The shovel relinquished its grip on the soil. The soil slipped away from the shovel, and it transferred its grip to a man's face, placed violently on his back. "That'll teach you not to touch." She knew he couldn't hear, so she spoke it the circling buzzards and the eager flies hovered above the growing mound of soil, eager for a meal. Angry, at the rapidly vanishing flesh with each shovel load of soil.
They were animalistic and desperate for a feed.
Frenzied, like her.
Her fingernails caked in muck, a manicure ruined. Her dress, ripped at the shoulder, exposing a toned shoulder and triceps, straining at the next load of soil.
She hoped her calculations were correct. In any case, he wouldn't last, given her plans. As a pharmacist, she had reckoned the dosage should be correct for a boy of his size. To call him a man would be a misnomer, with his wandering ...
The face vanished and the flies turned their attention to her. Now slick with sweat, her flesh stunk of her own guilt. Enough of the guilt was buried in the mound in front of her. Justice. A hill to die on.
She took the keys for the car. She drove it over the mound of soil, dampened by her sweat. She tore off the rest of the dress in a single movement. She opened the fuel tank. The dress went in. She took the cigarette lighter from the car. She lit a stick on fire. Naked, she dress on fire. The dress ignited. She sat in the passenger seat.
She waited.
Soon, the flame would touch her. Like he had.
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Author's Notes
*This story, too, was written as part of a timed period at an in-person writer's meetup. I stalled after the first two few lines, thinking the story could stand on its own two feet with just the following segment:
The shovel relinquished its grip on the soil. The soil slipped away from the shovel, and it transferred its grip to a man's face, placed violently on his back. "That'll teach you not to touch."
But then I had to keep expanding within the available time. This one was a very dark story.
