Wendy L. Schmidt

Wendy L. Schmidt
722 West Spring Street
Appleton, WI 54914

Wendy Schmidt is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years. The Four C's; cat, chocolate, coffee and computer are her chosen writing tools. Pieces have been published in Daily Flash 2012, Three Line Poetry, Tainted Tea, Fear and Trembling,Verse Wisconsin, One Million Stories andTwisted Dreams, Taste Like Pennies Anthology, Haunted Object Anthology, Paranormal Horror, Barbie Anthology, From Their Cradle to Your Grave, No Rest for the Wicked and Skive.


Fermentation Festival - Winning Poem, Pass Words Contest 


Baked Bikini

She was lying on a tattered towel,
anointing her limbs with baby oil.
Slick shine blended with sweat, 
roasting that pale pink body,
like a fresh rotisserie chicken, 
rotating round and round.
Browning skin dripped beads of wet,
creating a slight sizzling sound,
as it slid off tender cooked parts
and onto dry, baked earth.

She'd never heard the sinister words,
skin cancer and melanoma.
She never gave a thought to,
freckles and deep-rooted wrinkles. 
She never could have imagined,
an aging face so leathery,
a cow might mistake her,
for a two legged kissing cousin.
She was the glowing goddess,
of Elm Tree Avenue.

Dubbed the mellow yellow sixties,
a blaring Beach Boy beat, 
"Everybody's gone surfing," 
echoed cool California lyrics,
from a small transistor radio.
No Big Kahuna or soaring swells,
surrounded small town Wisconsin.
That didn't stop the wanna-be surfer girl,
who paid her daily toll,
by taking a tanning tour of duty.

Nothing could deter the willful teen,
from her bronzing ambition,
until the last bit of sun dissolved,
behind the next door neighbor's garage;
not Whiffle batted balls,
or spattered Sparrow bombings,
not Frisbee free-for-alls,
or black flies poised,
to make a ten point landing,
on her slick strip of leg.

Not bees buzzing over teased hair,
attracted to the candied confection,
sprayed so rigid, piled so high,
a small tornado couldn't have,
knocked the wind out of it.
She was the type of girl,
who didn't know the meaning of;
“All things in moderation.”
Her new blue bikini, barely there,
was ready to rock and roll.

One more sun drenched day,
and the popular crowd,
well-bred and berry brown, 
would see her at the pool party.
This burning desire,
at charbroiled perfection,
created a baby oil bathing beauty,
with no visible tan lines.
Sandy would be,
the toast of the town.

Killer Class

Hairs stand on end at the back of her long slender neck.
Heart pounds in her feminine chest, amply exposed,
the tempting right for a Friday night gone terribly wrong.

Feels the fatal pull from silhouettes skulking under the shifty cast of grim street lights.
She walks fast, catching heels in the slashes of worn cement,
step on a crack, break your mother's back.

Lets out an anxious laugh, craving the comforts of childhood. 
Come on, come on, where did she park the car?
Breaths come in short, forced bursts of scarcely suppressed hysteria.

Out there, he is waiting, watching, wanting to do what women fear most.
Nightmares are formed by such feral dread,
says a partial prayer then swears as she drops her keys.

Turn over, turn over, the engine groans, clicks, dies.
Damn this old Mustang, not worth it's rag top or racy reputation.
A small sound filters through her growing panic.

She steals a quick glance into the rear view mirror.
Is that the scuffle of a man's shoes,
a suspicious stretch of shadow?

Stranger's eyes stare back, sullen and slightly bloodshot.
When did those crows feet dig so deep?
When did those sapphires turn to steal?

Sit tight, stay put, where did she leave that cell phone?
Her purse is turned upside down, inside out.
searching through months of battered business cards.

Scribbled, nameless numbers scripted in eye pencil and lipstick,
then spots a last trojan, a lost tic tac, but no cell.
Where oh where is that freaking phone?

She hiccups, sniffs, sobs, fights to catch a breath. 
To soothe frazzled nerves, listens to the after hours, 
terse car horns, clinking ice cubes, tinny televisions.

Muted moans of backstreet sex filter through. 
Hollow voices drift on drunken air.
Fierce female senses are finely tuned to his erotic aura.

Head hurts, brow sweats, heart sinks as she recalls, the phone is in the bar,
left near the brooding corner booth where he'd been lurking, 
smiling with those strikingly sharp teeth.

Suggesting things that stunned her mind and stung her senses,
he struck her as a man who took deep pleasure in stark profanity.
She scarcely stumbled away in a daze of desire and distress.

Her fall from grace stripped away anything sacred. 
Raw images of animal lust left her defenseless in his impossible presence. 
He was just her type, so wrong, so right.

Now, she feels dizzy and drunk, desperate and in too deep.
Wake up, wake up, you stupid bitch,
get out, get moving, get to safety,

Searches every half hidden alley and shabby shop entrance,
unlocks one door ready to flee for her life.
A city block looks like ten miles, looks like savage beasts ready to strike.

Run Amy, run Ann, run Alice, 
pretty marks primed for a worthy pursuit.
He has been stalking her struggle, relishing the sight of prolonged terror.

Sweet scent of heightened fear, the second she realizes it's too late,
too late as soon as she walked in the bar,
too late as soon as he saw her urgent eyes and naked need.

Two hundred years of rehearsed, repeated, release of his rage.
There is always the one, a truant teen, a spurned spouse.
They will come because he calls.

They will have a few drinks to forget.
He knows all the tricks of the trade.
things to say to make them stay in a menacing situation.

One more, one more drink, dance, dare. 
They ignore the small, insistent warning voice singing,
death is as near as his lethal kiss.

The next day the news flash will say; 
when and how but not why.
They won't find any answers or evidence.

He never thinks of himself as a serial. 
Sacrifices are the lifeblood of his business.
He prefers the title of huntsman or vampire, killer class.