 
BURNING BRIDGES

A Renegade Fiction Anthology

by Various Authors

Copyright 2012 – All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Cover Design ~ McDroll

Cover Image ~ Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Editor ~ Heath Lowrance

Formatting ~ Benjamin Sobieck
TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editor's Note: The Flames Behind Us

Dead Weight ~ Allan Leverone

The Beginning of the End ~ Paul D. Brazill

Unforgettable ~ Julia Madeleine

A Freeway on Earth ~ Heath Lowrance

Horse Clock ~ K.A. Laity

Disciple ~ Mark Cooper

Punishment/Lola ~ Darren Sant

Asylum ~ George S. Geisinger

No Turning Back ~ McDroll

The Importance of Blood ~ Edith M. Maxwell

The Last Injustice ~ Benjamin Sobieck

An Idea for Murder ~ Tace Baker

Safety First ~ Joshua J. Mark

Killing Deities ~ L. Vera

A Gift ~ B.R. Stateham
Editor's Note: The Flames Behind Us

Most folks tread carefully through life. They like to keep their options open, you know, just in case. That's the wise and judicious way to do things, after all.

But sometimes you need to go ahead and burn those bridges behind you, just so you're not tempted to back-track, chicken out, blink. If you're a writer, it can be quite useful to shut off the path behind you and keep barrelling forward.

Burning bridges can be a sign of commitment.

And commitment is what this anthology has, in spades. This is a collection of stories as wide and varied as the writers who produced them, but they all have the fire of conviction.

All the contributors DO have something in common, however—they've all been burned by an experience that was unfortunate, but could have happened to anyone. Instead of compromising their integrity, though, each one of them lit a match, threw it over the shoulder, and shot away as the flames caught on the bridge behind them.

I had the honor of putting this thing together, more as a compiler than an editor, and I'm proud of the diversity and power of these stories. You'll find that there's no real theme to it; rather, it's an object lesson about how writers who are truly committed to what they do can put the past behind them and continue to put out solid, uncompromising work.

And not be afraid to burn bridges behind them.

~Heath Lowrance
Dead Weight

~ Allan Leverone

I grabbed the kid when he came out of Sal's Tavern in Boston. It was easy enough to do; two a.m. after a night of heavy drinking would dull anyone's reflexes. Plus, I knew the punk suffered from the incurable disease afflicting nineteen year old tough guys everywhere: he thought he was invincible.

He was wrong.

I slipped out of the shadows and trailed along inconspicuously as the small pack of losers weaved along the sidewalk in the general direction of their cars. The kid I was after had parked illegally on Commonwealth Avenue, but of course hadn't risked the ticket you or I would inevitably have found on our windshields had we parked around Boston University. Daddy's influence and all.

His punk-ass friends continued walking as he peeled off toward his car and when he slid behind the wheel, I eased up behind him and stuck my Sig in his ear. Simple. He kept his mouth shut and I tried to determine whether his silence was due to smarts, knowing I'd ventilate his worthless head without a second thought, or stupidity, not being bright enough to think of anything to say.

I never found out, although I had my suspicions. Either way, it didn't matter. I had him where I wanted him.

***

Julie was just a kid. Thirteen, cute as a button and smart as a whip. Every day she reminded me more of her mom, who had died way too young. I wasn't much suited for the life of a single parent, or any kind of a parent when you got right down to it, but it's not like I had a whole lot of choice in the matter. Cancer came knocking and Sheila answered the door and then it was just Julie and me.

So I tried the best I could, but the problem with earning a living by washing dirty mob money is that the hours suck. Bankers hours they ain't, and as Julie got older she began to suffer from my lack of oversight, getting in a few scrapes here and there. What can I say; I guess the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree.

But she was my life; I would do anything for my little girl.

***

I eased the punk's car—a late-model Mercedes; you'd think the son of Boston's most notorious mob boss would drive something a little hipper—into my garage, careful to keep the Sig trained on his empty head the entire time.

"What the fuck you think you're doin', Chief?" The punk called everyone "Chief" and I wondered whether he even knew my name. I had been part of his old man's inner circle since before the little shit was born, but that didn't mean much. This kid was as ruthless as his father, but with a sense of entitlement a mile wide.

"Shut up Sammy." I wasn't ready for a conversation yet.

"I go by Sam."

"Oh, sorry about that. Shut up Sammy."

I parked the car and forced him out at gunpoint, making him take a seat in a kitchen chair I had set up in the other garage stall, the one which had sat empty since Sheila died. You don't need two cars when there's only one driver. My own car I had already parked someplace else.

I duct-taped his arms and legs to the chair, making sure to wrap each limb until he was nice and secure. He looked like a fucking mummy. Now I was ready to talk.

"So," I said. "You really like the ladies, huh, Sammy?"

He smirked. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Good point. I just have one question for you, but it's a fairly important one, at least to me. And since I'm the one holding the gun, that makes it pretty important to you as well. In fact, I think it's safe to say your entire future is riding on your answer to this one question."

I gazed at him and he stared back, all smug insolence and misplaced confidence. I wanted so badly to shoot him right then and there I could almost taste it.

Instead I asked him my question. "How long have you been doing my daughter, Sammy?"

"How do you—"

"—Just answer the question."

This kid was so easy to read it was pathetic. He thought for roughly six seconds about denying it, then a smirk crossed his ugly face and he said, "Why don't ya ask her, genius?"

"She's pregnant, asshole."

A look of shock crossed his face and I had my answer. He hadn't known. I'm not sure why it mattered to me, but I needed him to know. Now we could proceed.

I picked up the greasy rag I had been using to change the oil in my car for as long as I could remember and stuffed it into his mouth. Then I pistol-whipped the little bastard just because I could. I wanted to remind him of the pecking order in his new reality.

I grabbed the duct tape—what a great invention—and began rolling it in long strips around his head, north to south, then east to west, back and forth, until he looked like some kind of ugly silver alien. By the time I had finished, not only could he not open his mouth, his head must have weighed five pounds more than it did before I started.

I made sure to leave his nostrils uncovered, though. I didn't want to risk smothering the little prick.

***

When Julie told me, she looked younger and scareder than she had since the night she found out her mom was dying. I had always hammered into her head she could tell me anything, and I guess this was the ultimate test.

She wasn't ready to be a mother—what thirteen year old kid is?—but she had already decided she was keeping the baby. I didn't bother trying to talk her out of it. For one thing, I knew that once she had made up her mind nothing I could say would be able to change it, and for another, I would never force my little girl to do something she would spend the rest of her life regretting, even if I could.

And I would do anything for my little girl.

***

I think the cocky little fuck began to realize he was in big trouble when I took my Sig and walked around the back of his Mercedes, pausing every couple of feet to shoot a new hole in the trunk.

"You should have," Bang—

"—stuck to," Bang—

"—hookers and sluts," Bang—

"—your own age," Bang—

"—and left the children," Bang—

"—alone." Bang!

By the time I had finished, a dozen new holes adorned the gleaming German sheet metal and my boss's punk kid had begun turning a little green around the gills. Shooting up his car was probably a bit of dramatic overkill, but I wanted him to be able to see what was coming.

I checked my handiwork, and while the design wouldn't win many awards, I didn't much care. Sammy and I were the only ones who were ever going to see it.

I popped his trunk and walked to the corner of the garage, where I had placed the portable battery-powered lamp, all charged up and ready to go. Carrying it back to the car, I noted with satisfaction the kid couldn't take his eyes off me. I wondered whether he was starting to get the gist of what I had planned.

Probably not. But he would soon enough.

I crawled into the trunk and secured the lamp in the corner, flipping the switch to make sure the entire trunk would be visible from the inside. It was.

I smiled at the oily little bastard after I climbed out. "You know," I said, "I've been thinking about effecting a career change for quite some time now, and while I hate to leave your old man in the lurch, I'm sure he'll be able to find a new accountant pretty easily."

I grabbed my utility knife and began slicing through the duct tape binding him to the chair. "What you did to my little girl just served to focus me, that's all. It's important to take stock of what really matters in this world every now and then, you know what I mean?"

His wide eyes told me he knew what I meant.

"Anyway," I said, "I know I'm burning some serious bridges here, but as is undoubtedly sinking into even your mostly brainless skull by now, I would do anything for my little girl, and I refuse to see my grandchild grow up in this life, surrounded by losers like you. So you've become dead weight. In more ways than one."

He took a swing at me with his now-free hand and I clubbed him for a second time in the head with my Sig. He crumpled like a folding chair and I shoved him into his trunk, taping his wrists and ankles together after he landed. Then I made sure he was still conscious. I had gone to a lot of trouble to make my point with the little prick and I didn't want him to miss the grand finale.

Then I slammed the lid of the trunk and we went for a drive.

***

It only took about forty-five minutes to get from my home on the outskirts of Boston to my lake house in southern New Hampshire. It was nothing fancy, but was nice and secluded and featured a long, wide wooden dock leading out into a surprisingly deep lake. I knew I'd miss the place, but when you need to make a clean break, sometimes you have to sacrifice.

I drove onto the dock and shifted into park. Got out and opened the trunk. Flipped the switch on the lantern, flooding the trunk with blessed light. Winked at the punk. "See ya around," I said, a little disappointed in myself for not coming up with something better, but dawn was approaching fast and it was really time to finish this thing.

I closed the trunk for the last time, thinking about Sheila and wondering whether my grandchild would look anything like her. I walked in front of the car and checked the front wheels, made sure they were aimed straight out the length of the dock. I sat back down in the driver's seat and picked up a long screwdriver I had placed on the floor.

Then I set the parking brake before shifting into Drive and jamming the screwdriver between the seat and the accelerator. The engine screamed and I leaped out and pulled the handle on the parking brake and the car shot down the dock, sailing gracefully into the lake. It bobbed on top of the water like a gigantic bath toy before beginning to sink, slowly at first, then picking up steam.

I imagined I could hear my grandchild's father screaming, but of course, that was impossible, what with my greasy rag stuffed into his mouth. I pictured him watching the crystal-clear lake water streaming into the trunk through all those bullet holes and smiled.

Eventually the Mercedes sank out of sight and I hurried to my car for the drive back to Saugus. Julie and I had a lot to do. It was moving day.

The End
Allan Leverone is the author of the Amazon bestselling thriller, THE LONELY MILE (StoneHouse Ink), and the thrillers, FINAL VECTOR (Medallion Press) and PASKAGANKEE (StoneGate Ink), as well as the horror novellas DARKNESS FALLS and HEARTLESS (Delirium Books).

Allan is a 2012 Derringer Award winner as well as a 2011 Pushcart Prize nominee. His short fiction has been featured in Needle: A Magazine of Noir, A Twist of Noir, Shroud Magazine, Morpheus Tales, Mysterical-e and many other print and online magazines, as well as numerous anthologies.

He lives in New Hampshire with his wife Sue, three children, one beautiful granddaughter and a cat who has used up eight lives. Connect with Allan at http://www.allanleverone.com as well as on Facebook and Twitter, @AllanLeverone.
The Beginning of the End

~ Paul D. Brazill

The metallic February morning gasped for life and the sun crept furtively over the city skyline. Its sharp rays ricocheted off the windows of the tower blocks, momentarily blinding Sylwia Morgan who, naked, except for a studded dog collar, was smothering her drunken husband with a scatter cushion.

She paused for a moment to catch her breath, before soaking his body with the remains of a bottle of cheap supermarket vodka and half a bottle of gin, and then showered.

After she dressed, Sylwia made herself a light breakfast, finished off the last of the orange juice, and washed her hands for what seemed like the one hundredth time.

Then, she stuffed her duffel bag with cash and paperback books, struck a match, threw it onto the stained sofa and whispered a last goodbye.

As an old advertising jingle corkscrewed through her thoughts, Sylwia checked her passport, carefully closed the front door and walked out onto the cold, granite balcony, her breath trapped tight within her.

The piss-stinking lift rattled slowly to the ground floor and she fought the urge to run through the rusty doors as soon as they creaked open.

She took a few little nips from a bottle of water and walked briskly toward the railway station.

As the long black train eased its way along the tracks, fire engines wailed in the distance and sleep came easy to Sylwia, for the first time in many years.

***

The sunny March afternoon dawdled towards evening and daylight melted slowly into an inky black night. Lighting flashed, thunder boomed and the heavens were ripped apart, just like the corpse at Bobby's feet.

Acid bubbled and burned in his stomach as he threw his brother's body into the freshly dug grave.

He plucked the mobile phone from his leather jacket and pressed redial, holding his breath as he waited for Cath to answer.

'Harry's worm food and you're next,' he said, quickly hanging up before he could hear his wife's screams.

***

Carlos had seen it all.

Twenty years as head barman at The Alhambra Palace Hotel in Granada gave you plenty of experience of human beings at their best, and at their worst. You learned to read people like a book, too.

But the Polish woman that was sat on the balcony, gazing out into the sun drenched hills, her thoughts clearly elsewhere, well, she was a puzzle. A riddle.

Ms. Nowak, Anna, mostly kept herself to herself although she was friendly enough, and pretty too, on the rare occasion that she took of those big round sunglasses. She said she was there for the sights but she spent most of her time gazing off into the distance. Like a war widow waiting for her husband to come back from the trenches.

The arrogant Englishman with the shifty, shifting gaze. He was another one.

Well, he was as clear as day when he was trying to pick up the waitresses. But, apart from that, Mr. Lawrence wasn't your typical tourist. Certainly not here for the sights- he'd never even been to the Palace- and he wasn't one of the many writers that stayed, for sure. Too lacking in curiosity. Maybe he was a businessman but what sort of business, Carlos really wouldn't like to hazard a guess.

He sniffed disapprovingly as he saw Lawrence heading toward Anna.

***

Sylwia could see him watching her and her heart pitter-pattered but it wasn't out of attraction, that was for sure. She'd seen the Englishman around the hotel plenty of times, trying to chat up the waitresses in some painful hybrid of Spanish and English. Flashing his over-stuffed wallet around. Not that he ever got anywhere.

He was scary looking. Like some East End gangster trying to get a bit of culture inside him. Or a retired detective. Or maybe even Interpol. That was what worried her.

There had been nothing about the fire in any of the English papers that she'd managed to find. She hoped that everyone would have put it down to a drunken accident. But she really couldn't be sure that the police weren't looking for her.

She'd bought an iPhone the last time she went into the centre of Granada and was pleased to find that almost everywhere had Wi-Fi, so she could check the news reports regularly. And of course, although there was no bad news, the sense of unease didn't go away.

***

Bobby had always had a thing for the mousy ones. Librarian types.

He'd heard that they were wild in the sack, too. Not that Cath had been at all mousy. Far from it. She looked like a footballers wife. Fake tan and fake tits. Fake everything.

That suited his image, though. You couldn't run protection rackets without a flash car and glam WAG, that was for sure. People need to respect you. Want to be you. And Cath played the part perfectly. Until Harry blasted out of the past. Bobby soon enough blasted him back there, mind you.

Still, while he was trying to lay low, a little spinsterly companion might do the trick and throw any snoops off his scent. Just in case any of Harry's boys were sniffing around. Or Stewie, Cath's nut-job, gun-freak brother, with his flashbacks to Afghanistan and volcanic temper.

Bobby finished off his drink, walked on to the balcony and turned on the charm.

***

It was a star cluttered night but dark enough for Cath to follow Bobby and the woman without them noticing. She couldn't believe her luck.

It had taken her a little over a month to find out where Bobby was. Then again, if he was daft enough to hide out in Spain, with an ex–criminal on every street corner, it was no surprise that someone had spotted him and grassed him up to Stewie so quickly.

