For my Writing class, I had to make up a short story about character that has a conversation with another person on a plane. It came out really weirdly. The look on my teacher's face was priceless.


Who am I? Doesn't matter, for if I told you, they'd be able to find me. Who? The police, of course. You see, and I only tell you this because I'll never see you again, I'm on the run from the law right now. It was noon when I killed them. My husband was out, so it was the perfect time to strike. I dressed the children in their Sunday School clothes, although it was Saturday. I lined them up and they stared at me expectantly. I grabbed the meat cleaver and I hacked off my daughter's hand. She screamed bloody murder, (no pun intended) but I swung the cleaver repeatedly at her neck until it chopped off her head. It rolled away across the floor and her body slumped over. The other children met the same fate. When I was done, I set their headless carcasses up around the table, and we all sat together and had a nice meal. After we ate, I chopped up the body of my daughter and made a delightful stew for my husband when he got home. I killed him, too. And now here I am with you on this plane. Why are you giving me that look? Hey, get back here! Stop! I have stew! Wait! Darn, this is why I don't have any friends…