Hi, I’m Robin and welcome back to Eclectic Everythings for a new story and poem, which you can either read or listen to! This week’s podcast features a short story involving murder.
The poem was published in my first book of poetry (details at the bottom).
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Robin💫
TRIGGER WARNING - SERIAL KILLER
.Christopher Jones walked into his kitchen to find his very pregnant wife, dressed in a IS Tsoft, red terrycloth bathrobe, sitting in a chair and attempting to do what appeared to Christopher to be leg lifts.
His yawn turned to laughter, "Um, sweetheart, what are you doing? Or rather, what are you attempting to do?"
Cassie Medford-Jones, Christopher's thirty-two-year-old wife, snapped frustratingly, "I'm trying to see my feet!"
Christopher involuntarily burst out laughing again at his wife's response, but immediately felt bad. “I’m only teasing you,” he winked at her.
"Yuck it up, mister. Just wait. I'll be waking you up every couple of hours to help me feed them since twins run on your side of the family! It’s your fault I’m a beached whale who can’t see her feet! Her face fell.
Thirty-five-year-old Christopher kissed his wife on the forehead. "I can see both your feet, and for once, you're wearing matching socks and slippers!"
Cassie started to defend herself, but Christopher's laughter was contagious, and she giggled instead.
"Do you want an herbal tea?"
"No, I want a cappuccino like you," said Cassie.
"Nice try. No caffeine for you, mommy-to-be," said Christopher. "What kind of tea do you want?"
“Peppermint, please," sighed Cassie resignedly.
When Christopher's cappuccino and Cassie's tea were ready, he brought them both to the table, gave Cassie her mug and sat down in the mahogany kitchen chair at the enormous matching antique mahogany kitchen table.
"I'd play footsie with you but can't lift my leg that high," laughed Cassie.
"You should be in bed resting; you just started your ninth month, and the doctor said the babies could come any day. I'm going to swing by the restaurant, make sure everything is running smoothly, grab the books and work from home so you can rest, and I can cater to your every need," said Christopher. "Let's both take our vitamins and get you settled in bed."
That night at dinner, they discussed the latest headline news; the serial killer who was on the loose. The media had given the killer the moniker "The Culinary Killer" because he always killed using kitchen instruments. His latest and fourth victim, twenty-seven-year-old Tabitha Gibbens, had been found the previous night, a meat thermometer jammed through her eardrum into her brain. Pregnant like the other victims, Tabitha’s baby, unlike the others, barely survived and was in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) in critical condition.
"You had better stay inside and not go anywhere without me," Christopher told Cassie.
"The furthest I go is the mailbox at the end of the front walkway. The walking and fresh air are good for the babies and me, and I always take my phone, just in case. So stop worrying," said Cassie. "I need to get out of the house, or I'll go crazy."
"Just don't leave the property, sweetheart," said Christopher. "Why not sit outside on the rocking swing on the front porch?"
"I think I can handle the walk to the mailbox and back. I'm not good at sitting around doing nothing, and it's literally the highlight of my day. So please let me enjoy what little pleasures I can," said Cassie.
Christopher backed away, smiling, with his hands up in surrender, "I live Far be it for me to deprive you of your only pleasure in life — collecting the mail," he said, laughing.
"I'm so pregnant that can be my only pleasure!" said Cassie in defense.
Christopher finished his coffee and kissed Cassie goodbye.
"Oh, you taste like coffee — delicious! Come back," she called after him.
"I have to go check on the restaurant's dinner rush. Go relax! I'll be back in about an hour. I expect you to be in bed when I get home. I love you," he called to her as he closed the front door behind him.
The next morning Cassie was still asleep when Christopher woke up. After relieving himself, he decided to go for a run before waking Cassie. But he was confused when he saw his sneakers. They were covered in mud, and Christopher had no recollection of recently stepping in dirt.
However, between running the restaurant and Cassie's pregnancy, he hadn't been paying close attention to too much else.
He shrugged it off as he scraped the damp mud into the garbage and wiped down his sneakers as best he could. When he was satisfied they were clean enough to get dirty again, he dressed in his running gear, kissed Cassie on the forehead and went for his morning run.
When he returned an hour later, Cassie was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice.
"Hey, look! It's my athletic stud-muffin!" said Cassie with a big smile, holding her arms out for a hug.
"I'm all sweaty from my run," warned Christopher.
"Don't care. I want a hug from my sexy, sweaty husband."
Christopher bent over and obliged his wife, hugging her tightly, her terrycloth robe absorbing his sweat.
"Oof, you are sweaty. Go shower and I'll make you your coffee," said Cassie.
"No, you won't. You're coming upstairs with me, and getting back into bed. You do remember you're nine months pregnant with our twins and can go into labor any minute, don't you?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cassie huffed as she pushed herself out of her chair and into a standing position.
