Literature

Broadland Street
The Key
The Perfect Christmas
In One Brief Moment
Platform 15
Mrs Sanderson
The Release

'Mrs Sanderson'

It was late when Daphne clicked back the latch on the icy gate, pushing the leaves that rode up through the bottom rails into a pyramid of snow cone misshapes. The night was black, without so much as a moon and its breath rose chillingly, clotted with mystic indulgence. It was magical, the perfect night to die or to die for. She crunched through the snow alongside the porch; her heart beating fast and in time with small, carefully placed steps. The door was ajar, ''good'', she thought and within seconds she was inside, by the kitchen chopping board, staring at the row of shiny, stainless soldiers.

Now before we proceed any further, I should tell you a bit about Jack and his requirement for, well, how can I put it, other men? You see every story has another side, a soft, buttery side to its crispy, hard counterpart underneath. I mean I don't want you getting the wrong idea now, do I? Not that I am condoning murder! Ok, are you ready? Right, Jack… ah, Jack was a winner, he had the looks, he had the brass, and he even had the balls! (Daphne can vouch for that one). His Father placed him into a penthouse suite in the Marbella Hotel across the road from Newton College. Daddy dressed him in Armani, gave him lifts in the Company tvr, took him to golf on Saturdays, squash Tuesdays, helped him into gambling, introduced him to drinking and once left him babysitting both the Pollard twins, who Jack had ended up sleeping with; boy that was some night, but hell, that's another story and anyhow it wasn't what Jack was about! Anyway, Jack didn't know it at the time (probably still doesn't), but his little secret would soon be out. He'd often played the field, especially the men, he was bisexual and loved women, but it was the dirty, late-night, toilet sex that eventually caught him out - you know, the George Michael stuff? Just one little tip-off from Janice Johnson and Daphne caught Jack with his pants down, his manhood alive and his secretive, sideways sexual slant was revealed - although she obviously would never let on. So Daphne has good reason to be edging towards Jack's room with a knife the size of a hatchet? You think so, well read on, you see Daphne was a school teacher, 43, she was in the process of divorcing, had the mature looks, the life-experience, drove a Renault Clio, played squash on a Wednesday (incidentally she played with Maureen Harper, a life-long ex-school friend, now a born again Christian and not Jack), smoked weed regularly, drank even more regularly and had once had sex with Marti Pracket, an hermaphrodite. Jack on the other hand was sixteen. Oh, you changed your mind again haven't you? So indecisive, I don't know, whatever am I to do with you!? Sixteen is a legal age for sex you know, mind you Daphne had been sleeping with Jack for almost two years now and she was his Form tutor, so I guess that doesn't count now, does it? On with the tale.

Marty often stole away in his Brothers room, it was fun, although this time he had Jack's blessing and the porn magazines didn't hold the same excitement as normal, even though the pictures were still so darn fucking cool. The blonde opened herself up across the page, splitting the staples with her womanhood. Marty was horny and pulled the sheets up over his head as he always did, taking solace in the intimacy and privacy afforded by the cotton; a satisfaction that would soon be concluded. Daphne entered the room reasonably quietly considering.

Now what's up? So Daphne is about to murder the wrong Brother, well maybe its her penance. Maybe it's the price one must pay for taking the virginity of a schoolboy when she should have known better. Perhaps it's a vindication, although aren't we forgetting the innocent party here, Marty?

Marty was just about to orgasm when he heard the door handle turn and felt the thump against the side of Jack's bed. He pulled down the sheet and exhaled. It was Mrs Sanderson, the schoolteacher, she had a knife raised high in the air and a manic smile etched across her face that he wanted to slap, but that would have to wait. The knife pierced his stomach, entered the spleen and pinned him to the bed. Mrs Sanderson did not stop. Once she began something, she would always see it through, right to the very end, no matter how bitter an end that might be. Blood flowed freely, ''You Bastard'', she exclaimed and the knife came down seven more times.

I'm angry today, not with the monotony of life or the skulduggery of work, perhaps not even from the mundane, the repetitiveness or the nonsensical nature of it all. No today I am angry at myself. I am incensed by how easily mistakes can be made, lives changed forever by misdeeds, actions and consequences without forethought. I am angry that my tale began with no direction or path and ended likewise. If anything, let this story remind you that nothing is as it begins or ends and that everything in-between can be redirected. If this is the case and it surely appears so, then one must take with them the reasoning that anything is possible and one should walk away, thinking much more clearly and concise.

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