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The Dead Don’t Beg

By Bridget Squires

Smashwords edition

This is number four in “The Dead Don’t” ongoing series. Warning this story is both sexually and violently graphic and may be disturbing to some readers. Enjoy and please leave a review!


The scent of her perfume clung to the air like a warm breeze, reminding one of a simpler time. Such a sweet smell, so innocent and childlike as if pulled from the pages of a Hallmark card. The perfume trapped itself in one's nostrils and lingered on one's clothes. A smell that could be savored long after her demise. Across the table her sky blue eyes gave the normal come hither stare and her voice carried like a tune almost mixing with the perfume.

It had been two days since the game begun with the initial invitation. Now here she was, dominating the conversation with tidbits no one really cared to hear. It reminded one of sheep bleating over and over again with no clue that the sound meant nothing to those around them. The rules had not been followed; the heavy face paint that women consider being makeup, slaughtered her face, ruined every inch.

The denim mini skirt at least was different than the rest, a fresh reminder of her youth. Baby pink lipstick, smeared slightly from the drinking glass, graced those full pillow soft looking lips. A red tee shirt clung to her breasts, her nipples playing pee-a-boo whenever the cardigan would open from the brisk autumn breeze. Delicate fingers tapped the table as if for emphasis on whatever conversation she imagined was occurring.

Voices bore most people; it may sound surprising but after awhile everyone sounds alike. The same stories are told, just from a different perspective, as if each were auditioning for a role and reading from the same script. So monotonous and aggravating. Would one die from originality? Where there had been hope that she would be different there now was a truthful realization.

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