Her joints ached as she shuffled up the cobblestone path, keeping in the shadows. Cath had only been in hospital for a week and had started on the physiotherapy straight off. But she still had a while to go before she'd be in tip-top condition again.

Bobby had knocked her out, put her in a cardboard box and buried her alive out in the forest. But she'd woken up and used the diamond on her wedding ring to cut through the box. It had been a struggle, but she'd managed to claw her way out. Though she tore a ligament and had a few cuts and bruises.

She went straight to Stewie. At first she'd planned on going to the police. But then Stewie had a better idea.

Bobby, ever the arsehole, had even changed his Facebook status to 'single' on the same day he'd tried to kill her; he was so sure she was dead. So she managed to keep her escape a secret and Stewie put the feelers out for Bobby once he went AWOL.

And there he was, walking up to the hotel with some frumpy, lesbian type. Was that the best he could get?

Cath checked the gun in her bag and kept on walking. Relaxed. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the beginning of the end.

The End
Paul D. Brazill was born in England, and now lives in Poland. He left school at 16, played bass guitar in a couple of early '80s post-punk bands and started writing flash fiction and short stories at the end of 2008.

He's since had two collections published: -"13 Shots Of Noir" (Untreed Reads) and "Snapshot"(Pulp Metal Fiction).

Pulp Press has published the novella, "Guns Of Brixton," and Paul has also edited two anthologies: "True Brit Grit" (Guilty Conscience) and "Drunk On The Moon" (Dark Valentine Press).
Unforgettable

~ Julia Madeleine

Jackie leaned with her big ass against the cold stone building and released a groan as she ripped the foot out of her pantyhose. Had she just worn knee-highs or stockings she could have pulled them off easily enough. But the capris she was wearing presented a tricky situation with the hose. A man walking passed gave her a curious look as she was tearing the foot out of the other one. She didn't care. She didn't care how she must appear with her long rain-drenched hair she'd spend over an hour fixing, or her makeup; the luminous mascara promising to make her lashes lush and luxurious in seconds now streaking down her face like Alice Cooper. Should have gotten the waterproof shit.

Thirty minutes. That's how long she'd waited for the fucker, downing three glasses of wine and the entire breadbasket, sitting there like a loser alone in the restaurant while everyone stared at her. Granted she was there early, so technically she'd only waited fifteen minutes for him. But it was more than enough time for her to know exactly how the scene was going to play out. It's not like she hadn't been there before, numerous times. Too many to count even. It was always this way for her. But she'd been so hopeful this time. Told herself to forget all the others, put her fears aside. This guy was different. He seemed sincere. Like there could be something real there. And she'd wanted that for so long. Something lasting. A man who would love her back this time--truly love her. She knew, however, as soon as she checked the time and saw that it was five minutes past the time they were suppose to meet. She knew. It would turn out like all the others before him.

Jackie balled up the soiled torn-out feet of her pantyhose and tossed it onto the street where it plopped like a dead fish. She picked up the stiletto-heeled shoes she'd squandered her money on the day before, and continued on up the sidewalk in the downpour. Streetlights soaked the night landscape in grey tones straight out of a box of watercolours; a sickening metallic veneer running together behind her tears like a Dali painting. Cars whipped past on the street heedless to her, their carbon monoxide fumes burning her throat.

She was close now, only two or three blocks away. She could feel her heart pounding through her entire body. Her feet burned with pain, her knees felt swollen having to support over two hundred pounds on her five-foot frame. She cursed all the lattes and late night ice cream, all the days she'd blown off going to the gym. But what did she really expect. She'd been fat all her life. Nothing was ever going to change.

Her feet slapped against the hard pavement, cold and wet, but somehow it felt good. There was a certain satisfaction in her brisk stride, in her anger. This time, she was going to show this low-life son of a bitch. She was going to teach him a lesson he'd never forget. Teach all those fuckers a lesson. Show them all that she was not going to be used and tossed aside any longer, her heart discarded faster than the condoms.

Michael's house was the third one up on the left side, the one with the giant magnolia tree in the yard, like something from a forgotten dream, the dashed hopes of future happiness. She'd been here only two days ago. Their first date and she'd gone and slept with him, something she said she wouldn't do anymore. Somehow she always managed to break that promise to herself. And it always ended this way. They wouldn't call her again. Or if they did, it was to ask her to come over, but not for a date, not to take her out for dinner, not to spend time getting to know her. Just for sex. She was good enough to fuck but not good enough to marry. She might as well start charging these bastards. At least she'd get something out of it other than disappointment.

The house was in darkness; his car wasn't in the driveway. For a moment she hesitated, and checked her phone to see if there was a new text from Michael, perhaps an explanation. Just as she thought, there was nothing. Jackie tucked her phone in the front pocket of her capris, clenched her fists, and stole around the back of the house. She tried the door handle. Locked.

"Of course," she said, jiggling the handle.

From the garden she grabbed a rock and smashed a hole in the window of the door, reaching inside to turn the deadbolt.

"Good thing you don't have a dog." He'd said he was a cat person.

Jackie set her shoes on the kitchen table. The place was pristine, as if it had been staged; he was so clean and neat. She remembered she'd been impressed by that, had thought about what it would be like to move in here. To finally get out of her lousy basement apartment, live in an actual house in a nice part of town. Have a real life with a husband, and children while she was still young enough to bare them.

She grabbed a bottle of red wine from the counter, pulled out the stopper, took a swig, and then turned it upside down on the floor. She splashed it on the walls and on the cupboard doors. Another sip from the bottle convinced her not to waste it.

From the cupboard she pulled down a bag of flour, and spread it over the counters and floor. She upturned a bag of oatmeal, an entire unopened bag of sugar, boxes of cereal, pasta, Uncle Ben's long grain and wild rice, Oreos, syrup, and a large bottle of ketchup which she coated the walls with. She turned the faucet on full, put the plug in the sink. She pulled out the contents of drawers and tossed them on the floor, dumped a can of coffee and a bottle of dish soap on them.

"Not so clean now, is it Michael?" She chuckled, feeling the first flames of revenge unfurling their deadly tongues inside of her, licking at the edge of her heart. From the wine bottle she took a long drink and released a satisfying burp.

In the bottom drawer she found a hammer and took it out. She grabbed a pair of scissors and a knife from the block on the counter. Under the sink she found a bottle of bleach and wandered into the living room, splashing it over his carpet, and his sofa where she'd sat drinking with him, where she'd allowed him to remove her blouse. She tossed the empty bleach bottle on the floor and lifted the photo album from the coffee table; his recent pictures from Italy where he'd gone to visit his family. Said maybe one day he'd take her there. He'd kissed her so tenderly, told her he liked her curves, her dimples, said she was sexy, that she was just the kind of woman he'd been waiting for.

"The rest of the clothes had come of easily at that point, hadn't they you fucking slime dog?" she said, gazing longingly at his smiling photo, remembering his touch, the scent of his skin, his warmth.

She thought he was the one. Sex was just sealing the deal. How could he betray her like this? Make her believe he cared, gave her hope.

Jackie remembered her very first date at age sixteen, how her mother had taken her out and spent money she couldn't afford on a new dress and shoes, how she'd told all of her friends in the neighbourhood that her daughter was going out on her very first date. They'd been so excited. Jackie had sat in front of her mother's mirror in her bedroom while two of her mother's friends curled her hair, and fussed over her makeup. They'd talked about their own dating experiences when they were girls, gave her advise, tips on how she should act, what she should and shouldn't say. They brought her out on the balcony all done up like Cinderella to show her off to the neighbours and wait for her prince to arrive. Her mother had the camera ready, she was so proud. Then as the time ticked past his expected arrival, the worry set in. Then the disappointment, the offering of possible explanations. The condolences. Then the humiliation, the heartache, the self-loathing. And finally depression.

"You're all the same. Cocksuckers all of you."

One by one she pulled the pictures out of the album and patiently ripped them to pieces, tossing them in the air like confetti. From the kitchen she grabbed the hammer and systematically went around the house, smashing pictures, mirrors, his stereo, his flat screen television, his computer, the glass doors in the dining room cabinet. She took the knife, the scissors and the wine bottle and went upstairs to his bedroom. There she opened his closet, took out his expensive suits one by one and shredded them with the scissors. She cut up his shirts, his ties, sweaters, a leather jacket. She found a bag of kitty litter in the hall and dumped it down the bathroom sink and in the toilet and bathtub drain. She turned the faucets in the sink and the tub on full. A few minutes later she was sweating, her breath coming in wounded gasps.

In the bedroom she found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and lit one up. She'd given up smoking months ago. But what did that matter now? Jackie sat down on his bed with the hammer in her hand, puffing on the cigarette, staring at the pile of shredded clothing on the floor. She looked at the knife sitting on the bedside table and wondered how long it would take to bleed out.

The cigarette made her feel sick and she butted it in on the surface of the end table. She took another long drink from the wine bottle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She set the bottle down and picked up the knife, turning it in her hands, studying its gleaming finish. The monstrous horizontal scars on her left wrist peeked out from behind the tattoo that read "courage" in cursive script, meant to camouflage them. On her right wrist, hiding more scars was the word "believe". Sucking in a breath, she made a deep vertical slice in her left wrist, cutting right through the tattoo. Dark blood pooled in the cut and dripped down her wrists. She held her breath, switched the knife to the other hand and made another vertical slice in her right wrist. The sobs bubbled up in her throat, surprising her.

She lay down in the centre of Michael's bed staring up at the ceiling as hot tears leaked into her ears, listening to the hiss of the faucets in the bathroom, the dribble of water on the floor.

This would show him. This would certainly teach him. He'd never forget this moment. It would be etched in his brain for eternity. She would be etched in his brain. He would never recover. She would be unforgettable. Closing her eyes, she listened to the flow of water in the bathroom. Then, a moment later, a vibration in the front pocket of her capris. Her cell phone alerting her to a text message. She lifted her right hand from the sticky puddle on the comforter, feeling her body gravely weakened with the blood loss. She felt exhausted, as if she could sleep forever. Slipping the phone from her pocket, she brought it up to her face and squinted at the message.

Hey sweetheart, really sorry I'm late. Got pulled over. Where are you? Hope you're not too mad at me.

The End
Julia Madeleine is a thriller writer and tattoo artist living in the Toronto area with her husband and teenaged (future tattooist) daughter. For a year she lived in the country on a 30-acre property in the middle of nowhere which became the inspiration for her novel, NO ONE TO HEAR YOU SCREAM. Find out more about her books at www.juliamadeleine.com.
A Freeway on Earth

~ Heath Lowrance

I was running late for work, again.

The alarm clock went off at 6:55 and I slept right through it.

So I jumped out of bed at eight and stumbled straight to the shower. No coffee, no breakfast, no time.

The day before I'd been written up for tardiness, showing up at my desk ten minutes late. The boss had glared at me and took me into her office. "Read and sign," she said, handing the write-up to me across the desk.

So I read, and I signed. What else could I do?

Two write-ups, back to back. That would not look good in my employee file come raise-time.

Ten minutes after I woke up, I was in my car, backing out of the driveway.

I could still make it, provided traffic wasn't crazy this morning. The problem with the freeway was its maddening lack of predictability: some mornings the back-up would be staggering, other mornings it was clear sailing. You could never tell what you were going to get.

Fortunately, traffic was light and everyone cruised along at a healthy clip.

I turned on the radio to get the traffic report, but the announcer was saying something about strange lights in the sky, unidentified flying objects, astronomers mystified. I flipped the dial. The adult rock station was playing "Walking on Sunshine".

I glanced at the dashboard clock. 8:15. So far, so good. I had to be at my desk and punched in at 8:45, and the drive would probably take about twenty-five minutes. I might actually be a few minutes early.

The relief I felt with that realization only cheered me briefly. Following right on its heels was a feeling that was becoming more familiar to me, the feeling that this was all so ridiculous. Was this what I'd thought my life would turn out to be?

The announcer on the radio interrupted the music, saying something about a government response to strange aircraft seen in the skies over the city, and general panic in outlying areas. I was still too groggy from lack of caffeine to pay much attention. I snapped the radio off.

Traffic had slowed up a bit in the northbound lanes, but I noticed that the southbounds were jammed. Odd. Normally southbound was smooth sailing in the a.m. It looked like a mass exodus over there.

I drove along, flicking an occasional glance at the dashboard clock. The blue digital read-out flashed 8:21. It would be close, but I would probably still make it.

And then brake lights came on in front of me and I cursed and slowed down. "Aw, come on," I mumbled. "What now?"

The traffic came to a complete stop. Horns honked, engines revved impatiently.

My lane had stopped moving.

About five cars in front, a Cadillac Escalade had rolled and rested now against the concrete divider with its fat tires groping skyward. People were honking at it, as if it was within the driver's power to right the vehicle and move on.

No ambulance or cops, so it must have just happened. I hoped, vaguely, that no one was hurt. But that didn't stop me from sighing with impatience.

I craned my neck to get a better look at the Escalade. Heat shimmers hung over it, warping the air, and as I watched a little flicker of flame appeared near the exposed gas tank.

"Whoa," I said.

Just under the din of racing motors and honking horns, I heard what sounded like pounding, and someone screaming.

The driver was strapped into his seat, hanging upside down, slamming his fists against the roof and yelling.

"Help!" he screamed. "Somebody, please help me! I'm stuck!" Honking horns answered him.

There was a sudden whoosh sound and the flames ignited into a full-on fire. The trapped man screamed and struggled to get out. The fire spread along the bottom of the Escalade and black smoke started drifting skyward. "Help me! Please!"

I looked around at the other vehicles. Everyone gawked at the burning SUV. Nobody did anything.

I got out of the car and trotted up to the burning Escalade. The heat was intense. Wincing against the smoke, I crouched down next to the smashed driver's side window and said, "Is it your seatbelt? Are you caught on the seatbelt?"

Fire crackled and whooshed above us, and hot sweat pricked at my face. The man said, "Yes! I'm stuck! Please, please help me!"

I squinted into the cab. Sitting on the hot pavement, I stretched my arm as far as I could into the Escalade, fingers groping, until they came in contact with something hot and metallic.

"Hurry!" the man said.

Globs of melted rubber plopped down around us, still burning, and I smelled gasoline. A pool of it began spreading out from the rear of the vehicle and soaked my pants leg. "Hang on," I said. "I think I got it."

I jerked at the buckle. The metal was getting hotter, and sweat poured into my eyes. I fumbled until I finally felt the little latch on the side. I gripped it and squeezed.

The man tumbled down onto the top of the cab. I grabbed him by the wrist, and, bracing my feet on either side of the window, yanked him through. When his upper body was clear, I grabbed him under his arms and dragged him away from the fire.

When we were a safe distance away I said, "You okay?"

He coughed out smoke, nodding, staring wide-eyed as fire ate away at his four-wheeled status symbol. "I... I'm okay. Thank you. You saved my life!"

"You're welcome."

"It was the news on the radio! I heard it, and I guess I just panicked or something. Next thing I knew, I was out of control. You saved my life."

I wondered what the hell he could have heard on the radio that freaked him out that much, but didn't comment. "Naw. Look, the fire's nowhere near the cab. You'd have been all right."

And the morning was split asunder by the deafening roar of the Escalade's gas tank exploding.

The boom shook the freeway under my feet and fire shot into the sky and bits of burning metal scattered.

We both stared in amazement, temporarily deaf in the wake of the explosion, as bits of fire and debris fell out of the sky.

I became conscious again of horns honking and people yelling angrily. "Come on, already!" someone screamed. "Get out of my way!"

