The night was cool, a breeze in her hair, just like the song "Hotel California."
The blade was sharp, calm in its sheath that was strapped to her leather-clad thigh.
Isobel took her time approaching the bed. Her client had been specific: her husband would sleep on the right. The woman would sleep to his left. He always slept on his side.
As she crept, the clouds moved away from the moon, exposing his slackened face. But wait -- he was sleeping alone.
A curtain blew out the window. The last thing she felt was sharp metal piercing her lung.
by jeannette cook
Theater Interior (Credit: Donald Tong)
Backstage there was an old man who only ever wore red. Everyone knew him. No one liked him.
He had been in the theatre for ever, “even during the war”, some whispered.
Flamboyant in his red accoutrements, he mostly kept to himself and his job as a janitor.
No one quite remembered why he was so hated, but there were rumours. The war. The Germans. Had he worked for them? Against them? There were rumours of a backstabbing gone wrong.
One morning, the actors arrived at the theatre and found the janitor in his shiny red garments,
lying in a pool of his crimson red blood.
He was buried alone, taking with him all his secrets.