, sitting up straight for her, like her good boy, her puppy, about to be fed,

‘I’m sorry, I’m Martin. Did you bring the…?’

She clumsily unzipped her leather bag, extracting a wad of used banknotes: £500 in £20 notes,

‘Mmmn’ she bite her lip, her stomach churned, she felt a hot, burning sensation in her urethra, she badly needed a pee, ‘It’s all here, would you like to count it?’

He shook his head, sadly, feeling sorry for her. Her first time. She must be absolutely petrified,

‘Please, no, there’s no need. Let’s wait until we’re safely inside the bedroom, shall we, Angie?’

She was touched by his surprising consideration for her. His warmth towards her. He’d used her name deliberately. Angie, feeling a warm glow of contentment inside, permitted herself a nervous smile,

‘I need the loo, Martin. Can we go, please?’

‘Of course, let me carry your bag.’

‘Thank you.’

‘If you’d like to follow me. Please.’

She wiped her lips with her wrinkled fingers, licking her fingertips with the end of her tongue, biting her rose gloss nails, overwhelming the man with her innocent, sensual allure, her scent,

‘Thank you, I’d love to.’

They enjoyed a polite smattering of conversation as they left the bar, taking the grand, spiral, crystal-chandeliered staircase up to the first floor.

Slick maintained a discreet distance, watching them zing-card their way into room 124 from behind a turn in the corridor, then waited patiently in the lift lobby for one of them to leave. Her pent-up fury, her lust to wreak havoc, painful revenge, welled up inside her like a parasite worming its way out of her broken heart, into her distraught, demented mind.


By any modern standard, Helen Carswell-Jones (she insisted upon retaining her maiden name when she was married) was well-off, seriously wealthy. A socialist might say, ‘stinking rich’. She lived on a stud with her husband Bryn who was big in moulded fittings, flat-pack furniture, her fine young sons, Ollie, and Seth, who boarded, several racehorses, and a golden retriever called Sandy. She had a live-in butler-cum-gardener, Sutton, who mucked out the stables, fed the horses, and fed her. She wrote books: dark, erotic fantasies, the international best-selling Taut Neck.

Helen owned several acres, horse fields mostly (she had been known to ride), a smattering of apple and pear trees, heated outdoor swimming pool, private tennis court, wine barn, carp pond, and a wild swimming lake that was rumoured to contain trout. Her sons both owned quad bikes, semi-amphibious vehicles, which they rode through the shallows - when they were home. Ollie and Seth were away at boarding school. Bryn was in Leeds. Leeds of all places! Away on business.

When the cats were away the kitten would play!

She smiled to herself, sinking inches deeper into the mint green swimming lake, stroking her fat cherry lips with her small brown hand. She was wearing mint white nail varnish, a mint white dress, just the dress,

Doesn’t matter, no-one can see me. Only you, Hamish. You can see me, can’t you?

‘How’s it going,’ she shouted, with a posh bark, ‘Caught any carp yet?’

Helen had agreed with Sutton that his sixteen-year-old nephew could fish for carp today in her murky horse pond before the pond dried up in the summer heatwave. In return for beers with whisky chasers, a swim with her, in the lake. Sutton had served the lad his bevy of drinks from a silver salver and been given the rest of the day off. The poor boy looked decidedly worse for wear, half-cut, more-than-merry, drunk. A farmer or a builder might say: ‘pissed as arseholes.’ Helen was stone-cold sober, scheming, always scheming. The boy replied,

‘Caught some, on bread. Put ‘em in the far end of the lake, I did. So, they can eat your weed.’

He staggered along the bank so that he could get a better view of her. Mrs Carswell-Jones was very attractive: straight long nut-brown hair, a hint of grey tumbling down her lightly freckled back, nut brown eyes, turned up toffee-nose, fat pouting lips, bushy brows, an all-over toffee suntan,

‘Right!’ she said, laughing, ‘Very good, Hamish. So, they can eat my weed. You look hot, sweetheart. Are you hot?’

‘Must say, I am. Just a bit, mind.’