I said to the guy, "You should probably get out of the road." He nodded dumbly, and I said, "Okay. I gotta go. Running late for work."

Ambulance and police sirens wailed in the distance. Already, the cars in front of me had edged around in the break-down lane and were skirting past the metal skeleton of the Escalade. The other three lanes were blocked in pretty solid.

The guy, still sitting on the pavement, waved at me weakly, and I honked at him as I drove by.

For a nice stretch, the freeway was nearly empty and I let it unwind at eighty miles an hour. 8:35. I had ten minutes to get to work, and I calculated it would take exactly that long from this point, unless I put on the gas.

I flipped on the radio again, hoping to get some info on what might lie ahead on the freeway, but they were still talking that nonsense about flying saucers and the Army mobilizing and what-not.

I turned the radio off and concentrated on the road ahead. Going eighty, I had no business messing with the radio.

And a good thing I focused on my driving; right as I turned my attention back to the road, where it should have been, a man dashed out in front of my car, waving his hands, and I slammed on the brakes and skidded into the next lane, missing him by inches.

I looked at him, my mouth hanging open, and he said, "Jesus, thank God you stopped!"

I said, "Are you out of your mind? I almost ran you over!"

"It's this woman in my taxi! She's pregnant, and she's gonna have her baby!"

"What?"

"She's gonna have her baby, damnit! Right in my taxi! You gotta help me, I don't know nothin' about delivering no baby!"

I looked over to the side of the freeway and saw his taxi pulled over. The back door was open and a pair of legs stuck out.

I said, "Listen, I don't know any more than you do about delivering a baby, man."

"Please, you gotta help! I can't do this alone, and we'll never make it to the hospital in time! We heard the news on the radio and she just freaked, starting going into delivery!" He clutched my arm through the window. "She's gonna drop this thing any second now!"

I grimaced and glanced at my watch. I had eight minutes.

Damnit.

"Okay," I said. "Let me pull over."

***

A fine sheen of sweat glistened on the woman's forehead and she was doing her best to breathe steadily, just like they teach you in all the childbirth classes.

Her water had broken.

I leaned into the taxi and introduced myself and she let out the most creative string of expletives I'd ever heard.

"Okay, then," I said. "We'll just see about this baby, right?"

I braced myself and peered under her skirt.

I sort of blacked out after that, to be honest.

I remember nothing about it now except for vague images. The woman screaming, the top of a smooth blank head, the taxi driver saying oh lord oh lord over and over again. The woman breathing like a bellows, sweat in my eyes, and then a little pinched red face pushing out and wailing like a banshee.

I pulled the baby out just as sirens screeched behind me and tires squealed and paramedics rushed up.

"What's the situation here?" one said, and I handed the baby off to him.

"The kid's hers, the taxi's his, and I gotta go."

I started back toward my car, and the paramedic said, "Hey, wait a minute!"

I turned around and glared at him impatiently. "Yes?" I said. "Yes, yes?"

The baby kicked and struggled in the arms of the paramedic. He said, "Well, damn. You just delivered this baby like a pro! Are you a doctor?"

"No, I'm a data entry clerk. And I'm really running late, so..."

I gestured toward my car. He only stared at me, so I said, "Late, see? I'm running late and I have to go. Okay?"

He nodded, mouth hanging open, and I got in my car and peeled out.

It would take a miracle if I made it on time now. 8:41.

Traffic still hadn't caught up to me, and there were only a few cars on the freeway. I swerved around them, changing lanes and occasionally hitting ninety miles an hour.

The clock ticked 8:42.

My exit was next. I thumped my fingers on the steering wheel.

8:43.

Two minutes. It was possible.

And then my heart nearly stopped and I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt.

An enormous silver thing blocked every lane.

I heard screeching tires behind me and in the other lanes, a few metallic crunches as cars smashed into each other. The car behind me nudged my bumper and I was jolted forward and snapped back by my seatbelt.

But I didn't bother to look behind me. Directly in front, the silver thing pulsed and hummed, and I realized I was looking at a ship, a huge silver ship that took up the entire freeway.

An actual, honest-to-God flying saucer.

Landing gear like long black spider legs dug holes into the pavement, and the ship whined and throbbed.

"No way," I said.

As I stared, the smooth blank façade of the ship's hull opened up, and a narrow slide descended from it. Bright white light glared from inside.

A shadow came out of the white glare, glided slowly down the slide. Its feet touched the pavement. It looked sort of like a human, but not quite.

It was about six feet tall, thin as a cord, with a huge bald head and narrow snake eyes and blue skin. It appeared to be naked, but there was nothing to indicate whether it was male or female.

There was no honking of horns this time, no yelling or cursing. I glanced around at the other commuters and saw they all looked as stunned as me.

The thing spoke, and for a moment I was amazed at how well I could hear it, as if it had an amplifier in its throat. But then I realized: its voice was in my head. It was communicating, probably with all of us, telepathically.

It said, "Humans. Your day of reckoning has arrived. We are your new masters. From this day forward, you will live only to serve us."

The screaming started then, first as a general murmur of confusion, then an uproar of panic. All around me, people were getting out of their vehicles and running.

The thing said, "Your governments and puny weapons cannot save you, nor your primitive gods. Submission is your only choice."

I looked at my watch. It was 8:44.

Black, vile rage gripped me. Damnit anyway! I was so close, so damn close, I could have made it. I could have made it, if not for this... this alien.

I looked at it, so serene and sinister, its huge silver spaceship behind it.

I popped my trunk. I stepped out of the car and went around to the back. My spare tire was there, some emergency gear, and a crowbar.

I picked up the crowbar.

"You inferior life-forms," the alien was saying, "might have escaped our notice, if not for your stupid minds. Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

It paid no attention to me as I stepped right up to it. I hefted the crowbar in my hand and said, "Hey!"

It faced me, and I was pleased to see a look of mild surprise in its snake eyes. "Human," its voice reverberated in my head. "It is useless to—"

I smashed the crowbar against its skull. "I'm running late, you sonofabitch!" I said. It dropped to one knee, raised its spindly hands to defend itself.

"What are you?" I said, smashing it again. "A Martian? Are you from Mars? Don't they have jobs on Mars?" I swung the crowbar and iron connected against its jaw. I heard a satisfying snap of bone. "Don't they understand on Mars that it's important to get—"

Smash.

"To work—"

Smash.

"On time?"

I slammed the crowbar one last time on its head. The alien had ceased moving and lay in a crumpled blue heap on the slide. Breathing hard, I glared down at it.

Then I nodded and made my way back to my car. I tossed the crowbar on the passenger seat, slammed my door shut, and looked back up in time to see the slide retracting back into the ship, the dead blue alien carried on it.

The hull closed and the spaceship hummed and vibrated. Heat radiated off its surface, and it rose a few feet in the air. The spider legs folded, disappearing into the ship.

And then it raced off into the sky, became a little silver speck of nothing, and was lost in the glare of the morning sun.

I looked at the dashboard clock.

8:52.

I pounded on the steering wheel, screaming, "Oh, you alien bastard! You scrawny blue asshole!"

Slamming the car in gear, I tore off toward my exit.

***

And made it to the office at 8:55.

Ten minutes late.

The boss was already at my desk, looking stern. She had a paper in her hand.

"Read and sign," she said.

What else could I do? I was late. She had me dead to rights.

So I read, and I signed.

The End
Heath Lowrance is the author of the cult novel THE BASTARD HAND, a short story collection called DIG TEN GRAVES, and all sorts of other things that are bad for you. He currently lives near Detroit, Michigan.
Horse Clock

~ K.A. Laity

At one time, there was another horse on the clock, but it fell in love with the chime and they ran off together, so the clock no longer keeps time. The horse that remains behind conceals his broken heart and keeps the ball ready in case anyone wants to play. Sekhmet awaits the desert breezes and the return of the rain.

"How does it begin?" The big hand asked the little hand.

"With laughter," said the little hand, "But it always ends in tears."

"A true to life story then?"

"Life never makes for a good story," the little hand cautioned, slipping backwards from the six to the five. "It's messy, circular and seldom makes much sense."

"Is that why Sekhmet left the desert?" The big hand whispered so the lion-headed goddess might not hear him.

The goddess, however, had keen hearing. A bee's wings ten miles away vibrated audibly in her ears. The hands' words might as well have been trumpeted. "I left the desert because the people of Ra stopped worshipping me."

The big hand trembled at the goddess' address, too abashed to make a peep. The little hand sought for a respectful tone with which to address the fearsome deity.

"When did you become a postcard?" The little hand had pondered the question for so long in her mind that a giddiness vibrated her metallic shape at the thought of learning the truth.

The goddess pondered so long that the hands began to think she would disdain to answer. The gentle sound of Schubert from the flat next door filled the space of time. Just when the little hand had begun to think about telling the big hand that perhaps the goddess slumbered, the answer came.

"1937: I remember it now." The lion-headed deity spoke in sonorous tones that evoked the dusty vistas of the red desert. "I remember someone remarking upon the year, because of the new flying car—the Arrowbile."

"That was some time ago," the little hand offered cautiously.

"After an eternity," Sekhmet said, nodding her golden head ever so slightly, "one does not notice the smallness of time."

The little hand felt emboldened by the gracious mien of the goddess. "Red Lady, can you tell us how you became a postcard?"

The goddess growled softly in her throat. The hands quailed, fearful that her ire had been stirred. But her anger belonged to the past. "Their names were Gaddis and Seif. They took my picture. I was at that time in a statue in the Temple of Phtah in Karnak. I had been there centuries."

The hands exchanged a glance. "Why were you there, oh Great Lady of Terror?" the little hand asked at last.

The goddess of the red desert closed her eyes. Was it sorrow or only fatigue? No, perhaps memories overwhelmed her: the smell of the sand, the warmth of Ra's rays and the cool depths of the stone temple walls where she had stood so long. "The last of my born acolytes had made offerings to me there. Where else would a goddess go?"

"Oh, Powerful One! When did your last petitioner pray to you?"

"They pray to me even now," the goddess retorted, tapping her staff of papyrus once for emphasis on the mantelpiece below them all.

The little hand considered this. The big hand, timid so far, risked a question. "When did your last born acolyte pass away?" He pronounced the words haltingly, conscious of each one's weight.

Sekhmet rewarded his efforts with a beneficent smile. "Oh, centuries—I forget how many. But I remember her last offering, a bowl of red beer, the pomegranate juice sharp and fruity, the colour rich as blood. Though she had grown quite old, she got down on her knees and begged my help as she beat her chest."

"What did she ask for, great Lady of Pestilence?"

Sekhmet barked with laughter. An unusual sound to come from her lion's head, but the mirth reminded them of the fact of her human body and its languorous form. "What do my acolytes usually ask for? Sometimes healing, true—I can heal, the storytellers so often forget." The magnificent one shook her head. "No, she wanted blood. Death to her enemies."

The hands paled, but the little one couldn't help asking, "Did you give her this sacred gift, oh Eye of Ra?"

The goddess smiled. The teeth of a lion—sharp canines, bright points perfect for tearing flesh—glinted in the afternoon light. She held aloft her staff of papyrus. It had become a pale green as she spoke. "I gave her blood indeed."

The hands remained silent, but held their breath, waiting.

Sekhmet stretched her arms wide and spoke words the hands could not comprehend. Her robes, once a dim grey in the black and white photo, had taken on a pinkish hue. The disk upon her head began to shine with the pale light of a midwinter dawn. "I manifested before her, as she cowed, shaking on her knees. It shall be, I promised. I lifted her up and placed a kiss of blood upon her brow."

"And then?" The little hand whispered, breathless.

"I faced the west and I walked out into the desert." A warm scirocco wafted across the sitting room and a fire arose in the coals that no one had lit that day: indeed, it was an electric fireplace. The Lady of the Tombs spoke. "I walked across the sands and I sought out her enemies. I knew them from the thoughts in her head, I knew them from the kiss of blood."

The two hands met at the six and held one another tightly.

"I ripped the first one limb from limb," the Eye of Ra said with grim satisfaction. "I drank his blood, but it did not slake my thirst. I followed the others who ran shrieking to the river, but they could not escape me."

The sun disk upon her head glowed now with the desert sun's heat.

"The small ones I devoured. The few who were left sought refuge on the bridge the ancients had built. They thought I could not cross water. They imagined themselves safe from my wrath."

The two hands gasped.

The Mighty One of Enchantments brandished her staff, the papyrus once more a lush green, dewy with life. "I called forth the awesome fire of Ra's light. The flames surrounded them on the bridge, herding them into the centre until their shrieks formed a threnody of suffering."

"Did you pity them in the end?" The hand could only murmur.

"I did not." The blood red robes of the destroyer flapped in the wind, which had grown stronger and carried with a fine abrasion of sand. "I burned them until their bones lay blackened and the bridge beneath them fell into the river and the crocodiles gnawed the smoky shards."

"She who burns eternally," the little hand said, her voice heavy with awe.

Sekhmet roared. Her white teeth gleamed and red red mouth gaped. She had grown too large for postcard and stepped into the middle of the carpet, her feet smoking on the worn red threads. "Preserved beyond death, I take the throne of Silence."

And she walked through the wall and disappeared from view.

The postcard, empty now, fell from the mantelpiece and into the fire. In a trice, nothing remained but ashes. The coal fire died. The room became silent but for the faint sound of Schubert's etudes.

The little hand cried. "We will never see her again."

"But we will know she is out there," the big hand soothed. "And we have heard her secret name."

The other horse, his heart aching yet, held the ball ready, trusting that love would one day return. Far in the distance another clock chimed.

The End
K. A. Laity: All-purpose writer, Fulbrighter, uberskiver, medievalist, humourist, flâneuse, techno-shamanka, JANE QUIET scripter, social media maven, Pirate Pub Captain, currently anchored in Galway, Ireland http://www.kalaity.com
Disciple

~ Mark Cooper

The room was just what he was expecting – white, pristine and so perfectly sterile. Just what you would think would be inside the monolithic headquarters of the Ashcroft Foundation. He found the light painful – it felt like it was burning something into his mind. Or burning something out of it.

The door to the room opened and a woman entered. He looked at her through creased eyes – he was finding that squinting seemed to blot out some of the pain. She closed the door behind her and looked at him for a moment. He was surprised when she didn't have the now expected initial look of revulsion in her eyes as she appraised him. Her dark hair was cut short, resting just above her shoulders as she held herself with a degree of poise he hadn't seen in, well, a long time. She was dressed in a well-cut business suit – family must be well off he thought as she walked across, the sound of her heels clicking against the hard floor.

She placed her briefcase down on the metal table that he was sitting at – he watched her delicate fingers manipulate the lock and spring the catches free. Her deep brown eyes looked at his, taking in the sight before her. She reached into the metal case and bought out a small device that was shaped like a pen. He watched her press the top of it and a small LED began to flash red.

"I am Samantha Ardent," She said in what he took to be some sort of European accent. "I've been sent to discuss your latest assignment. However, before we start, let's get a few rudimentary details resolved shall we?" He watched her remove something from the briefcase – a thin and very flat sheet of Perspex. Her fingers danced across it and it came to life. "You are Eron Mitchell, correct?" He nodded. "And, in your own words, can you describe what your assignment was."

"Assignment – you make it sound so...straight forward," Mitchell scoffed. He saw that she wasn't budging. "I had volunteered to take part in an undercover operation – part of the New Earth Government's attempt to infiltrate and understand the Rapine Storm in Southeast Asia."

"Understand?" She asked.

"Yeah – you know, if you understand your enemy then you can exploit that knowledge – find weaknesses, predict movements, that sort of thing." Mitchell explained, even though he suspected she already knew that. Everything is on the record. "However, how can you understand an army of unspeakable horrors?"

