J.F. Juzwik's Blog

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 61: MY DAY OFF

2012-01-04T20:36:00.004-05:00

The prompt this time was to include a countdown of some kind, and use the following words: three, night, wire, sweat, run. Terrific prompt! Please enjoy.

MY DAY OFF

8:00 a.m.

I’ve decided to begin keeping a journal today since I’m truly not certain exactly how much time I have left. We all know our time will run out, but when you are literally provided with a countdown, priorities make a massive shift. My entire career has been spent taking notes, documenting procedures, and recording results. However, at this late stage of my life, I feel this need to share parts of myself. Who may find my journal, or whether it is found at all, is not relevant. That a record of what has, and will occur, is.

I have swallowed all three of my morning capsules and feel quite satisfied. I can only wonder what it was like in centuries past when people sat together around a table and ate their meals one bite at a time. As a child, learning about this barbaric practice of placing chunks of various items of food directly into one’s mouth filled me with revulsion. Ingesting capsules pre-filled with the ideal amounts of nutritional materials was so much more time-efficient, tidy, and resulted in maintaining excellent health. Remembering some of the photos in my history books however, brings to mind the social aspects of what had been referred to as ‘meal time’. Parents and children sitting together and sharing the events of the day: A ritual long since abandoned as a frivolous waste of valuable time. I can but only wonder how it felt--that sharing--that familial contact. Well, no point in dwelling on that which will never occur. None at all.

I shall dress now and take a stroll to get some air and a bit of sun. ‘A bit of sun’? That almost made me smile. Almost.

11:00 a.m.

Before today, I’ve never been able to appreciate how much pleasure can be found by simply taking a walk. Working day in and day out, morning to night for all those years has crippled my ability to enjoy life outside of my lab. Now that work is no longer an option, and I have the time to simply live, my clock is swiftly winding down.

Enough self pity. Nothing can change the course I’m on. But perhaps if I explain, no one will end up traveling this same dark road. ‘Dark road’. That almost made me smile. Almost.

The World Government was my employer. I worked in a classified unit of the Scientific Research and Development Department. My unit was all over the spectrum project-wise. Agriculture, water preservation, and other-worldly issues were only a few. It was the potential habitation of planets other than our own that was my specialty. My duties were strongly focused on finding alternate ‘earths’, if you will, just in case. ‘Just in case’ what was never made clear.

We are currently in the year 9,472, and space travel is quite common. It’s the problems associated with complete relocation that I was assigned to resolve. Not an easy task to be sure, but I did manage to make quite the breakthrough.

No need for concern. My entries will continue. First though, my scheduled three capsules for lunch and then a brief rest are in order. Definitely brief since time is of the essence. Today.

2:00 p.m.

I was covered in sweat when I awoke. I had a terrible dream while I rested. I didn’t take the pill that suppresses the dream state this time. No. I wanted a dream. Any dream. A last dream. It was terrifying. It was a delight.

Returning to the matters at hand, I found several habitable locations just outside our solar system. One could literally take their pick. All quite abundant with rich soil, drinkable water, and a bright and durable sun. The elaborate systems we currently have in place would not be required. Life on those planets could be likened to the days of old, so to speak. Kind of a way to begin again. Tempting to be sure.

One evening after working late while making my way through one of the administrative areas, I happened upon a frayed wire on one of the countertops. Quite the unusual find, since use of such materials had been obsolete for some time. I decided to ask one of the technicians about its significance when I heard what sounded like an argument coming from one of the conference rooms.

Yes, I live in an advanced society, but that old adage about curiosity still reigns supreme. Unfortunately though, I also now understand the reference to death in that saying. Government officials were arguing about which individuals would fill the few still empty seats on the craft that would be departing soon for one of the worlds I had identified. All the government and scientific personnel deemed necessary had their space assignment, but there was room for what was being referred to as ‘regulars’. How the regulars would be selected was the reason for the debate.

It was stated volunteers from the general public could not be obtained since knowledge of the voyage would incite a world-wide panic. I had to find out why, so I burst into the room and demanded to know what danger seemed so imminent and was so catastrophic so as to generate planet-wide fear. My questions were answered and I was dismissed as a child would be when the adults are discussing grown-up topics. I was insulted. I was angry. I was not totally surprised.

I believe I shall go for a last walk on my last afternoon. I will continue. You have my word.

6:00 p.m.

The light is beginning to fade as evening approaches. I am enjoying my three evening meal capsules and I will again forego the dream suppressor. I must dream tonight. This night. My last.

They knew I wouldn’t share their secret. What could be gained by spreading terror. That, of course, is assuming anyone believed me, which I knew was highly unlikely.

Our world was on a course for destruction. Not at the hand of some God or because of some signs and symbols long since disproved to be accurate. It would end at the ends of its own government.

Frustrated by society’s failure to rise above the level of depravity that has always been allowed to flourish, the ‘powers that be’ decided to ‘erase’ this mistake called Earth and build a civilization elsewhere. Over time, special charges had been strategically placed in, and around, the core of our heart and soul which bears the name ‘sun’. Once their craft is at a safe distance, buttons will be pushed and our brightest star will be no more. No one has ever been able to state with any degree of accuracy what would happen to the sun if it burned out, or was destroyed by some outside force, but one thing is for certain. Without it’s light and warmth, this world called Earth cannot continue to exist. I doubt that anyone could say exactly how long Earth would be able to survive or what events would occur as it were dying, but die it would, and I have the feeling it would not go quietly into that dark night.

A drastic fix surely, but the only one possible? That is a question for those wiser than I. There was no space for me to join these self-appointed judge and jury pioneers. Frankly, if I had been invited though, I would like to believe I would have gracefully declined. At least, I hope I would have.

I’m going to sit outside for awhile and enjoy the night sky while I can. While it is there for me to enjoy.

10:00 p.m.

I am going to close now. It is time for sleep. The end should be coming soon and perhaps that is best. Perhaps that’s been the plan all along…

THE LOST CHILDREN CHARITY ANTHOLOGY

2011-11-21T11:23:00.001-05:00

Clicking on the cover at the top right of my blog will take you exactly where you need to go so you can get more information on this project, as well as provide links to where you can purchase this amazing anthology, to which I am very proud to have been a contributor. For your convenience, I will place another link here. Let me give you a bit of background here too.

This began as a prompt on the terrific flash fiction site, Flash Fiction Friday. The photo (also used as the anthology's cover) was to be the inspiration and the challenge was to write a story about those children who are lost, neglected, abused, and existing in despair. The response was magnificent, as writers from everywhere contributed moving and tragic tales of childhoods filled with violence, emptiness and uncertainty.

Thomas Pluck and Fiona Johnson each pledged to donate $5.00 for each story contributed to two organizations dedicated to the protection of our children (PROTECT and Children 1st). Following the incredible response to this flash challenge, Thomas, Fiona and Ron Earl Phillips compiled 30 of these stories and The Lost Children Charity Anthology was born.

When you click on the link, you will find this collection is available at Amazon, Amazon UK, Amazon Germany, Amazon France, Smashwords, Apple iBookstore, and Barnes & Noble. You will also find out the special benefits that will result from your purchase. Not only will you be obtaining an anthology full of stories crafted by incredibly talented and dedicated writers, but you will also be assisting those lost children that the stories have been written about. Half of the proceeds from anthology sales will be going to PROTECT and half will be going to Children 1st.

This anthology would make a fantastic gift, not only for friends and family, but for yourself as well. And remember, all proceeds from sales are going directly to the organizations listed. Children really are our future and a testament to our past. Let us do everything we can to make sure they are able to have a future that is productive and successful, but above all, one that is happy and free from fear.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 57: PARANOID PETEY

2011-11-20T23:31:00.001-05:00

This week’s prompt was to use a bottle of ketchup in your story. The genre was open, and the word max was 1,000. This one was nothing but tons of fun!

PARANOID PETEY

“I’m telling you, Joey, my new landlady’s CIA or something. She’s always at her front window, peeking through the curtain, writing down when we all come and go in a little black notebook. I seen it, Joey. She’s a fuckin’ spy. You gotta help me find another place right away.”

Oh crap.

Here we go again. No use telling him the woman’s just some nosey old cow who’s got nothing better to do with her life than monitor her renter’s comings and goings. Really. No point.

See, Petey’s my wife’s brother. He’s nuttier than a Christmas fruitcake, but he’s got a special talent that more than makes up for his daily delusions. The kid’s got the stickiest fingers in town. I mean, he can steal the chair you’re sitting on right out from under you and it will be an hour before you even know it’s gone. He really is THAT good, so helping him move 16 times over the past couple of months is no biggie. When I send him out for anything, he always comes through. Doesn’t ask for much either--just enough to get by on; that is, until today.

“Joey, I need to find a better place, so after I do this one, you think maybe you and I could have a long talk about me getting a raise?”

“Petey, you get that clerk to pull out that tray of diamond rings and then swap out the biggest one for this piece of glass and we’ll see. All I need is one more score and then your sister and I can get a nicer place too and rest easy for awhile.”

Petey was real anxious to apply his sleight of hand skill, but wanted me to help him move out of the ‘CIA agent’s’ building first. ‘Paranoid Petey’, my wife’s always called him. Considering the magic in those quick hands of his, “Petey, The Magnificent’ is the moniker I prefer. I got the dolly out of our storage locker and the Bengay out of our bathroom cabinet.

* * * * *

“Where have you been, Petey?” I was in the throes of a major panic attack. “You were supposed to be here two hours ago. I thought you got pinched.”

“Oh no, Joey. I got the ring okay, but then there were these plainclothes dicks everywhere--I seen them--so I stopped in over to the Royale Hotel’s dining room and got a burger. That’s so I could throw them off. See?”

“Okay, Petey. No problem. So, where’s the ring?”

“Well, I couldn’t very well just up and leave with it on me, now could I? So I stashed it in a safe place.”

Uh-oh. Petey may have been quick with his hands, but his mind was something else altogether. Not the sharpest tool in the box, as some say.

“You stashed…, I mean, you don’t have…, where is it, Petey?”

“Oh, it’s where nobody would ever think to look for a ring. You can go over to the hotel to get it because I can’t, see? They’d remember my face. I heard clicking the whole time I was eating my burger. I just know somebody was taking my picture over and over the whole time I was there. All you gotta do is walk in the dining room and go to the first table on the right side up against the wall. That’s where I left the ring.”

Oh crap.

“You left the ring right there on the table? A big fat expensive diamond ring?”

“Joey, Joey, Joey. What kind of a stoop do you think I am? You think I’d leave a ring like that right there on the table? No. I dropped it inside the ketchup bottle that was on there. It was brand new and I’m sure it’s down on the bottom by now. Just go over there and sit at that table and order something. Then when nobody’s looking, put the bottle of ketchup in your pocket and bring it back here and we can get the ring out. Smart move, huh?”

I began to wonder how my wife would feel about becoming an only child.

Okay. How hard could this be? Just stroll in, ask to be seated at the first table on the right, order coffee and pie, slide the ketchup bottle in my pocket, and stroll out. Piece of cake.

* * * * *

Some big group was making their way into the hotel, heading for the dining room. I figured I’d just blend right in, but the hostess was checking names off a list. Not to worry. I just told her that all I wanted was some coffee-and, but I needed to sit at the first table on the right by the door since I was meeting a friend and didn’t want to miss her arrival. I gave the girl my most seductive wink and she blushed crimson. Tonight, I was going to score a home run.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” she composed herself and smiled that fake smile hostesses always wear. “As you can see, we’re expecting a large group this evening. We’ve moved all 30 of our tables together to accommodate them. I would be happy to get you a seat outside on the patio, if you’d like.”

When she stepped back to point to my Plan B seating arrangement, I saw that they had set up the tables in two rows of 15, each one covered with a white tablecloth, each one’s center containing a salt and pepper shaker and a brand new bottle of ketchup.

Oh crap.

On my way home, I decided that Petey and I were most definitely going to have a long talk about getting him that raise…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 56: DADDY'S BOY

2011-11-09T18:06:00.017-05:00

The prompt this week was this photo. The story was supposed to be sci-fi, and 600 words max. I'm not really sure where Daddy's Boy came from, but with my NaNo project, I remain in a very dark place. I don't know if there's a point in this piece. Perhaps not. Maybe it's simply just another stop on this month's dark journey.

DADDY'S BOY

“Jeffery, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be settled in and getting ready for us to begin our orbit. We’ll be landing soon and you’re going to need to be well rested. You’re not supposed to be messing with those controls. We’re going too fast.”

“Yes, Father. I know, Father. Whatever you say, Father.”

“Jeffery, there’s no need for insubordination. I told you that I would allow you to participate in this mission if you remained respectful and remembered your place.”

“My place? Remember my place? What is my place, Father? What has my place ever been, besides under your feet? That stops now. I’m not messing with the controls. I just permanently disabled the auto-guide, so they won’t be bringing us home.”

“What in God’s name have you done? I’m getting the doctor. I may be too old to restrain you, but he can put you where you belong--locked in your quarters.”

“Don’t waste your time. I’ve already flooded his chamber with a toxic gas and he’s dead. I don’t need him, you see? I don’t need anybody--not anymore. You’ve told me all my life what a failure I was and how I could never manage anything on my own. You asked me over and over when I was going to start being a man. Well, how about now?

“Son, I just don’t understand.”

“Don’t ‘son’ me. I was never anything but a nuisance to you. Well, I’m in charge now. What in God’s name have I done? Dear Father, I AM God--NOW. We’re going on past your world to find another where I will be in charge. I’ve even brought friends along to help me. You remember those little crawly things we found on IK485? The ones that killed our navigator? They had him eaten down to the bone in less than 3 minutes. I believe they will be powerful persuaders to whatever life forms are already there. Don’t you agree?”

“Jeffery, you brought those monsters on board? You can’t control them. They’ll kill us both.”

“No, Father. Not ‘us’. You have two choices. One, get in your chamber and I’ll begin filling it with the toxins. It will be quick and relatively painless. Or, two, I can place you in the supply room where my buddies are stored. It will be quick, and not painless at all.”

“You are insane. I can’t believe you are doing this. Why, Jeffery, why?”

“I’m going to find another world that will be all mine to do with as I choose. Now is as good a time as any to grow up, I suppose. Haven’t you been telling me just that every day? Haven’t you? Father?”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 48: LOVE BITES

2011-09-14T00:57:00.000-04:00

This week’s prompt was to use music in a short fiction piece, any genre, with a limit of 750 words. I decided to use Def Leppard’s Love Bites. Sometimes it really can, you know…

LOVE BITES

“Love bites, love bleeds,
It’s bringing me to my knees…”

Rachel began to cry.

“That’s the one, Lionel. I hate the sound of it. That’s the song he always puts on when he…, when he brutalizes me. He calls it uniting our souls with love’s eternal flame or some such insane thing. His idea of foreplay is punching me with his fists, and then he rapes me. I just can’t take it anymore. I’d rather be dead than have him near me again.”

Lionel knew what he had to do. He’d only known Rachel for a couple of weeks, but she had stolen his heart the night they met. She’d stopped in at Gino’s for a nightcap and when he saw her tears, he had moved her to a corner table and begged her to unburden herself. She said she’d been to show her mom her latest bruises, courtesy of her husband, and said she desperately needed a friend. That was the beginning of forever for Lionel.

“Darling, Lionel began, “it is not you who needs to surrender your dreams. It is your bastard of a husband who needs to die, and I promise you, I will take care of everything.”

* * * * *

“Two birds with one stone, my pet. First, the sucker offs my old man after setting me up with the perfect alibi. Then, I worked my magic on him. I went on and on about how the police kept hounding me, tormenting me, accusing and driving me mad, pushing me right over the edge to who knows what. He couldn’t bear to see me suffer any more. He told me again that he would take care of everything.

The sap wrote a letter confessing to my husband’s murder, blaming it on a failed business deal the two of them supposedly had. After he had dropped it down the mail slot, he jumped off his 24th story balcony. To protect me. To save me. Can you believe our luck?

So, both my rich husband and my knight in a shabby three-piece are out of our way. The life insurance check has cleared and all the banks have released the accounts to me. Now, you and I can be together just like we planned. I‘m really glad this is over though. Running into walls and punching myself till I was black and blue got old really fast, you know? My moron of a husband was starting to get suspicious of my recent bout of clumsiness.”

“Live lives, love dies,
It’s no surprise…”

“Oh my sweet, don’t turn that song off”, Rachel smiled at her lover in the driver’s seat of her new Jag. “I just adore it. I always have.”

“Love begs, love pleads,
It’s what I need…”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 47: ON AND ON...

2011-09-06T14:52:00.001-04:00

This week's theme was the City of Lost Children. The topic was to look at the photo and to look into the child's eyes. The genre was open and the length 700 words. A heartbreaking prompt, but a lot of good will come from this week's challenge. Fiona and Tom will make donations to organizations dedicated to protecting our children for each story submitted. Fantastic idea, guys.

ON AND ON...

A woman and her kid just moved in across the street. With those needle marks up and down Mom’s arms, I doubt she’ll run the PTA’s bake sales. The girl looks 5-ish, skinny, wearing pj’s. What the fuck--it’s February. Mommy went inside and the kid’s on the stoop playing with dolls that have more clothes on than she does.

“Hi. My name is Katie, and I’m 6. You probably don’t want to play dollies with me, but could you sit and talk to me for a little while? We move around a lot and sometimes, I just get so scared being by myself”

I figured I’d clue this kid in on reality.

“Get used to it, kid. You’re gonna spend your life being scared of something. The ‘scared thing’ never goes away. Anyway, I’ve got to meet my boys downtown. We’ve got important stuff to do. And, put on a damn jacket or something, will ya? It’s starting to snow and you’re sitting there with your nose running and looking all nasty. Oh, and my name‘s Richie and I‘m 12, so don‘t bother me again.”

