A head story

Every once in a while I enter a weekly, one-word prompt competition hosted by Ad Hoc Fiction. You have to use their prompt word in a story of a 150 words.  Or less.  People who know me will understand how ridiculously difficult this is for me.  What can I say? I enjoy talking. A lot.

The site selects a few of the entries and post them for readers to vote for their favorite.  I haven’t won yet.  Besides, winning is not everything and it’s not the reason I enter.  (At least that is what I tell myself every week when they post the winning story.)  The last prompt was “press” and my story is actually in contention this week. I’m surprised too.  It’s one of many, so it’s not like I’m going to sell the rights to a film studio or anything.

But just imagine if there was enough people who liked it…


A head story

They found her in a small room filled with the stench of disinfectant and sex.

Her naked corpse provocatively draped over the bed in a pool of blood that leaked from the gaping hole in her throat. Her left hand was awkwardly placed between her wide spread legs.  A macabre portrait of lust.  A short dress, crop-top and GAP underwear were neatly folded on the floor.  She was still wearing stiletto’s.  She was missing a ring finger.

The head was placed on the make-shift dressing table cropped against the broken lampshade.  Glazed, brown eyes frozen in a final expression of terror, staring at the dead girl.  The ruffled grey hair was caked with blood and goo.

The cop shook his head.  The press was going to have a field day. And not just because of another dead prostitute but because the head didn’t belonged to her.

It belonged to the mayor.


Welcome to my dark side.

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