Pieces of Her- Friday Flash

Pieces of Her

By Melissa L. Webb



She pulled her fingernails off one by one, the flesh tearing as she pried them loose. She flicked them into the empty ashtray as she went. They clicked against the glass, hard, before setting at the bottom. The sound cut through the silence that hung heavily in the cheap motel room.

Her heart broke as she stared at the black painted pieces in the ashtray. They were no longer a part of her. It wasn’t fair; she had given up everything for him.

That wasn’t enough.

She still had to give more.

Teardrops fell from her eyes and she wiped them, leaving bloody smears in their place.

She sighed as she ripped the last nail free. She was doing the right thing. They couldn’t find his blood under her nails if she didn’t have them anymore.

© 2015 Melissa L. Webb


Wet Work- Friday Flash

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By Melissa L. Webb

The blood splattered the walls as if it was abstract art. I watched as the patterns seemed to come together around me. Damn, I wish I had my camera. The gory masterpiece before me should be documented for posterity.

I slide the blade from her skin as she moaned causing more blood to flow, staining the white sheets to a dark crimson. What little life she had left in her struggled against me as I worked, even as it ebbed away.

I tossed the knife aside, wanting to feel her fleeting life force against my skin. My fingers curled around the pale flesh of her throat, digging in. She gurgled against me, trying desperately to suck in her last remaining breath as I tightened my hold, watching the life fade from her eyes.

With a final failed gasp, her muscles relaxed. I grinned as her body went limp. All life had been spilled from her. I reluctantly withdrew my hands from her neck and got up; staring at the lifeless beauty sprawled across the bed. How exquisite she looked in death.

Everything always seemed more beautiful at the end. I don’t know why that’s true, but it is. I guess death strips away the pretenses and leaves us with nothing but honesty.

I stepped back, sadly drawing my eyes away from my dark creation. It was time to clean up. I got busy, removing all evidence I had been there. I am saddened by this part, because the dance of death cannot be done without a partner, but I can’t let them find me.

I finished and quickly looked around the room, my eyes taking in the perfection of death one last time. My eyes linger on the blood splatters, taking in their whisperings of mortality. However, as I walk away, the sadness is fleeting, for I know, there are always more walls to paint.

© 2011 Melissa L. Webb

Killer Idea- Friday Flash


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By Melissa L. Webb

Tiffany awoke to a thought. It was the strangest thought she’d ever had. It overpowered her mind, causing all rational thought to flee from its presence.

She bolted up in bed and sat there, her eyes focusing on nothing. Her mind was too busy forming a plot. It would have to be bloody. The bloodier the better and the body count had to be astronomical. The serial killer prowling through her imagination had a taste for mayhem.

She froze, her thoughts coming to a grinding halt. What was she doing? This wasn’t her genre. She wrote romance, not horror. Hot and heavy, she could do. Light and fluffy? She could knock that out of the park. But write about people being butchered? It took a sick and twisted mind to be capable of that.

Tiffany laid back down and closed her eyes. She had to forget about this. Let it silently drift away to the place where abandoned ideas go. She didn’t want anything to do with this insane thought.

She tried to fall back to sleep, but the killer kept slicing and dicing through her mind, leaving bloody smears on the back of her eyelids. With a sigh, she sat back up and looked at the clock. It was only midnight. It wouldn’t kill her to work for an hour. She pushed the covers aside and slowly got out of bed. Maybe if she wrote some of this awful story, she could get some sleep.

She plopped down in her computer chair and turned on her laptop. The screen’s soft glow welcomed her as she settled in. With a deep breath, her fingers met the keyboard as she started in on the perverse tale.

Time seemed to drift away, as Tiffany was lead, by force, through the night as the killer picked his prey. Slowly the fodder culminated in a deadly chase scene, when a child had escaped from the killer.

Her fingers froze as she stared at the screen in horror. Her depraved words seemed to mock her from the screen. She looked away in disgust. How would she ever live with herself is she finished the story? She couldn’t. It was that simple.

She quickly deleted the document, not wanting it to remain on her hard drive. She shut down the computer and made her way back to bed. Repulsed with herself, she crawled under the blankets and shut her eyes. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she tried to will sleep to come.


Tiffany’s eyes popped open and she stared into the darkness in her bedroom. Something woke her up. She tried to focus as she looked around. Was someone in the room with her? “Who’s there,” she spoke, the fear turning her voice hoarse.

There was a chuckle from somewhere in the room. “Good. You’re awake,” a man’s voice spoke. “I wanted you to be conscious for this.”

She breathed in, her fear turning into pure terror. A shadow moved closer to the bed. Tiffany’s body was frozen.

“You’re not even going to put up a fight?” the voice asked.

“Please, don’t,” she whimpered. The shape moved in a blur. A body suddenly jumped on her, pinning her to the bed. Cold metal dug into her neck. The man leaned closer, his dark eyes burning into hers. She gasped in shock as his stringy black hair brushed against his face. It was him.

The man grinned, showing her brown, stained teeth. “Yes, it’s me. The one you were supposed to write about,” he hissed as he dug the knife deeper into her flesh. “You couldn’t let me have my moment of fame, could you?”

Tiffany cried out as he sliced into her flesh. A ribbon of blood flowed down her throat. “Don’t do this,” she pleaded. “Please, I’m sorry. I’ll write your story.”

The man laughed, the sound completely devoid of humor. “It’s too late. You had your chance. I gave you the inspiration, all you had to do was write the words.” He looked at her, anger flaring in his eyes. “We could have been famous.”

“No,” she begged as she squirmed against him. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“It’s all the purpose you have left,” he told her as he jerked the knife across her neck. Her blood flowed freely, covering his hand. He looked at the red liquid as her life ebbed away. It seemed like such a waste. “Why couldn’t you just write the damn story?”

© 2011 Melissa L. Webb