As I made my way to the corner to catch the #43 downtown, I heard the little gimp say she didn’t have a jacket. What kind of kid doesn’t have a jacket? I’ll bet her fucked-up junkie of a mommy has a jacket…

A week in Juvie wasn’t that bad. It’s snowing like a son-of-a-bitch outside and at least I was warm and got 2 meals a day. Used to serve all three, but the new Mayor made some cuts. You ever seen the size of him? He sure didn’t cut his third meal, that’s for sure. Crazy how stuff turns out. I don’t get grabbed for walking out of Danson’s with a $200 leather coat stuffed under my old denim one, but the 1 ounce bottle of $30 cologne in my jeans pocket puts me away. Glad I was able to stash the jacket in the alley before Detective Randall caught up with me. He’s not so bad really; he always cuffs me so I’ll look like a real bad-ass in the neighborhood on our way to the station. Have to keep my rep up, you know.

Those jerks at Danson’s just wanted their cologne back, so I get a week’s room and board and I still got the jacket. I was thinking about giving the one I‘m wearing to that pain-in-the-ass girl on my block. Stupid little idiot, sitting outside in the snow, playing with her dollies, with no jacket on. I know her mom’s inside shooting up, so maybe the kid’s better off outside. Don’t get the idea that I feel sorry for her or anything. She’s nothing but a headache, always wanting me to sit and talk and stuff. Like I’ve got nothing better to do. This jacket’s ready for the dumpster anyway. Giving it to her is no biggie.

It’s a good thing nobody found my stash. This jacket makes me look like I own this dump of a neighborhood; not that I’d want to though. Gotta find the kid. She’s probably out there sitting on her stoop in her pj’s again, nose running all over her…

Well, her mommy’s out there on the stoop, mumbling to herself. Junkie whore.

“Hey, bitch, where’s the kid?”

“What kid?” she could barely get the words out and it wasn’t even 8am.

“YOUR kid”, I shouted. I wanted to stomp her, but there were already people out.

“Oh her”, she came down the steps and started pacing back and forth in front of the building. “Hung herself in her room. Wound her jump rope on the closet door’s knob, swung it over, and looped it around her neck. Figures. Couldn’t ever do anything right, but THAT she does right. Now I’m going to have to move in to one those nasty shelters downtown cause with her gone, I won’t get my monthly assistance check. Selfish little slug…”

I tossed my old jacket in the dumpster on the corner. Going to catch the #43 downtown. The boys and I need to find someone to take down.

Hard.

Just because.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 44: LAST LAUGH

2011-08-18T14:44:00.006-04:00

I have been away for awhile, and have missed F3 terribly. Our move is complete though, and while there is always something left to tidy up or switch over, we're pretty much settled in. I have much catching up to do, going back to read all the stories I've missed. I had to get in on this one though. I mean, with a prompt like 'unrest' and it's relationship to fear? Right up there on my list of favorite topics. To me, unrest brings to mind the fear that all we know is coming undone.

The prompt was to write a story about unrest, with the genre being open and the word count being 1500 words or less. I do hope you enjoy.

LAST LAUGH

To Whom It May Concern,

I can only pray enough humanity remains within whoever finds this to invoke concern. If you are that rarity in these dark days, I write this for you.

My name is Steve Josephson, and today, I am 43 years old. I have always known this day would come, but I also had always hoped I would have more time. I wanted to grow old with my wife, Nancy, and for both of us to have been privileged to watch our 13 year old son, Ricky and our 6 year old daughter, Laurie, enjoy families of their own. However, none of it was to be.

When I retrieved the morning paper and read the headline, I became confused. Why wasn’t there panic in the streets? Why was there no military presence in the air and on the ground? Then, I knew. It was already too late. As I re-read the article, I could literally feel the bias. Of course, THEY had prepared and distributed this, the last edition. Not to warn. To inform. THEY were here, and wanted us to know our end was near.

I have been going to monthly meetings with fellow believers for about 8 years. When I would return home with valuable intel, Nancy and my children smiled and nodded, but never accepted the truth. Well, soon, the truth will be marching up our driveway.

The group and I were never able to determine exactly from which galaxy THEY originated, but the signs were all there defining THEIR objectives. Moving from world to world, turning the men and boys into slaves to build their cities, coupling with women and girls to propagate their kind, and consuming the elderly and infirm. I tried to warn my friends and neighbors that the indoctrination had begun using books and movies, but my words went unheeded. It was all being done to get us ready, so when the time came, there would be minimal resistance. I can only wonder what those closest to me are thinking now as they are being branded like cattle.

It matters not because I will not go quietly into that good night. And neither will my loved ones. THEY are outside even as I document these events, calling for me to step outside. THEY understand what I’ve done and want to help me. My home is surrounded and there is no other way out. Really?

I phoned my brother-in-law, David, to let him know what I had done so he could follow suit, but I was betrayed. I told him how I had shot Nancy and each of the children in the head as they slept. To keep them pure. To keep them safe. He hadn’t seen the paper, and there was still time to protect his family. But a good deed never goes unpunished, I believe the saying goes. As soon as I offered the solution, the lies began. There is no invasion, he said. It was all a joke. Nancy had that edition printed in a novelty shop especially for my birthday. My cake, to be delivered later, was in the shape of a flying saucer. What have you done, he cried. What have you done? Ha, ha, I responded. As if my wife would ridicule me, and joke about the future of our beloved Mother Earth…

Soon after I had hung up, THEY arrived, along with David, with THEIR vehicles and masks and weapons. It’s too late for David, but perhaps not for you. It’s a gradual take-over, you see--baby steps, and there is hope if you believe and do not hesitate. Understand the signs and heed my warnings. Don’t let THEM win. Nancy and our children are waiting for me on that other side. I saved the last bullet for me. As soon as I pull the trigger, I will be as free as they.

I believe entry will be attempted shortly, so my time for farewell has come. Be strong, and hold tight to your courage and faith. Remember too. One straight up under the chin. No pain. Only peace…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 35: FIELD TRIP

2011-06-16T13:07:00.001-04:00

The challenge this time was to create a sci-fi tale using the following words: Plutonium, galaxy, robot, photon and lasers. It didn’t end there though. The subject, if you will, was supposed to be Teenagers in Space (i.e., ages 13-19). It could be straight sci-fi, a coming of age tale, or a romantic piece. Explore what young people in this age group would do if they got stuck out in space, encountered aliens, etc. How would they handle it? What if they got into trouble? So many possibilities. I decided I would have my group of young people sign up for what I remember from my school days as an occurrence that was always a guaranteed good time: a field trip. Although, this one’s quite a bit different from ones I recall where we stared at Egyptian mummies and ate hot dogs in the park…

FIELD TRIP

“What are you doing, Einstein? Playing Star Wars again?” I couldn’t believe Big B brought a toy with him.

“I’ve told you not to call me that, Brain Boy. It’s Big B.” I knew he didn‘t get it, which is why I enjoyed it so much. “I’m not playing. It’s a robot I builded myself from scratch and it walks and everything. I don’t want these alien guys to think I’m some dummy.”

Now, what would ever give them that impression?

My name is Daniel Young, and I’m 14 years old. I’m a high school senior, and I already have several college scholarships pending. I have an IQ triple that of my companions collectively, and I was one of five selected for this trip. Anyone at our school could apply to NASA for a seat on this craft destined for some sister world outside our galaxy. I understand my being selected, but the others?

Brian, 17, wannabe gangster, who insists we never let the compartment go completely dark. Make of that what you will. CC, 16 and a jock-ess, who has colleges interested in her athletic abilities. Nothing else there of any interest. Really. Sarah, 17, and a ‘Little Susie Homemaker’. She speaks exclusively of recipes and household hints. Bored yet? And lastly, my favorite member of our little posse, Christina. Dressed all in black with hair, lipstick and nail color to match. A Goth and then some. Prophetess of doom. The only one with her finger on the pulse of the real world. Why the five us? Of no consequence. This trip will be the basis for my Master’s Thesis. The others? Well, they can start a scrapbook.

“Since we‘re not needed to drive this thing, I’m going to leave you and Robot-Man to your own devices. I’m going to the mainframe and see what I can hack into. Maybe get some intel on our destination. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

Like any of them would know ‘interesting’ if it bit them on the backside.

It was hard, even for me, but I managed to access some documents. I couldn’t believe what I found. I tried to convince myself that they had been placed there as a feeble attempt at a joke at my expense, but I knew differently. These were genuine. I printed the one I knew even they would be able to understand.

“I don’t want you to panic, because this might not literally mean what it implies.”

“Look, Brain Boy,” In spite of the fact that my own future was also in jeopardy, I could hardly wait for the schoolyard bully to piss his pants. “Just read it. Let us in on your big dark secret.”

“Fine. Like I said before, this is scheduled to be released to the media two days from now. It reads: ‘The government of the United States is saddened to report that the craft, the US Bridgewater has been lost, along with all its passengers, students Daniel Young, 14; Brian Hardaway, 17; CC Craft, 16; Sarah Simms, 17; and Christina Chase, 15. All systems show the transport had malfunctioned and exploded prior to reaching its destination, the planet known as XLD468-01. There were no survivors. We are asking for a moment of silence around the world to honor these brave young people.’”

“Hey, that’s all of us.” The Big B never disappoints.

“Right, Einstein. Do you understand the implications of what I’ve just read or do I need to explain it--slowly.”

“I’ve told you not to call me that. I told you, it‘s ‘Big B’. Anyway, I get it. This ship blew up and we’re all… What the fuck?”

I knew I could count on Goth girl to revel in our seemingly impending demise.

“Don’t you get it? They’re going to push a button and wipe us out. Simple as that.” Christina sat down with the resolve of an inmate getting comfortable in Old Sparky.

“I don’t think it’s quite as cut and dry as that,” I offered. “There were other documents in that same file that mentioned plutonium, photons, lasers, and other related technology. The way they read, it’s as if they’re requests for that technology. There were also numerous memos that had been removed which I could recover, had I the time. But it would appear the most pressing information we need to obtain right now is what has actually been planned for us, and more importantly, why. Don’t you all agree?”

Sarah was sitting quietly with small tears running down her cheeks. I noticed that CC, as usual, had absolutely no expression whatsoever on her face. I believed Big B, our female Grim Reaper, and myself would have to figure this all out. I was planning to suggest that we try to determine the purpose of the requests I had discovered when the craft abruptly turned and began heading toward our original destination.

“What now?” That jolt seems to shake CC out of her trance, while Sarah continued to silently cry.

“It appears that we are being guided in for a landing,” I ventured a guess. We weren’t moving at a speed which seemed dangerous and all the instruments seemed to be functioning properly, although I had never been allowed to investigate them prior to launch. ‘No need’, I had been told. The computers will take care of you all the way there and back. At this point, I was having serious doubts about that ‘and back’ thing though. We strapped ourselves in and waited. Not a whole lot else we could do.

Sarah was the first to smell the gas. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it. After we were all secure, it began to fill the compartment, first clouding our vision, then our thought process. As I felt myself slipping away, I began to pray to a God I’d never felt the need to acknowledge before. Funny how that happens…

“Wake up, children. You are all safe and right where you are supposed to be. Nothing to worry about. Wake up, now. It is almost time.”

The voice was deep and strong and I believe the speaker’s goal was to reassure, but I felt a chill just the same. I struggled to open my eyes and found myself inside what appeared to be a cell, complete with bars on all four sides. I had been lying on a cot attached to one wall, and in the other corner, there was a commode with a sink next to it. The door, complete with chains and a padlock, was at the back. I was trying to figure out what chemicals I had inhaled that would generate such a delusion when I looked to my left and right and saw Brian and Christina, respectively, inside duplicate enclosures. I could see CC and Sarah further down the line inside their own cages.

“What is all this,” I asked The Voice. “Where are we?”

“You’re on XLD468-01,” it answered. “Transfer complete. You humans are all alike with your ‘need to know’ nonsense. The deal’s been made, but if you must know, I’ll explain. We trade technological advances for exhibits capable of being bred. Our people do so enjoy observing other life forms in their natural habitat, and we market the offspring as pets. The last batch, well, while they were most amusing, didn’t breed well, which is why this time, we requested a younger group. Like yourselves.

Now, tidy up and get ready, because this facility is getting ready to open for the day. Your noon meal will be forthcoming, although our guests may from time to time, toss you a treat. Hurry because the curtains at the front of your cages will be opening in just a few minutes. And remember, smile…”

CUPID'S CHALLENGE AT PURE SLUSH

2011-06-10T08:21:00.003-04:00

My tale of dark romance entitled Cupid's Challenge was published on Pure Slush. You can read it here. Make sure you check out the rest of Pure Slush too though. You'll find themed fiction and non-fiction flash pieces that are all out of the ordinary.

The best thing you can do is sign up to receive email updates from Pure Slush. That way, you won't miss out on anything!

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 34: NATURE LOVER

2011-06-08T15:08:00.002-04:00

This week’s challenge was a word list. The words were banana, iguana, elbow, flaming and pogo stick. Nutty? Absolutely! That’s the point. We were supposed to write a story using the words and make it wacky, absurd, and bizarre. Bizarre is right up my alley… Please enjoy.

NATURE LOVER

“I’m telling you, Bobby, this could be the one. If we get that key back for Boss, we could end up getting the higher paying gigs, instead of always being sent out to do the grunt work. Boss told me he knew all along that Jerome hadn‘t lost the key to that storage locker where that heist dough had been stashed. He was going to keep it for himself, as if Boss wouldn‘t find out.

Anyway, Jerome had been spotted at the Exotic Animals exhibit at the downtown zoo, and Boss‘ guys picked him up in the parking lot. Apparently, just before he slipped and fell off the roof of that 24-story high-rise on the East side, he confessed that the key hadn‘t actually been lost, but that he had tossed it in the gorilla habitat. All we have to do is go in there and get it.”

My brother wasn’t too keen on the details of our latest job, but this was his chance to show off his stuff. He spent hours on end in front of the TV set watching wildlife and safari shows and considered himself an expert on matters of the animal kingdom.

“Billy, how do we even know the key is in there?” Bobby’s hands started shaking and I could smell the fear coming off him.

“Bobby, it’s alright. I went by there and I saw it. Jerome put the key on a green cord and when he threw it in there, it landed on a branch in front of a big rock. Breaking in those habitats is like taking candy from a baby. Who’s going to steal a gorilla anyway? It will be easy as pie for us to get in and out in no time. We’ll go around midnight. The zoo’s closed and the guard’s sleeping it off in the office. Nothing will go wrong.”

We got to the exhibit a bit after twelve. Bobby had brought his tote bag like he always did. He liked to bring items he believed would be helpful when we were on a job. They always ended up being needless clutter, but it made him feel like he was part of the planning, so I figured, what’s the harm.

I explained that the quickest way to the gorilla’s place was through the iguana habitat. I picked the lock and as I started in, Bobby jabbed me with an elbow.

“Wait a sec,” he gasped, and pulled something out of his bag. He pulled it to its full length and locked it in place.

“What’s that?” I asked him.

“It’s a pogo stick,” he said.

“What?” Sometimes I really wondered about out blood line.

“A pogo stick,” he confirmed. “I found it in the hallway of our building. That little girl who lives upstairs must have left it there.”

“Okay, it’s a pogo stick,” I continued. “But why do you have it?”

“Well,” he explained, “I saw on one of my shows that iguanas have been known to eat small children. I figure if I bounce through, he won’t be able to grab my feet. You’ll have to run though, Billy, because I only have one of these.”

“Two things, Bobby,” I took a deep breath. “Number one, you’re not a small child. Number two, WHAT?”

I could see tears glistening in both his eyes, so I told him to go ahead and bounce through and not to worry about me. I’d make it somehow.

I closed the back gate and asked Bobby if he planned on bouncing back out as well, which he confirmed he did. I reminded him that I had walked slowly through and the iguana hadn’t moved a muscle. It’s dark, Bobby said, and he probably hadn’t seen me, but why risk it. Oh yeah. When we get home, I’m checking out that ancestor site on the web…

The gorilla was sitting in the corner. His eyes looked flaming red in the habitat’s dim light and Bobby was worried. Apparently, red eyes on a gorilla is not a good thing. But when he reached into his trusty tote and pulled out a banana, I knew we were done for.

“They like bananas,” he informed me. “Eating them makes them calm. I‘d better hurry though. I did only bring the one.”

Perhaps I should have thought this one through a bit longer…

“Bobby, my boy, why don’t you go in there, toss the big guy the snack, and grab the key. I don’t think we both need to go in there.”

Bobby knows I despise anything ‘monkey‘. Those creepy little fuckers with their creepy little hands…

“Billy, I’ll do it by myself. Hold my pogo stick. Bouncing makes them go wild.”

Maybe I’ll just let that ancestor site be. What was it ma used to say? Ignorance is bliss…

Bobby made it to the tree, but the cord was caught on the branch. Our gorilla friend got up and started making his way to where my brother was to see what was up.

“Bobby,” I tried not to be too loud. “Pull that off and toss it to me. Hurry. Our furry friend in there is getting curious.”

He got it loose and tossed it to me just as the big ape reached him. When my brother screamed, it sounded remarkably like the little 2 year old girl in our building on that day she’d seen her first rat.

“Bobby?” I hollered. “I’m going to take off and get this key to Boss. Your screams woke the guard--I can see him coming. The worst they’ll get you on is trespass. I’ll see you back at the flat.”

I could still hear Bobby screaming when I got back to my car. I hope that guard gets there soon. The last thing I saw was the gorilla gently stroking Bobby’s hair. Evidently, he had enjoyed the banana…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 33: BEHIND THE MASK

2011-06-01T16:00:00.014-04:00

Such an intriguing prompt this week: Conspiracy Theories. We were to take a conspiracy theory from the lists here or here and write a story where our main character discovers it is real. The genre could be any and the word count of 1,000. This was so much fun to just let the story go its own way, as conspiracy theories often do. I hope you enjoy seeing what's Behind The Mask.

BEHIND THE MASK

I couldn’t breathe. I knew cameras covered every angle in my area, but I had to take the risk. I placed some correspondence over the memorandums I had received and turned into the corner and pretended to cough uncontrollably. Dropping the top of the stack, I balled up the memos and stuffed them into my pocket. When I felt they would not be readily noticed, I picked up the letters from the floor and placed them on the table. Still feigning the need to cough, I headed for the Men’s Room down the hall. The guard outside the file room had heard me and asked if I needed anything. I told him I was going to splash some water on my face and I’d be back in a jif. He went back to his magazine.