"And you volunteered for this assignment?" Samantha asked. Mitchell nodded.

"Yeah, yeah," he had this sort of sick desperation in his voice. "I...volunteered." He paused for a moment. "You got a smoke in there?" He indicated towards the briefcase. Samantha opened it again and removed a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He accepted them from her greedily and lit one. It was gone in under a minute. The second one lasted longer.

"You know, they said to me with the right training and the right disguise that the Rapine Storm would accept me. They told me that there would be some horrifying things that I'd have to do, but if I was careful I could avoid most of them. The ones I had to do were just the sacrifices that I would have to make in service for the NEG. Everything I did was going to be for a better world." He took another drag on the cigarette.

"Is that how you still feel?" Samantha asked. Mitchell shook his head.

"Typical fucking psychiatrist's question." He said, lighting up his third cigarette. "They didn't tell me about the rest of it but they had to know – the guys at Intel in the New Earth Government aren't idiots. You know, if they had told me everything then I would never have volunteered." She saw that he seemed to be calming down slightly.

"Okay, well we'll get back to that." Samantha said, making a few notes on the e-pad in her hands. "Now, what happened to the others?"

"The others," Mitchell looked away into the distance, almost as if he could see past the confines of the room. "Well, Medkowski died about three weeks in – we were hit by some NEG Mecha and the unit he was with was wiped out. Vaporised. I don't know what's happened to Celek."

"When was the last time you saw Agent Celek?" Samantha asked Mitchell. He began to scratch his head and a faint trickle of blood flowed from the wound as his sharpened nails dug grooves into his sickly pale skin.

"The last time I saw Celek was about a month ago. It was just before the assault on New Delhi. I barely recognised her – she looked so different, so happy – it was like someone had lit a fire inside her and she had embraced it. She was one of the leaders of the only purely human unit who were fully embraced by the Storm. They called themselves the Children of Chaos – It's a fringe group if you like who suicidally throw themselves into a genocidal fury whenever the Storm wished them to." Mitchell commented, lighting up his fourth cigarette. "If you ever find Celek again, whatever she has become, she's lost to us now – she's beyond us."

"So you believe that she has fully accepted the teachings of the Storm?" Samantha asked the question – anticipating Mitchell's response accurately.

"It's not a question of whether you want to accept the teachings or not – it's a question of having to in order to survive." He spat back, giving her a glimpse of that mouthful of sinister looking teeth. "There's no way that anyone back here could understand – you might think you have a good handle on everything here, but the truth is you haven't got a clue." He finished the cigarette and slumped down on the desk, his head in his hands. "Everything is sanitised for your protection. Once you go out into that world it's just a one-way street – there's no way back." Mitchell said, shaking his head. "The last bastion of heaven lies abandoned and burning."

"Why do you say that?" Samantha asked.

"Because they will get there first – before us – and when we reach it they will have already destroyed it." He looked around the room – the white, sterile room – and shook his head. "You wanna know how come the Rapine Storm move so fast?" Mitchell said. "It's because when they breed they swarm – they just consume everything in their path, like a plague of locusts." He began to laugh hysterically. "And, you know, it's funny, because they see us as a plague too – one that needs to be exterminated."

"You asked me how I feel? Tattoos or some rite of passage I expected. Extreme piercing, body modification and scarification are something else entirely. My teeth are all filed sharp – I don't know how long it's been since I've seen a mirror, but I'm sure I'm not very human anymore." He was crying now, tears running down his face. "Not that I feel it anymore after the things I've done. I've helped exterminate entire villages and brutally tortured and murdered innocent people. I've eaten the flesh of my own kind – repeatedly and regularly. I've raped women to death and done much worse to children. And you want to know how I feel?"

"They can correct the physical scars," she said. "With therapy we can help..."

"Can you make me forget?" He interrupted, looking straight at her, making eye contact for only the second time in their interview. "Can you take away the memories and the nightmares?" Samantha watched him, observing the husk of what was once a proud man in the service of his government reduced to this. A quivering wreck, filled with fear and self-doubt. She opened her briefcase again – the next time he saw her hand, Samantha was holding a pistol and pointing it directly at him.

"Thank you." He murmured, the last glint of humanity flickering in his eyes. She adjusted her aim slightly and fired – the single shot striking his head and killing him instantly. The force of the close range shot knocked his body backwards, throwing him from the chair and to the cold floor beneath her feet. She stood up and looked at him. Apart from a few involuntary twitches, Eron Mitchell was dead.

"The New Earth Government commends you on your service." Samantha muttered as she returned the pistol to her metallic briefcase. She picked up the tiny cell phone and made a call.

"It's Ardent. I need a clean-up crew here." She said as she closed the lid of the briefcase and locked it again. "And we need to remove some elements of Agent Mitchell's operational report – it might deter NEG personnel from engaging in future undercover operations once it's published." Ending the call she took another glance at the body on the floor. Samantha opened the briefcase again and withdrew the pistol. Four more shots were discharged into the body on the floor.

Better to be safe rather than sorry, she thought as she left the room.

The End
Mark Cooper is a 38 year old father of three. A life-long lover of the strange and bizarre, he divides his time between his mind-numbingly boring office job and acting a patron of many of the West Midlands finest comic book stores. If his wife knew just how much his comic book addiction has spiralled out of control it could be grounds for a rather messy divorce. To date he has completed two of his three goals in life; however taking over the world has proven more difficult than he expected.
Punishment/Lola

~ Darren Sant

"The hardest thing in life is to know which bridge to cross and which to burn." – David Russell

Punishment

Gonzalez looked me up and down the disgust clearly registering on his face. He drummed his fat fingers on the desk as he considered my punishment. In his eyes I had fucked up and Gonzalez was not a forgiving man. The many bodies in the foundations of the freeway could attest to that.

"One simple fucking task I give you and you screw it up."

I had the good sense to look down and appear ashamed of myself. Truth of the matter was I'd let the kid go. He was wet behind the ears and he hadn't meant to cross Gonzalez but the fat chump's oversize ego couldn't take losing a simple game of poker in front of his buddies. The order to kill the lad had come almost immediately after the fat fuck's defeat. I'd decided to cut the boy a break and let him do a runner. I knew there would be a dressing down at the least.

"Sorry boss. It won't happen again boss."

"Damn right it won't. What shall we do with him boys?"

He put his feet up on his desk and addressed the room. The mob Captain's sniggered and sneered at me whilst being secretly glad it wasn't them in the hot seat. I shuffled like a naughty boy being humiliated by the school bully.

"Here's what's going to happen. I'm docking you a months pay."

"But-"

"And you get to accompany my wife to the charity ball this Friday. I've been looking for a goddamn excuse to get out of that. You can go in my place."

He took a puff on his huge cigar and exhaled blowing the smoke in my direction.

"You get to buy her the drinks all night out of your own pocket."

The Captain's cracked up laughing at this. It was rumoured that Lola drank like a fish.

"Ok, boss. Thank you boss."

"Now fuck off. Pick her up Friday and wear your best suit."

I heard them laughing and joking as I left the room.

Lola

I tooted the car horn impatiently. The damn woman was supposed to be ready. Now the thing about Lola is that she was half the bosses age. Beautiful and sweet as apple pie. God only knew why she'd ended up with Gonzalez. Surely the money couldn't be worth having that fat pig sweating and grunting on top of her. She tottered from their house on six inch heels and over to the car. Her figure hugging dress accentuated all of her curves. Her ample bosom was doing its very best to escape the tight confines of the dress. My eyes were drawn to the acres of soft lightly tanned flesh. It was going to be a long painful night fighting off all the idiots who didn't know who her husband was. She sat down in the passenger seat beside me. I had expected her to ride in the back like the Queen of fucking Sheba.

"Hi, I'm Lola. Are you John?"

I gave her my most winning smile and dragged my eyes up from her cleavage. Damn no one had warned me she was so good looking.

"That I am and very pleased to meet you Lola."

I held out my hand for her to shake but she leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek. I felt a pleasant little tingle at the contact. Her perfume was subtle and heady. I could see little glinting flecks above her bosom, some sort of body glitter.

We arrived at the Country Lodge and I handed over our tickets. A valet took my keys and parked the car. This opulence seemed at odds with the African charity that would be benefiting from the two hundred dollar meals. We linked arms and I wandered into the place with a beauty on my arm. I felt ten feet tall. She leaned close to me. When I felt her hand squeeze my ass I knew there would be trouble. When the dancing started she insisted we join in. We danced close and slow. Her body pressed close to mine and she blew softly into my ear. I prayed there were none of Gonzalez's friends around. I laughed at the thought. Men like him didn't have friends they had cronies like me. They wouldn't be seen dead here. Charity was for the weak in their eyes.

Two hours later Lola was riding up and down my cock in the back of the car down a side lane. Her breasts pressing into my face. She was gasping my name over and over. As I came I realised that my life would never be the same again.

Sunday

She'd snuck out whilst he was in town losing at poker again and we were headed for the outskirts of the town at speed. My Camaro accelerating away smoothly. Lola's bags in the back of the car were full of her clothes and most Gonzalez's stash of cash. I made a quick stop and mailed an envelope. Some lucky Fed was going to have a VERY good day next week. I stopped briefly and looked back at the town as I stroked Lola's knee. The bridge looked as small and ineffectual as a trestle in the distance. I turned on the radio and an old Kinks number filled the car. We laughed briefly at each and sped away and into our new life.

The End
Darren Sant is a 41 year old writer living in Hull in the UK. His wife, step son and two cats are happy when he is writing because he isn't annoying them.

He enjoys writing flash fiction and longer short stories based on a fiction housing estate called the Longcroft. His writing often features violence but is peppered with humour, emotion and morality. His varied reading tastes are sometimes mirrored by variety in his writing.
Asylum

~ George S. Geisinger

The night is for sleeping, at least for most people. Some few know the night, like some few know the rain and the snow. There are homeless people walking around the streets all over America, all hours of day and night, all across the nation, who know more about the hardships of life than they know about anything else. They are the street people. Those people used to be in the asylums, the hospitals centers, the state hospitals. The fact that they have to be on the street was mandated by the great President Ronald Reagan, when he closed down most of the asylums, except for housing the most severe cases, which were locked away so that they'll never see the light of day again in their lifetime. I was almost one of them. I was doctor committed to a hospital center at the age of thirty. The only reason I was ever released is that I got sober and stayed sober.

I solved my problem with the help of the medical profession, the Program and my Higher Power. I got saved like nobody around me ever had. All my buddies were still out there.

The word asylum means safe haven or sanctuary. The United States once had a network of asylums throughout the country, for people with various kinds of problems with their minds. In Maryland, they were called Hospital Centers. I spent my youth doing life imprisonment in hospital centers, on the installment plan. I was very overwhelmed by a chemical I took from the hand of someone I considered to be a friend when I was twenty years old. It was a pill. We both took half of it. He was fine. I've been sick for the ensuing forty years since. I had no idea what was going to happen to me, until after it happened. By that time it was too late.

I was one of millions of young Americans who got sick participating in recreational chemistry, the thing that most of my generation was doing in my youth. I was trying with all I had in me, to participate in the young people's movement that was going on in the sixties and the seventies. There was an insurrection among the young people in America in the sixties and the seventies. The government disarmed the insurrection with some very subtle machinations. I still don't quite understand how they pulled it off.

Many of us can't really say what the insurrection was about and what we were trying to accomplish, by this time in our lives, except maybe to get our troops out of Vietnam. But there was more to the young people's movement than the protest against the war. The government effectively disarmed and dismantled the entire young people's movement by the most subtle means. Particularly in the disarming of the ideation of the whole thing. The movement failed. We lost our civil war, just like Robert E Lee lost his. Many more young people lost their lives in the process than just the four kids the National Guard killed at Kent State. Those few deaths were a drop in the bucket, compared to the price our generation paid all over the country.

The United States Government is a very intelligent, powerful machine. They let us all ruin our selves, or go on with our lives. I had to be a ruined man until I was over thirty, before I could finally go on with my life. Even at that I needed a lot of help. There were many times I almost didn't make it, like so many of my friends didn't.

Most of those people, who are not in some sort of premature grave, are now walking the streets of this country in all kinds of weather, at all hours of the day and night, utterly disenfranchised by the federal government and the general population. They do not have their medications situated, sometimes. Sometimes, they're starving. They're begging nickels and dimes on street corners, as I once did. I've been there. Some say they're making fortunes on street corners panhandling, but I never got nearly as lucky as all that. Ronald Reagan kicked us all out into the weather for no better reason than to take some short cuts in the national debt.

His trickle down economics doesn't work.

I'm one of the lucky ones. I have more resources beyond my disability check and my crafting income. I found out that what I need to do is to stay away from all sorts of alcohol, which was the center of the snowball of my mental in-capacities. If I don't drink alcohol, I have a fighting chance at having a decent life, in spite of the fact of having all of my other complications in life. I was able to give up all the substances that were making me sick, after I'd been a little older than thirty. I got clear of substances, and have been well situated ever since. I'm not in hospital centers any longer, I'm in assisted living. Sure, it's still an institution, but it's a nice place. Very comfortable.

I still have a chemical imbalance in my brain. Once you get that, you've got it for a lifetime. There is no known cure for a disrupted brain chemistry. It's a chronic condition, treated and regulated by medications that take the edges of the illness, if you can get a hold of the meds and properly administer them, but there's no known cure. Once in awhile people like me need to go to psych wards to get our medications adjusted. The medications the doctors now have are getting to be more effective stabilizing people's mental status. Some of us are free to live relatively natural lives, even though we have to make trips to the psych ward in the general hospitals to get an oil change and a tune up every now and then.

A guy like me gets to the point where he is so confused he needs medical help, but most of the time I'm relatively successful at getting along in the world, for a change, unlike I was when I was as a young adult. Sometimes, they have to come after me with a butterfly net, but that's the exception now, not the rule. I've learned to submit myself to hospitalization when someone thinks I should go. I take someone else's word for it.

I've been in various types of asylums my whole lifetime. Most of the older ones where once farms, where the patients raised their own food and were given jobs to labor at to earn their own keep, back in some time of antiquity that I only happen to know about second hand. Thus, where the name funny farm got started. Laughing academy. The rubber room that is not rubber, it's cinder block, with an indestructible mattress on the floor. The one thing that makes a hospital center a laughing academy was that it is such a boring place to be, that we hang around and tell each other all sorts of ridiculous jokes, and laugh until we cry.

I would run away from the asylum, irrationally, because that was just the way I did things. I've been a runaway my whole life. I would be daydreaming about something or other, and off I'd go. It was easy for me to get away. The fence in the courtyard out back of the ward was only waste high. A mild hop over the chain link, and I'd be on my way.

I was thinking about Biblical stories, people in the Old Testament, and how they obeyed God. I wanted to obey God in the same way, but I was too sick to understand any of it. It was all delusional on my part.

I'd go running on down the field, and across the highway wading thru the mud in the little run, in the gully, get out on the highway where the speed limit was 50mph. I'd get my shoes wet wading in the shallow run. I could easily have gotten killed, running like a wild animal in the road that cannot think straight. I think that must be something like why it is that I feel such a kinship with wild deer.

I'd go up across the cornfield on the far side of the highway, and down the deer trail thru the woods, to the park. I had to take off my shoes, though. God said it was Holy ground. I don't have any argument with God. He sent me to go skinny dipping in the Piney Run Lake, at the old recreational park, where there were people trying to catch fish in their small boats. I ruined their day for some reason I don't fully understand. Couldn't find all my clothes when I wanted to get dressed and go back to the hospital center, either.

