43 Days Until The End – Past Lies – Short Story

“So, tell me again, this time, so everyone can hear you,” the sloppily dresses man says as he caresses the three-day old hair fibers that grow on his pronounced chin.

She looks up at him and bites down into her lower lip, squinting her left eye as a sharp shot of pain strikes the back of her skull, telling her she’d bitten too hard, a light streak of blood flows from her lip and slowly runs down over her chin, she grips her face, as her cheeks go red as the older man rolls his eyes in their sockets, let’s out a sigh, and passes her a handkerchief.

“Quit stalling Wilma, tell them what you told me,” he says.

She scans the room, everyone stares at her, waiting for her words to confirm his story, to prove once and for all, he’s not as crazy as everyone thinks he is.

She swallows, a sharp, powerful taste of blood runs through her senses and she grips her hands together tightly, before looking back at him again.

“It was Tuesday, me a Bobby Joe were up at the water tower, fooling around, I know we’re not supposed to, I know Bobby Joe’s been going steady with Wendy Atkins for months, but, me and Bobby Joe have always been better at the fun stuff, than the dating stuff, it’s like…”

The older man clears his throat and leans in closer, “Wilma, honey, ain’t no one here give a good god damn fuck what you and Bobby FUCKING Joe are doing, tell them about Peters, tell them what you damn well saw girl!”

She tightens her hands together, twisting them into each other, smiling nervously, “O-Okay, sure, we saw him, Minister Peters, he didn’t see us though, he thought he was alone, and he starte…” she freezes in place, as she looks past all the eyes, staring at her in anticipation, feverishly awaiting her words, and into the dark, brooding eyes of Minister Peters, he smiles a sharp, toothy, grin, and slowly places a single finger to his lips and kisses it, as if to shush her, she feels the urine soak through her pants, and looks away, the older man looks behind him, through the crowd and then back at her.

“Come on girl, out with it, what did you see Peters do!”

“W-W-We,” she stops, bits down onto her lip again. “We SAW nothing okay, we just made out, end of story, I can’t lie for you, I WON’T!” She yells as she leaps up and runs out of the room.

He turns around to the crowd, and swallows, “SHE’S FUCKING LYING!” He yells as the crowd slowly filters out of the room, leaving him alone, he grips his forehead and hisses towards the ground in frustration.

“Don’t worry Randy, it was a nice effort,” a voice says, Randy’s eyes shoot open in panic, staring directly at Minister Peters.

Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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