My name is Martin Jeoffries and I work as a government file clerk. It used to matter which agency I worked for, but it no longer does, since everything I’ve ever known and trusted has ceased to exist--or perhaps never really did. Let me explain.

My job is to file routine, non-classified correspondence. Mixed in with my morning’s run was a batch of memorandums to and from individuals unknown to me. That, however, is of no consequence. What sent me reeling was the directives within those memos. ‘Someone’ was telling ‘someone’ to devalue the currency of so-and-so province, initiate armed conflict between Country A and Country B and insure Country B’s debilitating loss, arrange the assassination of such-and-such Premier, you get the idea. They went on and on, detailing horrific schemes and deadly encounters, not just in the US, but in various countries throughout the world. Someone with access, or a change of heart, was using me to reveal the truth.

I used to think those who believed in conspiracy theories were whackos, but here was one I could no longer deny. Government functioning was orchestrated by a shadow faction located who knows where. Just because the memos found their way here didn’t mean the writers and recipients were. Regardless. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

I finished my day, the memos still on my person, and went to my friend Ray’s. I’d known Ray for 15 years and trusted him with my life. He told me to contact Jack Simon, Editor of the Free Times to set up a meet and hand over the papers. Ray would go with me to make sure I felt safe. I called Jack at his office, gave him an overview of the documents in my possession, and set the meeting for Friday at 10pm at our local park. True, it was deserted at that hour, but in this town, there was no safer area. All I had to do was wait two more days.

When Ray and I arrived, Jack was already there, sitting on one of the picnic tables. He appeared anxious and held out his hand to me.

“This is big, Martin. I can’t wait to see those memos. No one else knows about them besides Ray, correct?”

“Absolutely not, Jack.“ I knew we’d made the right decision. “I’ve told no one else and Ray’s the only one I’ve shown them to. Here’s all eleven of them. What now?”

I gave him the memos and he put them in his pocket and lit a smoke. His enthusiasm seemed to have evaporated. He turned to my friend of 15 years and told him to shoot me. I wondered why I hadn’t had any prior symptoms since I’d obviously developed a malignant brain tumor.

“Shoot me? Ray? What’s he talking abo…”

As I turned to face Ray, I saw him remove a handgun from his coat pocket and point it directly at my face. Before confronting Ray, I decided to get some answers from our esteemed gentleman of the press.

“I don’t understand. You are known as a speaker of the truth. People provide you with info on illegal goings-on and you expose them. I’d heard you’re afraid of no one and that you believe people have the right to honesty.”

“You’re a funny guy, Martin. I find it hard to believe anyone could be that naïve. No, I’m not afraid of anyone. Why should I be? I’m protected, and advised on just how much ‘honesty’ I’m permitted to print. I’m also paid well to perform a duty that I strongly believe in.”

“Martin, your problem is that you believe government should be of the people and by the people, but we both know that’s not a workable scenario,” Ray piped in. “James Madison once said that ‘you must first enable the government to control the governed, and in the next place, oblige it to control itself’. He led the way.

People are inherently mindless sheep, Martin, and prefer to remain so. If the general population was not strongly guided, the world would be in a state of uncontrolled chaos. When media, economy and even armed conflicts have been thoroughly scripted, the chaos is controlled and monitored. It’s the only way this can all work, Martin, the only way.”

I felt like I was trapped in a bad horror movie.

“If you were one of them anyway, why get me here to kill me? Why not just shoot me when I told you I wanted to go public with all this?”

“We had to be certain that you hadn’t shared your information with anyone else or made any copies of the memorandums,” Jack explained.

“What about whoever sent these to me?“ My last attempt at reason. “If I disappear, he or she will just forward more of this garbage to whoever replaces me.”

“Not to worry, Martin,” Ray screwed on the silencer, chambered a round, and aimed the gun at my chest. “We’ve already identified that individual, and he took early retirement with no notice. Funny. Right now, that seems to be the popular course to follow, since that’s what you’re going to do. Too.”

MISTAKEN

2011-06-01T10:39:00.000-04:00

I am very proud to say that the following story of mine entitled Mistaken, was published on Pulp Metal Magazine on 5/29/11. I'm posting the story here as well, but please make sure you head over to Pulp Metal to check out the rest of the tasty tales and interviews there. Without further ado, I offer you a maddening tale of mistaken identity.

MISTAKEN

Some days, it doesn’t pay to even open your eyes, you know? I was sitting, minding my own in Josie’s, having two over, a slice of wheat, coffee, and a slice of Josie’s famous key lime, and working out the kinks of what was supposed to be my last score in Jewelsburg. I planned to hit the End of the Line Service Station; the one by the highway on-ramp. Not a big haul, but just enough to blow this dead-end burg. By the time the attendant, Donnie, untied himself and got to the phone, I’d be three counties over. I needed to make sure I got there right at open, before it got busy. I hoped their truck had come last night. I sure wanted to grab myself a few packs of those sugary…

“Marty! My man!” The shout startled the hell out of me and I knocked the rest of my pie on the floor.

A short, balding man in a three-piece slid into my booth across from me.

“How have you been? It’s me. Eddie. You remember. Ma’am? Coffee and a sweet roll to go, please. So, Marty, did you decide on that late model Ford you had your eye on last week at Cool Calvin’s Car Court? There were so many great deals, I just couldn’t make up my mind. Oh, thank you, ma’am. Well, Marty, I’ll be seeing you.”

With that, the man got up to leave. I knew I had to straighten out this clown in a big hurry.

“Wait. Eddie? You are mistaken. My name‘s not Marty and I‘ve never…” As I got up to follow him out to his car, I slipped on the pie I dropped and hit the right side of my head on the corner of the table. I scrambled to my feet and ran outside, but he was gone. Just as well. Probably on his way to some corporate mind-fuck. I went back inside to pay and beg a couple of aspirin from Josie.

Donnie was struggling with the door key when I pulled up. I saw the day’s start-up in the bank envelope tucked in his side pocket.

“Hey, Donnie,” I grabbed his keys. “let me help you.” I opened the door and pushed him inside.

“Freakin locks,” he mumbled, and flipped on all the lights. He took the money from the envelope and opened the register. I reached into my pocket for my .38 when I heard the bell over the door jingle. Who the fuck would come in here at this hour?

“Bob!”

Him. Again.

“Sorry about before, Bob. I had you confused with somebody else. You still do your wash at Rudy’s Tumble and Go over on Bander? I’ll never forget the night you and I just got our washers going and that drier exploded. What a mess. Yeah, young fella, a pack of smokes, whatever’s cheapest. Thanks. Well, Bob, good to see you. Gotta run.”

“Wait. Eddie. You are mistaken. My name‘s not Bob and I‘ve never…” As I turned and ran to catch up with him, I tripped over the display of bottles of window washer and gashed my cheek on the corner of the newspaper rack. By the time I got outside, he was gone. While Donnie was cleaning up the mess I had made, I noticed there were already two customers inside buying coffee and somebody was honking to be let into the garage for an oil change. I went back inside and bought a bottle of aspirin and went home to take a nap.

Lunch time. My bag was still packed and in the trunk, and I decided to go with Plan B, which was Dottie’s Dough, the small check cashing place over on Kramer. I already knew their schedule. The front clerk, Annie, went home for lunch from one to two, and Dottie was alone with all that green. Everybody in this lousy town took lunch from one to two, so me and my trusty .38 would pop in to say Hi, Gimme, and then So Long, Sister.

I waited until Annie turned the corner at Kramer and Collier before I crossed the street and strolled inside.

“Be right with you, hon. I’m in the back room nuking my meatball sub.”

It doesn’t get better than that. Dottie was all the way in the back and the cash drawers were wide open. Like taking candy from a baby. All I had to do was lean over the counter, reach in and…

“Phil!”

When I jerked my hand back across the counter, I snagged my wrist on a loose nail on the edge. I hoped I wasn’t a bleeder.

Dottie ran up front.

“Hi. Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting. How can I help you?”

I just shook my head, shoved my hand in my pocket, and wondered how much blood the human body can lose before passing out. Eddie handed her a check and his license.

“All I need today, little lady, is just a quick $25, if you please. Phil, so sorry about before. I had you confused with somebody else. Listen, I forgot to ask you before. How’s that pull-out sofa from Frankie Foster’s Furniture working for you? When we were there during that midnight madness sale of his, you seemed so interested in the red one. Are those comfortable? Thank you, Miss Dottie. Take care, Phil. Gotta run.”

No. Not again.

“Eddie? You are mistaken,” I screamed. “My name’s not Phil and I’ve never…”

On my way out, I missed the last step and landed on Dottie’s parking lot on my face. Good thing she had that gravel paved over last spring. I got up on my knees, but he was already gone.

After making a quick stop for some antiseptic and Band-Aids, I headed down the highway and never looked back. Once I passed the county line, I started to breathe a little bit easier. I still had enough cash left to get a nice room for the night and maybe a small bottle of something warm. I believed that life would look better in the morning. Something was sure to turn up.

On my way out of a town called Gales Crossing, I passed a burger joint called Think Inside The Bun. I made a u-ee and pulled in the lot. My gut told me Lady Luck was finally smiling on me and calling my name loud and clear. The place was jumping with a bunch of high schoolers. I decided I’d grab a bite, then on my way out to pay, I would empty the register. One look at my 38 caliber buddy and every one of those punks would be running home crying for mama.

I had to admit, the burger and fries were great, and the coffee was hot and comforting. The kid at the checkout had his nose buried in some gamer magazine. The time was right. I started to slide out of the booth when…

“Stevie!”

Eddie patted me on the back and slid in across from me.

“So sorry about before, Stevie. I had you confused with somebody else. I just picked up a paper at Sammy’s Stop and Save and got one of their Smoothies. Remember when you got that raspberry one there? That’s what I got today and it was great, but then I got hungry. What’s good here, huh, Stevie?”

I debated with myself whether to attempt yet again to explain that he was mistaken and that I wasn’t who he thought I was and that we’d never met before, but instead I took Mr. .38 out of my pocket and shot the fucker square in the face.

Now.

“Check, please?”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 32: LIVIN' ON A PRAYER

2011-05-26T13:29:00.008-04:00

Cycle 32 was The Wrong Song. We were to pick one of these songs that people often make mistakes with the lyrics and use it as the title and inspiration for our story. The genre was open and the max word count was to be 1,000. This one was a lot of fun to write, and I hope it's also a lot of fun to read.

LIVIN' ON A PRAYER

“Ma said you need to take the long view. Of course, she also told me she‘s got a first class seat on the shuttle to the planet Zenon.”

My brother, Jessie, had made his weekly pilgrimage to our mother at the home. I stopped going a year ago since she makes the same speech every time. Following updates on her travel plans, she harps about me. Just because I don’t want to end up a grocery store stock boy like Jessie doesn’t mean I don’t have any ambition. I have some, but it’s not to be promoted to the loading dock. What I want is a penthouse, a Jag and a gorgeous movie star on my arm. I’m not going to get any of those things counting cans of green beans.

“Joey,” Jessie gave me his weekly speech again. “Mr. Hanrahan is looking for another stock boy. It pays minimum, but that’s only at the start. The work’s not that hard, and after awhile, you’d get benefits too. If you don’t take advantage, he’ll pay you for being off sick. Not many will do that these days.

Ma’s book is not always on the same page as the rest of us, but one thing she’s always focused on, Joey, is you. She doesn’t want you to end up like Pop. Pop flew by the seat of his pants she used to say, and you’re living on a prayer. Same thing. You live for the moment and never think of the consequences. For you, it’s like there’s no tomorrow. We both know how Pop’s tomorrows turned out. He screwed up one time too many and his Mr. B arranged for him to take a swim wearing a cement overcoat. She’s worried you’ll end up like that too, and so am I. One of these days, Mr. B isn‘t going to be so forgiving.”

Jessie knew about my little mishaps with jobs, but Mr. B always gave me another chance. This latest gig was going to get me two grand and all I had to do was get Mr. B’s money back. This mope was supposed to pick up a satchel at Point A and drop it off at Point B, only he decided to keep it. Nobody steals from Mr. B.

I wasn’t supposed to bump him off, just scare him and get the money. I checked him out and he’s actually smaller than me, so I told Mr. B okay. The one like this before didn’t turn out too well. Nobody told me the guy was 6 foot 3 and carried a bat. I’m 5 foot 2. He broke my arm, two of my ribs and I was in the hospital for 9 days. Mr. B let it go though. Said he admired my spirit.

Nobody mentioned this sap was armed. I got to his place and he stood at barely 5 feet. I just knew I could scare the bejesus out of him until he pulled his piece. We ended up struggling on the floor and then I heard the bang. Down went the little dude with a bullet between his eyes. Collateral damage. This happened before I got the cash, but I was sure he’d stashed it in his flat. I was wrong.

On my way to Mr. B’s, I tried to work out how I was going to explain why I didn’t have his ten large. Walking past the bank downtown, I dreamed of strolling in and taking what I needed. Thing is, you can’t rob banks so easy anymore what with cameras, time locks and all. Take too long to figure out, and I only had an hour.

As I passed the entrance, a 60-ish woman came out stuffing a roll of bills in her handbag. She acted all la de da, like she could flash all that dough and nobody would take it. Well, think again, old lady, because I’m going to. I followed her across the street to her car, which was parked in front of the alley that ran between the department store and the pharmacy. I knew the alley went right through to Main, and nobody was looking, so I got behind her and grabbed her bag. She started moaning ‘why, huh?’, ‘why, huh?’, ‘why, huh?’… After around the eighth ‘why, huh’, I clocked her and ran down the alley. I mean, come on.

I ran into one of the empty warehouses at Main and Fifth, and counted my take. Ten grand to the penny. I dumped the purse, pocketed the cash and proceeded to Mr. B’s. Today was going to be my lucky day.

Mr. B was so proud. I didn’t see the need to explain the details. We were in his den and he’d just handed me my share when someone came bursting in the front door. I heard a woman crying, and Mr. B told me to wait and went to see what was up. I heard him ask what happened and then a woman moaning ‘why, huh?’, ‘why, huh?’, ‘why, huh?’…

No fucking way.

When Mr. B came back, he told me that was his wife. Somebody had robbed her and he took her upstairs to lie down. Evidently, once a month, she liked to take out ten thousand in cash and go on a shopping spree. She loved to spread all that money around. It didn’t matter because nothing would happen to her. Everybody knew who Mrs. B was. I’m thinking, not EVERYBODY. I could feel my cement overcoat getting snugger by the second.

Mr. B told me to give him a call when I wanted more work. I told him thanks, but I would be busy for awhile. I’m going to call Jessie and find out if Hanrahan‘s still hiring. I’m thinking I might join him on Friday’s visit to Ma too. I could tell her how I’m taking the long view, and she can tell me all about what she’ll be doing on Zenon…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 31: AMONG FRIENDS

2011-05-19T12:52:00.007-04:00

This week's challenge was to create a story about negotiation, and have our character(s) use at least two tactics. Any genre, with a max of 1,000 words. I decided to keep mine Among Friends. Please enjoy.

AMONG FRIENDS

Tonight has gone straight to hell. I‘m supposed to be off, but a situation has developed that demands my attention. I’m a hostage negotiator, and I’ve been trained to talk people out, avoiding at all costs, any type of collateral damage. So, what is so different about this occurrence that requires my special brand of arbitration? The suspected killer of one of our detectives is my best friend, and his hostage is the vic’s widow. We‘ve all been neighbors and friends for years. How could all our lives suddenly go so terribly wrong?

What I’ve been told is Serena, Detective Edmond Rayston’s wife, hadn’t been well and was resting while her husband prepared a late meal for the two of them. She heard a knock on the door and her husband invited in their next-door neighbor, Richie Bender. She had started to fall back asleep when she heard them arguing. She heard glass breaking and went to see what was happening. As she rounded the corner leading into the kitchen, she saw Richie with blood on his hands and her husband lying on the kitchen floor with a carving knife in his chest. She ran back to the bedroom, called 911, gave them the details, and told the dispatcher she was going to ask Richie to give himself up.

When the units arrived moments later, Richie came to the front door with his hands around Serena’s neck and told the responding officers that this was a set-up, and that he didn‘t kill Eddie. Serena began screaming that Richie threatened to killer her too. Richie begged them to contact me, and if they complied, Serena wouldn‘t get hurt.

I was already in bed when I got the call. It happened so fast, as these situations always do, but I never believed friends would be involved. I’ve known Richie since grade school and I was best man at Eddie and Serena’s wedding. This is what I do for a living, but this time, where do I begin?

On my arrival, they had communication set up with Richie via the Rayston’s phone. Training and experience aside, I decided to just go with my gut.

“Richie,” I began, “this is Jer. I‘m here for you, my friend. Why don’t you come out and tell me what happened.”

“No, Jer.” Richie’s icy tone was one I’ve never heard before. “I know you‘ll listen to me. I’ve been set up, and I don’t know why. Serena called me and said something’s wrong with Eddie and asked me to come over. When I came in, I found Eddie on the floor with a knife in his chest and what’s Serena doing? Laughing. She said the cops were already on their way and that she told them she overheard me fighting with Eddie and that she was sure I stabbed him.

It’s a lie, Jer. I don’t know why she’s doing this. I came in and saw Eddie lying there and got down on my knees to see if I could help him. I touched the knife and got blood on me. I know this looks bad, but I didn’t do this. Tell me what to do, Jer.”

I wasn’t sure whether Richie understood the magnitude of the trouble he was in. His story was shaky, his prints were on the knife, he was covered with Eddie’s blood, and there was a witness who overheard the confrontation between him and the victim. He was reaching out to me, and I knew if I remained his friend, I could end this peacefully.

“Richie, listen. I don’t believe you realize just how bad this is. Eddie was a cop, and all the cops out here believe you killed him and you’re holding his wife hostage and threatening to kill her too. If you don’t let Serena come out now and then come out yourself with your hands up, they’re going to set up a shooter to take you out. That house is full of windows, Richie, and they’ll find you. If that happens, we’ll never find out the whole truth of what happened tonight. Is that what you want? Please. Let her walk out of there, then you come out and lie down on the grass. I’ll come along and we’ll straighten this out together, my friend. I’m going to help you any way I can. I promise. Okay, Richie?”

