Axe - Part Two - by Michael Shorde

A foot fall in the gravel caught her attention, and presuming it was her husband, ignored it.

“Just what in the name of God do ya’ want now, man?”

“Well, why don’t ya ‘ave a look around and see? Stupid wench!”

Lillian started to turn, saying, “Why you bloody -” She ceased speaking, the works caught in her throat. Her widening eyes had just enough time to capture the peculiar image of John standing a few feet away from her, the axe held high above his head as if he were about to split kindling for the fire. She caught the glint of the blade as it came down, striking the very top of her head. As a melon would split apart with the first strike, so it was with Lillian. A split second of ghastliness and pain, and then darkness.

John stood over her corpse, the axe still dangling from his right hand. He felt powerful, and relieved. The wench was useless; and he hardly knew anything about her. His disdain for her had bloomed quickly, and she had suddenly become a problem.

 This had not been a marriage of love, nay, a marriage of necessity. She had wanted to marry quickly, saying, “I want to get right to it. Move out in the country with ya’. I cook and do anything.”

John had eyed her. “Anything?”

She had leaned over the rough wooden table, her breasts bulging out the top of her blouse. “Anything. But, I will tell ya’ something: I don’t feel like being the next slice o’ meat for the Ripper.”

“So that’s it, huh? Just trying to escape Jack the knife? Or maybe you’re one of the witches they been hangin’ and burnin’” He had eyed her suspiciously, but lucky for her he already had a few mugs worth of ale sloshing around his sagging belly.

“Oh, right, you twit.” Lillian had said. John gave out a hearty laugh, looked around the pub (most were watching, always hungry for a tidbit of news with their toothless smiles and weather-worn faces), waiting for a similar response from his friends. The other patrons merely chuckled and tilted their mugs to their mouths.

He had known her for a while, to be true, but no one really knew anything about her; she was a mystery when it came to her private life. She was plain looking, which was good enough for any man in the Whitechapel area – to just have a wife could be a blessing in disguise.

He studied the corpse a while longer, and then looked down and realized that the pool of blood was coming dangerously close to his boots. “Damned wench! You’ll not bother me anymore!” He snatched up her feet and dragged her behind the cabin. John fetched the blood-stained axe with his intention already in mind – he had never performed such an act before, except perhaps on an animal while hunting, but this…he raised and swung the axe.

Axe - Part One - by Michael Shorde

So it was that on that cool autumn evening in 1888, deep in the farmlands of England, that John decided to murder his wife. She bore him no children, and was only a useless, aging maiden shifting about her chores day by day. He gazed upon her with hidden contempt, the sly knowledge of her eventual demise.

“Go fetch me water, woman, I fancy a drink!”

“Is it not cold enough outside for ya? You’re a strange one, ya’ are! Fancy a cold drink!” she declared. Her dirty hair hanged in stands over the shoulders of her tattered dress. Her only dress, for John never saw to it to clothe her in a manner fitting a lady.

Firelight danced on his rough features as he glared at her from his crude wooden throne.

“Go, I say! Or I’ll ‘ave your hide, I will!”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Ya’ strange rogue of a man!”

She snatched up the rope handle of the bucket and yanked open the lopsided door. The dank cabin inhaled a deep breath of cold air that flickered the fire. John frowned. “Well, get to it!”

Though she was not of great stature, she nonetheless waddled out into the night, and behind her closed the cabin door. “Fancy a drink,” she muttered over yellowing teeth. “Ah, ya’ waste of a man! To the dogs with ya’, I say!”

Past the rough stacks of firewood against the cabin, she waddled with no significant weight to warrant it – only laziness and soreness between her unclean legs. Past the chopping stump with the axe buried in its uneven ringed top, the roughen shaft angling out as is waiting for blistered hands to grasp it once more, to shed puss and blood along its surface.
Useless piece of a man, she thought. I'd like to conjure up something for you, aye!
And then: Stop it, Lillian! Ya' want to be hanged? Burned at the stake like the rest? Patience, woman, patience!

She made her way to the well, and sat on the circle of stones next to the winch handle. She sighed, her breath a stench carried away by a stiff burst of wind. She tied the bucket to the frayed end of rope dangling over the yawning mouth of darkness, and turned the winch.
Aye, a cup o' poison might do ya'. Bloody waste ya' are...

Unbeknownst to her, a figure slipped out of the cabin, the yellow light spilling onto the ground for a mere instant, a shadow gliding across it, and then…darkness.

As the bucket descended, a burst of wind ruffled her dress, and she glanced toward the cabin, the empty chopping stump. Turning her attention to the well, she leaned forward and peered down, listening for the slight splash of water. Confusion crossed her features. She ceased cranking, and looked around the property. Everything looked proper – the cabin, its windows aglow with transposing firelight, the stacked firewood against the cabin’s side, the vacant chopping stump – she turned back to the well.