"I'll grab a fast shower, make my coffee and your tea and bring them up here. Peppermint, as usual, my dear?" asked Christopher as he helped her up the stairs and into bed.
"Yes, please," sighed Cassie. "As long as you kiss me after you've drunk your coffee."
"You're a real caffeine addict, you know that? Nine months and you're still craving coffee," Christopher laughed.
"Blah, blah, blah. Stop talking, take your shower, and drink your coffee so you can come kiss me. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am." Christopher saluted and headed into the bathroom.
Once Christopher left for work, Cassie lay in bed, sipping her tea and watching the morning news. Another pregnant woman had been killed the previous day, her body found by two teenagers who had gone into an alley to smoke pot. Cassie unconsciously cradled her unborn babies with both arms. The worst part was the woman had been killed by several punctures to her heart and stomach with a carving fork.
The media was claiming it was the work of "The Culinary Killer" who had now killed five pregnant women; one stabbed with a butcher knife, one suffocated and strangled with a garbage bag, one burned to death with a heat gun, one pierced with a meat thermometer and now one stabbed with a carving fork.
Cassie had never realized how many items in her kitchen could be used as lethal weapons. She and Christopher ran a four-star restaurant, and never once had she thought of the kitchen appliances as weapons.
She texted Christopher at the restaurant about the murder and waited to see if he was free to respond.
"A couple was talking about it and I overheard. Don't leave the house! I'll be home in an hour," read his response.
"Don't rush home because of me. The restaurant is your other baby and you'll miss it when the human babies come and you have to spend even more time at home, away from your love," she typed back.
"You and the babies are my first loves. See you soon." Cassie smiled at his response.
Christopher rubbed his temples. Since the doctor prescribed his new vitamins, he'd had a headache almost every day. He jotted down a note in his agenda to ask his doctor about the headaches and nighttime blackouts at his next appointment. He had assumed he had been sleeping the nights he wasn't dreaming, but now he wasn't so sure.
Not only did he find unexplainable mud on his running shoes, but his gym shoes and hiking boots, which he kept in the trunk of his car with his gym and hiking gear, were also covered in dirt and damp mud, as though he'd worn them in the woods recently. But he hadn't.
He decided to work from home as the noise from the busy restaurant made his head pound even more. After telling his manager he was leaving for the night and giving him a few last-minute instructions, he got into his car and drove home.
As he pulled into his driveway behind Cassie's SUV, Christopher suddenly panicked and slammed on the brakes, his front bumper two inches from Cassie's back bumper.
He had no recollection of driving home.
Breathing heavily, he opened the car door and threw up, dark images swirling through his head. After vomiting, he felt better and more clear-headed and went into the house to brush his teeth and see Cassie.
But instead of heading up to their bedroom where Cassie was napping, Christopher felt compelled to go into the kitchen. Opening the freezer, he took out a frozen pork tenderloin, pla
cing large skillet from a drawer near the stove.
He then went upstairs, still carrying the pork tenderloin, which frozen was as solid as a rock.
Entering his and Cassie's bedroom, he saw his wife sleeping peacefully on her side. His headache became more intense, and he relieved the pain the only way he knew how.
He smashed his wife in the side of the head with the tenderloin.
One direct hit was all it took. Within seconds, Cassie's breathing stopped. Christopher arranged her body on the floor to make it look like she had fallen out of bed and hit her head on the wood floor.
He went back downstairs and spiced the tenderloin, letting it defrost on a plate on the counter while he went for a run.
He'd call the police when he returned. There was no rush.
My Summertime Blues: A poem
You stick your nose in
where it doesn’t belong.
You forced me to build a barrier
to keep you on your side,
and put an end to your threats,
and stop your harassment.
You caused destruction to the thin metal barrier
erected to ensure you minded your own business,
rendering it useless as you refused to stop.
You’re a bitter old woman who believes
herself to be the sole inhabitant in
an apartment building of more than two hundred.
For six summers I’ve avoided my balcony
because of the bitter old hag referred to as Harriet,
missing innumerable days of lying in the sun,
listening to music that gets my blood pumping
while sipping my iced tea,
This summer will be different
as I plan to enjoy being outside.
The barrier will remain in place
my chair facing the opposite way.
And if she should dare speak down to me,
I shall not hear her annoying and grating voice
above the silence of me lying in the sun
ignoring the bitter old bat who lives next door.
Author of “Inside My Chaotic Mind: A collection of poems about mental illness, relationships and God” and“Dysfunctional Me: A Collection of Poems About Trauma, Grieving and Loss.”
Associate Editor and Social Media Editor: WordSwell Online Literary Journal
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The Culinary Killer