Serena came running out the front door, with Richie right behind her, and he was taken without any fuss. As they put him in the squad, he looked in my direction, and I gave him the thumbs up. He smiled and sat back, believing I wouldn’t be far behind.

Thing is, the moron hadn’t been set up only by Serena. I was actually the one who came up with the plan. I knew the dumb-ass would touch the knife--human instinct and all. Besides, who were the cops going to believe anyhow? Some weird used car salesman who lived alone or the wife of a slain detective who had been held against her will and terrorized? I know Richie, and he’s not all that stable. I could recount so many instances… Naturally, they’d have to take my word for it, but of course, they would. After all, I’m one of the brothers in blue, aren’t I?

On the way back to my house, I passed the ambulance where they were checking Serena out in the back. I glanced in her direction and she winked at me. Stupid broad. I told her not to act friendly toward me, at least not for awhile. Our affair had been going strong for some time and Eddie was suspicious, which is why he had to be removed. But I told her after a suitable mourning period, we could begin to date publicly and take it from there. It will all work out if she doesn’t fuck it up. It would be a shame if she was taken hostage again and negotiations failed…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 30: IN PLAIN SIGHT

2011-05-12T12:56:00.001-04:00

Our challenge this week was to construct a story around this picture, any genre and a limit of 1234 words. I always enjoy pictures as prompts, since if one really looks, it's amazing what one can see. Please enjoy.

IN PLAIN SIGHT

“Thanks, you senile old bastard, for a worthless house and an even more worthless painting. ‘You always look, but never see.’ You and your mindless sayings and asinine riddles.”

Daniel Vander, Jr. had torn the house up from top to bottom looking for some hint as to where to find the bulk of his father’s fortune. Even as his son was threatening to inject the morphine into his IV line, the old man just kept telling him to look at the painting he had done of his ‘treasure’ and to really see it. Daniel had learned that the ‘treasure’ he was referring to was Marta. God. The help. He beds that slut, paints a dirty picture and wants his son to look at it. He really enjoyed watching the old man gasp for breath when the morphine hit home. Maybe the whore knew where the money was kept. He’d deal with her later.

“Marta? Marta?”

Junior was shouting again. His father not in the ground even a week and already he was disrupting the household and completely disrespecting his father’s memory. He had learned by way of some underground grapevine that his father was dying and had appeared out of nowhere.

Marta Wilbur had been Mr. Vander, Sr.’s housekeeper since long before the boy was born. She had been hired right after he had married that woman. That weak and simple-minded creature that barely survived the birth of her child, only to take her own life not even a month later. Doctors had said she had been depressed. Life is depressing, Marta thought, but we all have work to do and others to care for. Selfish bitch, that one was. Leaving the mister alone with a newborn baby. Thank God Marta had been there to save them both.

“Marta, where the fuck are you? I’m hungry.” Daniel’s voice echoed through the house.

“Coming, sir,” Marta announced from the kitchen. “Just finishing placing your lunch on the cart. Sir.” The vile little beast is hungry. Well, enjoy this fine meal I’ve prepared for you. Once you’ve finished, hunger will trouble you no more.

Marta already had Daniel’s ‘suicide’ note typed and ready to place on the desk in the den. Consumed with guilt over murdering his father, the boy just couldn’t go on. A hefty dose of cyanide in his cooler was his chosen remedy to alleviate his suffering. She had included his confession, stating how he had increased the mister’s morphine dose to a lethal level, with no one suspecting foul play since his father’s illness had been terminal and his time was short. She had vowed her beloved employer’s murder would be avenged.

After the police had finished their inquiries and the ambulance had taken the dead boy away, Marta sat down with a glass of wine and admired her painting. No one would ever know the painting Mr. Vander, Sr., had done was of her. He had loved her in his own dignified way, but for fear of scandal damaging the reputation of his business and of the potential damage to her reputation as well, he could not allow their affair to be known so soon after his wife’s untimely death. As time passed, it somehow seemed less and less advisable to reveal their union to outsiders, so she remained his housekeeper and nanny to his son.

He promised to make sure she was cared for in the event of his death, but his son did come first. He did, however, make his son’s inheriting his millions conditional on the boy being able to figure out how to access the accounts. An important and valuable lesson he wanted to teach the young man. The boy was distant, vulgar and full of hatred for all around him. His father wanted him to take the time to see and appreciate the world around him and listen to and follow the counsel given him. He had hope for his child, but Marta knew better. The boy would never decipher the code. He was too consumed by love of self to even attempt to see any sign of beauty and grace elsewhere.

They had both delighted at the prospect of leaving such intriguing clues that he had placed in the painting on the bedcover beneath her. The letters ‘I’ and ‘N’--not subtle to be sure, but that had been part of their lovers’ joke. Then, going across further, the numbers ‘1’ and ‘5’, that signified the 15th step on the way to their home’s entry. The mister had taken the boy out often, to museums and galleries to try to help him to form a bond with others, but to no avail. Daniel would create a scene and necessitate the return home. Still, each time, his father would count the steps with his son, particularly noting the 15th step, hoping in the future on seeing the clues provided in the painting, the boy would make the connection.

Of course, Daniel had refused to look and therefore, had failed to see. Marta knew the key beneath the stone that was the 15th step was now hers to use to access the box at the local bank. With the boy out of the way, as secondary beneficiary, once she retrieved the account numbers, locations, and passwords, she could begin amassing her new fortune. She decided the first thing she would do with her new-found wealth would be to have her painting re-framed in honor of its painter. It had been his tribute to his love for her and she would hang it in a prominent place in the new home his will provided for her. Then, she decided she would hire a housekeeper. The place could really use a good cleaning.

DAN O'SHEA'S TORNADO RELIEF FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: MRS. CARMODY'S MUFFINS

2011-05-06T13:24:00.007-04:00

This story was written for Dan O’Shea’s Tornado Relief Flash Fiction Challenge: Have you ever seen the rain? Rain is supposed to play a role in the story. For every story submitted, Dan is donating $5.00 to the Red Cross to help out those people who were victims of the recent tornados. It was a pleasure to write for this terrific cause.

MRS. CARMODY’S MUFFINS

Willie was pissed. It wasn’t bad enough that Danny had given him half-assed directions to the rooming house where he was laying low after he’d botched that liquor store robbery, bitchy Mother Nature had joined in the plot against him. In his whole miserable life, Willie had never seen so much rain. He could barely see five feet in front of him and setting the wipers on high was nothing more than a joke. It was like there was a solid wall of water moving right along with him--like he was trying to drive along the bottom of a swimming pool that was full. The water was already covering the road. How long before the brakes gave out and he and the car just floated away?

The storm had hit with full force just as he had pulled into Nowhere, USA. Power was still on because the traffic lights were working, but all the businesses in town were closed and shuttered. There had been one service station open, but as Willie pulled in, he saw the attendant locking up.

“Hey,” Willie yelled, the rain hitting him like a fire hose in the face through his open window. “Any way out of this town back to the highway?”

“Not in this mess,” the attendant shouted. “All the roads in and out of town will be flooded soon. Follow the road you’re on to the end and you’ll find Mrs. Carmody’s place. She’s an elderly widow and a nice old gal and she’ll feed you and I’m sure let you keep your car in her garage next to hers, and maybe a cot where you could sleep till this is over. Good luck, buddy.”

With that, the man finished locking up and ran to a small house behind the station. ‘Good luck, buddy’ indeed. An elderly widow with a garage? I’m sure the nice old gal wouldn’t mind if I traded this heap I’m driving for whatever she’s got. She’ll feed me alright, and I’m hungry for coffee, some roast beef, new wheels, and valuables.

Mrs. Carmody loved the rain. Her home could withstand dire weather and since the storms were soothing to her, she’d fill this evening with her favorite past-time: baking blueberry muffins for her Ladies Club meeting day after tomorrow. The rain would be gone by then, and there would be plenty for the meeting, as well as a generous portion of these delicious treats for her lady friends to take home to their families. She made pies and cookies for the Church bake sale and other events, but for her Ladies Club, only these muffins would do. Such a dark and nasty night, she thought, and was very surprised when she heard the knock on her front door.

Willie knew he had found nirvana. The old bag was alone and loaded. She gave him a tour of the house and told him about her late husband’s BMW in the garage that she used only to drive to town once a month for groceries. He caught himself salivating when he saw all the artwork, furs and jewelry. How trusting these small-town rubes were, he smiled. ‘Look at this pretty diamond pin my husband gave me.’ ‘Look at this shiny gold watch he surprised me with.’ There was only one thing that was strictly forbidden, and that was her muffins. ‘Don’t touch them,’ she had told him, a spark of fire in her eyes. Crazy old bat, he thought. I wouldn’t touch your muffins with a stick.

Coffee cup empty, roast beef sandwich eaten, time to help the old lady ‘accidentally’ tumble down the stairs, load up his new ride and take off. With the rainstorm providing great cover, he’d be long gone before she was found. Where was the old biddy anyway? Maybe changing her Depends…

He got up to grab her car keys from the rack by the back door when he caught a whiff of the muffins. Damn, he thought, like catnip for people. Screw her. I’ve got to have one of these.

“Young man?”

The voice Willie heard behind him grated on him like his mother’s had when he was six and she had caught him in the alley removing the neighbor’s dog’s teeth with his dad’s pliers.

“What the fuck you want, you old…”

As Willie turned to face the soon-to-be-dead bitch, Mrs. Carmody drove the carving knife into his abdomen right up to the handle.

“I told you, no muffins!” she shouted. “Those are for my Ladies Club.”

Before Willie’s world went permanently black, he reached up with bloody hands to plead for help and understanding he knew would not be given.

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Carmody said. “I already gave you coffee, a nice roast beef sandwich, shelter from all this rain, but no more. Look what you did. Now, I can’t continue baking my muffins because I’ll have to go out in this awful storm to put your car in my garage. I can roll it down the boat ramp tomorrow night into the river when the weather clears. And then, I’m still going to have to clean up this mess you’re making on my floor, and take you down to the basement where you can share my deep freeze with the late Mr. Carmody. I had told him too that my muffins were only for my Ladies Club members, but he didn’t listen either.

Oh well. Best hurry. Now I have to bake an extra batch to even out the count since you took a bite out of one. Honestly. You men. You sure do love Mrs. Carmody’s muffins, don’t you…”

IS A MURDER ALWAYS A MURDER?

2011-05-05T23:29:00.013-04:00

When you write crime fiction and your plot includes a murder, what kind of murder do you use in your story? Now, I’m not referring to how your character gets bumped off (i.e., shot, stabbed, etc.). I’m talking about the various ’categories’, if you will, of murder Let me explain.

Murder is defined as the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought. What it really comes down to is intent. Was the original intent to kill and then death achieved? Was it a premeditated, willful, and deliberate act?

A lot of plots are geared around this type of killing, but you know, there are many different ways to kill off your character that would perhaps add an extra layer or two to your story.

Why always use murder in the first degree. How about sticking in a second degree. The definition of second degree murder is pretty close to the one for first degree, but again, it comes down to original intent. Second degree murder is non-premeditated and can result from an assault. What makes it second degree vs. manslaughter for instance though, is that while the individual committing the assault did not set out to kill the victim, he or she is aware during the assault that death is a real possibility, but continues just the same. I know it’s a fine line, but under the law, the line is there.

Then we have manslaughter (sometimes termed as third degree murder), and actually, there are two types there. Voluntary manslaughter lacks a prior intent to actually kill, but does involve the intent to cause serious harm with total disregard for human life, and death results. Involuntary manslaughter is unlawful killing without intent. This would involve justified or accidental killings, which by the way, are still considered homicides, though depending on the circumstances, they may or may not be criminal offenses.

Self-defense, of course, is not included in any of the various categories of murder. That could create an interesting situation in a story since your character killing in self-defense would only be witnessed by the one who did the killing and the one who was killed. Tough perhaps to prove self-defense to the authorities, especially if the ’killer’ flees the scene. Possibilities? Definitely.

Lastly, let’s not forget suicide. Yes, I did say suicide. I have read actual cases where an individual made their suicide (or at least attempted) appear as if a particular person murdered them. It worked too, at least at the beginning. With the advancement in the various fields of forensics, however, that kind of plan would hopefully be easier to see through. One case involved a man who had a terminal illness and despised his neighbor. The reasons were ridiculous to any rational person, but not to him. He came up with this elaborate scheme to actually kill himself, but set up his neighbor as his killer. Almost got away with it too. The neighbor was arrested, which made it difficult to act in his own defense. But he had very supportive friends and a devoted family, and together, they were able to bring out the truth. In the meantime however, the man sat in jail just waiting. Scary, huh?

All these different twists and turns with what your characters are thinking, what they may or may not be planning, how they react when certain events occur, do they run and try to clear their name from behind the scenes, do they stand their ground and hope that really being innocent is enough?

If your guy wakes up one morning and decides to add another notch to his belt just because he enjoys it, so be it. Nothing wrong with a down and dirty serial murderer now and then. But take a chance. Get inside your character’s head and put different kinds of intent in there, or pull out any that’s already lurking, and then send him on his way to meet somebody, and the somebody dies. How? Why? Accident? Was he lying in wait to punch out the jerk who cut him off on the freeway, but the poor sap croaks on the sidewalk?

The possibilities are endless. There’s so many different paths your story can take, so many different situations your character can find himself or herself in when a death occurs. Be creative, be clever, use one type, use all of them, deceive your readers without mercy, make it impossible for them to put your story down until you decide to reveal how things really happened.

First degree, second degree, third degree, manslaughter, suicide… Decisions, decisions…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 29: SIXES AND SEVENS

2011-05-05T12:05:00.010-04:00

The prompt this time was to find the title for our story. We were to find one beginning with the letter “s” at Brewer’s Phrase and Fable online at http://www.bibliomania.com/2/3/255/1184. “Sixes and sevens” stood out for me, and the definition given was when it was used concerning people, it referred to disagreement or hostility. Between the brothers in my story, I do believe it’s safe to say there’s more than a little of both. The genre was open, and the word count was to be 1,000 or less. Please enjoy.

SIXES AND SEVENS

“You’re an idiot, Mikey.” George Studarsky was anxious to get away from the prison and to the rooming house where the Warden had arranged for them to stay so he could start planning their next score. This was going to get him and his dumb-ass brother into the big-time. He hated these penny-ante gigs that netted them nothing and got them busted. That was all Mikey’s fault though.

Mikey was family, and George had promised their mom on her deathbed that he would look after him since he was slower in the head than most, but that promise was getting harder to keep with each passing day. George was never able to find out where Mikey got his tips, but they had all sounded pretty doable. Problem was, they’d get in, and it would all go to Hell in a quick minute because there was always one detail Mikey forgot to mention. They’d get nabbed, do a short stretch in the joint, get out early since they’re weren’t real badasses, Mikey would get another tip, and the cycle would continue.

George decided to get off that merry-go-round and do it right for once. This time, he got the tip from a couple of guards. They were both stupid as the day is long, and hadn’t known George was going to be released soon, so what difference did it make if he heard them talking. They were planning to sign-on to make a few extra bucks when a large amount of cash was going to be moved. George paid close attention to where the money was being moved to, and when. Details. Important ones.

George’s feet hurt. You’d think the fucking prison could supply a bus ticket to get them into town. Pointing him and Mikey to which road to start walking on wasn’t his idea of rehabilitation. Mikey had been so quiet and George knew why. He always got that way when he was trying to figure out how to present one of his mysterious tips. Mikey always wanted to make sure he remembered everything so he and his brother wouldn’t end up behind bars. Mikey hoped this time he’d get it right.

They got to the town called Anderton and decided they’d grab a bite. Sally’s Sandwich Haven sounded about right, and over their burgers, Mikey decided it was time.

“Georgie, I heard these guys talking in the yard about a gas station here that keeps cartons of smokes in the back and doesn’t put their money in the bank every day. We could take the cigs and cash and steal a car and leave. I’m not sure of the name, but if I look in the phone book…”

George couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Mikey’s tip pool had hit rock bottom.

“Mikey,” George began, “ a job like that would be a waste of time and get us busted for sure. Everybody knows how stupid you are and that you’ll believe anything, and they’re right. Forget gas stations. I’ve got something bigger.

Some bank needs repair and the money’s being moved to another on First Street temporarily. It’s all hush-hush since the move is to one that doesn’t normally hold much. It’s scheduled for 2:00 am and at 2:15, we’ll be in there helping ourselves.

You get the address. Joints like that have nickel and dime alarms and cheap locks on their safes. We’ll already have a car out there and be in and out in fifteen tops. You just do what I tell you , and nothing will go wrong. ‘kay?”

“Got it, Georgie,” Mikey felt better. He wasn’t sure he’d remembered everything about the gas station thing. He didn’t want to make another boo-boo.

* * * * *

As George and Mikey were being booked into the Anderton County Jail at 2:45 am, all the cops were still laughing.

“Great job, guys,” one of them said. “breaking into an empty bank. What were you going to steal? Pencils from the teller stations?” He doubled over with laughter as he escorted the brothers to a holding cell. They’d go before the judge at 9:00.

“Georgie?” Mikey said.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mikey.” George was pissed. “Who knew some jerk was going to be out walking his damn dog at 2:20 in the morning by the bank in the mini-mall. I told you not to wave your flashlight around. We may as well have been shooting off fireworks in there.”

“Yeah, but Georgie,” Mikey continued, “the safe was wide open and there was no money in it. I wonder why.”

“I’ll tell you why,” George said. “Those guards were playing me and I’ll get them for it. We’re going to be locked up at Stilton again and I’ll take care of all of them. Saying there was going to be a ton of cash in the First Street Bank and it would be easy pickings and…”

“What?” Mikey asked. “Georgie, did you say the guards said the money would be in the First Street Bank?”

“Yeah,” Georgie pulled the blanket around him. Why did they always keep the thermostat down so low in these small town jails. “Some bank on First Street, the First Street bank, what the fuck difference does it make? We got suckered. That’s what matters.”

“You know what, Georgie,” Mikey felt bad. “It kind of does make a difference. When we were in the room, I was looking in the phone book to get the address of the one on First Street.”

“So?” George wished he had a smoke. Should have just gone with Mikey’s gas station job.

