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The Tragedy of The Telephone Call. To All 'Flash' Lovers

Manatita is an esteemed author living in London, UK. He writes spiritual books, flash fiction and esoteric poetry, his favourite genre.


He took another sip from the maroon-tinted liquid he’d so meticulously; so deliberately prepared; then sat down by the bedside, ready for the world beyond. He was a broken man; a cuckolded husband and from where he now slumped, a thousand questions raced through his tormented mind.

Why did she do it? Where had he gone wrong? He’d given her everything she ever wanted! Or so he thought.

It was 15:00 hrs that afternoon when he found them, after returning home early from work. Carter – for that was his name – received an anonymous phone call, and he rushed home a bitter, resentful and very angry man.

It took only two savage swings from the machete that he’d bought on his way home. No questions asked; no quarters given and both lovers died instantly. The look of shock and horror, was still on the face of his once beautiful blonde wife; his now deceased friend Jack died where he lay, caught in the throes of action.

Carter looked at the coloured glass of doom once more. It was still half full. Morphine to ensure freedom from pain, and a large quantity of digitalis, as he wanted a quick and easy death.

He picked it up carefully, took a huge gulp, as his now traumatised stomach reluctantly received this messenger of death, rushing through the entrails of his strong, sturdy frame. The death chalice slipped from his hand, as his body went cold and limp, and he passed into another ‘somewhere’, in another time and space.

It was two days later when detective Carstairs found him, his body lurched against the bed and decomposing in his own bedroom. Lying on the bed in bright sanguine hues were the two lovers, now cold and soggy masses of dead flesh.


Carstairs surveyed the scene of the crime with the eye of an eagle and noted the blood-stained machete tossed disdainfully across the pillow. He saw the poisoned glass lying on the floor near the body of Carter, and knew he would need these for evidence. Telephone in his left hand, he made an urgent call to the Forensics team. Camera in his right, he dutifully photographed the scene of this brutal and callous efficiency of the ‘kill.’

It was the morning of the third day. Grey, raining … black clouds gathering across the sky. Carstairs pulled out his handkerchief, placed it in front of his nostrils, pressing shut the bedroom door as he walked to the kitchen and sat down waiting for Forensics; questioning man’s inhumanity to man.

It took only ten minutes for Forensics to arrive, but by then Carstairs was weeping in a sea of uncontrollable tears. Twenty-three years and nine months exactly he had done, and yet, somehow, this was one too many.

Giving his report to Detective Sanders, Carstairs walked out of this troubled house and headed home. Two days later he handed in his resignation, and joined a church.

Not long afterwards, and somewhere in the vicinity of Carter’s neighbourhood, another suicide was committed, this time by the woman who felt extreme sadness, for having made the initial telephone call.

Manatita, The Lantern Carrier. ©Copyrighted 12th June, 2016

Alexandra Burke

Regretting words

© 2016 manatita44

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