When I got back to the ward, I tried to talk to some old lady in the parking lot, but she said I wasn't dressed right. That was an accurate statement, too. All the clothes I could find to put back on over at the recreational park, were my underwear and my shoes. When I'd left the hospital grounds I'd had more clothes on than that, but I couldn't find them when I tried to get dressed again.

The second time I ran away, I went exactly the same way to get out of the asylum, but I was certain to keep my clothes on this time. I didn't try to go into the water the second time around, at least not in the Piney Run Park. I went wading in the run a little ways passed Piney Run, just to keep off the roads. I was a little afraid someone was looking for me.

Later, while I was still trying to get away from the enemy, I was trying to signal home, on my bio-radio, that I needed a dust-off to get out of there, back to sanctuary. I'd been watching too many movies. There isn't any radio in my head. No one was going to send me any helicopter. I thought they would, but it wasn't true.

All I got was a couple of heavily armed men in an old Gremlin, in plain clothes, asking me what my name is. I couldn't tell them. I was too scared. They finally told me they were police, but I didn't believe them until they got me in their old car, called somebody on their radio. I admitted to being the escapee from the asylum, asked the one in the back seat with me, for a cigarette and a light. He turned out to be an OK guy. He gave me a cigarette and a light. I was relieved. Hadn't had a smoke ever since I'd left the hospital center. By the time I got caught, I just wanted to go back.

They took me back to the hospital, and one of the aids tried to kick me in the cubes, called me a jackass. He missed. But he was right. I should not have gone running off like that, especially not twice. I was very delusional.

I'd met some girl back home at my church, who kept telling me that I'd once prayed the most real prayer she'd ever heard. She was a nice girl. I met her when I was living in the city. Sometimes she'd come to see me at the hospital. One time she came, I told her I wanted to touch her Knowles. She wouldn't let me. That was her name, too. Knowles. I guess she wasn't in the mood to play touchy feely games with some guy in the state laughing academy.

The next time she came to see me, she brought another guy with her. We didn't sit in the dining room that time, either. We went outside and sat on the grass. The guy had a couple of guitars. He told me the girl wasn't going to keep coming out to the hospital to see me. I couldn't figure anything to play with either one of the guitars, either on my own or with him playing along. He was right. Miss Knowles stopped visiting me after that. I don't know what the big deal was in the first place. She seemed to think I was someone other than who I am.

The End
George Geisinger studied music education in the early 1970's at Appalachian State University in North Carolina, but after two years of study he had a disastrous turn of health, with which he has struggled for a lifetime. Mr. Geisinger, a naturally creative person, composes music for classical guitar, as well as for piano, writes poetry, fiction and autobiographical stories. In the late 1980's, Mr. Geisinger achieved an Associate in Arts degree in the liberal arts from Catonsille Community College, in Maryland. He studied creative writing there, and subsequently published short stories and poetry in literary and "little" magazines over a period of several years through the '80's and '90's.
No Turning Back

~ McDroll

The Glasgow bus juddered up the hill and out of Campbeltown leaving behind the little town's ever dwindling fishing boats and the many pubs that helped drown the memories of those who could no longer earn a living from their traditional trade.

Brian settled down in his seat near the back of the bus and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. He was still shaking a bit but he'd made it, he'd bloody well gone and done it! He exhaled and jabbed Martin in the ribs with his elbow.

"We fuckin' did it mate!" Brian had never been this high just with excitement.

"Sh! Not so loud you eejit! You never know who's on the bus, we're not in the clear yet. Don't act so hyper, just chill." He stuck his head back into his Nuts magazine, concentrating on Cheryl Cole's massive apparatus.

"I need the bog. I always need to go when I get nervous." Brian wriggled about on the seat.

"You what? Just sit still for a wee while, we've just got on the bus."

"I can't, I've got to go the now."

Martin watched his friend as he headed off to the toilet, wondering why on earth he'd been persuaded to take him along in the first place. The boy was a liability. Just a wee scrap really, you would swear at nineteen the hormones still hadn't kicked in, not even a wee bit of bum fluff on his top lip. His body was just a canvas for tattoos and piercings, scratch the surface and there was not a lot there.

"'Scuse me." Brian was back.

"Right, sit down and shut up."

"I'm bored. It's a long way to Glasgow, I need something to do. Give us your mag."

"No, fuck off."

Brian stared out the window at the passing green fields and the shore beyond and watched the waves blasting off the rocks. His heart had slowed down a bit but he was still feeling pretty pumped, still amazed that Martin had let him come along. This was the biz!

"Have you got anything to eat? I'm hungry."

Martin opened up his backpack and brought out a Tesco sandwich and a bottle of Pepsi Max. "This is mine, but you can have it if you shut up."

"Thanks pal." Brian grabbed the plastic package and tore it open.

"I'm not your pal."

"Sorry, I just thought..."

"You're not here to think. And stop squirming about."

"I'm trying."

Martin looked around the bus to see if there was anybody he recognised. You just never know who might be on your tail even when you're being incredibly careful. Looked mostly like pensioners who probably weren't going the whole way to Glasgow, a few students heading back to uni, nobody very interesting. Looked safe enough.

"How long 'til we get there Martin?"

"How am I supposed to know, I'm no' the driver."

"You must have a rough idea, I've never been on the bus before. I don't go to Glasgow very much, no' enough dosh. Know what I mean?"

"We'll get there about two, OK?"

"Two? That's three hours! Oh man, I don't think I can do it..."

"What?

"I don't think I can do it, I'm really uncomfortable...you know."

"What? Are you mad? Maybe if you stopped wriggling about and just sat still it would help. Anyway, you haven't got any choice now so put up and shut up." Martin closed his eyes and rested his head back on the seat. He would never have agreed to take Brian but beggars couldn't be choosers and the lad was the best that was on offer. Hopefully they'd get to Glasgow in one piece and that would be that, mission accomplished, but the next three hours were going to be very long.

"I feel sick."

No reply.

"Martin, I said I feel sick."

"You can't be sick."

"I am. I always get sick when I sit at the back of a bus."

"Don't be stupid."

"I think I'm going to spew. I've done it before when we went on a school trip to the zoo. I chucked up all over Jimmy McEachern, you know who I mean, he's in the Bar-L now. He was eating a cheese and pickle sandwich and I just threw up all over him and it ran down the passage of the bus and my whole class started to scream and then the teacher, Mrs. Gillespie, remember her, started to shout at me but it wasn't my fault. I didn't know I was going to be sick. They all hated me after that because the bus stank all the way to Edinburgh and three other kids were sick because of the smell and I got the blame."

"Enough."

"Sorry, I was just saying..."

Martin had known Brian since he was a wee lad and knew that there was a lot of truth in what he said. None of the kids had ever liked him at the school and he was forever getting beat up, you know the type of wee boy that never had the sense to understand that the big boys don't want him around. They end up roughing him up for fun just to see how much punishment he'd take.

The bus stopped at Lochgilphead and Martin watched closely as people got off and came on. The bus stop was just across the road from the police station and although this was neither here nor there it made him nervous. He'd had the pleasure of several nights in that cold wee cell waiting for his solicitor to arrive. Place was always chankin', one of those ancient old cells with no home comforts, not like one of those private prisons with Sky Sports 24/7 in each cell and your own cludgie.

"Don't look, keep your head down," Martin mumbled to Brian.

"Why, what is it?" Brian craned his neck to try and catch a look at what Martin had noticed.

"Are you as fuckin' stupid as you look? I said don't look!"

"Eh? What is it though?"

"Just keep your head down and let me do the talking." Martin rolled his magazine up and smacked Brian across the knees.

"What was that for? That hurt!"

"Just a reminder that this is serious, we're no' off on our holidays."

The man in the black leather jacket that Martin had been watching sat down a few seats in front of them.

"Right, it's OK, he didn't see us but just hold your wheesh."

"Who is it?" Brian whispered.

"I told you to shut up."

"Aye, but who is it?"

"If I tell you, will you shut up?"

"Aye, I promise."

"It's Malkie Clark. He's just out of the big hotel and I haven't seen him since I was in there myself. I don't want him to see me because he'll want to know what we are up to."

"But we're just on the bus going to Glasgow. What's wrong with that?"

"Don't be stupid, do you really think he'd believe that? He was up to his neck in it before you were out of your nappies."

"I suppose."

Brian glanced at Martin and wondered how you could get to be that tough. Must be great when there's nobody ever going to laugh at you or make a fool of you. Although he was only about six years older, he was a man to Brian's boy; had seen the world, picked up countless women, swallowed most substances, inhaled everything else and lived to tell the tale.

The bus revved up and started off, heading for the picturesque town of Inveraray along the shore of Loch Fyne.

"What are we going to do when we get to Glasgow Martin?"

"You know what."

"Aye, I know that, but what are we going to do after? Could we go and see a film?"

Oh Christ! He thinks it's a school trip!"

"No I don't, I'm not thick. I just thought seeing as we're going to be in Glasgow we may as well make a day of it, see a film, grab a pizza, you know."

Brian looked up at Martin's face, hoping that his mood might lighten. He used to be terrified of Martin, would cross the street if he saw him coming but then after Jim Sweeney got nicked and put away on remand, Martin was on the lookout for somebody else and one night in the pub he'd just agreed to give Brian a try. Easy as that. If he was lucky, this could become a regular thing and would be an excellent wee earner. Happy times!

The bus started to slow down and Brian looked out the window to see what was happening. They'd just got through Furnace and were heading up the hill towards the Auchindrain outdoor museum.

"Oh shit, Martin! It's the fuzz."

"What?"

"It's the polis Martin. They've got a van and they're wavin' down the bus."

"Right, don't panic. Just act as normal as you can. Just sit still."

The driver pulled over to the lay-by and opened the door to let the officer on. Everybody on the bus watched intently to see what was happening and a few people started to mutter loudly that they'd better not be late in Glasgow.

A big sergeant stood at the front of the bus, "Sorry for the disruption folks, this won't take long, it's just a routine check and nothing to worry about. We're going to bring the sniffer dog on for the sole purpose of detecting those with drugs. Please don't worry, the dog is well trained and won't touch you."

"Oh fuck."

The dog made its way down the bus, stopping now and then to sniff at a bag and a jacket. Suddenly its ears pricked up and it started to pull at its handler, sniffing frantically under a seat.

"OK boy, what is it? Sir, could I ask you to come with me?"

The man got up, none too pleased.

"Malkie Clark...if I live and breathe!" the older of the two police officer's greeting was answered with a long sigh from the well-known face.

All three left the bus and a discussion took place at the side of the road with much shaking of the head from Malkie before handcuffs were brought out and he was led to the back of the van.

The younger police officer came back onto the bus, "Right folks, thanks very much for your time, you can get on with your journey."

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, sweet fuck! You are one lucky wee fucker Brian."

"Oh man, I thought I was done for there. I tell you, this bloody package can't come doon my arse quick enough."

And with that parting shot Brian waved a farewell to the police as the bus went on its way.

The End
McDroll is the author of the serialized crime novel THE WRONG DELIVERY and the short story collection KICK IT TOGETHER, a crazy mix of crime, drama, noir and comedy. The charity anthology THE LOST CHILDREN was the culmination of a 50th birthday project that benefits Protect in the U.S. and Children 1st in Scotland through sales on both sides of the Atlantic. Other short stories by McDroll are littered around the online world, most notably in Shotgun Honey, Flash Fiction Offensive and Near 2 the Knuckle as well as in the anthology OFF THE RECORD. She interviews authors, reviews, and blogs at www.imeanttoreadthat.blogspot.co.uk
The Importance of Blood

~ Edith M. Maxwell

Jody and me. Twins. Identical. Same blood, same DNA. But we're different, too.

Funny how me and Jody both ended up volunteering at the Doris Greenwell hospice. Jody's just doing it to get ahead. Says she wants to do something with her life. Like the rest of us don't.

"It'll look good on my med school application, Katie," she tells me over moo-shu pork at Christmas. Which is pretty pitiful for a holiday, seeing as how it's just the two of us at Panda North. We're all that's left since Dad's heart attack and Grandpa Jim's passing. Mom split a long time ago.

Me, I'm volunteering for Grandpa Jim. Well, that and the probation office. I couldn't be there for Grandpa when he died because of being temporarily incarcerated. I asked them to let me out, but no deal. And Jody was too busy to wait with him for death. I can wait with other old men, though. I hold their hands, read to them, feed them their ice cream even when that's all they agree to eat. Grandpa loved pistachio. I remember his smile when he tasted that sweet, green bite. The Greenwell is cozy, too. It's just a house with bedrooms. Good for people about to die.

Jody's the driven one of the two of us. She always did need to be better than me. Maybe because she's four minutes younger. Better grades, better boyfriends, better hair. So now she's going to be a fancy doctor. Well, good for her. I intended to get my Associate degree, because I like learning stuff. But I didn't quite finish community college, due to circumstances beyond my control. Jody makes sure everybody else knows how great she is. To her, she's always right and I'm always wrong. Like the day she comes over and lets herself in right when I'm shooting up. I mean, I do enjoy recreational drugs on occasion. What's wrong with that?

"What's this?" Jody picks up the syringe and waves it at me. She looks disgusted.

"It's a syringe, Missy Pre-Med. What does it look like?"

Anyway, I'm the strong one, the twin with a black belt in karate. I mean, we're both shrimps, but I'd like to see Jody do 50 straight-back push-ups on her knuckles on a cement floor. She's more of a wimp. Plus, the blood connection isn't as important to her as it is to me. That business with Grandpa really bothered me.

So this guy Douglas is in room 4. No, wait, they call it the Island room. Like it was in freaking Hawaii or something. It's got green palm trees and an ocean painted on the walls. Looks pretty nice, actually, especially at Christmastime in Massachusetts. He's an old guy – same kind of long white hair as Grandpa, and the same electric-blue eyes.

"You ever been on a real island?" I ask him.

His voice is kind of weak, but he smiles as he says, "Never set foot on an island in my life."

That makes two of us, but he sure isn't going to get the chance now. At least he has some nice scenery to look at. No green outdoors around here.

Douglas' entire family consists of the son who never comes to visit. He stopped in once, a dark-haired dude with really deep lines between eyebrows that looked like the ones on those plastic glasses you wear at Halloween. He didn't seem to actually like his father very much. I don't get it. This so-called son clearly doesn't understand the importance of blood, or he'd be here more. Tons more.

I told him, like I tell a lot of people, "Family's important, you know." He didn't appear to care. I don't understand people like that.

Douglas has maybe a month, maybe a week to live. Some holiday season. Metastasized melanoma. Basically nobody survives it. He used to be a professor in California, taught languages and stuff like that. Pretty famous, he let on once. Then he moved back here to Springfield, where he grew up. He thinks it's fun to get me to pronounce sentences like "The farmer's kittens are bad" and "Milton is in the area." He likes me.

He's got a big book on the windowsill. The American Encyclopedia of Regional English. Says he wrote it. I check out the book one night after he's asleep and the nurses have gone home, except for George on the desk. It's quiet in the room, with a little moonlight making those palm trees look almost real. A pile of cash is tucked in the book. Like several dozen 100-dollar bills.

Douglas is already on morphine for the pain. They keep it at a minimum so he can still look out the window during the day. And pretend to read. He's having trouble concentrating these days, because of the tumor in his brain. He tells me he just wants to go, before his mind precedes him.

I sign out of my volunteer shift. I walk home in the cold to my crappy apartment, thinking. I am currently almost out of recreational substances of any kind, so my thoughts are actually pretty clear.