“Well,” Mikey hesitated. “maybe I should have told you about this at the room. Before I found Star National on First Street and Cooper, I saw there was a First Street Bank on the corner of 18th and Green. Do you think maybe that’s the one where they put all that money, Georgie? Did I make another boo-boo?”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 28: LIGHTS, CAMERA...

2011-04-27T20:09:00.005-04:00

The challenge this time was to take the book closest to you, turn to page 70 and use the 7th sentence as your starter sentence. The genre was open, but hard-boiled, noir, crime action would be preferred. The length was to be under 700 words.

My starter sentence came from Dick Francis’ book, Field of Thirteen. Page 70 was part of a story entitled “Bright White Star”.

LIGHTS, CAMERA…

The director sighed. Already had a buyer for his usual fare, and now this happens. One hundred thou offered to make a snuff? An actual, honest-to-fucking snuff film? The order’s from some big-name actor, so the money’s real enough. The actor’s rep let Clyde look at it in his briefcase. Let him feel it up for a sec too. Even brought the gun he wanted to be used. A nice shiny new 9mm Glock--loaded. ‘Like your other films, please’ he said quietly, ‘except this time, when the girl puts the gun into her mouth and pulls the trigger…’

Clyde felt like he was going to be sick. So far, he’d had no problem unloading his work. He has the girl make herself feel real good, then she sucks on his old Colt 38 with the broken firing pin for awhile, pulls the trigger, looks right into the camera and laughs. But this time?

He’d picked this cutie up at a bus stop on the edge of town and brought her out here to the cabin. Told him she was 18, but he didn’t believe a day over 15. Promised her a few bucks, make her a movie star, you know the routine, and she’d come willingly enough. But, still. A snuff film?

He took her into the master bedroom, where he had his lights and camera already set up. Clyde told her to lie on the bed and get comfortable and try to relax. He handed her a bottle of some cheap whiskey he had stashed there for just such occasions. As soon as she unscrewed the top, she started gulping it down. Clyde hoped to hell she wouldn’t puke it up later on film. A scene like that would certainly decrease it’s value. He told her he had some stuff to take care of in the other room, but he’d be back in about 15 minutes and then they would make the movie. She just nodded and kept gulping. Clyde went into the back bedroom he’d converted to a kind of office and sat down at the desk. He really needed to think this through.

He put the Colt and the Glock on the desk and lit a smoke. This should have been an easy decision, but he couldn’t just wave off a hundred thousand dollars. At the rate he was going, that’s more money than he would see in 25 lifetimes. But, we’re talking death for real here…

Clyde always figured there were two sides to everything. Were there this time?

Nobody makes snuff films. Not for real, anyway.

Apparently, there’s at least one guy out there who believes I would.

This kid can’t just disappear.

Told me she had no family--totally on her own.

I’ve never even punched anybody out, much less killed anyone.

I wouldn’t actually be pulling the trigger.

How could I live with myself if I let this girl die?

A hundred thou buys a lot of therapy.

Doesn’t matter how you look at this. When all is said and done, it comes down to cold-blood, premeditated murder.

Yes. It does.

Four o’clock. Clyde thought the kid must be pretty well looped by now, considering she’s probably been gulping steady for the past 15 minutes.

Showtime.

He picked up the gun from the desk and went into the bedroom. The girl had already removed her clothes and was on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Her eyes were barely open and lifeless in the room’s dim lighting. The bottle of whiskey sat almost empty on the nightstand against the wall.

He placed the gun on the bed next to her and asked if she knew what she was expected to do with it. She closed her eyes, nodded slowly, picked up the gun and began caressing it.

He positioned himself behind the camera and said, “Five, four, three, two…”

DO YOU FOLLOW THE RULES WHEN YOU WRITE CRIME FICTION/NOIR?

2011-04-24T09:00:00.007-04:00

During my travels through various writing sites, I noticed several of them mentioned rules that should be followed whenever writing a crime fiction/noir novel. While there were minor differences in phraseology, the supposed ‘rules’ were pretty consistent. Let’s explore each of these.

1. Whoever your killer is, make sure you let your readers meet him or her early on. You don’t want them to pop up out of nowhere late in the story.

I’m not certain I even understand this. Generally speaking, with crime fiction, there is an element of mystery involved. Are they saying you should reveal the identity of your killer as ’the’ killer or just allow the reader to get to know the character early on, but not let on what he or she has done or is planning to do? Since I’m not clear on what this actually means, I’m also not clear on how this is to be accomplished.

2. At least one murder should occur within the first three chapters.

Here I totally agree. When I’m reading a crime novel, if the bodies aren’t piling up by the end of Chapter 3, I’m done with it. At the risk of sounding psychotic here, if your novel includes one or more murders, I do feel the first one, at a minimum, should occur fairly early on. Locales, characters, basic storyline, all critical elements, but it comes down to the crime after all. Right?

3. Don’t include offensive crimes.

Regarding this rule, mention was made of the subjects of rape, child molestation and cruelty of animals being strictly taboo. While I cannot agree that any subject should be regarded as forbidden, I will agree that there are some that require handling in a tactful and sensitive manner. If any of these types of occurrences are relevant to the storyline, they should be included. However, make sure they are relevant. Don’t add these, or any other form of cruelty simply for shock value. That’s the lazy way out and requires no writing talent of any kind.

4. The crime has to be believable.

What? I’m not sure where this came from. It’s a sad state of affairs, but in the world today, unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of limits to what people will do to each other. Perhaps it refers to not including anything supernatural or a comic book type of crime, whatever that may be. I could use some clarification here.

5. Research when necessary.

Now on this one, I agree 200%. Whether it concerns a particular location you are using or your weapon of choice, make sure you incorporate accurate information. If the city in your novel is fictional, go wild with your street names, businesses and what have you. But if your city is an existing one, you’d better make sure your directions from such and such restaurant to so and so hotel in the downtown area are perfect. You never know. One of your readers might have been born right down the street from there. Even if none of your readers have ever been near your city of choice, if you don’t know what you’re talking about, somehow it shows. I can’t explain it, but as a reader, I don’t have to be an expert in any particular field to know when the writer’s been too lazy to look at a map. The same goes for weapons and especially areas of science. With documentaries on every night of the week discussing DNA and ballistics, inaccuracies will be spotted in a heartbeat. Nothing will turn a reader off a writer quicker than that. Make up your characters, make up your plot, but the things you take from the real world, make sure you keep them real.

6. Don’t reveal the identity of your killer too soon.

I’m not sure, but doesn’t this sort of contradict Item #1? Regardless, I’m not sure this should be a hard and fast rule. I mean, remember my favorite detective, Columbo? You knew within the first five minutes of the show who the killer was, but how their guilt was discovered was the point of the show. The motivation was sometimes revealed at the onset or fully explained at the end, but the killer’s identity was never in question. I don’t see any reason why this wouldn’t be workable in a novel, but it would require careful planning and appropriate presentation.

7. The killer must be capable of the crime.

I don’t believe this refers specifically to the criminal being physically up to whatever activity you have planned. I believe this may refer to him or her being psychologically and/or emotionally capable of committing a particular crime. While we can choose to make any of our characters break the law, before we choose the crime they are to commit, we need to examine who we’ve created. What kind of person is this? What are their likes and dislikes? What are their fears? For instance, if you’ve included something about a character’s childhood where they were traumatically scarred by being locked in a dark closet, don’t have them waiting for their victim in a pitch-black alley. I know that’s an oversimplification, but I hope you see what I’m getting at. We shouldn’t have our character who’s terrified of fire commit an arson, or if we have one who knows they’re a bleeder get involved in a knife fight and risk being injured in the struggle. Makes no sense. Make sure the crime fits the criminal and vice versa.

8. Start the action early on and keep it going strong.

Here, I agree to a point. While I will admit there is nothing more tedious than reading 10 or 15 pages of thoughts, there is also something very annoying about reading page after page of chases and fights, without really understanding the individuals involved in these confrontations and the motivations for them. I don’t need to know the details of every second of every day of a character’s life, but I do need backstory on how they came to end up where they are at the point the story takes place. I need to know who they have relationships with, what those relationships are like, how other characters fit into their lives and so on. Without well-defined characters, the plot is useless. Just be careful not to go overboard. A chase or fight here and there keeps me turning the pages.

9. Don’t make your good guy the villain.

All I have to say to this is why not? Isn’t that half the fun, having someone who is trusted and seemingly on the side of right and justice turn out to be evil incarnate? I believe that kind of twist adds a lot of flavor to a story. This individual appears supportive and sympathetic to the survivors or victim’s families, totally cooperative with law enforcement, but behind the mask? Only the victims see what’s really there and that’s right before they die. How exciting a storyline that would make.

10. Introduce your crime solver early on.

Lastly, again, why? Referring to TV shows again, take Murder, She Wrote. You knew crime writer, Jessica Fletcher, was going to solve the crime. With Columbo, you knew he was going to catch the guilty party. This works out fine if your central character is a particular detective or PI, and the story is geared around this specific individual. Then again, there are occasions where a character who has no connection whatsoever with the police or any such area either witnesses a crime or ends up being falsely accused of one and solves it to clear their name. A scenario like that can work very well and I think would pull the reader in nicely as well, since it would involve a ‘regular’ person on the trail of a killer. Imagine the danger they’d be in and the tremendous risks they’d be taking because they wouldn’t have any real resources available to them. The reader could imagine themselves in that situation and think, now, what would I do, or how would I handle that? It certainly would hold their interest.

Okay. We’ve gone through all the so-called ‘rules’ for writing crime fiction. I’ve told you how I feel about them. What about you? Are you naughty or nice? Do you follow these rules or break them every chance you get? Do you feel there should even be rules like these or any others? I believe the word ‘rules’ shouldn’t even come into play here. ‘Helpful guidelines’ maybe, but never ‘rules’. When our minds create, there shouldn’t be any restrictions or limitations on what we imagine. Now, THAT would be a real crime!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

NOTE: My good friend, and fellow creator of the deliciously dark world of noir, B.R. Stateham, was gracious enough to ask me to guest write on his blog (the above has been posted on his blog today too). He's got some fascinating and at times, frightening, characters over there you really should get to know. Head over to B.R.'s blog here. You'll be very glad you did.

GUEST WRITER - B. R. STATEHAM

2011-04-23T17:47:00.012-04:00

Question: How do you create a character who is as ice-cold as a cadaver when it comes to killing someone--yet one who actually posseses a conscience?

Or put it another way, in a sea of hit-men/assassin killer types found floating around face down in the dark waters called hardboiled, how do you create a character who is different. Different--unique--sympathetic.

A challenge. And that's putting it mildly. But one I wanted to try out one day on a kind of a spur-of-the-moment writing exercise. And . . . I'll be go to hell . . .what popped up on the screen was a guy named Smitty. Fully developed. Mean as back alley Wolverine with an aching tooth--with the black eyes of a pit viper who took in everything and anything in one glance. Reticent in speech--yet rather eloquent in his reticence.

One mean sonofabitch. That's Smitty. Yet . . .

Read the stories closely and you discover Smitty only takes out those justly deserving to be taken out. He's like the grim Angel of Death coming to collect his due among the miscreants and sadistic. And he does it spectacularly. Guns, poisons, explosives--even the front end of an F-150 Ford truck. It doesn't matter. When Smitty sets his eyes on you as his next prey--buddy, you're as good as dead.

Ah. But now, how to make him sympathetic? Make him someone from the dark side who you wind up willingly . . . or unwillingly . . . rooting for? Therein lies the McGuffin, as Alfred Hitchock used to say concerning his films. There's the catch that hooks the reader. And the answer is; I haven't a fraken' clue. It just happened.

One day Smitty was born in the back of my subconscious. He came out like some god of Greek mythology; sprung from the sea fully formed and magnificent to behold. But a god clearly hailing form the shadowy lands of Hades.

Take him for what he is, kid. The guy really does get under your skin and makes you want to read more about him.

BIO: B.R. Stateham is a fourteen year old boy trapped in a sixty-one year old body. His enthusiasm and boyish delight in anything mysterious and/or unknown continues.

Writing novels, especially detectives, is just the avenue of escape which keeps the author’s mind sharp and inquisitive. He’s published a ton of short stories in online magazines like Crooked, Darkest Before the Dawn, Abandoned Towers, Pulp Metal Magazine, Suspense Magazine, A Twist of Noir, Angie’s Diary, Power Burn Flash, and Eastern Standard Crime. He writes both detective/mysteries, as well as science-fiction and fantasy.

In 2008 the first book in the series featuring homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales came out, called Murderous Passions. A Taste of Old Revenge is the second book in the series. At the moment we’re in a searching pattern to find a publisher.

In 2009 he created a character named Smitty. In 2010 a collection of Smitty stories, and a two-novella set came out featuring this dark eyed killer.

Married to a long suffering wife for a quarter century, B.R. Stateham is the proud father of three and doting grandfather of five.

* * * * * * * * * *

Thanks so much, B.R. for sharing with us some of Smitty's secrets.

If you would like to learn more about Smitty and B.R.'s other creations, head on over to his blog. You will find terrific stuff over there, including information about writing crime/noir, some of his stories, links to his books, and much more.

Just so you don't miss out on anything, why don't you go ahead and sign on to follow his blog. A few clicks and you will always be in-the-know.

Make sure you don't keep Smitty and the rest of the gang waiting...

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 27: THE TRIAL OF JULIAN CARDEMOND

2011-04-21T09:00:00.006-04:00

The theme this week was closing arguments, with a genre of courtroom drama. We had a themed word list as follows: Money, foolish, kneecap, trace and widow, and a word limit of 1,000, and could write from the perspective of the prosecution or the defense.

This was a real challenge for me since I’ve never approached a story from the courtroom side. I’m not sure where this came from, but the idea for this one interested me. Hopefully, you, the reader, will find it enjoyable.

THE TRIAL OF JULIAN CARDEMOND

“Members of the Council, I present to you the case of Julian Cardemond, who stands accused of treason.”

“Treason? Who have I betrayed? Why am I being painfully restrained? Why is this being done to me?” Julian stood and struggled against the ropes binding his hands and ankles.

Imperial Prosecutor, Phillipe Bertrand, placed a hand firmly on the young man’s shoulder, his long, sharp nails piercing the skin on Julian’s upper back.

“Sit and be silent,” he said angrily. “You will have a brief opportunity to address this Council in your own defense. You are being restrained to insure your--shall we say, cooperation. If you remain motionless, your pain will lessen. The rope has been soaked in vervain oil and as you have discovered, contact burns the skin. Disrupt these proceedings with your foolish outbursts again, and you will be injected with the extract. Am I clear?”

Julian slowly sat and nodded. What was suddenly crystal clear to him was that he was in a fight for his life.

“Members of the Council, my apologies for the interruption,” Phillippe continued.

Julian hadn’t believed it would be possible, but when Phillippe glared at him, he thought he actually felt a chill run through him.

“The Prosecution affirms that two nights ago, specifically on Friday, the 17th of September, the Defendant did willfully, and without trace of remorse, murder the Widow Fontaine, one of our Protected.

For this Council’s edification, Mrs. Fontaine had been first encountered during her incapacitation due to a shattered kneecap resulting from a fall. During a visit by several of our elders, she expressed great interest in providing assistance to our community by way of donating money for the purchase of clothing and other items necessary for our survival in this area. In exchange for her life, she agreed to maintain our anonymity and thereafter became our ward.

Her desecrated form was crudely displayed in her atrium. The kill was unnecessarily brutal and enacted without first obtaining permission from our elders. Thusly, the Prosecution pleads for a judgment of guilty and a sentence of death, to be carried out immediately.”

“Death?” Julian jumped to his feet, the pain in his hands and feet unbearable. “I didn’t know to ask,” he gasped. “I awoke early and was so hungry. I didn’t know there were protected ones. I didn’t know about the rules. Please give me another chance. I can learn. In the future, I will do right.”

The Council’s Chair addressed him.

“Young Cardemond, stupidity is not a defense. It is your responsibility to seek required knowledge. It is not our responsibility to simply provide it. As a fledgling vampire, you are required to wait until the elders in your pack have fed to their satisfaction. Only then are you allowed to feed on that which may remain. You may not initiate a kill until such time that privilege is granted to you. This Council finds you guilty and sentences you to death. Enforcers, take the defendant to the northernmost field and bury him face downward.”

“No, please,” Julian begged. “I shall be unable to rise. I shall slowly starve and eventually die. Banish me if you must. Mark me such that no other pack shall accept me. Curse me to wander the rest of my days alone and vulnerable. Let my miserable existence be a lesson to others.”

“A lesson you shall be indeed,” the Chair responded. “A permanent one. Chief Enforcer, take this abomination away. Perform your duty.”

The three newest members of the pack watched as Julian was led away. It appeared to them as if tears glistened on his face, but how was that possible? This night, their third without being permitted to feed, would pass unchallenged. They were quick learners.

STOP ME - by Richard Jay Parker - A Review

2011-04-08T23:08:00.011-04:00

“howdy doody,

on vacation

slim, attractive dreadlocked babe with a fun sticky-out bellybutton, likes rabbit fur

forward this email to ten friends

each of those friends must forward it to ten friends

maybe one of those friends of friends of friends will be one of my friends

if this email ends up in my inbox within a week I wont slit the bitches throat

can you afford not to send this on to ten friends?

vk”

Ever get an email like the one above? Nonsense, right? Okay, so you delete it and forget about it. Except this time, eight days later, a package arrives at the Wyoming Police Department that contains a rabbit skin scarf and the boiled jawbone of a prostitute with dreadlocks and an inverted navel. Not so funny now, is it.

Emails like the one above aren’t just being sent to a selected few. They appear in home inboxes as well as in business networks and cross international borders. Leo Sharpe finds one in his inbox and gets spooked, so he reports it to the authorities. Of no concern, he is told, just delete it. Problem is, his mentioned capped teeth, and a week later, a package containing the jawbone of a woman is received by the police and, you guessed it, it had capped teeth.

Leo is troubled by these events, but tries to move past them by planning to surprise his wife with a trip for a Christmas present. They meet at their favorite bar and she excuses herself to the ladies’ room. She does not return. It’s as if she disappeared into thin air. Leo searches the building, goes across the way to his wife’s place of employment, but she is nowhere to be found. He receives another email like the one above, only this one mentions a particular scar his wife, Laura, has. Days pass, weeks, months, and no remains of Laura are delivered to the police or are ever found. Did the email end up back in the killer’s inbox? Is Laura still alive?

