Taking a Final Liberty
By Paul Lewthwaite
A French bellows-operated bagpipe was clasped in the arms of a Greek nymph, her marble fingers resting lightly on the chanter.
The man studied her oval face, eyes closed in silent rapture, the detail exquisite. He ran a hand over her cold, smooth curves, lingering at her pert breasts. A tempting muse.
As he made to leave, oboe-like notes chased him down the empty hall. Neck hairs prickling, he turned.
What the hell?
He inched closer.
Her blind eyes flicked open. The pipes tumbled to the floor.
The statue stooped, creaking. A final frozen kiss.
Stone hands embraced his throat.
Paul Lewthwaite lives in Scotland with his wife and a small, all-powerful feline companion. His stories have appeared at Crepuscular, 100-Foot Crow, Dark Moments and others.
A quiet, sensual tension that slips seamlessly into menace. The stillness does the work, and the final touch feels intimate, inevitable, and deeply unsettling.