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    Dead Leaves: A Collection
    Dead Leaves: A Collection
    Dead Leaves: A Collection
    Ebook37 pages30 minutes

    Dead Leaves: A Collection

    By Shannon Cooper

    ()

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    About this ebook

    How much can YOU take?
    Inspired by the classic White Stripes piece, this collection of six macabre revenge tales will drive you mad and probably give you ideas. These folks are sick, twisted, and will stop at nothing to right the wrongs done to them and theirs. From the sorry slums to the glitzy high life, from bare bones basic weaponry, to magick, to modern media warfare, they share one thread: Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground.
    We know this to be true: gravity wins, mothers protect their own, fire is the universal cleanser, and water is the universal solvent. One tiny event, one insignificant choice, can save or destroy a person's reality. Can you take it and make it?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherShannon Cooper
    Release dateJul 18, 2017
    ISBN9781370926596
    Dead Leaves: A Collection
    Author

    Shannon Cooper

    East coast writer and troublemaker.

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      Book preview

      Dead Leaves - Shannon Cooper

      Dead Leaves

      A Collection

      By

      Shannon Cooper

      Copyright 2017 Shannon Cooper

      Smashwords Edition

      DEAD LEAVES

      1

      Dead leaves covered a face. Dirty ground covered worn, peeling steel-toed work boots. Damp, sandy earth flew into the air with the steady ring of a high hat cymbal; the spade dug into the dirt with a deep thud of a bass drum.

      Huff. Puff.

      Another face smirked.

      Huff puff.

      A low grunt.

      Hufflepuff.

      Giggle.

      Puff the Magic Dragon.

      Audible snickering.

      Huff, puff. Swish, thud.

      The face was pale. The lips were blue. Damp hair plastered to a forehead, freckles sparked through.

      The body was naked from the waist up and ivory. Lying on the ground, translucent whiteness followed a gradient to blue, then black. Gravity had its ways. Gravity always won.

      In the cold autumn air, darkness blanketed the thin forest. Water drops fell from the canopy with each gust of wind.

      Huff, puff.

      Drops of sweat mingled with the light rain and tears. The detachable cleats on her boots dug into the hard clay, and she ascended from the pit.

      She stood silently with her eyes closed. An owl hooted. A lone star peeked through a break in the clouds. She picked up the six-pack of diet coke from the ground and pulled a can from the plastic rings.

      A heavy sigh and the pop of thin metal splitting. She drained most of the can and pulled a bottle of Southern Comfort from the muddy divot where she’d half-planted it three hours earlier. She filled the can with Comfort and drained it, only stopping to breathe.

      Scratch, scratch. The shiny metal cap twisted back onto the bottle. The bottle dropped with a clang as it grazed the rest of the six, now five pack.

      Tears in her eyes clouded her vision as she kicked the body in the hip, then the cranium, then the crotch. Again in the crotch. And once more.

      She knelt down to examine her work. She slid down the zipper on filthy jeans, pulled the snap apart, and wiggled them down off far enough to see what she’d done.

      She sat back on her heels and cackled. Rigor mortis was so much fun. She straddled the body and sank down on its pelvis. She ground up and down, around, up and down again.

      Abruptly, she jumped up, drained the coke and rum, and poured another round of Southern Comfort for herself, straight, neat, half

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