I look up a few things on the Internet. It's important to stay current in your field, even if you're a volunteer. The Hospice & Palliative Care Federation conference is in North Carolina pretty soon.

I call my twin the next day. "Yo, Jody, you got a night shift at the Greenwell next week?" I bounce on my heels while my sister looks up her schedule. "I can take it off your hands if you want."

"I can give you January 12. But why do you want it?"

"I wouldn't want to miss Douglas' death." Most clients at the Greenwell die at night. I say I'll change the sign-up sheet next time I'm in. "Hey, can you loan me a few bucks until payday? We're family, you know, even if you don't think it's that important."

"Forget it, Katie."

That's no surprise, but it still pisses me off.

I sign in as Jody on the 12th with a little extra something in my backpack. Everybody says they can't tell us apart, plus I wear the knit beret she made me that matches hers. I walk home eight hours later. Douglas went peacefully. Right before the next shift, as it turned out.

I was just being an angel of mercy for Douglas. He really wanted to die. He told me so. Isn't extra morphine a dying man's best friend? All I did was send him to a happier place. I'm happier, too, with those Ben Franklins. Plus I took the book. Maybe I'll learn some new stuff. And they'll never figure out it was me. The fee I paid YourAlibi.com placed me in Charlotte. Registration receipt for the conference, boarding passes, the works, including a phone contact for me there.

They arrest Jody for murder a couple days later. Even though we have identical DNA, we don't have identical fingerprints, which makes latex gloves such an awesome invention. I wore two pair, just to be safe. And, okay, I did leave the coffee mug she used at my house next to Douglas' bed. And the syringe she'd picked up that I repurposed for Douglas' instrument of dispatch. Probably still has a little morphine in it. Jody tries to tell them I took her shift but they don't believe her. Blood never was important to Jody.

The End
Edith Maxwell writes mystery fiction and has published short stories in several Level Best Books anthologies. The first book in her Local Foods Mystery series,"A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die," will appear in Spring, 2013, from Kensington Publishing. She can be found at http://www.edithmaxwell.com, and on twitter and facebook. She also writes the "Speaking of Mystery" series under the name Tace Baker.
The Last Injustice

~ Benjamin Sobieck

Grandpa is supposed to be dead. Mom and Dad said he died last night. They lie a lot. Like maybe right now. He's standing at the foot of my bed.

"Hey, are you awake?" Grandpa says. He's still got on all the hospital gear. Wires dangle like vines down the crusty jungle of his seafoam green hospital gown.

Is this what ghosts look like? I expected different. I always thought they'd be like a 3D movie character. Present, but hollow. This is something else. More lifelike. Like a meat shadow.

I pull the covers over my eyes. I'm 15, but I don't care if you're 150. You're going to act like a scared puppy at the sight of a ghost.

"Relax, kiddo," Grandpa says.

I stay still under the covers.

"Hey. Hey," Grandpa says and shakes the covers.

I'm surprised he can do that. Unless...

He's not really dead?

I slip an eyeball above the covers. He's smiling with that loose, gaping jaw. As real as the heap of crap on the floor Mom is always bugging me about.

"Stop acting like I'm some sort of ghost. I ain't. Not yet, anyway," Grandpa says.

I pull the covers off, embarrassed I chose Batman pajamas. Not that Grandpa cares about looking cool, but still.

"Mom and Dad said you died last night at the hospital," I say and touch his hand. It's as cold and dead as a winter sidewalk.

"Yeah, I was the one who told them that. Felt good to be dead," Grandpa says. "I play a pretty convincing doctor on the phone. Wasn't too much of a stretcher. I'll be a goner for real soon enough."

"Wha...?" I start to say.

"Don't worry about making sense of things. Just know we're going for a car ride tonight. Keep it quiet, though, we don't want to wake your parents," he says.

I look back at the bed and around the room. "Grandpa, I have school tomorrow. Shouldn't you be back at the hospital?"

"I'll go back to the hospital and die like I'm supposed to. But tonight, I need to show you something. It's important. You'll be back in time for school, I promise."

Grandpa takes my hand. His fingers are still cold by the time we reach his Cadillac in the driveway. My pink palms, heated by the kiln of sleep, can't warm them up.

He starts the car up and struggles with the gear shifter. I help him put it into "D."

"Where are we going?" I say.

"You'll see," Grandpa says. He turns on the radio and cranks the golden oldies until the mirrors shake.

* * *

2 a.m.

Grandpa stops the car next to the house Mom and Dad say to not go near. It's the only one in the neighborhood with all its lights on at this hour.

Grandpa gives me a wobbly grin and heads out the car door. A stray wire gets snagged in the hinge, and he cries out. I shake it free. He tries to say "thank you," but chokes on something. Opts for a thumbs up and a wink instead.

A few minutes later, he's back with a plastic container. Like the ones that have aspirin.

"Never you mind what this is," Grandpa says.

* * *

2:12 a.m.

Grandpa rolls the car through a stop sign, then passes out.

It's not the first time. It happened a lot before he went to the hospital. Mom says him passing out was a wake-up call. His health headed south after Grandma died, but he never wanted to admit it.

I'll have nightmares about his brief comas to the day I die. It's like having a corpse dropped in front of you over and over again.

I shake his arm. It feels like how a tomato gets when it's past its prime. Spongy, like you could put your fingers right through it.

I wonder if my learner's permit would let me drive with a comatose passenger. I don't have my license yet. Not that Grandpa would chastise me for ignoring the law. He never thought most of them were worth the trouble.

"I...ah...sorry about that, kiddo," Grandpa says. "Guess I need one of these pep pills."

"I want to go home," I say.

"Ah, uh, you will. Don't worry," Grandpa says. He reaches into the plastic container and dumps a few capsules into his mouth. It only takes a minute for red to swirl like steam in his gray cheeks.

"Ohhhh, yeeeaaaahhhhh. That's better. Now I'm ready," Grandpa says.

He floors the gas. The car skirts down the road like a wandering wind.

* * *

2:46 a.m.

We pull into Guardian Angels Senior Villa. It's where Grandpa lived before going to the hospital.

"Here's something you won't learn at school tomorrow," Grandpa says and kills the car. "I lived in this shit hole for the last year. Every Friday we'd play Bingo. And every Friday this dirty bastard named Al would cheat. I don't know how, but he won at least one round every time."

"So?" I say.

Grandpa was always one to play peacemaker, something Mom told me we'll never replace. The family will splinter at the seams, she says. Peace never looked like this, though. Grandpa used to pop egos, not pills.

"So? So you can live an entire life doing the right thing. Playing by the rules. But one day, you're going to realize it's bullshit. All of it. The rules are there to benefit certain people. Mostly, the cheaters," Grandpa says.

"You're not going to hurt this Al guy, are you?" I say.

Grandpa keeps talking like I'm not there. He says, "There's no justice in this world any more. Things aren't fair. And they never get made right."

"Grandpa, please, what's going on?"

Grandpa heads out of the car. I stay inside, not wanting to be seen in Batman pajamas.

A minute later, I hear a muffled thud. Then a sound like someone cracking a hard-boiled egg against the counter. I look to one of the dorm windows across from the car.

No way.

Grandpa is pounding the skull of some old guy - Al, I assume – against the inside of the dorm window. I see a web of cracks spread like infected veins across the glass.

He's lost it.

* * *

3:05 a.m.

Grandpa collapses into the driver's seat. He slurps at the air, struggling to get a deep breath. The cabin stinks like the parts inside of him that are already dead.

Once again, he passes out. And once again, I get him awake. Only this time, I have to pound on his chest.

Tears pool in my eyes. This isn't how I want to remember Grandpa, all doped up and angry. He's not the same person who took me fishing, taught me to work with tools and explained why the news was always wrong. This was someone - something - else.

"Remember that time we were at the lake, and you learned how to swim?" Grandpa says as he becomes lucid again. He reaches into the plastic container.

"Yeah, that was a fun summer," I say and wipe my eyes. That was back when Grandma was around. Grandpa, too.

Grandpa goes silent. Did he die?

No, his mind slipped along with his foot. It pummels the gas pedal. We're off into the night again.

* * *

3:23 a.m.

We pull into another house. This one I don't recognize. Grandpa does, though. He produces a wad of cash.

"You're not buying more drugs, are you?" I say.

"Nope. The woman who lives here took good care of me in the senior home. Got paid shit to do it, too. Never complained. Always had a smile on her face," Grandpa says. "Some people who get screwed, they need a bit of justice."

"Wasn't she just doing her job?"

"Exactly. Meanwhile, the fatties at the top collected what she should be making," he says and opens the car door.

I hide the jealousy in my eyes after Grandpa comes back empty-handed.

* * *

3:30 a.m.

As the curtains of sleep unfurl onto my eyes, I hear Grandpa mumble something as the car stops. "Nothing to learn here, kiddo. It's that jerk over there who needs a lesson."

I wake up a few minutes later. Grandpa coughs like cannon. He's slapping himself on the chest. I try to help, but he pushes me away.

"It's no use," he says through an oily filter of blood and tissue. "Don't get my lung juice on you."

* * *

3:45 a.m.

I slip back into consciousness to see Grandpa's hospital gown flapping like a flag in the wind. His frail form squats next to a political sign in someone's yard.

* * *

3:52 a.m.

Grandpa hangs out the open window. He says into a speaker, "You heard me. I want all the bacon, cheese and onions you can stack on that bad boy. Then, double it."

* * *

4:27 a.m.

I don't wake to a noise. It's the lack of it. The car is stopped.

I look out the window. Nothing beyond the thick guard rail but a shade of night that matches the feeling in my gut. We must have stopped on the short bridge on the way back to my house.

Grandpa isn't in the car.

The dread in my stomach boils into panic that spreads to my limbs. My excited hands slap the door handle until it opens. The white light from the moon stencils the outline of a man slumped over the guard rail.

"Don't do it, Grandpa," I say as I run up to him.

His collapsed form inches back to life like a raft inflating. "Hey, kiddo. I ain't jumping over no bridge," he says.

I give him a deep hug, more for my sake than his. I'm not sure his body can take it. Not that it matters much.

Grandpa stares at the moon. "I should've gone first," he says. His voice is clear and strong for the first time tonight. "If there was any justice in this world, I would've died before Grandma. I didn't think it'd be this bad."

"I miss you," I say.

"Yeah, I know. I haven't been the same since. Not the guy who taught you to swim or read the paper or whatnot. I'm sorry for that. It's just more than can I can deal with. It's not fair."

Fair? I wanted to tell him all about fairness. That I was angry. Had been for a while now. Why did he have to change into this animal? Why did he stop caring about his family? Why couldn't he be the Grandpa I knew from before Grandma died?

That's when I realized it. Grandpa isn't Grandpa without Grandma. They'd been married for 55 years when she died. He couldn't reset himself.

I remember Mom and Dad saying the doctors thought Grandpa had an excellent chance of beating his illness. All the medicine and treatments were there. Only thing missing was a will to get better. Grandpa didn't want to live any more.

"You don't have to apologize. I knew you took Grandma dying hard. We all did," I say.

Grandpa shakes his head. "No, it wasn't right to treat people like I did. Sour to everyone who crossed my path. There's no excuse."

Now that our guards are down, I say, "I'm still not sure why you brought me out tonight. I mean, it was cool to see you do all those crazy things, but still. If you were trying to teach me something, I didn't get it."

Grandpa chuckles. "Really? You mean poppin' dope and beating the snot out of a Bingo cheat isn't a solid lesson?"

"Uh...no," I say.

Grandpa sighs and says, "It's not like when I taught you to swim. It's something else. You can't see it unless you lose it. Guys like me, we see too much of it."

"What is it then? What are you trying to show me?"

Grandpa smiles in a way that creases his face like a frown. "I hope you never have to find out."

We sit on the pavement and stare up at the stars. I wait until I can't hear him breathe before calling 911.

I slip Grandpa's keys into the ignition and drive toward home, the first time I've done so by myself. As the fiery red lights of the ambulance burn the bridge behind me, I wonder how I'll find what Grandpa lost.

The End
Benjamin Sobieck is author of the "Cleansing Eden" crime thriller novel, the Maynard Soloman crime humor series and numerous short stories. His website is CrimeFictionBook.com.
An Idea for Murder

~ Tace Baker

Dorothy was dry. Parched for ideas. She felt like she lived in Mojave instead of northeastern Massachusetts. The blank screen stared at her. The deadline for her short story submission was two weeks from tomorrow. If she didn't submit, ThrillerZine wasn't going to send her the check for writing a crime story every month. If she didn't get the check, she couldn't quite make the May rent. No submission, no rent. She huddled with her laptop on the sagging middle of the couch looking around the small apartment for inspiration.

George ambled into the room, which also included the kitchen. His gray hair stuck up in tufts off his thinning pate. When he rubbed a spot near where his part might have been, his hair took on a dangerously wild look. Wild like old insane man, not wild like lusty passion. That hadn't happened in a long time. Just like his contributing to household expenses hadn't, either.

She could barely remember when George had been worth her giving up the way things had been: a decent salary, a tiny Manhattan condo, respect in the world of commercial marketing, good conversation with colleagues. Well, what was the point in thinking about that? She had relocated to Beverly. She'd married him. This was Massachusetts, not Manhattan. Now was now, and now was when she needed an idea.

"Your headache still bothering you?" She tried to say it in a caring tone.

George nodded, his eyes focused on a distance only he knew. "Yeah. It's killing me."

She watched him standing in the kitchen. His skinny fingers twisted one end of an unkempt mustache looking like he had no idea why he had walked into the room in the first place.

"Hey, George, I need an idea for a story. Who'd be a good person to kill off?"

He gazed at her as if she had just awoken him. "How about the husband? He's annoying, right?"

She looked back at him and nodded. Now that was an idea.

*****

Dorothy wandered the aisles of the package store the next afternoon. George deserved a treat for providing her with inspiration. There it was, his favorite single-malt 18-year Scotch. It was a lot better quality than the cheap bourbon he usually drank. She put a bottle in the cart, plus a younger version of the same, and added a couple of large bottles of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon for herself, all she could afford after they rang up the Scotch. She picked up some bright daffodils, too, in honor of Spring, the season of change.

As Dorothy angled George's old Subaru into their apartment's parking lot, the SUV that usually parked next to George's spot pulled out. No wave, no smile. As usual. This was the unfriendliest place she'd ever lived, worse than Manhattan. Did any of the other residents even know she'd moved in with George two years earlier? Maybe they didn't care about neighbors because they were mostly transient themselves.

At the dinner table that evening, Dorothy poured George a glass of the better Scotch.

Surprise followed pleasure on his face. "Hey, thanks, babe." He took a sip and sighed, smiling. "Hey, what are these for?" He pointed to the pills next to his plate.

"Acetaminophen. Taking it regularly can help with headaches," Dorothy said. "I know how forgetful you are, honey, so why don't you let me remember for you?"

He nodded and washed down the pills with the Scotch that remained in his glass. When Dorothy poured him another couple of fingers, he just smiled. "How's your story coming, babe?"

She shuddered at a 60-year old man calling her "babe." Even worse that he looked a decade older than 60.

"I'm hauling on it. You have the best ideas, George." She mustered a smile and took a long drag on her wine. "In fact I'm going to get back to it now. You'll clean up, right?"

"I guess. You know it makes my back hurt."

"Come on. You know that's our deal." His idea of cleaning up would never meet any reasonable standard of hygiene, but it was better than having to do it herself. She returned to her spot on the couch that doubled for an office and fired up the laptop.

