He’s a professional photographer and because of this, the girls trust him, sit for him, tilting their chins, tucking a stray strand of hair behind an ear. Afterward, dinner: crab cakes and lobster, linguine and clams. Wine served in long stemmed goblets. What he doesn’t tell them: the photographs are so much better than the girls themselves. The flesh of a girl splits open in splatters, exposing muscle and sinew and bone. Murder is time consuming, a chore, but the photographs are timeless, mounted, monochromatic. And when he grows tired of looking at them, oh how quickly they burn.
Candace Hartsuyker has an M.F.A in Creative Writing from McNeese State University and reads for PANK. She has been published in Heavy Feather Review, Maudlin House and elsewhere.
image: Michael McGill