Two little harmless women
Alice and Poppins go for a picnic. But it's hunting they're really doing.
AI slop
Alice stirred beneath the heavy quilt, her eyes fluttering open to the soft morning light filtering through lace curtains. At fifty-five, she carried the quiet grace of a woman who had lived fully but refused to fade. Her silver-streaked auburn hair fell in loose waves to her shoulders, framing a face etched with laugh lines and a few deeper creases that spoke of both joy and hard-won wisdom. She was tall and slender, with the kind of posture that came from years of riding horses and tending her garden. Her skin, lightly freckled from summers past, held a healthy glow. Today, she chose a simple linen blouse in soft sage green that complemented her hazel eyes, paired with comfortable khaki trousers and sturdy walking boots. A delicate gold locket—containing a photo of her late husband—hung at her throat. She dressed slowly, savoring the ritual, but as she buttoned the last button, a familiar restlessness settled in her chest.
She wandered through her cottage, a charming stone house on the edge of a quiet English village. The rooms were filled with books, dried flowers, and oddities collected over decades: a taxidermy fox wearing spectacles, antique maps pinned to the walls, and a grandfather clock that ticked with deliberate laziness. Alice poked at the embers in the fireplace, made herself a cup of strong tea, and stared out the window at the rolling hills. The day stretched before her like an empty canvas, joyless and tired in its predictability. She had no appointments, no urgent chores, and the village gossip held no appeal. "Another day of nothing," she muttered, sipping her tea. Boredom gnawed at her like an old dog with a bone.
Then the idea struck. A picnic. Yes, that would do nicely. She imagined spreading a blanket by the river, the sun warming her face, perhaps a good book or two. She planned it meticulously in her mind: fresh bread, cold chicken, ripe cheeses, crisp apples, a bottle of chilled white wine, and some chocolates for indulgence. Nothing fancy, but enough to make the day feel intentional. She grabbed her wicker basket and headed to the village shops.
The high street bustled gently with locals. Alice moved with purpose, selecting the best cuts of roasted chicken from the butcher, a crusty sourdough from the baker, and a selection of cheeses—sharp cheddar, creamy brie—from the deli. She added grapes, strawberries, and a jar of homemade chutney. At the wine merchant, she chose a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Back home, she prepared everything with care, slicing, wrapping, and packing the basket until it brimmed with promise. The ritual lifted her spirits.
Satisfied, she picked up the phone and dialed her oldest friend.
"Poppins! Darling, it's Alice. What are you doing today? Nothing? Perfect. I'm kidnapping you for a picnic by the river. Yes, now. Bring that ridiculous hat of yours. I'll pick you up in twenty."
Poppins, whose full name was Penelope Poppins but who embraced the whimsical nickname, arrived at her doorstep moments later. She was a plump, rosy-cheeked woman of sixty, with wild curly hair dyed an improbable shade of violet and a wardrobe that favored flowery dresses and impractical shoes. "Alice, you madwoman," she said, climbing into the passenger seat of Alice's pride and joy—an open-top vintage MG roadster from the 1960s, painted a deep British racing green. The car gleamed under the morning sun, its leather seats creaking invitingly.
As they pulled away, the wind tousling their hair, the women fell into their familiar banter.
"Remember that time we tried to elope to Brighton?" Poppins cackled, adjusting her oversized sun hat. "Your husband chased us in his tractor!"
Alice grinned, shifting gears smoothly. "And you spilled the entire flask of gin on my wedding dress. We smelled like a distillery for days. Best mistake I ever made—postponing that wedding gave me time to realize he was the one who could tolerate my knife-throwing hobby."
Poppins roared with laughter. "Knife-throwing! Only you would call juggling blades in the garden a 'hobby.' I still have the scar from when you missed the target and hit the fence post right next to my ear."
"Missed? I was aiming for the post," Alice shot back, winking. "Keeps you on your toes, Poppins. Life's too short for boring friends."