Stop Me is a novel that grabs you right from word one and hangs on tight to the very last word. As Leo tries to find out what happened to his wife, he finds that no one is what they appear to be. Police suspect him naturally, since he is the missing woman’s husband. The strain takes its toll on Leo and he loses his job, and finds that even friends begin to drift away. His family situation is beyond dysfunctional, and Leo finds himself drawn into a twisted cat and mouse game with a cyberspace psychopath.

This is a novel you will begin and seriously be unable to put down until the end, and even then, it will haunt you. What puts genuine fear into you as you read Stop Me is the fact that every event that occurs is possible in the real world. You will be accompanying Leo on his journey down a dark and frightening road seeking the truth, and what he finds will be far beyond anything he could have imagined.

I highly recommend Stop Me. It is a thriller in the true sense of the word. Also, I look forward to reading more by Richard Jay Parker.

Richard’s website can be found here:
http://richardjayparker.com

A great interview with Richard can be found here:
http://www.richardgodwin.net/interviews/chin-wag-at-the-slaughterhouse-interview-with-richard-jay-parker

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 25: FAMILY

2011-04-07T13:29:00.006-04:00

This week’s prompt was to write a story about someone who gets caught with their pants down, literally or figuratively. Genre was open. We’re supposed to come up with a good fool for this April Fool’s edition of F3. Enjoy.

FAMILY

I wanted that house ever since the day I watched the Dansons move in--all that expensive artwork and furs. Thinking about the diamonds the missus probably wore with those coats made me salivate. The place was designed to be jacked--set back from the highway at the end of that long driveway on the outskirts of town. No doubt loaded to the brim with items pawnable. I was certain however, that it was also equipped with a state-of-the-art alarm system. That’s where Petey comes in.

I believe a bit of background is needed here. Petey is my wife Connie’s brother. Connie likes the finer things in life, which is why I pull the occasional heist. Why I would really like to hit that particular house is because I could get enough from there to be able to get Connie her much-needed surgery. She’s got this dermatological ‘thing’. That’s what the doc called it anyway. What it is though is a bushy mustache. I’m not talking a few stray whiskers either. Creams and ointments don’t do squat except make it stronger like some alien lifeforce, but one of the docs said a quick in-office surgery would rid her of it forever. Problem is, that quick snip costs a hefty chunk of change, but it’ll be worth it for Connie’s sake. I hate to sound like a pig, but it’ll be worth it for me too. She gets it from her mother, and when she comes to visit and plants one on you, for days after, it’s like you’ve been sucking on a hairbrush. Connie’s not quite that bad yet, but I’d like to nip that while she’s young, if you get my drift. Anyway, Petey.

I’m not trying to sound mean, but Petey doesn’t have the brains a footstool was born with. He’s real agreeable and has a memory to beat the band, but no sense whatsoever. Connie had told me when we met that she took responsibility for caring for him. It seems that some uncle of theirs had dropped Petey one time and he was never right again after that. My guess was that it must have been a helluva drop, but Connie’s crazy about him and keeps reminding me that he’s family. He’s harmless and earns his own keep, so it never really bothered me. Thing is, with this new score I’m planning, Petey’s A-plus memory is going to come in real handy. This was going to be my smoothest caper yet, and considering what could be had, possibly my last. You never know.

Petey’s job is as a part-time housecleaner. Three days a week, he goes with Harold Pilner in Harold’s van and helps him out on jobs. Harold pays Petey in cash so he doesn’t have to fill out any papers for the government, but it doesn’t do anybody any harm. Petey does an honest day’s work and ends up with a few bucks in his pocket. It makes him feel real good helping out, so I know he’ll feel terrific about doing me a favor.

I know this sounds nutty, but I look at this like a fate thing. The Dansons put the word out they‘d be gone a few days to an out-of-town wedding. They hired Harold to come in for a couple of days and get the place all tidied up before they left, which means Petey would be able to get in there. All I’m going to have him do is find the control panel of their alarm system and tell me the brand and model number. When he goes back the second day, it will be with instructions from me on how to disable it. I’m going to make it sound exciting, like a spy mission, and he won‘t ask any questions. I’ll tell him how important it is to keep it a secret between us and let him know just how much he’s going to be helping that family by snipping those wires. Petey looks up to me and he’ll buy anything I dish out. Does that make me a jerk? Probably. But no harm, no foul. The Dansons won’t suspect Harold, everything they own is insured, and I’ll be able to stop kissing a Brillo.

Petey came through with flying colors. Yesterday was their first day cleaning there and Petey told me there was a big box on the wall in their kitchen with pretty colored buttons all over it. He told me what was written across the top and bingo, that was exactly the information I needed. I went to the library in town and did some research on the computers there and sure enough, I found a booklet online that contained the installation instructions for that system. I drew some diagrams that would enable Petey to completely disarm it without leaving any trace that it had been messed with. I went over the diagrams with Petey and you could see in his eyes that he’d remember every minute detail. The guy didn’t know how to put the kettle on for coffee, but he could name every screw, wire and connector of a Firebird’s engine. Life’s funny, huh…

When Petey got home tonight, I asked him how things went on his job and I winked at him. He winked right back and said everything would be okay. He had heard me talking to Connie about going back there early tomorrow morning after the Dansons had left on their trip and Petey asked me if he could come along. He said he had been there twice and knew where all their pretty stuff was. I was going to take the pickup and I knew I’d have time since there wouldn’t be anyone around and there weren’t any neighbors close enough to see anything, but I figured it would go a lot quicker with both of us taking the stuff out. I told him that would be great if he came along because we were planning a surprise for the folks who lived there. But again, it was to be our secret. He was happy to be part of that. Sometimes I really am a jerk, but you do what you gotta do, you know?

It’s still a bit dark out, but that’s alright. I pulled the pickup to the side of the house and Petey and I went around back to go in through the patio door. I shattered the glass by the lock and held my breath, but no siren. I gave Petey my biggest smile and told him I was proud of him for taking care of our little ‘problem’. He grinned from ear to ear and said there was nothing to worry about. Maybe including family in my little enterprises wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

I gave Petey a sack and sent him upstairs to empty the jewelry boxes. I stayed downstairs and looked for the glitter. I couldn’t believe how much bling these people had. Gold this and silver that, and diamond edges on everything else. I started stuffing everything I could grab into my sack when Petey came running down the stairs with his sack overflowing with gem-covered boxes.

“Petey,” I said, “you’re supposed to take the stuff out of the boxes and put the necklaces and such in the sack, not just grab the boxes. But I suppose that’s okay too. Are there any more upstairs? Do you need another sack?”

“Oh no,” Petey grinned. “I got them all. I just came down here to tell you I saw some police cars coming down the driveway with their pretty red and white lights on. Maybe they can help us take the things out to your truck.”

I ran across to the front of the house and saw several squad cars, some pulling off to cover both sides of the house. I looked into the yard and several cops were already coming up to the patio doors. We were surrounded. I dropped the candelabra I had been holding and sat on one of the sofas in the living room. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Petey,” I said quietly. “I told you to disable the alarm and you said you did. How did the police know we were here?”

“I didn‘t say that,” he replied. “I told you everything would be okay. I didn’t do what you told me with the wires in that box because I didn’t have to.”

I had trouble breathing and wondered if I was having some type of an episode.

“See,” Petey continued, “when the lady in the house saw me looking at the box in the kitchen, she told me she was really proud of it. It only had that one box, the colors blended with her kitchen, and the best part of it was that the alarm was silent.”

I could feel myself losing consciousness.

“That’s why I didn’t have to do anything to those wires like you told me to. Nothing to that alarm but a pretty looking box that didn’t make no noise at all. I tried real hard to figure out why anybody would want just a box and then I knew. It was so you could put it up on the wall anywhere and it wasn’t ordinary like a picture and the buttons had much more color than any pictures I ever saw. I told the lady thank you and finished my cleaning. Oh look, the police are coming in the house now.”

The first cop in removed my hands from around Petey’s neck. I told him that I had two tens in my pocket, a twenty in my left shoe and it could all be his if he’d let me have his gun for just one minute. After he sucker punched and cuffed me, we went outside to his car. Petey, being slow, would get his hands slapped. Me? I’d get put away. Plenty of time to think though. Family. Can’t depend on them, can’t kill them, and in 7-½ to 15, won’t be able to kiss them. Life’s funny, huh…

THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEW!

2011-04-01T12:33:00.004-04:00

Many, many thanks to AJ Hayes for his review and recognition of my work. Also, many, many thanks to Chris Rhatigan for presenting it on his review site. Thanks a ton, guys, you have made my year. I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoy the weekly flash challenges I participate in, specifically on Flash Fiction Friday. They are always challenging, always fun, and so much enjoyment is gained each week when everyone's stories are posted and I can sit back and read all the submissions. There's a ton and a half of talent there, and it's an honor for me to be featured among them.

Following is the review I'd like to share, and it makes me feel so proud. Thanks again to AJ and to Chris. One problem though. I'm hungry for lunch now, but I'm having a hard time getting my big head through the doorway...

http://death-by-killing.blogspot.com/2011/04/joyce-juzwik.html

WHY I LOVE THE DARK SIDE

2011-04-01T08:27:00.010-04:00

The darkest of noir and most graphic of horror hold a special fascination for me. This includes both the writing and the reading of such material. Generally viewed as a traditionally male genre, crime fiction and forensics have interested me to quite the compulsive level for some time now. It was very interesting to me to look back to attempt to determine what circumstances or events may have triggered this obsession.

I wrote a non-fiction piece for Pure Slush where I review events from my past to try to find the explanation for my love of the macabre. I should point out that who I was trying to find the explanation for basically was myself. I hope you find it as thought-provoking as I did once it was done. Behavior and opinions are surely potentially influenced by occurrences around us, but how much of what we see and experience has a direct effect, and how strongly does it affect, what we choose to read and if so inclined, what we choose to write.

http://pureslush.webs.com/keepyoursugarplumfairies.htm

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 24: AT THE DROP OF A DIME

2011-03-30T21:28:00.003-04:00

This week’s challenge was to create a period fiction piece; a pulp styled story set between 1900 and 1950. The genres would be pulp ones like Adventure, Detective, Fantasy, Horror, Noir, Romance, Science Fiction, War or Western. The word count was to be under 1800 words.

As much as I enjoyed writing this one, I truly hope I’ve set some kind of a mood here for possibly the 1940’s. That’s what I was aiming for and hopefully I’ve hit my target. Please enjoy.

AT THE DROP OF A DIME

Two packs of smokes and a bottle of hooch. My pay for a job well done. Fine by me, sure, but I do believe Betts will blow sky high. Three weeks’ tailing a dame, watching her smooching up her husband, Richie’s best friend, giving the husband proof she’s playing him for a sucker, he decides to forget the mess and takes her back. Most days I wonder why I bother getting out of bed, and today was sure no exception. Betts will be back soon and I have to come up with a plan on how to break it to her. Wait. Let me explain Betts to you so you get my drift.

My name’s Mo. Mo Pollniak. I was christened Maurice, but nobody’s allowed to use that on me. Okay, so it was alright for Ma and the nuns down at The Virgin Mary of the Sacred Woods School, but that’s it. My Pop got runned down by a beer truck one Saturday morning when I was 2, so I don’t really remember what he used on me. But Ma worked on the line over at the bicycle factory right up till the day she died so I’d be able to eat and go to parochial, so it all worked out.

I’m a PI, in case you were wondering, and I’ve been doing this near to 30 years now. I never eat breakfast, I shave at least once a week, I hang my one suit out on the fire escape to air out, and the Chinese lady down the hall washes and irons my shirts out of pity since she thinks that I’m broke and a real loser. Smart lady. Now let’s get back to Betts.

I first opened my business in an abandoned store front, just stood a handmade sign in the window that said ‘Mo Pollniak-Investigations‘; you know, all classy like, and she walked in. Said her name was Betsy Malone, but if I ever didn’t call her just Betts, she’d break my arm. Her man had went out for a shot and a beer three weeks ago, and hasn’t been home since. She needed a job, this was close enough to walk to so she wouldn’t need carfare, she’d work cheap and she made the best sandwiches in the State. She started that afternoon. The best thing about Betts is when a job gets done, she makes sure we get paid. Not sure what I’m going to tell her about our latest though. Gotta think…

When she got back from lunch, slammed the door, and threw a bag with two roast beef on rye and a cream soda on my desk, I wondered how she found out about Richie. Was I ever barking up the wrong alley…

“I knew it. She told me he was going to kill her and now she’s dead. The cops are wandering around in circles as usual and he’s going to get away with it just like she said he would. Mo? You’ve got to do something!”

I asked her if I could eat my sandwiches while she told me the story, and once the drop-dead look in her eyes passed, I took that as a yes.

On her way back to the office, she passed this town’s only hotel, cops all over it. Betts’ friend, one of the maids, was outside, and told her a man named Howard Marshand had found his wife, Suzanne, strangled in their room.

“What the hell was Suzanne doing here in a hotel anyway?” Betts was boiling mad. “She and I went to St. Mary’s together and her Daddy had some money and when he died, he left her the house and enough cash to get by. I hated it when she married that Marshand character. He’s low-life scum that just lived off her all these years. He’s a lying bum, and the last time I talked to her about 2 months ago, she said she knew he was planning to get rid of her. He had some floozy on the side and wanted the house and the cash. Mo, I’ve never asked you to get involved in my business, but I am this time. I can’t prove it, but I know he killed her. Please?”

First ‘please’ in 30 years. How could I say no.

I got the scoop from one of the uniforms at the scene. The happy couple had booked the weekend to spark their fire, but got into it over something, and he left to spend the night with his part-time gal. Real classy gent. When he got back to the room this afternoon, the poor kid was on the floor with a scarf knotted around her neck. She had an ugly gash in the back of her head too and the desk had blood on a corner. Somebody wanted her real dead.

I went up to the room to have a look-see and my old pal, Lt. Dave Hastings, was finishing up.

“What do you want here, Pollniak? A real crime happened in here.”

I knew he’d be thrilled to see me.

“Just looking around, Dave,” I said. “Can’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes on it, right? Who’s the broad he spent the night with anyway? She alibi him?”

I could tell he wasn’t in a very cooperative mood.

“Not that it’s any of your beeswax, Mo, but her name’s Molly something, and she lives in those rooms in Riverdale. She gave a statement that Marshand ate dinner over there, played some canasta, and he stayed the night, like they were some regular dick and jane. End of story. Let her be, okay? This time, the husband didn’t do it so we gotta start looking somewhere else. Now, beat it, huh? Doc will be here soon to get her out of here.”

For some reason, I didn’t feel quite as good about Molly something’s word as Dave did. I figured it was about time I stuck my nose in where it didn’t belong.

* * * * * * * * * *

A week later, Betts comes in, smiling ear to ear.

“It’s over, Mo. It’s all in this morning’s paper. That son-of-a-bitch confessed and the cops were right there listening. They had it all set up. She got him over to her place and told him she wanted him to take his clothes and scram. She said she knew that he had murdered his wife while he was wearing his brown jacket because she found out what happened to the missing button. He said he didn’t know anything about a damn button, and besides, he had been wearing his blue jacket when he killed her--not the brown one--and she’d better clam up about it or she’d get hers. Well, the cops came out and arrested him right then. Can you believe it?”

Uh-huh. I sure could. All it took to shake his little gal up was a quick phone call one night, letting her know she shouldn’t alibi a murderer since the cops were planning to arrest her too unless she came clean. See, they found the button. When he was choking his wife’s lights out, she pulled a button off his jacket and they found it clenched in her cold dead hand. Molly put the phone down to check the closet, and mumbled something that sounded like ‘lying bastard’ before she hung up.

There wasn’t actually a button found, you know. A wife, she isn’t going to let her man leave the house with a button missing, but a girlfriend? A man doesn’t spend time with a girl like Molly because of her abilities as a seamstress. I knew there had to be at least one button missing from something he stashed at her place.

Betts handed me three roast beefs on rye and two cream sodas. There was a pickle in wax paper and a napkin too. Out loud ‘Thanks’ and ‘You’re Welcome’ would have been sappy and were already understood. I was ready to chow down and grabbed at that pickle when Betts said “By the way, Mo. Did Richie ever stop by to pay us for trailing after that cheating tramp of his?”

Uh-oh…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 23: SAVIOR

2011-03-24T14:32:00.006-04:00

This week's was a tough one for me since Sci-Fi is not something I'm too comfortable with writing. Love to read the stuff, but writing it is a whole other thing. The prompt words were terrific, and I assure you I researched each one very carefully. Hopefully, it all comes together well in my story. I really hope you enjoy.

Prompt: THEMED WORD LIST: Stellar Engine, mind food, needler, superluminal, and wetware

Genre: Sci-fi themed pot-boiler

SAVIOR

Day 1

I could be a wack-job and start my transmissions with ‘Star Date…’, but I won’t. Leo, I know you’d can my ass if I did and I couldn’t blame you for it. I’ll be sending my notes as events occur, but I’ve been told most days will be pretty routine.

I’m Mickey Dane, star reporter for the Beckindale Bugle--okay--the only reporter, who won the draw to accompany the crew on the maiden voyage of the Dionysus, named after the Greek God of wine and fertility. What a perfect mix! Sorry. Anyway, there’s Captain Roger DeWayne, and Crew, Thomas Chalmers, David Willings, and Charlie Harver. Computers do most of the work. No broads, which is fine with me by the way, being a very happily married man and expecting his first kid. Got all that? Good.

So this ship was designed to haul and dispose of, in deepest space, the most vile of the vile biohazards. When we get to a certain point out there, we will drop the load which, in theory, will drift forever and hopefully be absorbed into some black hole. I’m no scientist, but it sounds kind of iffy to me. When I asked if it could ever end up coming back to Earth and wiping us all out, I was told no way, guaranteed. I suppose it’s alright then to chance the release of all this crap on some other civilization’s planet and waste them. Better them than us. Man’s humanity and all that bullshit. Glad I’m on their side is all I’ve got to say.

