Zora Grizz

     It’s Kira, who wants to bounce some writing ideas off me and discuss possible plots and feasible motives for anywhere from 1 to 7 fictional murders (we hadn't yet decided on a body count for her short story, a study in gothic fiction).

     So at this point, to really paint the picture that is unfolding for you here:     

1. I've got my phone pressed precariously between my cheek and my shoulder,

2. a giant, sagging, bag is looped across my back, 

3. my arms are held out loosely on either side of me as 

4. my worn hiking boots carefully try to choose places to step that are the least likely to send me flying down the mountain on my ass, 

5. and all the while I'm saying things out loud to my aunt on the phone, like: "ahhh, but what if she killed them ALL? Uh huh….uh huh...ooooooh yeah I see, no so she kills them too….the blood spatter!! Yes yes!! Perfect!...Oh that's gruesome. So do you think she kills her too? Uh huh, uh--but what about the motive? Hmmm…but did they ever find the body though? That could change all of it, if they never find the body." 

     And, well, there's only like, two other houses out here and there’s rarely ever anyone outside but me, especially in the winter. But - one of them recently started renting their basement out as an air bnb. I’m only really expecting there to be renters in the warmer months, so as I’m slowly picking my way across the ice in the woods with a big backpack on and talking into my phone about how to hide a body, I happened to be in front of said newly established air bnb rental. 

     The silence around me suddenly seemed to congeal from peaceful to problematically tense as I caught a slight movement out of the corner of my eye. A shadow darted closer to the rental house. I looked over and saw a young couple, eyes as wide as deer in the headlights, shooing each other quietly towards the front door, towels wrapped around them as they had apparently been about to enjoy the house’s hot tub until I ambled along like a tiny, murderous, bear, spoiling their picnic.

     My jaw dropped open and my brain stopped listening to Kira’s sentences as I quickly realized how this looked. My breath fogged up the air around me and, hopelessly, I started to chuckle. I couldn’t help myself. “Oh god, stop it!” I thought hysterically at my own brain, but to no avail. A few seconds passed in which my brain frantically spun in circles, trying to figure out how to create my own sentence that would easily explain what was happening here and not dig this hole any deeper, but the only thing that escaped my throat was a helpless laugh at my own stupid predicament. The unblinking couple slowly backed into the darkened house and closed the door.

     I heard a loud click as its deadbolt slid home.

     I hung my head in shame, the dog who knows they’ve chewed the favorite set of high heels. Turning to face forwards again, I start where I left off, slowly picking my way down the icy slope. Nothing to be done about it now, I guess.

     “Anyway,” I said to Kira, “what if that’s their whole deal, that he doesn’t even know that she killed them all those years ago?” And our conversation and the fates of 1 to 7 fictional characters moves on.

     Sometimes the weird thing in the woods is a threat...but other times…it's just weird writers who don’t get enough socialization and look where we are now! Weird murder convos with aunts in the woods! <<puts head in hands>>

     I should not be allowed around other people due to my ridiculousness.

     THE END