They drove along winding country lanes, exchanging stories of past escapades—the disastrous attempt at pottery class where Poppins's wheel spun out of control and covered them both in clay, the midnight skinny-dipping in the village pond that ended with them fleeing from a very confused badger. The car hummed along, the open top letting in the scents of wildflowers and fresh-cut grass. For a while, the world felt light and endless.
Then the sky darkened. Fat raindrops began to splatter the windshield.
"Pull the top up, Alice!" Poppins yelped, clutching her hat.
Alice fumbled with the mechanism as the rain intensified. "Bloody thing's stuck again! Hold on!" The vintage car's canvas roof refused to budge. Within minutes, they were both soaked to the bone. Water streamed down their faces, turning Poppins's violet curls into a soggy mop and plastering Alice's blouse to her skin.
Poppins was furious. Her round face turned beet red, and her eyes narrowed into slits of pure fury. "Alice Montgomery, if this is your idea of fun, I swear I'll throttle you! My new dress is ruined! I look like a drowned poodle!"
Alice threw her head back and laughed. She reached into the picnic basket and pulled out the bottle of white wine. "Here, you grumpy old bat. Have a glass. It'll warm you up."
Poppins snatched it, took a long swig, and glared. But the corners of her mouth twitched.
They found a sheltered riverside spot under ancient willows. The rain eased as they set up the picnic. Poppins grabbed a chicken wing and bit into it with gusto.
The peaceful moment shattered when five North African men emerged from the treeline. Lean and hardened, they carried long knives. "Give us the food, the car, jewellery, money," the leader snarled.
One grabbed Poppins in a headlock, knife to her throat. Alice's eyes went cold. She hurled a throwing knife that sliced one migrant's windpipe. He staggered, clutching his throat, blood bubbling.
The leader stabbed Poppins in the neck. She screamed as blood erupted, spraying the attackers. Poppins dropped motionless to the ground.
Alice stood ready with another knife, eyes icy.
"Get up, you clown," Alice said calmly.
Poppins bolted upright, bursting into laughter. The wound was closing. Only then did the women—and the surviving attackers—realise the blood was not normal.
The man Alice had wounded, now covered in Poppins's blood, began to convulse. The blood thickened around him, forming a glistening cocoon that wrapped his body while he was still alive and conscious. His eyes widened in terror as the cocoon tightened, his skin and flesh liquefying inside it with wet, horrifying sounds. He twitched and gurgled until he dissolved completely into a pool of dark liquid that slowly seeped back toward Poppins.
The other four migrants found they couldn't move. Their feet were anchored by the blood that had splattered them, now hardening like tar. They tried to scream, mouths opening in panic.
Alice put her finger to her lips and whispered, "Shhh." Streams of blood rose and covered their mouths, gagging them into muffled, terrified whimpers. The blood continued its work, burning and melting their flesh, eating through muscle and bone. One by one, all five died in agony—dissolving, liquefying, their essence absorbed.
Several hours later, as the sun dipped low, Alice and Poppins sat on the blanket feeling pleasantly full. The remains had been cleaned up. They stripped the outer clothes from what was left of the men—jackets, jeans, shirts—leaving the underpants behind. They also collected jewellery: a few rings, a necklace, and some coins.
"Clothes for the charity shop and some extra trinkets," Alice said with satisfaction. They loaded everything into the vintage car.
The drive home was filled with bickering.
"I can't believe how messy that was," Poppins grumbled. "My dress is ruined, and you took forever with the first throw."
"Oh please," Alice replied. "You always complain, but you enjoy the feeding as much as I do. Next time I'm feeding not you."
They argued about the rain, the car top, and whose idea the picnic spot had been, all the way to the charity shop where they dropped off the clothes for a small donation receipt and sold the jewellery privately for cash.
As they parked at Alice's cottage, Alice turned with a sly smile. She licked her lips, revealing a forked tongue that flickered. "Same time next week?"
Poppins laughed. "Wouldn't miss it."
Boris Doyle 2026