***

Four days later, she'd almost finished the story. It had pretty much written itself. She was about to create the final twist. She looked up and stared at George slumped in his recliner. The distraction of his snores angered her. She tried to summon up the love and respect she'd once felt for him and failed. There he sat in his same crappy apartment, his pale hairy paunch extruding between a ratty green sweatshirt and the elastic-waisted exercise pants he'd taken to wearing, not that he ever exercised in them. Grizzled stubble covered his unshaven cheeks. He didn't even clip his nails, long and yellowed like a hermit's. Only the black leather oxfords he wore, always laced up, always tied and firmly double knotted, always buffed until they glowed, remained of his former self.

She'd thought about divorce. But it was expensive, and she'd probably have to pay his sorry ass alimony. No way.

George wouldn't wake up for hours. Dorothy threw a blanket over him, shut off the lights, and took the computer into her other office, their bedroom.

***

Dorothy polished the story and sent it in with a week to spare. She then spent a day spring-cleaning the apartment. If it got any dustier, she'd have to start using her asthma inhaler. She opened the windows, pulled on rubber gloves, and scrubbed all surfaces. When the level in George's Scotch bottle grew low, she filled it up from the cheaper one.

"How're your headaches, George? Better?" Dorothy asked that evening. "Did the switch to Extra-Strength help?"

He nodded from across the table. "Your little pills are doing the trick." He brandished the three acetaminophens next to his plate before swallowing them, then took another bite of her famous tuna risotto. Famous for being the world's tastiest cheap meal.

"That's good. When you're feeling better, maybe you can start looking for work again."

George smiled, but if the look on his face didn't shout "Doubtful," she wasn't sure what would.

"It's been quite a while, babe, you know." He pushed away from the table.

I know, she raged in her mind. She smiled and tried to muster an encouraging look. "You're smart, you'll be able to find another software gig. But you might want to, you know, clean up a little. Shave, maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe. But you took away the phone." His voice was plaintive. "How could I even receive calls for interviews?"

On the end table next to George was the letter from the phone company, canceling their land line because of lack of payment. Forced to choose, Dorothy had figured it was better to keep up on her cell phone payments.

George rose with his eye on the television. Sure enough, it was time for his Bill O'Reilly fix.

"Did you eat enough?" Dorothy called after him. Half his serving remained orphaned on his plate. His focus was on the talk show host. George didn't seem to hear Dorothy. She watched him as he watched the screen. In the flickering glare, his skin matched the lemony paint she'd chosen in a fit of futile home improvement when she'd moved in. She hadn't realized the landlord wouldn't reimburse them and that she'd need that paint money for the electric bill soon enough.

The next morning, Dorothy packed a suitcase with warm-season clothes and essentials. She tucked the bottle of acetaminophen into her purse and slung her computer bag over her shoulder. She wheeled the bag into the living room, where George snoozed in his usual position. She stood in front of him for a moment.

"George?" She shook his shoulder.

"Huh? Oh, hi, babe. You going somewhere?"

"I'm going to do some research for a new story. I told you, remember? There's food in the fridge. See you in a few days, OK?"

"Sure. I'm not that hungry, anyways. Stomach hasn't been so good lately. Hey, turn up the heat, will you? It's cold in here."

Dorothy looked at the thermostat, which already read 75. She nudged the control up to 80. Why not?

Dorothy bent over and brushed her lips on his forehead. "See you, George." The door locked shut behind her, and when she turned her key in the deadbolt, it snicked into its slot.

The breeze outside wafted a mixed perfume of newly cut grass, a sweet flower's scent, and salt air. At the post office, she picked up the check from her box and cashed it at the bank next door. At the train station she bought a ticket to New York City.

Several weeks later in her cubicle at her new job, she found what she had been looking for on Boston.com: a short news blurb on the Metro North page. "Local man found dead in his apartment after neighbors complain of odor. No foul play suspected."

Her heart tugged for a moment. Suddenly Dorothy remembered the early days with George. It was like looking at a photo album. Two lovers walking Singing Beach, talking politics and books, laughing at a toddler running away from a small wave. She shook her head and opened her cell phone address book, selecting and pressing the number for the insurance company as she walked into the hallway.

A few minutes later she jabbed the End button. That pathetic excuse for a man had borrowed off his life insurance policy. There was nothing left. She stalked back to her cubicle. The images on her wide monitor swam.

"Dorothy, coming out to a lunch with us? We're hitting the new sushi place around the corner," Marios said. He slung a lean arm over her cubicle wall, looking like a Greek model in his Italian-cut slacks and the black scarf tossed around his neck that matched his curly hair. He flashed her a smile that could have lit up the city. "Love to have you."

Dorothy took a deep breath. This was her new life, right? Just what she had wanted. Just in time for spring. "Love to join you."

At Yoshinoya, after Marios and several others ordered beer and wine, Dorothy asked for hot sake. She rummaged in her bag for the pill bottle and shook one into her palm. It was her turn for a headache.

Marios' eyebrows went up. "Hey, don't you know Tylenol with alcohol can wreck your liver? I just read an article about it."

"I know." The sake slid down her throat with warm comfort. "I know all about it."

The End
Tace Baker writes traditional mystery fiction from Ipswich, Massachusetts in the US. Her debut novel, "Speaking of Murder," will be out from Barking Rain Press in September, 2012. When Quaker Linguistics Professor Lauren Rousseau finds her star student dead on campus and becomes a suspect herself, she has to use her facility for languages and regional accents to find the real killer. The book is the first in the Speaking of Mystery series. Tace's birth identity is Edith Maxwell, who writes the Local Foods Mystery series. Tace can be found at http://www.tacebaker.com, and on twitter and Facebook.
Safety First

~ Joshua J. Mark

No. No, no, no. That is where you have it all wrong. Skip lightly backwards, as though you're at the beach, my friend. Here comes the darkness, frothing at your toes. That's what it was like. You're standing high and dry, friend. What do you know? Oh, it seems like nothing at first. So maybe you'll get your shoes wet, you think. That's just the beginning. Tide's coming in fast. You're going to drown you keep thinking that way.

See, you keep getting the whole thing wrong. Darkness was dragging me down, undertow-supersize, friend, and don't think it's not there for you, too. Get it right. I was fine before the dead girl. Look at my record you don't believe me. I don't care. I just hit a rough patch there for a spell after the dead girl. You think you're different than me? Think again.

Her name was Samantha Stevens, like you have to already know. Just like the `Bewitched' chick, sure, but she didn't look anything like Elizabeth Montgomery when I saw her. Hell, sure, she must've looked great before somebody wrapped the wire `round her throat but she wasn't looking any too pretty laying in that brook. Somebody - and I do mean `somebody' as in 'anybody you might pass on the street today' - decided to rape her and strangle her and dump her by Jayne's Pond, just up from it, in the stream. So, yeah, when I first laid eyes on the dead girl she was a bloated horror but, I was sure, she must've been a young, pretty girl before the killing went on. She had long, brown hair and a nice figure, athletic, tall girl, like my daughter, and same age, eighteen. They went to school together. Lisa was at the prom with her the night before. She sort of looked like Lisa, too, except for the bulging eyes and the black tongue sticking out of her mouth and the red wire marks and lividity around her throat.

So it's all bull, what you're saying. I didn't have anything in my head at all. I was just like you. No different. No different at all. I woke up, brushed my teeth, took my shower, put on the uniform and went out into the day. And, get it straight, I'm no rookie. I've been pulling duty for twenty years, my friend. I've seen a lot of bad stuff. That doesn't mean I became the bad stuff. I'm one of the good guys. You get that straight if you mess up everything else. Jesus hung out with lepers, friend, but he never became one.

It wasn't any different from any of the other homicides I'd seen. No different. But it was. I didn't know why at first. There were maybe two hundred kids at the prom the night before when she'd gotten into a fight with her guy. She'd left to walk home and that meant two hundred kids watched her go and each one of those kids, all with cell phones, had, maybe, ten or twenty or thirty friends or more. So the list was endless. Who killed Samantha Stevens? Hell, it could've been anyone in all of Sanford County. Could've been some guy passing through who, you know, could've picked her up that night and given her a safe ride home or - never mind, never mind even that - could've just kept on driving down the road and left her alone but, nope, had to stop for a little raping and killing instead.

And this is what I'm talking about, friend. This is where you have the whole thing backwards. I'm not the one with something wrong with me. It's all of you. And I know what I'm talking about `cause I was just like you before I saw the dead girl. I didn't know how far up the beach the waters come or how fast and you don't know what's down there beneath, you can't know, until it's on you and, then? Then it's too late. You got to stop it before it's too late, you understand? You have to do something.

The whole county was foaming at the mouth over it. You remember. What was up with the Stevens case, why the cover up, what're the cops really up to, and all that crap. There wasn't any cover up. There were just, like, five hundred people to interview. Yeah, we had DNA. We had DNA that first morning. But we didn't have anyone it matched with. It's sort of like having a key in your hand but you don't know what door it goes to or where that door might be and, sure, maybe that door's in Sanford but maybe, by now, that door's down in New Orleans or up in Canada, all right? I mean, come on, you know this as well as I do.

So all these kids I'm talking to every day. All these kids I'm interviewing and it started, I don't know, maybe after the fifth or sixth, something like that. She was a cute little blonde girl and she was talking about the last time she saw Sam at the prom and suddenly her tongue just started growing out of her mouth, long, black, like a water snake, and her eyes were white and wide and I smelled that stink suddenly from her pants like I'd smelled a hundred times standing over dead bodies and, yeah, I had to leave the room before I puked all over her.

Kept happening after that, too. Leaves falling and clear water over rocks in brooks and a blue sky overhead and then that stink in my nose of a sudden looking down at her laying in the water with that tongue out and those eyes. It comes up and just touches your toes and you think `so what' at first, and `I've seen worse' or something, but then you're gone. It gets you all of a sudden and you go under and you're gone. You ever think about what `drowning' really is? Isn't it just not getting what you need?

No, no. Not me. I'm all right now. Sure, I hit a rough patch. Who doesn't sometimes? I was going down, too. I could feel it. You know, sometimes at dinner I'd sit there looking at Claire and Lisa and I'd just want to start crying. A grown man, a cop of twenty years too, crying over dinner with his family around him and the dog under the table. This one night Claire made my favorite - meatloaf and homemade macaroni and cheese and salad - and I felt like I was choking on every bite of that, friend, like every bite was death and I just couldn't swallow it. What? How do you not get this? I could not stop thinking about her. Who killed Samantha Stevens? I didn't know. No one knew. He could be anyone in the deli where I got my egg sandwich and coffee in the morning. There was no way I could keep them safe. Anyone could have killed Samantha. Anyone could kill them - and for any reason. Lisa jogged home from school after her track practice. Claire had to walk three blocks from the bank to her car after work. Who was going to be watching over them to keep them safe? I couldn't. I was too busy trying to find the scumbag who killed Sam.

What motives did we have in the Stevens case? None. Everyone loved the girl. Sure, she liked to party and she liked a lot of boys. Last I heard that wasn't anything to die over. There was not a single kid or parent I talked to had any motive for wanting that girl raped and murdered. So who was it? There's no one without sin. There's not a single solitary suffering soul you passed on the way into work this morning who hasn't done something wrong. Everyone's guilty. As it says in the Bible, `There is none righteous. No, not one. For all have sinned.' And that's true, too, but we've all sinned to greater or lesser degrees. I've gone sixty in a forty plenty of times but I've never wrapped a wire around a girl's neck. Someone did, though, and that someone was still out there.

Yeah, yeah, I'm getting to that. Don't you already know all about it anyway? What's my explanation going to do for you? Put all the pretty maids in a row and line up all the reasons for them being there and you still won't understand a damn thing about them. Look into the eyes of the person you most love and what're you seeing? You think you're seeing them? Lots of luck to you, friend. You're always only seeing your own reflection. We only see ourselves looking back at us, who we think we are, what we think we know. You think you'll learn something new talking to me here? If you don't know it already, God help you. I looked at Claire and Lisa and, finally, I saw through it all. I wasn't seeing just my own reflection anymore. Not at all. I was seeing the truth. Jesus said, `Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free' and, friend, I really got that. I knew the truth.

The truth was I didn't know anything anymore except this one thing, this line I saw on one of the kid's t-shirts when I was interviewing all of them. It said, `ANYONE ANYTIME ANYWHERE' and, friend, I knew what it meant. Any one, any time, any where and for any reason or for no reason at all, it doesn't mean a damn thing. You're going to die. I'm going to die. And why and for what? For any reason or for no reason at all. Death's always waiting for us out there up ahead until that day when it isn't anymore. And I couldn't stand it. I could not stand it. I'd wake up in the night hearing Claire breathing next to me and I'd know, I mean really know, that she was going to die. Watching Lisa get on the school bus in the mornings it was all I could do sometimes to stop myself from running after her, hauling her back down the steps and locking her up in her room. But what would that do? What would anything do? There was nothing else to do but what I did. You know history, friend? You know about Masada? What'd they do surrounded by the Romans and knowing what was coming? What'd they do? They killed themselves. Yeah, well, I did them one better. I didn't take the easy way out, okay?

You want the confession straight? I've got no problem with that. I broke open the capsules from my pills and put them in the cake that night of Lisa's birthday. There was so much frosting and sprinkles they couldn't even taste the meds. I made sure they'd had a little wine, well, more than a little, really, with dinner. What? She was eighteen. What's wrong with a glass of wine with dinner?

Once they were both sleeping peaceful and quiet I just put the pillow over their faces, Claire's first and then Lisa's, and sat down on them like a chicken nestling down on some eggs. But I wasn't hatching any omelets there, friend, I was hatching eternity. They were both silent and still and, friend, they were both safe.

Did I cry? Why the hell would I? They were with God now. Let me tell you this, friend - you love your family? You better kill them. `Cause if you don't, somebody else will - and they won't be so nice about it either. You got to think of safety first.

The End
Joshua J. Mark is a freelance writer who lives in upstate New York, USA, with his family. His short fiction has appeared in Writes for All Magazine, Fiction Brigade, Five Stop Story, Pagan Friends Magazine, and Edge Piece among others. His non-fiction appears on the Ancient History Encyclopedia site, Suite 101, and Ancient Planet Magazine. When he is not writing or exploring old ruins, Mr. Mark teaches philosophy part-time at Marist College.
Killing Deities

~ L. Vera

When Sawyer had approached the center of the town, among the houses with glowing lights, he had thought he was at a junk heap – he was. Wires shot out of old monitors and the smell of copper and iron whisked through the air and left a dead, dry air for him to inhale. It was more of a lake than a heap, as if they hollowed out the ground to fill it with their old, useless technology. The useful sun was missing. Gone, yet a glow hovered over the horizon as if the sun tried with all its might to be seen. The fight was still be waged as Sawyer stood ready, his hands across his chest. Determination painted a tough smile, one that refused to be wiped away because today he was going to kill a god.

Sawyer stood at the edge, his shoes tapped a broken cassette player, its brown lid was broken like everything else that inhabited the lake. Across the heap lied his destination - an old shack.

"You know, you don't have to do this," the lips were hidden behind his companion's cloak. "I smell death in the air."

"I smell nothing," Sawyer replied.

"It's because you don't have the right nose," the man replied tapping his nose with his long branch of a finger.

"Yeah, well I have the right tools," he said as he tapped his sheath. "Tonight, I will kill my first god," he said and placed his foot gently on an old typewriter, the carriage snapped off and he fought back and caught his footing again. "I was once useful, I was important to someone," its ghost spoke to him and Sawyer listened, steadying himself with his hands, thanking the machine for holding him while his companion stood like an old gravestone, reminding him of the death that followed him.

