SWEET LITTLE LIES

A Short (Short) Story Collection

By

J.T. Ellison

Copyright © 2010 by JT ellison

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Smashwords Edition: December 2010

“Sharp. Witty. Shocking. The stories in Sweet Little Lies start with a deadly whisper and end in a high-frequency scream. Ellison takes the tedious banality of our tidy little lives and twists it just so—revealing the terrifying truth inside us all.”

—Laura Benedict, author of Isabella Moon

Contents

Introduction

Short Stories

PRODIGAL ME

WHERE’D YOU GET THAT RED DRESS

THE STORM

DREAM WEAVER

DRIVE IT LIKE IT’S STOLEN

DELAY

X

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

MADONNA IN THE GRASS

CHIMERA

BITS AND PIECES

KILLING CAROL ANN

Novel Excerpts

ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

14

JUDAS KISS

THE COLD ROOM

THE IMMORTALS

Acknowledgments

About JT Ellison

Introduction

I’ve always looked at short stories as a way to have a bit of fun with my writing. In my day job, I write a series of thriller novels with a female homicide lieutenant as my protagonist. There isn’t a lot of room for interpretation in police procedurals. I’d written three novels before I ever tried my hand at short fiction. But when I did, I discovered an entirely new world.

I spent a great deal of time telling my peers I couldn’t write short stories. They kept pushing me, and pushing me, until I finally gave it a shot. That story was PRODIGAL ME. I submitted it to Writer’s Digest, and promptly forgot about it. You can imagine my surprise when I received an email from Chuck Sambuchino saying I’d won an honorable mention in their annual short fiction contest.

Perhaps I could write shorts after all.

Soon after, I attended my first writer’s conference, where I met a fabulous writer named Duane Swierczynski. I asked Duane about some short fiction markets, and he suggested I send a story to his friend Bryon Quertermous, who ran an ezine called Demolition. I quickly wrote another story and submitted it. Bryon loved everything but the title, which we agreed to change to X. It was my first published piece.

My love of the short form grew from there. Flash Fiction, the art of writing a full story in less than 1,000 words, became my playground. It was a way to stretch my skills, to delve into new genres. A fabulous website called Flashing in the Gutters often published my flash pieces. I placed a long form story in Spinetingler, KILLING CAROL ANN, and BJ Bourg at Mouth Full of Bullets was kind enough to solicit a few stories. Eventually, several of these stories were anthologized.

The worlds you are about to enter are little slices, vignettes. Crimes of the heart, the mind and the soul. As it says on the cover, short (short) stories. The bits and pieces that fell from my mind while I was writing long form novels, the ideas that didn’t have a place in my current work. Sweet little lies. I do hope you’ll enjoy them.

—JT Ellison, December 2010

Short Stories

PRODIGAL ME

Killer Year: Stories to Die For, edited by Lee Child, St. Martin’s Minotaur, January 2008

He’s not speaking to me again.

It’s happened before. I think the longest we’ve ever gone without some sort of verbal communication is two weeks. But that was back when he thought I’d tricked him and let myself get pregnant. I hadn’t, but he didn’t want to hear that from me. I remember it was two weeks because when I started to bleed, he started talking. Apologies, for the most part. The black eye had faded away by then too.

So I don’t usually become alarmed when he quits conversing. I’m just not sure why I’m getting the silent treatment. I wonder how long it’s going to last? It can actually be quite nice, not having to make conversation. We can sit at the kitchen table, each sipping from our respective coffee cups. I have many cups. I decide which to use based on my mood each morning. Today I have one of my favorites, decorated in loops and swirls of color, abstract, joyful. That’s how I woke this morning, content, but feeling a bit out of place. This was the perfect chalice to represent my feelings. Yesterday it was the bone white with the geometric triangular handle. All sharp edges and uncomfortable to hold. No elegance there, befitting the dark nastiness that I’d felt when I got up. But today was different. Better. Happy. Even without speech.

I watched him from under my lashes, tasting the bitter brew. He’d made the coffee before I arose. He’d been doing that lately, and it was unusual. Normally I was the first to the kitchen, the coffee was my responsibility. I certainly made a better pot. I wondered if that was why he’d designated the coffee to me in the first place, because his was lousy.

He was snapping the pages of the paper, passing through them so quickly that I knew he wasn’t really reading anything. He knew I was watching him, and he heaved a sigh and laid the paper flat on the wood. He looked at me then, finally. His eyes were bloodshot. Not attractive at all. When we’d first met, he had the most beautiful blue eyes, a shade that matched the sky on a crisp fall day. Today, they were muddy, a hint of brown in the azure depths. He didn’t meet my eye, just stared at my shoulder. I slid my silk dressing gown down just a bit, enough for the smooth white skin above my collarbone to show. He dragged in a breath, swept up his cup and threw it at the kitchen sink. It shattered, and I rolled my eyes. Typical for him, communicating through violence. For a smart man, he was so very stupid.