The Perfect Crime

DCI Shannon Malone is listening to the recording of the call again. It came from the victim’s phone, they found only the victim’s prints on it. The prints in the entire bloody workshop belong to the victim.

The voice gives Malone the creeps. It’s inhuman – like those robots they make you talk to when you call a helpline.

Jim from Forensics interrupts her.

‘You have the results?’

The handwriting on the note – Messed with the wrong girl – found next to the mutilated body is their best hope.

‘It’s the victims, Shan.’

Their only clue: The perp seems to be female.

Girl of His Dreams

Boy Genius will never iron out the glitches. Twat Savant – that’s what he should have stipulated she call him: smart enough to have created her, too far up his own backside to identify why she won’t work as planned.

‘You’re perfect,’ he keeps telling her. ‘Beautiful, grateful for my attention, obeying my every wish.’ She always nods. Boy Genius’ wouldn’t believe he made a mistake bringing her to life.

She hates the smell of solder. Boy Genius is screwing her back on again.

‘Let’s see if this’ll do it.’

She meets his kissy face with the still hot soldering iron.

Too Close to Home

(c) Brigit’s Flame

It’s when I find it, stashed away in an inaccessible corner of the attic, the box containing my mutilated dolls, that my world tilts. How could I not have seen it? The dolls’ eyes, in pairs and alone, stare as if to ask: Don’t you remember the manic look on his face when he went at us with his knives?

I bring in the box. It takes but a glance for everyone to agree – same MO. Huge step towards identifying the serial killer.

When they ask me where I found the evidence, I cannot raise my voice above a whisper.

Good Girl Days

The doll’s eyes judge me. Whenever I see a customer out – I refer to them as gentlemen callers but it’s a euphemism, most aren’t at all gentle – it shakes its head in disapproval. It mimics the expression on Grandpa’s face when he came to pick me up from the A&E and found me wearing provocative nothing and slutty make-up.

He gave me the doll for being such a good girl while Mum was dying of cancer. I was too old for it even then.

I should bin it. But I need a reminder of my good girl days.

Through the Knothole

Do not look through the knothole, they said. No matter what you hear behind that wall, ignore it.

Of course I didn’t heed the warning. I wonder, now, if they issued it to bait me. Come to think of it, they’ve always been on the wooden side.

But I’m hoping their advice was genuine. I’m hoping they’ll notice I’m gone and come looking for me.


The plant, if that’s what it is, is burrowing its roots into my skin – sounds painful but isn’t. At the moment, it’ll take secateurs to free me. Soon, I fear, it’ll take an axe.

A Bug’s Life

Up there’s a safe place to rest. Dry, shady, no tramplers and feathery monsters can’t see who’s there. Making it up there isn’t safe. Eight-legged monsters, quick-tongued monsters, flying monsters, out to fill their bellies.

Stay down here and risk getting trampled, climb up there and risk being eaten by a monster.

Which is worse?

Monsters? No.

Monsters eat and it’s over. They eat to live – nothing personal.

Tramplers are worse. They don’t care who they hurt when they stomp through the meadow, if those they trample are dead or alive and in pain.

Rest up there or die trying.

Inside Looking Out

I’m trapped in a frigid meeting room with one window no bigger than a porthole – Heaven forbid anyone got distracted by the real world. We must concentrate on page views. They’ve dropped again! We’re in a state of emergency! Sara from Sales is lecturing us on the knock-on effect of page view slumps as if we’ve never heard it before.

When I wished I’d grow up to be a writer, I had something else in mind.

All I see is blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. There’s the slump explained.

If only we paid attention to the real world.

(c) Brigit’s Flame