Anyhow, we took off and we’re about to go superluminal for awhile till we reach some dot on the charts. I’m going to grab a powdered snack and nod off for awhile. Later.

*-----SEND-----*

Day 5

Not much going on. The guys are pushing a lot of buttons and switching charts around. I can feel the difference in speed though, like when Dad punched the accelerator on the family’s station wagon when I was a kid. Still a rush. We’re still nowhere near our destination and not much is going to be happening till we get closer, so I’m going to sign off and get back to my Solitaire. Got some comics too about space monsters. Why not, right?

*-----SEND-----*

Day 9

I’m sure it’s me, I mean, I’m not exactly Flash Gordon here, but the Captain seems to be acting a bit off. The crew hasn’t said anything to me and why would they; I’m just a tag along, but I know they sense it too. He hardly talks anymore and sits and stares a lot. He’s been hitting that stuff they call mindfood pretty hard. Who am I to talk, but I thought that was like a supplement. I’m feeling something hinky going on here. Later.

*-----SEND-----*

Day 14

I was right. Something’s VERY wrong. Crew’s worried, saying there’s a wetware problem. According to my pocket dictionary, that’s capital B-A-D. The Captain’s disabled the needler, some kind of high-tech ray gun I think, and they’re p.o.’d . Not sure what that’s about. There’s a chart missing too that we need. Really didn’t need to hear that. I’ll keep you posted.

*-----SEND-----*

Day 20

Weirder every day here. No one’s talking to me anymore and the crew thinks we need to abort, but nothing’s working right and stuff’s messed up or missing. The Captain just sits with this I’ll-kick-your-ass-if-you-speak-to-me stare so no one does. Am I scared? As hell is hot.

*-----SEND-----*

Day 25

Apparently, our Captain believes he is God. He announced we weren’t going to dump our load on ‘his people’. We are going to keep it and carry it till we can’t anymore. What? The crew knows he’s sabotaged the ship and Tom has assumed command. Roger has been tied up, but I wish they’d gag him too. Mindfood O.D., I think. He believes he has to protect this galaxy’s inhabitants from men, which he no longer is of course, and said we’re never going to be able to dump it or go home either. I was told to keep transmitting; maybe Command Central can come up with something, although I don’t see a rescue ship being launched any time soon.

Truly, I don’t give a fuck about all this nobility garbage. I just want to go home. Tom said we could maybe latch on to some star and become a stellar engine. We point home and radiation gives us thrust and the star and our ship land in San Francisco Bay. All hypothetical, but worth a shot. I’m no choir boy, but if you’re listening God, the real one, the prayers are going to be coming hot and heavy.

*-----SEND-----*

Day 28

Evidently, the stellar engine plan was a bust, so this will be my last transmission. It’s so dark out there and it’s getting colder in here every day. The crew took some pills and closed their eyes hours ago. They’re a lot colder than me now, so I know that for them, this nightmare is over.

Suzanne, honey, know that I am sorry I entered that lottery. I just had to be a big-shot newsman, first to report on this new disposal method. Please forgive me, and tell the son I will never know that I love him now and always will.

I guess I didn’t pray hard enough because there weren’t any pills left over for me. I’m going to look around though and maybe I can find something. Anything will do. I just don’t know how much longer I can take listening to Roger laugh…

*-----SEND-----*

ON THE JOB

2011-03-20T12:41:00.000-04:00

This is another flash piece for a prompt from the Terrible Minds site. Are you ready for this? It’s supposed to be BABY PULP FLASH FICTION. You read it right. It’s supposed to be baby-centered pulp flash. Classic. I normally don’t churn them out quite this quickly, but this one really did write itself. Have fun reading it. I’m still laughing from writing it.

ON THE JOB

This big kid thing involves some heavy-duty gigs. Like the other night, for instance. A little back-story first though. I’m sacking out in my toddler bed in Elaine and Jack’s room while mine is being pimped. Elaine and Jack are the folks, but some doc on a late night talk show I caught said it helped kids mature to call parents by their given names. At 18 months, in a non-crib, and sporting a pull-up full-time, I’m the poster boy for mature, so ‘Elaine’ and ‘Jack’ it is. But I digress.

The folks threw a party last week and it was a real dud. Booze, chit chat and some cheese balls aren’t exactly my idea of a blow-out, but then they’re almost 30, so what can you do. Anyhow, around 8-ish, they crank up the Pooh nightlight (he’s my hero, by the way) and wish me a happy flight to Dreamland on the wings of a beautiful fairy. Yeah. Okay. I just smile and nod. No sense making waves…

They half close the bedroom door so they can hear me if I cry--as if--and go downstairs to their snooze fest. Coats are tossed on Elaine and Jack’s bed from time to time, but other than that, I’m good to go. With Pooh lighting the way, I sat down with my new book. I’m scoping out Little Bo--what a hottie--when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I figured somebody needed to tinkle and the downstairs potty was occupado. I pretended to be out cold, but of course, I peeked. It was Hermione something or other, and that blew my mind. Jack couldn’t stand the sight of her; said she was like something out of a horror flick, but Elaine felt sorry for her, being old and alone and all. I guess that’s how she got the invite. I couldn’t stand her either. She smelled like that vapor rub crap and squeezed my cheeks. Now, a pat on the head here and there, I can live with, but the cheek thing? Come on, people, what am I, a baby?

I figured the old bat would do her #1 and split, but no. She flushed the potty, but didn’t tinkle first. What? She went to the case on the dresser where Elaine kept the good stuff, pulled out a real sparkly bracelet, shoved it in her coat pocket, zipped it up and went back downstairs. I was speechless. The Vick’s Queen is nothing more than a low-down thief. Well, not on my watch. I got up, put the bracelet back, and substituted a surprise. Beautiful fairy? Take me away.

The next morning over breakfast, I got the scoop. Elaine and Jack were having a grand laugh about how when Hermione got home and reached in her pocket, she pulled out a small clown that laughed the most horrific laugh you’ve ever heard when you touched it. Turns out, she’s clown-phobic, dropped it, and tinkled all over her new $75 shoes. Apparently, she wasn’t wearing a proper pull-up. Mature? I don’t think so. She was royally p.o.’d., called Jack and told him that he and Elaine better never talk to her again.

Elaine and Jack both smiled their biggest smiles at me and Elaine squeezed both my cheeks really hard. Any time, guys, any time at all. Now, how’s about ordering that 8 x 10 poster of Little Bo that’s advertised on the back of my cereal box…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 22: NEIGHBORS

2011-03-17T13:40:00.002-04:00

This week’s prompt was a themed word list geared around St. Patrick’s Day. The words were road, beer, luck, coin, pot, gold, rainbow, and snakes. I’m not sure how well my story fits with the St. Patrick’s Day theme, but this is how it wanted me to tell it. Please enjoy.

NEIGHBORS

“Well, Jeremy, I thought you decided not to join me this evening. Neither of us is Irish, yet the possibilities for enjoyment are endless.”

“Kyle, I am sorry to be late. I came by way of the logging road to avoid the traffic and the floats from this afternoon’s parade. You have no idea what I’ve been through for the past few hours. Have I missed much?”

“Only the opening act, my friend. Are you sure you’re up to this? What happened?”

“Let’s sit over there on the grass and I’ll tell you about it. You remember when we last saw each other I told you about my new house by Dove Lake? Everything went smoothly and I was enjoying getting settled in. As I had mentioned, it was a quiet area and the residents kept to themselves, which was exactly the type of place I was hoping to find.

After I moved in, I noticed one of my neighbors watching me. There were times when I looked through my window and I saw him looking right back at me using binoculars. Can you believe it? I strolled over one evening when I saw him in his yard to introduce myself and perhaps lay any suspicions he may have had about me to rest. He was inspecting various areas in his yard with his flashlight. I greeted him and asked if there was a problem I could assist him with. He told me he was looking for snakes. He had seen a show on television about how snakes hide in the grass and how they can overrun a place. He’s an older gentleman and I didn’t want to upset him, so I didn’t mention there were no snakes in the area. I wished him good luck and went about my business.

Another evening he was out with his metal detector searching for a gold coin supposedly lost in the vicinity by some mobster years ago. After he’d learned of it from a documentary he’d seen, he knew he’d be able to find it. Again, I wished him well and continued on. There was always something important he needed to do as a result of information obtained from one of his programs. Perhaps I’m unable to empathize since I’ve never owned one of those television things, but his interest did strike me as a bit obsessive. Anyway, to this evening.

I was leaving to join you for this evening’s entertainment and when I opened my back door, there was my neighbor and he was pointing a pistol at me. He waved it in my face and told me to get back into the house and sit down. He had been carrying some rope as well and after telling me to put my hands behind me, proceeded to tie me to my own kitchen chair. He informed me that he had figured me out and that the time had come for me to confess. He stated the firearm was his World War II pistol and if I failed to cooperate, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. He seemed so agitated, I decided not to let him know that I could see the gun was missing the trigger. Poor old fellow was just so confused. I asked him what it was that he expected me to confess to.

He told me about a special he had seen yesterday about buried treasure and how to read the clues and see through the disguises of creatures who guard their riches. The rainbow at sunrise in back of my house was the sign he needed and ordered me to perform the transformation and become my true self. I almost laughed, but I maintained my composure so as not to offend. He obviously was having some type of break with reality and I needed to remain calm and try to help him through it. People in town had told me ever since he was forced to retire from his job at the plant, all he did was sit in front of his TV and that became his world. I asked him who or what it was that I was supposed to actually be and he said he knew that I was a leprechaun and told me I’d better tell him where my pot of treasure was hidden or else. That was just too much, Kyle, and I had to end this once and for all.

I reminded him that I stood at 6 feet 5 inches and as far as I knew, leprechauns were considerably smaller. He concurred. I spoke as rationally as I could and spent the next hour or so trying to help him realize that television shows were not representative of life. Poor guy began to cry and apologized. He missed his dead wife and his job and didn’t have anything but his television. I told him it would be alright and he should go home and relax with a beer and a book tonight and tomorrow, I would take him to the Hobby Shack in town to find him some type of activity. He thanked me and untied me and said he’d look forward to it. It was so sad, Kyle, but I think this will help him.”

“Craziest thing I’ve ever heard, Jeremy. I wouldn’t have put up with all that nonsense. I’d have put him down after he spied on me the first time. So, he still has no idea that you’re a vampire?”

“None whatsoever, and I’ve no intention of harming him. I like the subdivision, but I wouldn’t be able to remain for long if I began killing my neighbors. We’ll find him a past-time and he won’t bother me again. Humans love their St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, and now that the concert is in full swing, let’s do a sweep of the outer portions of the park. There’s bound to be a few stragglers laying under the stars and I’m extremely hungry. Shall we?”

NO SALE

2011-03-16T20:23:00.006-04:00

This picture was a prompt I couldn't resist. It's from Chuck Wendig's site, Terrible Minds, and it's for this week's flash challenge. I came up with a dark little tale entitled No Sale. Please enjoy.

NO SALE

I walked over and put my hand on the kid’s shoulder. Funny how lately they all look like kids. I had to wonder what crossed their minds when they eyed me.

“Mike,” I said quietly so as not to frighten him. He looked like he’d already had enough of a scare to last awhile. “It’s Detective Hoover. This your first jumper? Just take a breath and try to tell me what happened.”

Officer Mike Danfield couldn’t get the image of that woman lying on the pavement out of his head. It wasn’t his first, but no jumper he’d ever seen looked like that when they landed. He stood up, took a deep breath and turned to the detective. This one should have retired long ago, he thought. God, I hope I never look that old.

“When I got here, she was already on the ground. The patrol unit over there--they were the first on the scene. Apparently, one of the hotel’s guests called because of all the racket coming from her room. You see the one at the top left? That was hers. Anyway, they said they heard thumping and screaming and glass breaking, but they had a tough time getting in. The dresser, the desk and two chairs had been shoved up against the door. So they broke it down and went in just as the lady was halfway out the window. They looked around, but there was nobody else there. Why would she do that? Barricade herself in there like that and then jump? Why would she trash the room like that first?

He bent over and began puking again, so I left him alone. He’d be okay. Eventually. Somehow, you got used to all the ugliness. I had. Of course, what does that say about me?

I saw Doc kneeling by the body, and I took a quick peek. If she was jacked up on something, he’d let me know. Kinda hope she was though. Bad way to go. Bad place too. Creepy hotel on the outskirts of town, looking like the set for Night of the Living Dead. But they did do a lot of business and no pros either. Go figure.

The guy who managed also owned the place and I headed his way to get some info. When I walked into his office, he looked like he was primed and ready for a bed in Peter Pan land. He had been crying, and his hair (what little there was of it) was straight up on his head.

“Oh my God,” he sobbed, “another one. I told her no. I told her over and over I couldn’t sell. She wouldn’t listen. She was going to spend the night and talk with me again in the morning. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. Now it got her.”

Great. It. I’m due to retire next month, and this mess is supposed to be my last case. I owe Cap big for assigning me to this one.

“I’m lead Detective on this, sir, just please tell me what ‘got’ her? What is ‘it’? She was alone in that room and she jumped. We’re trying to figure out why. Who was she and what was she meeting with you about?”

“Her name was Miss Redding. She was a lawyer and her client wanted to buy my hotel. I’ve wanted to sell ever since I felt its dark presence, but it won’t let me.

First it took my wife. She hated it here and found a buyer. Before the details became clear, she barricaded herself in our room but it hung and killed her.”

Okay. ‘It’ has a dark presence. Our local loony bin needs to take a quick head count.

“How do you know she didn’t hang herself, sir, if she was unhappy here?”

“The rope looped over a high beam, her feet were ten feet off the ground and there was nothing close she could have stood on. I knew.”

Alright. I’ll give him that one.

“Then, my brother came to stay the night. He wanted us to start a business on some island and had a buyer for this place. We found him in his room in the tub with his throat ripped out.”

“Barricaded in?” I knew I’d regret asking.

“Of course. And now this woman. I told it I would stay, but it took her anyway.”

He began to cry again, so I decided to check with Doc about the autopsy. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

* * * * * * * * *

I’m all packed, the car’s gassed up and I’m going on the first real vacation I’ve ever had. Oh yeah. You probably want to know how my last case turned out. It was ruled a suicide and closed. After I left the owner, I gave Doc a call and it seems she was bruised from head to toe, inside and out, and no way the fall did all that to her. What convinced us to close the book on this one though was the other thing Doc found on one of her legs. Or didn’t find, actually. A four inch square block of flesh. Gone. Around the wound? Teeth marks. Yep. You heard me right. Big deep ones.

So I’m going to collect my pension and get as far away from this burg as I can as quickly as I can. By the way, while I’m gone, I’ll be sleeping in my car. Just in case…

APOSTLE RISING IS NOW AVAILABLE!

2011-03-10T13:39:00.009-05:00

Here are some links to Richard Godwin's spell-binding novel Apostle Rising, which is now available. There's the news release, the chilling trailer, and a link to purchase it.

If you love noir as dark as it can get, some characters that will move you, some characters that will terrify you, and a story that will haunt you long after the book is put down, then Apostle Rising is for you.

http://www.richardgodwin.net/media

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V_49z4WNmiI&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL

http://www.blackjackalbooks.com/hot-off-the-press/fiction/apostle-rising

NOTE: Please accept my apology for the links not posting properly, and for having to copy and paste them. Technology and I don't always get along.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 21: MATCH

2011-03-09T15:34:00.006-05:00

The topic this time was a really tough one for me. We were supposed to focus on a character's defense mechanism. There are so many different ways, some extreme, in which people put up walls around themselves. I decided to create two characters that seem quite naturally suited to each other, if for no other reason than because of their oddities. But, then, we each do march to a different drummer, right? Please enjoy.

MATCH

Wilbur Monenofski was worried. His girlfriend was outside the door to his apartment and she was begging him to let her in. He couldn’t believe she was behaving in this manner--she had always seemed quiet and refined. He also couldn’t figure out how she found out where he lived because he certainly hadn’t told her. Mother had always told him never to tell. He even had a post office box so none of his mail would come there. He couldn’t afford to have any letters or packages delivered there since the delivery person might need to come in, and Wilbur could not allow that. Why was this happening? He wished Mother was here right now so she could advise him.

He had been surprised when she asked him to join her for a cocktail after work one evening. He had seen Sylvia Schloopner around the coffee station at the office and knew she worked in the typing pool, but they had never spoken before. He worked in the mailroom at the other end of the building and never had cause to interact with her. On the few occasions that he had seen her getting coffee, he had felt something. He wouldn’t have been able to explain it to anyone else, but it was a kind of fluttering that he felt. He wondered if he was beginning to like her because she might be the one. Mother had told him there wouldn’t be anyone special for him, but he had to wonder. Mother had always been right about everything, but what if that one time she had misread the cards?

She had come to the mailroom and asked if she could speak with him for just one moment. She was carrying that handbag of hers, holding it close in her way, and introduced herself. She was blushing crimson, and Wilbur thought she was the most beautiful person in the whole world. She informed him that she normally did not behave in such a brazen manner and didn’t want him to think she was a person of low morality, but when she first saw him, he seemed like such a nice person and she wondered if he would join her for a cocktail. He told her his name, and said he just knew her to be a person of very strong principles, and he would very much enjoy a cocktail with her after work. That was how it all began.

That first encounter could not have been more pleasant. After punching out, they had walked together to the tavern at the corner where they had a couple of highballs, pretzels and wonderful conversation. The time flew by, and Wilbur walked Sylvia back to her car. He was so touched by her sweet disposition and the adorable way she always clutched that handbag of hers. Sylvia was his first date, so he wasn’t at all familiar with what women did about their purses. He noticed at the tavern that other women had put theirs down on their tables, but not Sylvia. Hers never left her lap. Wilbur knew that was because she was responsible. He wondered if he loved her, but he wasn’t sure how to tell. They shook hands and he waited until she drove off to make sure she was safe, and then he went to his car and drove home. He didn’t have long to wait until midnight, and then he would be safe too. From everything bad. Mother had been right about that.

