[I’ve always tended to write pleasant stories, with good characters who get what they desire – and deserve. In fact, I’m thinking of calling my next anthology Nice Stories with Happy Endings. Today’s snippet of new prose was a deliberate attempt to buck the trend. Did I succeed?]
Her breasts heave as she struggles to catch her breath. The chase is long and hard. He starts running as soon as he sees her. They race up the hill, weaving between the trees, his heavy boots thudding through the dried leaves and hardened mud. Her sneakers make less noise and she is more agile on her feet.
The path splits; each takes a different fork, but the ways turn back together and then he’s in front of her. Arms pinned down, a swift kick behind the knees and they fall to the ground together and roll under the bushes. Clothes pulled hurriedly away from hot skin, the action is savage and short-lived. A final thrust with a sharp blade mimics the coupling of moments before.
Climbing from her position astride the man, she utters a short prayer. Then, reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a cigarillo. And she smiles.
Elizabeth Ducie was a successful international manufacturing consultant, when she decided to give it all up and start telling lies for a living instead.
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