Flash Fiction: “Decisions, Decisions” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month “A character faces an important decision.”

Bonus points if it doesn’t mention COVID! (Cathy’s post does not mention Covid!)

This dark tale comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel or stand-alone (18+), are available on Amazon. MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series, is scheduled for release in 2022/2023.


“Decisions, Decisions” by Cathy MacKenzie

“I can’t do it alone,” I said, gripping my handbag to my chest as if it’d sprout wings and fly far, far away.

Sally’s face turned white. She glanced at me and looked away. Had I said too much? She wasn’t my closest friend. Didn’t know my husband that well, so I felt safe confiding in her, but in that split second, I wished I hadn’t.

Still, I plodded on. “You won’t help me?”

She turned and glared at me as if I were bonkers. Perhaps I was.

Can’t you speak? I wanted to scream my thoughts, but I didn’t. Would only hinder my request, and she was my only hope.

She sighed. “I think this is bigger than me. I…”

I what? I hated when people stopped sentences midstream.

“Dunno,” she said, as if I’d spoken out loud. Was she psychic? She picked up her purse from the picnic table. “I gotta go.”

What? “Yeah, okay.”

She sped off.

Obviously, I’d made a huge mistake, but not ready to give up, I raced after her. “Sally, wait.”

She stopped and faced me.

Breathless, I asked, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

She smiled—albeit a slight smile. “I won’t.”

“I’ll walk with you to Oak Street,” I said. I needed to get inside her head. Why wouldn’t she help me? Maybe I expected too much from her. After all, I’d propositioned murder. Not everyone’s cuppa tea—if you drink tea. I don’t; I prefer the hard stuff: Gin. Vodka. Whiskey. Wine, even. Whatever’s offered.

We walked in silence until we reached the intersection at Pecan and Chestnut, where she gripped my arm and examined my face as if it were full of pimples (it wasn’t). “Are you serious? Really serious?”


“Yeah, what you want help with,” she said.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

She stared into my eyes as if trying to enter my soul. “Okay. Let’s do it. But on one condition.” She grinned.

The shape of her mouth and the baring of her teeth reminded me of Jack Nicholson in The Joker. I rubbed my arms, trying to quell my tremors. “What’s the condition?”

“That we kill my husband first.”


The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

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