He called the Police and everything. They said these things happened. People just walked out and never came back. Nobody seemed that worried. She was a grown up.
He’d decided on which post box months ago. It needed to be a regular sized one which didn’t get that much post in it. His new job collecting let him work it out and he was the only one with keys. The only one who would open the box.
The packaging had taken a bit more research. It shouldn’t smell. Should be secure from rodents. He researched and found some second hand bio-chemical warfare kit from the army which he paid cash for. He did some cutting and gluing and made a double layered bag. It was a good job, none of your Blue Peter sticky back plastic.
His previous temporary job in the abattoir helped too. He knew about saws and things. It was good that she was small. She’d never taken up much space.
He put her in at his normal morning collection time. It was a quiet village and mornings were even more quiet, no nosy kids about.
He cleaned up after himself at home. He’d watched enough police procedurals to know that you couldn’t just clean one area. The whole house became spotless. He rather enjoyed taking pride in his immaculate surroundings and visitors were impressed by his determination to keep standards up despite it all.
Eventually the neighbours stopped asking after her. They felt sorry for him. The Police weren’t interested in missing adults. Everyone thought she’d left him.
In a few years he’d take her out and grind her down. But she was fine were she was. He knew where she was. He had the only keys.
The pristine snow had turned to dirty grey muck and so had her life. She packed what was of value into her handbag and walked down the drive, up the road, onto the bus, further and further away all the time. She never once looked behind her.
She never saw the man sitting alone in the dark cold house waiting patiently for her key to turn in the lock. Day turned to night, weeks to months to years. She never looked back. He never left the sofa.
I’ve got back to writing in the last few months, with my ME, I was finding I didn’t have the energy or the time to devote my limited energy to Polymer Clay. Writing is something I had put to one side through lack of confidence, a few years back. But I’m back and enjoying learning the craft.
Rather than launching myself into writing my ‘magnum opus’ I read somewhere that learning the art of shorter fiction will benefit my writing, so I’ve set myself a challenge to write at least one Flash Fiction story a nearly every day for a year!
I hear cynics muttering in the dark recesses of my mind, how long I will last, it matters not, anything is better than nothing, and if it gives me a kick up the butt all the better!
Flash Fiction or micro story is a very short short story of 50 – 500 words, (some places say 100 – 1000 words so I have some leeway).
I started yesterday, so you get a double bonus day today…
19 Jan 2013: The neighbour’s cat
I poisoned the neighbour’s cat. I’d like to say I hadn’t meant to.
He did unspeakable things in my begonias.
20 Jan 2013: All at sea
“I’m all at sea” she said.
Was she trying to be funny? He gave an uncertain half smile and leaned over the side to be sick again.
I trust you enjoy! Constructive feedback welcomed!