POETIC Justice

A poetic short story of murder, written by Joan Wiley

I managed my way with an awkward gait, along a moon shadowed walk, traversing over the rocky cliffs near my home. Stumbling and struggling with a heavy weight and thoughts tumbling over the edge, falling onto the jagged granite reaching up from the seaside abyss.

Was it his or mine of that berry sweet wine, my lips suckeled from the poisoned glass that gave my fuzzy head? Or the blood that spread, turning my yellow dress to red, from the knife used on a roast lamb with no head? Buried, blade to shaft, between the ribs of my back. Who could endeavor to remember being tricked like that?

He knelt next to me as I started to bleed gazing into my heavy eyes as a haze of red coated over my vision. His pomp was fluid in professing his love for another whose beauty was refined well above that of mine. He was sure I could understand his physical demands as a man. But wives were known to be unreasonably fussy in their righteous abjection and the felling of vows spoken to make-believe kings.

It was better this way and not as sad, he did say, I would not suffer as a pariah. He would go with gracious haste and notify family and friends of my untimely death, assure them I had not lingered. So, in trade of this good intent, would I be a good pet and be out of his life by dawn tomorrow?

He hadn’t a clue that I already knew something was amiss, a plan in the brew. With this foresight I advised just tonight, our dashing chef to edge all of the knives in the kitchen. I understood the difference a sharp blade would make, the importance it played in this night of dinner games.

The adulterer’s eyes rolled and drooped as he swayed to the tune of the poison licked from the etched crystal rim he’d chosen. He pitched and reeled back on his heels as I swung the knife out from my back and plunged it into his thick gullet wrapped in fat. It slid right in without a hitch, and I sliced through him like a brie filled with red salmon caviar.

I’ll never forget his face, the garish howl that he made, mouth so wide in shock I could have stuck in an apple and a grape. Then he fell forward, taking respite on the floor as I stood over him. I gave him a swift kick to ensure his gagging finale was death’s last breath. Blank eyes like glass, no battle remained to be fought.

Now, I ponder his flawed character and all the lessons he would never realize while he lie dead on the rocks below. He had erred to underestimate the power of a wife, his mate, who fed her mind more than her ego. Plain, but smart, tall and strong, I would get away with my husband’s tragic death with the handsome chef as my witness, as well as my lover.

Poetic justice. my favorite chilled dessert served raw.

Joan wiley

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