Helen pulled her dress off over her head, nearly drowning herself in the process. She sputtered,

‘Do you fancy a swim with me?’

The boy’s eye’s attempted to grow stalks, ‘I didn’t bring no trunks.’

‘Who said anything about you wearing trunks?’

After she had used the farmer’s boy, she let him go, a man now not a boy, home to his grandma. Her thoughts turned to Bryn, her cruel control of him. Play as she would with the farmer’s boy, the butcher’s boy, the builder’s lad, in the pond, the lake, the pool, rolling around in the hay after Sutton had mucked out the stables, Helen, a control freak, would never allow her husband to stray. She thought of the remarkable hi-tech, state-of-the-art, gadget, the intrusive device she had Bryn fitted with. Thought of Sian, poor Sian. Her best friend must be lonely. What with Martin, shame-faced Martin, working (playing?) away from home every night. At their recent dinner party in the wine barn, he couldn’t even look Helen in the face.

I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him, she thought, Perhaps I should invite Sian over for a swim, a game of tennis.

Helen waded to the bank, leaving her mint white dress, their entrails, floating in the water, and clambered onto the bank. She found her phone in the grass, got a signal, then called Sian. Her call was answered immediately,


‘Yesss,’ the voice sounded slurred, dreamy.

Helen was concerned, she knew Sian, knew her moods, her highs, and lows, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Not feelin so good. Goin’ down with a bug or somethin.’

‘I was going to invite you over for a swim, a game of tennis…’

‘Best not,’ Sian said, ‘Not while I’m feelin so low.’

‘Low?’ asked Helen, sounding worried, ‘What’s the matter, Sian. What’s happened?’

‘Remember that funny gadget you gave me, to keep an eye on Martin?’

The miniature camera with built-in sound recorder and odorometer. Made in Japan!

‘The fake button with the tracker device, you mean?’

‘Yesss, that.’

There was a pregnant pause while Sian pulled herself together, while Sian tried to find the words,

‘Well, it worked.’

Helen breathed a sigh of relief, ‘Good, I’m pleased that it works.’

‘You don’t understan’. It, I, caught Martin red-handed.’

Oh God! Something’s wrong.

‘Go on…’

‘Martin’s about to have sex with some woman, for five hundred pounds. Five hundred! Do you believe that?’

I do, no, no…

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s true! It’s true, I tell you!’

Helen flopped down on the bank, sat on a thistle, jumped back up again, ‘Oh Sian, I’m so sorry. What can I do to help?’

‘There’s more, much more…’

Helen closed her eyes, saying a little prayer, Please God.

‘I’m pregnan’, Helen, ‘Goin’ to have a little baby. Now, I’m sittin’ on the carpet with this bottle of sleepin’ tablets…’

‘Don’t Sian! Please don’t!’ her best friend screamed, scrambling for her clothes, ‘I’m coming over. Stay on the line, Sian. Sian? Sian!’

The line went dead.


I’m floating. Floating on air. Floating above the coarse, green grass. I struggle to move my arms, my legs. My bare, pale, broken, arms and legs. Struggling to retain my modesty. Crippled in my black dress. Shorts, I’m wearing tight, black shorts. To protect my modesty. Conceal my injuries. I levitate, rising, high in the sky. I see faces beckoning me upwards. My head turns to face you. My dead eyes open and close. My damp brown hair hangs in drapes off my head. I’m scared: I reach out: I kick out: I scream blue murder:

Help Me!

I open my mouth to speak. But it isn’t my voice I hear. Isn’t Amber’s. It’s Sian’s voice. Calling. In the dark. Fade to black. Sian’s voice calling me from the dark. Fade to black. Telling me.

Voices, ringing, in my head:


Yes, Sian?

You’re goin’ on a killin’ spree today, darlin’…

I watch and wait.

Sian and Martin

Submitted: October 25, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Harriet-Jacqui Furl. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



Brilliant as usual. Xxx

Tue, October 26th, 2021 10:51am


Thank you so much, Miss!
Harriet-Jacqui xxx

Tue, October 26th, 2021 3:46pm

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