He took another step and his foot traveled deeper than the step before. Sawyer glanced back again; the thought of someone waiting for him comforted him but like the breeze that carried the smell of copper and oil, Sawyer saw the man disappear. It had reminded him of the first time he had met the man, high amidst the clouds and among the chiseled mountaintops.

"What do you want?" the crow said to Sawyer, it stood atop a neatly stacked stone pillar. The sun was bright here and the heat was almost unbearable which made the journey more pleasurable to Sawyer.

"I wish to talk to the old man," he yelled it as he competed with the rain and thunder that stormed below them. Down below he could only see the dark clouds butting against each other and then he couldn't breathe.

Sawyer clasped at his chest and turned at the foot of steps that were embedded into the mountain and the man appeared in a cloak of smoke. His hands were brittle and his arms almost skeletal; his skin was crisp like a dead man whose been left in the sun.

Sawyer felt a tingle on his leg as he stepped forward among the forgotten electronics. He stopped and reached down between the mess of guts and memories, up his right leg and pushed a live wire that tapped on his leg. "Hi," it said and Sawyer responded back, "Hi."

He met another wire that left the taste of electricity in his teeth as it pushed him back into the void. It was like he had fallen into an actual pool of water with large sharp stones floating in its body. There was no air down in the mechanical cesspool. He grabbed his chest and it brought his mind back to the day he had met his companion.

"Boy! You are too far away for any god to care for your well-being." The old man stood in a silk black robe, with a large collar the size of a water jug. Sawyer looked at the man as he struggled to suck in air. Any words would have been sufficient but none came - none.

"Boy, look into my eyes," he said as he bent down and placed a boney finger under his neck. "Now breathe," and the air from the mountains and the molecules from the clouds swirled around him in a cool blanket and he could breathe again.

"Boy? Why did you climb way up here, among the forgotten and unworshipped?"

The old man reached out and grabbed him like the mechanical arm that had reached deep into the pool of computer parts. The moonlight reflected like pieces of glass on the hard beaten gravel. The sun had lost.

"Air," he said as he lifted his palm that was dotted with loose gravel. They left little red dots that resembled the red lights that lit up around him. Those lights stared at him from their mechanical stalks above a wire mess that resembled rats.

"Don't mind them," the voice sounded like static tuned to a deep child's voice. Sawyer stared into the silhouette that lifted him out of the rubble - it was a god. The god dug through the trash that had almost stolen Sawyer's life, the machine was more interested in digging through junk than addressing Sawyer. "Are you the god that dominants this realm?" Sawyer asked.

"God?" The god's rectangular head hid in the silhouette of darkness.

He walked over much like a spider would if it had two legs, and his face lit up with the bright LEDs that made up his face. A huge monitor rested on his body like a head and his neck was fashioned with twisted wires and rods. Among the reds and blues of cords was a blue tie that dangled where a neck would be, instead held more steel, copper and plastic. "I'm no god. I am alive, normal, much as you are, boy," the words lifted the tiny speakers that protruded from underneath the large screen that displayed two large eyes and a mouth.

"If I were a god, what business then, would you have with me?" the god broadcasted through his speaker and then the screen, which was his face, went black. Sawyer reached at it, mesmerized by the life that inhabited this being. "I have some news from the other gods. Can we please speak in public?" Sawyer lied and the god simply nodded and walked towards the shack.

Sawyer followed slipping once in the gravel, causing his palm to bleed. He looked up and found one of the robotic rats staring at him with its one blue light. Sawyer asked the rat, "Why do you have a blue light instead of a red?" but the rat replied by turning itself into a question mark with the blue eye as the dot. "Amazing!" Sawyer said scooping up the rat with his hands and then he ran to catch up with the god who had already disappeared into the shack.

As soon as Sawyer and the rat entered the shack a blast of cold air pushed continually at them. Sawyer shivered and crossed his arms while he walked down the corridor of wires. From the outside the shack looked like it was made from boards but now Sawyer noticed it was made of many different wires creating the walls, the floor and the ceiling. He entered the hallway was lit by a dirty blue light that got stronger as he followed the skeleton- like- god, until he reached a large opening full of monitors.

The room contained over forty screens all broadcasting twenty more in split screens. Sawyer spun and found a screen that held a recording of his conversation with the old man.

Sawyer stared at the old man. "I want to kill all the gods, every single last incest-ridden, worshipper-sucking bastard of a god that they are," Sawyer said with spit joining in the anger he shared.

"You know these creatures are less than gods. Gods rarely interfere with you mere mortals. They are more like," the man spun and on the back of his head was a large Greek symbol – omega -, "manifestations of the world's prayers and devotion. You can't kill an idea," the man spun around and he looked out into the clouds where a mechanical bird flew with one red glowing eye. He nodded to his crow and it chased the bird.

"I can try," Sawyer responded.

"I got a better idea. I'll help. I know how to kill every one of those bastards" he smiled and his teeth shone over his thin lips. "So whom do we kill first?" and the crow destroyed the bird, and the screen, which contained the little window of Sawyer's past, had turned to static.

"Sit," the God of Media had instructed the boy.

"But there is no chair? Would you have me sit on the floor?"

"No. We are not barbarians here. We are flesh and bone - humans. We sit in chairs," the god said.

Sawyer sat and as he bent his buttocks closer to the floor, wires escaped like snakes and formed a chair. He sat staring at the wall of monitors and the god had joined him. "So many things to watch, not enough time to watch them all," he said.

"Um, don't you," Sawyer wanted to remind the god about his lie.

"Silence. You see this girl," he pointed to a small dark window, "She is going to die." His screen had turned into a face again, two eyes and a weird smile.

Sawyer placed his hand into the sheath that held his small sword and pulled out a little rectangular device. He looked for a place the drive would fit in and there it was, hidden behind the god's head, a rectangular slot.

"You know people love to watch television and scour the Internet but they are missing the good bits. The stuff that happens in real life, like death," and Sawyer reached behind its head that hung low on the god's hands and with a click the god turned his head and the whole shack came to life like snakes.

Sawyer organs felt like water balloons about to burst and his hands felt like sausages being tore by blades. He tried to scream but his mouth was full of plastic and copper and when he thought he was going to die the wires gave slack and fell apart.

"You know, you are the craziest person that has ever climbed those mountaintops to see me," the old man said as he pulled the limp wires off of the boy. "But I knew you could do it. Look," he said.

His whole body had been rubbed raw yet he managed to see what the old man wanted him to see. The whole town was encased in a bright light and the inhabitants had opened their doors. They all blinked their eyes as they adjusted to the strong light and they approached each other and - the awkwardness was strange almost childlike - they spoke to each other, celebrating the sun's victory.

"What will happen to this realm?"

"Like others before it, it will return back to the Earth. Today is not the first time this has happened." The old man's skin seemed to regain a little color and his muscles seemed to grow and fill his loose skin.

"Come on, boy. Your wife isn't going to avenge herself," he said as he took the boys hand and they vanished. The little rat blinked its blue eye when it arrived at their new destination. The little hitchhiker realized that they were standing at the edge of the ocean and grew frightened.

"Within the sea lies one of the most hideous of the manifestations," he said swiping his hand across the air. "Today we will kill the Mermaid of Love and Infatuations, the whore of the world."

The End
L. Vera started off writing short stories and posted them everywhere. Out of that emerged a serial novel titled "Diary of a Madman" where every week a new piece of the crazed mind of Todd Casil was released along with other written forms of media that told a story of murderer obsessed with killing women with green eyes. It was his start in horror, before he had written many "speculative" fiction and science fiction pieces that have been published at Death Head Grin and The Wifiles. Other stories found a home at DeviantArt where they won tiny short stories and awards.

"It's a start to my long beginning and, hopefully, to a more exciting end." - L. Vera
A Gift

~ B.R. Stateham

"Smitty, I . . . I need your help."

The voice was barely a whisper. Coming from a man lying in a bed with sheets soaked in sweat and stained with blood. The man, a muscular, dark complexioned hood with gray staining his curly black hair around the temples, had a band of blood soaked bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. Lying on the bed by his right hand was a 9 mm Heckler & Kock automatic and his iPhone. Leaning against the wall was a sawed off pump action shotgun. On the small lamp table beside the bed were two empty bottles of scotch, a cheap first-aid kit, and a roll of fresh bandages.

He was laying propped up in the bed thanks to five or six pillows. And he was in pain. Lots of pain.

"Had someone look at that wound?" the dark eyed, neatly dressed figure standing beside the bed whispered softly.

"Naw, naw . . . Can't take the chance. I took a hell of a chance calling you. If they tapped into my phone, or tapped into yours, they'll be showing up in a couple of minutes to finish the job. And maybe that'd be a good thing. I dunno."

"Let me get you someone to look at the wound. I know someone you can trust."

"No. No. Listen, Smitty. I called you over hear not to save my ass! I know I'm a goner. I screwed up. I know I shouldn't have challenged Bruno. Shouldn't have demanded he step down as capo and have me replace him. I'll take what's just due to me. But . . . but . . . but . . ."

Downstairs in the cheap flop house for a hotel the dark eyed man thought he heard the sound of someone trying to creep up the stairs. Glancing at the door quickly and then back at the man lying in the bed he lifted a finger to his lips. The wounded man blinked a couple of times, looked at the hotel door fearfully, and grabbed the heavy looking 9 mm off the bed.

Smitty shook his head no and silently motioned the man to stay quiet. Slipping to the door he placed an ear up close to listen intently. Apparently satisfied he could move he opened it and slipped out into the hallway. Like a ghost the dark eyed man moved across the third floor hall of the flop house and slipped against the edge of a wall. A wide stairwell broke the wall space and disappeared down to the second floor of the building. It was from down there he heard the stealthy approach of someone trying to make no sound.

A thin snarl played across the cruelly handsome face of the dark eyed man. From a side pocket he removed a long barrel-shaped object with one hand. With the other he reached inside his sport coat and pulled out 9 mm model 92FS Beretta. Screwing the barrel-shaped suppressor onto the end of the weapon he leaned against the wall and waited.

Two men. Dressed in cheap suits and wearing dark shades. One held in his hands a shotgun. The other had a big Dan Wesson .357 caliber revolver. They came up the stairs like they knew where they were going. Didn't pause at the top of the stairs to look either right or left. Just turned to their left and started toward the room they knew the wounded man occupied. It was their mistake. Their last mistake.

"Looking for someone?" the black orbed man whispered softly.

"Pffft! Pffft!

It didn't take long to depose of the bodies. Down at the end of the hall was a utility closet. Stuffing both bodies into the cramped space he stepped back unscrewed the fire suppressor from the Beretta and dropped it in a pocket before holstering the weapon underneath his right armpit. Moving back to the hotel room he knocked once and whispered his name and then opened the door and stepped in quickly.

The wounded man was as pale as the sheets he was lying on. The bandage around his chest had a fresh gleam of blood seeping through it. Sweat covered the man's brow. He was in bad shape and he didn't see proper medical treatment soon it wouldn't matter. Bruno wouldn't have to send out another team to finish the job.

"Come on, we're leaving this place. I'll put you away somewhere where Bruno can't find you. We'll get a doc to look at the wound."

"Smitty! Smitty! Don't worry about me . . . I need you to do something for me! Something that means everything to me!"

"I know what you want, Tony. I'll take of it. After I get you to a safe place."

There was no arguing. Smitty lifted the wounded me out of the bed, threw an arm of his shoulders, and then half carried the man down the three flats of stairs and exiting the building through the rear door of the flop house without anyone seeing them. Two hours later he watched as an acquaintance of his, an old man who had retired from the practice of medicine, yet was as keen as ever in the profession, calmly working re-bandaging in the wound and telling the man he would live.

He knew why Tony had called. Knew and understood the fear that burned in Tony's heart. Tony was a father. Had a daughter living in another city. A daughter he had not seen in ten years. A daughter he loved more than life itself.

The problem was Bruno also Tony had a daughter. Knew it and was going to torture his rival with the knowledge before killing her. Bruno was that kind of guy. Kill your rivals. Your rival's loved ones. Your rival's pets. Eradicate everything. Make a statement for everyone to ponder just in case someone else might be considering taking over the family.

She was twenty five. With long black hair. Long, thin legs. A constant smile on her lovely lips. Her name was Annabel. And she hadn't seen her father in ten years. She lived by herself in a small college town where she was attending a nursing school. Tony paid for the schooling. Made arrangements with the school to offer Annabel a full ride scholarship. She never suspected.

Sitting in a small SUV, dark shades covering dark eyes, Smitty sat at the corner of a semi-deserted street corner and watched the young girl with the flowing black hair dive into one small shop after the other. She was loaded down with shopping bags in her arms and not paying attention to anything or anyone around her. It was a Saturday and she wasn't home studying. Wasn't aware of the two big men following her. Big man with dead eyes. Needing a shave. With conspicuous bulges protruding from underneath their sport coats. Intent on following the girl. Unaware they were, in turn, being watched.

Nor was Bruno aware of also being watched. Bruno, a leer on his face, watching his men tail his rival's offspring, sat in the back of a Lincoln town car and anticipated his men nabbing the girl and bringing her back to him. He was so going to enjoy himself presenting her to her father. So enjoy slowly working her over with an ugly looking boning knife as her father watched gagged and roped to a chair in a warehouse where no one would hear the screams.

Smitty glanced in the rear view mirror to see if any traffic was coming. Opening the door of the rental car he rolled out, closed the door, pushed a hand underneath the label of his sport coat and walked across the street quickly. From the rear of the white Lincoln he approached the left side rear door of the car. Opening it quickly he slid in, the Beretta and its suppressor attached in his hand, and fired twice. One bullet in the back of the head of the driver. One bullet in the forehead of the body guard in the front passenger seat.

Pffft! Pffft!

So fast. So incredibly fast.

The ugly business end of the Beretta aimed directly into the face of Bruno. Bruno, stunned, was as white as the car's exterior. Eyes big as plates stared into the hole of the 9 mm and then turned to the cell phone that was in Smitty's left hand.

"Call your boys off, Bruno. Tell'em its time to go home. Tell'em you'll meet them back at the clubhouse tomorrow night. Call'em, Bruno. Call'em if you want to live."

Bruno complied. Grabbing the phone he dialed a number frantically. Half a block away one of the thugs reached inside his sport coat and lifted a phone to his ears. Bruno gave the order. Twice. Hurriedly. Emphatically. Insistently.

The two thugs stopped in their tracks and looked at each other in confusion. One turned to look back at the white Lincoln. But made no effort to turn and walk back. Shrugging, the two stepped off the sidewalk, crossed the street, leaving Annabel completely, and walked into a local pub for a beer or two before leaving town.

"There. There, I did it! Now get the hell out of here! I did what you asked. You live up to your bargain!"

Smitty nodded and smiled.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I misspoke. I should have said, make the phone call and you might live. Sorry about that. I'll have to be more careful next time."

Pffft!

Opening the passenger door quickly Smitty exited and started walking back toward the rental. As he did he looked over his shoulder to take a last peak at Annabel. She was kneeling now, the many shopping bags of her shopping spree scattered on the sidewalk. Arms outstretched he saw the small frame of a small female child, long black hair blowing in the breeze, running out of a building and gleefully flinging herself into her mother's arms.

Smitty grinned.

Good news! Tony was a grandfather.

The End
B.R. Stateham is the author of the series of short stories and novellas featuring a hit-man known only as Smitty, the latest volume (SEE YOU IN HELL) has just been released. B.R. offers here an exclusive and brand new story featuring Smitty.
Thank you for reading. May all your bridges ahead be as sturdy as your will. Please support the authors in this collection by reading more of their work.
