The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Dragonflies Cannot Tell Lies
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

As he made his way through the bar, nobody paid any attention to him.  Glasses clinked.  Women laughed.  Billiard balls smacked one another, and a drunk nearby talked loudly about being fired.

“I’m here for the dragonfly.”

The bar went silent.

“I’m here to see the dragonfly.”

The bartender fixed him with a hard stare.  He looked him up and down, and even the drunk stared at him.  The bartender glanced at the drunk and then nodded over his shoulder.  “Back room,” he said.

“Thank you.”  He made his way over to the back room.

The back room was dim with a table and two chairs in the middle of the room.  A large man that could’ve been mistaken for a biker sat in one chair.  He gestured toward the other seat.

“You the dragonfly?”

“I’m one of them,” he answered.

“I need the truth.”

“Hundred dollars.”

“Hundred dollars?  That’s a heavy price to pay.”

“That’s why lies are cheap.”

“Fine.  A hundred dollars.”  He fished into his pocket, pulling out a bunch of twenties.

“One truth.” The man took the money from him.

“That’s it?”

“Hey, the truth doesn’t come easy or free.”

“Fine.  One truth.”  He sat down in the empty seat, eyeing the man in front of him.  “Who am I?”

“Don’t you know,” he asked.  His response was a shrug.  “You won’t like my answer.”

“I’m a good person.”

“Sure you are, but saying it doesn’t make it so.”

“I am a good person.”

“Well, if you want me to lie to you, I don’t need your money.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Dragonflies don’t lie.”

“And if they did?”

“They die, so no, I won’t say it.”

“Not even for your daughter?”

The man shot up to his feet, looming over him. His eyes shined from the dim light nearby.  A buzzing sound filled the room.  “Excuse me?”

“My buddy’s outside right now.  If I don’t text him in the next five minutes, he’s going to slip something into her drink, and she won’t see it coming.  Am I lying now?”

“No, you’re not.” He sat back down in his seat.  “Why are you doing this?”

“Because we control the truth not you.  You keep it for yourselves, dishing it out a little by little like we can’t handle it.”

“You can’t handle the truth.”

“Time’s almost up.  What say you?”

“You think you’ve won, that the truth is yours to do with as you please. The truth is for your money’s worth that you’re wrong.  The truth won’t die with us, and eventually one of us will catch up to you.”

“I guess you’re not all a good person then.”

The man stared at him for a long moment. “You are a good person.”

His body slumped over. His head fell against the chair.  A pair of wings arched up from his back but then fluttered down to the ground. 

He stood up from his chair, leaned over and ripped off the man’s face.

A dragonfly stared back at him.

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Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

About Author Melissa R. Mendelson:

Melissa R. Mendelson is a Poet and Horror, Science-Fiction, and Dystopian Short Story Author.  Publications featuring her writing can be found here: https://linktr.ee/melissarmendelson

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Want A Piece?
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

Her thin frame hid her well beneath the wooden bench.  A splinter from the floor pierced her arm.  Dust fell into her face.  She bit her lip, trying to stay very still, and a mouse dodged past her feet.  A scream rose up into her throat, but she fought to hold it back.  Finally, the door opened, and they walked in.  It was strange that they entered first.

A herd of polished shoes moved past her hiding spot.  Harsh laughter and bitter mutters shook the space around her.  One man’s pocket jingled, and a gold coin slipped out, falling to the floor.  He quickly snatched it back up, his fingers an inch from her face.

The room fell silent, and he entered.  This was why she was here, hiding under this bench.  She needed to see him.  She needed to know that all hope was not lost, and he marched toward the front of the room like a giant.  And she smiled at his strength.  Her smile faded at the creak in the chair.

She turned as quietly as she could.  She couldn’t see him from where she was.  She bit her lip and crawled under the next bench.  The herd of polished shoes paid no attention to her, so she crawled further.  And this bench barely hid her, but she lied still.  And finally, she saw him, but he did not sit like a man that would lead his people through a storm and maybe another storm.  He sat like her grandfather, one hand resting on his knee, waiting to see if she would sit on his lap.

His frame shrank as he sat back in his chair.  His eyes foggy, burying that glint she once saw on television, and his hands shook.  He opened his mouth to speak, but only whispers escaped.  A look of fear brushed across his face, but then he pulled himself together, staring down at the men gathering around him.  But he had no fight left.

The herd of polished shoes were kicked aside, revealing twisted, grotesque feet.  Suit jackets fell to the floor, one blocking her sight, but she pushed the harsh fabric aside.  It made her skin crawl, and she watched the men extend their long, thin fingers with nails jagged and blood-red.

He shrank further, reminding her of a frail, old man sitting in a wheelchair at her grandfather’s nursing home, his body become stone.  But his face was placid, eyes glazed over, and the men drew closer, lifting their fingers high into the air, then swiping at his flesh, pulling chunks off into their hands.  And they shoved those chunks into their mouths, blood dribbling down their lips.

One man took another swipe.  He was allowed, but another followed.  And the others grabbed hold of him with a guttural growl, and he retreated, his head bowed down.

“We need some of him left, but we’ll finish him off soon enough.”

Those words were tears flowing down her cheeks.  She bit her lip again, drawing blood, her thin frame curling up into a ball.  She wiped her eyes but froze when something touched her cheek, a nail jagged and blood-red.

The man leaned down and asked, “Want a piece?”

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Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

About Author Melissa R. Mendelson:

Melissa R. Mendelson is a Poet and Horror, Science-Fiction, and Dystopian Short Story Author.  Publications featuring her writing can be found here: https://linktr.ee/melissarmendelson