What had begun as cocktails had blossomed into dinners, plays, and long walks though the park. All their conversations were pleasant and Wilbur couldn’t have been happier until Sylvia brought up the subject of his coming to her apartment for dinner and maybe staying over. She had again blushed crimson, which he found just too precious for words, but he knew that could never happen. He skirted around the issue and the conversation took another direction. Before long, however, it came back around to their spending the night together. She suggested that she cook the meal at his place and they could rent some movies and then could spend the night there. Wilbur sensed a panic attack coming on, and hurriedly told Sylvia he was feeling ill and had to go home. Alone. He practically dragged her back to the car, apologizing all the way, drove to her place, dropped her off at the curb and sped off. He was terrified of what she must think of him, and it broke his heart that she may never again speak to him, but what else could he do? He couldn’t be anywhere but home from midnight to six and if she were home with him during that time, she would never understand what he had to do. How he wished Mother were here. She always knew what to do.

Here it was, two days later, and she was outside his door, pleading with him to let her in. She was saying she didn’t care about anything but him, and to just give her a chance and they could work it out. If there was someone else, just tell her and she would leave. Was it her fault? He knew he no longer had a choice. This poor darling was blaming herself and she was saying she would understand. He knew that wasn’t possible, but at least he could see her one last time before she screamed and ran out, as he knew she would. He removed the chain and opened the door.

When Sylvia entered Wilbur’s apartment, she couldn’t believe her eyes. She had never seen so many different types of string before in her life. There was thick string, thin string, long string, short string, red string, yellow string, all hanging from the ceiling and taped to all the walls, the pieces no more than an inch apart. She looked at Wilbur, who was sweating profusely, and tears were beginning to form in his eyes. He closed the door quietly and reached out to her.

“Sylvia, please let me explain. I know this may seem strange, but Mother told me this was the only way I could keep bad stuff away. That’s why I never could stay the night with you. I sleep under my string comforter from midnight to six every night because that gets rid of the bad thoughts. But now it’s not working. I’m here, but I’m feeling scared that you won’t like me anymore and I won’t ever find out if I love you.”

Wilbur collapsed on the couch and began to cry. Sylvia sat down next to him, put her arm around his shoulders and told him everything was going to work out just fine.

“Wilbur,” she said quietly, “I don’t want you to be confused. You don’t need all this to keep you safe because I‘m going to take care of you. You see, I do love you, and I want us to always be together.”

Wilbur looked into Sylvia’s eyes and knew he had found true love. I’m sorry, Mother, he thought, but you were wrong. There was someone out there for me. Wilbur suddenly questioned the need for the string. He and Sylvia could take it all down together, but he decided to keep just his string comforter. You could never be too careful…

“Wilbur, darling, once all this string is gone, we’ll brighten up the place. It will be wonderful and you’ll never have to be afraid again. Besides, I happen to have in my bag all the protection we will ever need, and that’s why I carry it with me everywhere. Wilbur, I want you to meet Miranda.”

Sylvia proceeded to remove from her bag a doll’s head, about the size of a fist, with short dark hair, black eyes, a small round nose, and no mouth. It wasn’t that her mouth was covered with anything, there had never been a mouth formed on the face at all. Wilbur felt a chill, but had to ask.

“You named it--I mean, her, Miranda? What happened to her mouth?”

Sylvia sat back and smiled. “The name just suits her, don’t you think? I used to work in a doll factory and I found her one day tossed in the trash. Something had gone wrong and her head had slipped through without a mouth so they threw her away. But, I knew she was meant to be mine, so I took her. I moved to a new town, got a new job, met you, and I am happier than I have ever been, and it’s all because of Miranda. Isn’t she wonderful?”

Wilbur wasn’t quite sure what to make of all this, but he figured if Sylvia was willing to sleep under his string comforter, he could learn to wake up to a mouthless doll’s head. Mother had told him love was strange, and he knew for sure she was right about that.

RICHARD GODWIN'S APOSTLE RISING IS A MUST READ

2011-03-03T16:19:00.003-05:00

Apostle Rising by Richard Godwin is the story of evil at its most fundamental level--that of mankind.

Someone is getting away with murder and it is Detective Chief Inspector Frank Castle’s job to bring the killer to justice. Collect the evidence, follow the clues, snap the cuffs on, and home in time for dinner with the family, right? Oh so wrong. This killer wasn’t playing by TV crime show rules. He wrote his own, and being held accountable for his depravity was not among them. The best laid plans often fail to come to fruition, and this monster crept away into the night. Left in his wake, however, was more than dead bodies. The victim left alive was Frank Castle. He lost his family, his sense of order, the respect of many and the illusion of sanity. Life went on, as did his obsession.

Years later, the nightmare begins again, and the victims are not the only ones being crucified. Frank Castle’s anger and fear are brought to the surface as death once again stalks the streets. Is it the same killer who eluded him years before, come back to satiate desires to torture and murder, as well as to push Frank over that last hurdle into insanity once and for all? Is it all part of his diabolical scenario to force Frank to watch helplessly as his new partner, DI Jackie Stone, falls headlong into the same dark well of despair as the killer nourishes the seeds of the obsession she shares with Frank?

This is not the story of caped crusaders. No laser eyes or spider-like reflexes or instincts present. Frank and Jackie are the human kind of crime fighter. The kind with hopes and needs and flaws just like the rest of us. What sets them apart is their dedication to protect the innocent from the demons that at times walk freely among us who are always thirsting for one more soul. Is this new killer a specter from the past, or is it a deranged copycat paying homage to his psychopathic hero?

Join Frank Castle and Jackie Stone as they try to unravel layer after layer of confusion and chaos in their search for the truth and try to stop a madman’s deadly rampage. And in the end? We can only pray they are the ones left standing.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 19: DOWN EASY

2011-02-23T12:37:00.002-05:00

The topic this week was romance. The prompt was to construct a love letter to the object of unrequited love and affection or compose a Dear John letter to the crusher (let them down easy or not…your choice). Whether my character actually let her fella down easy is a matter of perception, I guess. What do you think?

DOWN EASY

My Dearest Darren,

No doubt you’ve already sampled the champagne I set out for you. I know how much you enjoy a glass of something soothing after a hard day at the office. I hope it was chilled to your liking. I know how particular you can be. I’ll bet you think this little gift and this letter are from that woman Angela, don’t you? Well, they’re not. They’re from me. Remember me? We went out that one time three months ago last Thursday for dinner, and you never called me again. When you dropped me off at home, you said you didn’t think there was any chemistry between us, but I felt a real connection--like we were soul mates, you know? I knew if I gave you some time and some space that you’d come around.

I’ve been watching and waiting, my love, day in and day out, and you’ve been just the cutest ever. Leaving every day for your job at the exact same time and returning home at the exact same time every evening. I knew the second we met that you were punctual and responsible and you have proved my impression of you to be 100% accurate. I did tell you on our date, if you will recall, that my impressions of people usually are totally correct; although unfortunately, there are always exceptions to every rule. My regret is that I was sadly mistaken about you.

You were always upbeat and cheerful as you went through your days and I knew it was only a matter of time before you picked up that phone and admitted your error where I was concerned. The air was filled with so much electricity when we met and shook hands--I know you felt it too, so that’s why I had such a difficult time understanding why you made the choice to ignore what your heart was certainly telling you. Instead of continuing your life’s journey with the one who completes you, you crossed the line and took up with that other woman.

Last week, when I first saw you two sitting at our table at our restaurant sipping our cocktails, I was so confused and hurt. Yes, Darren, I was hurt by your display of affection for that person. I watched you two holding hands, laughing, your arm around her as you escorted her to and from your car; it was absolutely vulgar and so completely inappropriate. I mean, who is she after all? Some crude and uneducated street person, masquerading as a potential client of your firm, determined to pull you down into the gutter in which she resides? I always believed you had more sense than to fall for a ploy like that. But you let her lead you on, down that dark road, toward her depravity and away from your destiny with me.

I want you to know that I tried very hard to forgive you, my pet. I kept telling myself to just let you sow your wild oats--they all do it--and once you had your fill of the wrong side of the tracks, you would come home to where you knew you belonged. Patience has always been one of my greatest virtues, as have tolerance and faith in the human spirit, but even I have my breaking point, my limits if you will, and sadly, you have pushed me past mine with your cruel antics. You leave me no alternative but to say goodbye.

I realize it appears as if I am trying to be vengeful, but I assure you, that trait is not part of my make-up. I am giving this all I have to give to simply make it as clear as I can to you that there is no hope for us after all. I never thought I would have to turn my back on fate, but I know now in my heart that you are unwilling to accept the eternal love and devotion I have offered. It is with deep regret that I must inform you that we are finished, heart of my heart, forever.

In case you are wondering how I gained access to your charming apartment to leave my last gift, I intercepted that woman Angela on her way in. It was yet another knife in my heart dearest when I discovered you had provided her with keys to your sanctuary. But I know you are lost and wandering and that I must protect you from yourself and your irrational decisions. There was no way I could allow that filth to pollute the air you breathe, so I put her down right there in the hallway in front of your door. I left her lying there on the dirty floor where she belonged while I let myself in and placed my gifts inside. She was woozy from the injection so there was no scene as we exited the building and caught a taxi. We went somewhere quiet and I put her out of her misery. She didn’t go easy, my ray of light, but that was as it should be. That creature couldn’t pull you away from your intended and expect the end to be akin to kneeling on a bed of roses. She will not destroy any more lives, I assure you.

And you, my sweet? You deserve so much better, and that will be my last gift to you. I know your heart is breaking knowing our lives cannot reconnect, but there is simply too much water under that proverbial bridge. You should be starting to feel a bit slower and my words might be starting to blur by now since I’m certain you’ve already had several glasses. What I put in the bottle isn’t relevant since by the time you call anyone and hang up the phone, you will be gone. It won’t be painful for you, dearest, you’ll simply fade away. I know you wouldn’t be able to go on through your life without me at your side, but perhaps might lack the courage to end your suffering, so I have done it for you. My last gift. I am not one to be bitter.

I am certain it is becoming more and more difficult for you to hold this and focus on my words so I’ll close. Please do not despise me for ending our relationship, but you must see how deeply you’ve wounded me. Darren, you cannot play with a person’s affections and then simply toss them aside. You see that now, don’t you? A bit of good news before I sign off though. You’ll be happy to know I’ve already found another. We’re going to dinner on our first date this evening and I am already sensing a bond between us beginning to form.

Just relax. Perhaps lie down on the couch if you can make it that far. On my way to meet my future husband, I’ll be stopping by to collect this, the bottle, ice bucket and glass. I’ll wipe down any spills too because I wouldn’t want you to be found in disarray. You don’t deserve that. After all, as I believe I have already made crystal clear, I am not one to be bitter.

Yours always,
Marie

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 18: AMENDS

2011-02-16T13:03:00.002-05:00

This week's prompt was a picture of a guitar. The possibilities are endless basing a story on a photo, and this little slice of life is what revealed itself to me. Please enjoy.

AMENDS

I don’t know why we do that. We look back, we second guess, we ‘what if’… I’m no different. I remember when it all began.

Walking home from school, I made sure I went by there, hoping that nobody had bought it. I had never seen anything so wonderful in my whole 13 years of living. As I got closer, I mumbled a prayer that it would still be there in the window, all shiny and golden and new. When I got within a few yards, I broke into a dead run. I had to know. My prayers had been answered. This time. It was there. Waiting for me. The guitar.

The first time I saw it, I knew I had to have it. It isn’t like I was some musical genius or anything. Hell, I probably couldn’t even keep a tune with a pair of spoons. But, I knew I had to have that guitar. It was to be my destiny--my ticket out. It was $45.00, so it was also unattainable.

It was at that very moment, on that warm Friday April afternoon, that my choice was made. Jake’s Emporium was the end of my journey and that day was my last in Woodreyville. Pop would have to find something besides me to use as a punching bag, and Mom would have to find someone else to clean her up and put her to bed after she finished her bottle. I knew that guitar needed me and I think maybe I needed it too.

Some boys at school talked about a movie they had seen about some guy who spent the night in a building so he could take something out of an office. His plan worked, so I figured mine would too. I went into Jake’s and slowly made my way to the storeroom. I looked behind me, but no one had noticed me. It used to bother me that folks never knew I was around until they needed something. This time I was glad I was invisible.

I worked my way behind a stack of boxes and waited. I knew Mr. Harcourt would be closing early because it was Friday and he hated getting to the buffet late after a lot of folks had picked through all the food in the line and made a big mess out of it all. When the place went dark and I heard the latch on the front door snap, I made my move. I went to the front, took the guitar, and went out the back door. I have to admit I took the candy bars Mr. Harcourt kept behind the counter for his low sugar attacks, but I needed them to get by and I was sure he could get more. I left him a note on some paper I found at the front. I told him I took the candy bars and the guitar, but someday I would pay him back. I meant it too. Come to think of it, I believe I forgot to sign my name.

Once I got going, I kept going. I did odd jobs when I could and stole when I couldn’t. I was sorry when I took things that belonged to other folks, but that guitar and me, we had to get somewhere and we had to be something. Funny what seems important sometimes. Food, shelter, good health? For me back then, it was just a simple day-to-day thing, and that was enough. Worries aren’t so big at that age either. You get or you don’t. Nothing else matters.

It’s been ten years since that April afternoon, and while I’m still waiting for my first Grammy nomination, I manage to work enough to keep from getting hungry. I met three fellows during my travels and we call ourselves a band. Georgie plays the drums, Tommy plays his bass, I play what they call lead guitar, and Sammie stands up front and does the singing. He’s really good and sort of pretty and the girls like him a whole lot. I’ve changed guitars and the strings on them lots of times over the years, but that first one--the one--is always with me. I bought a nice case for it to keep it from getting scratched up and I made sure I told everybody I know that when my time comes, I want it right next to me in the ground. That shiny gold friend saved my life and I want it with me all the way to the Pearly Gates.

Now that I’m making a little bit of money, I figured it was time to pay back. Our latest gig put us just a few miles from my home town so I headed to Jake’s first. I was told Mr. Harcourt passed not long after I had left and the Emporium was now one of those rent-a-movie places. I decided to send $45.00 worth of flowers to his grave, and then maybe that might square it. Mom and Pop were still at the house, and they let me in and showed me around to try to sell me the place. They told me they used to have a boy, but he wasn’t around anymore so they didn’t need all that extra room. I told them I’d let them know. I didn’t see the need to tell them who I really was either.

We played that bar and did well. Everyone said we should be recording our music and maybe we’ll look into doing that sometime. That old guitar and me are on our way to Ohio to play an arena. Sometimes I still think about Mom and Pop, living in that run-down shack just outside of town and I try to convince myself they came looking for me that evening I didn’t come home for supper. Funny what seems important sometimes.

ALL THE STORIES WRITTEN FOR YVETTE'S SHORT STORY CHALLENGE

2011-02-14T22:00:00.005-05:00

As promised, here is the link to all the stories from Yvette's Short Story Challenge, including mine (Sanctuary). I highly recommend reading the original article (link included in intro to my story), then read the stories that were submitted. Everyone 'solved' the mystery in their own way, and they are all superb pieces. Enjoy.

http://yvettecandraw.blogspot.com/2011/02/short-story-challenge-results-portrait.html

YVETTE'S SHORT STORY CHALLENGE - SANCTUARY

2011-02-13T17:12:00.005-05:00

This is a story I’ve written in response to Yvette’s Short Story Challenge. Once they are all posted, I’ll include a link here for them too. I’ve included a link to the story that triggered this. It’s a fascinating article concerning a flat in Paris that was abandoned and untouched for 70 years and all the wondrous items found within, which included a painting of a beautiful and mysterious lady. The challenge was to put our own spin on it and mine is entitled Sanctuary. Please enjoy, and make sure you check out the article too.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/france/8042281/Parisian-flat-containing-2.1-million-painting-lay-untouched-for-70-years.html

SANCTUARY

“I’m telling you I am going in there, Brigston. Now that the old bat is out of the picture, I’m calling the shots from now on. Meet me there in one hour with the key or you will be looking for another meal ticket. Understand?”

When Geoffrey Brigston heard the dial tone confirming Brian Avery had hung up, he sat back in his chair and heaved a deep sigh. What a despicable creature this young man was. He wondered how a woman of such grace and kindness could have had a son so completely alien. Ellenoir Avery had been faithful to her family’s tradition her entire life, as had her mother and her grandmother. And now this sorry excuse for a man was planning to violate a sacred oath and break the trust that had survived three generations. While he would do all he could to prevent it, failing changing the young heir’s mind, he was powerless to stop him. The estate in its entirety was his to do with as he saw fit. The recommendation was clearly there in the will, but it was only that. A plea, really. If only Ellenoir had been able to see that her son would never honor her wishes and assume his duty. Honor was not part of his character.

Brian was pissed. He had arrived at the precise time, yet Brigston still wasn’t there. He’s too old, Brian thought, and I’m going to have to speak to one of my friends about getting this reassigned to a different law firm. My family’s been dealing with these jokers for way too long. Time for a change. The whole situation has gone on way too long. His nutty great-grandmother started this wacky business and no one has ever been able to provide him with an explanation as to why. The apartment is a piece of prime real estate and great-grandmother, grandmother and mother all made sure the rent was paid and that it was kept locked up tight. Since Ellenoir had a son, the duty fell to him. She told him that the lawyers will pay the rent each year, and it was his responsibility to make sure there was always enough money available. His obligation included informing his wife and children of all the facts to enable them to carry on in the event of his death or inability to continue as caretaker. Caretaker? Of? He was determined to find out.

Geoffrey arrived a few minutes late and apologized repeatedly for keeping his client waiting. He despised the young leech, but knew if the estate was assigned to another firm, everything the Avery family had worked to hard to maintain would be lost. He was determined to try to reason with Brian to protect that which he knew was of the utmost importance even though he had no knowledge of what it was he was supposed to safeguard.

As the lawyer turned the key in the lock, the tension in the air was palpable. Brian pushed him back and flung the door open. He tasted dust and stumbled in the darkness to find a window or light switch. He located heavy curtains and pulled them apart to reveal a large front room devoid of any furniture, but full to overflowing with an assortment of items. There was a collection of a dozen or so porcelain dolls in a circle in one corner, vase after vase overflowing with artificial flowers, stacks of books, many of which Brian recognized as first editions by well-known authors, and countless odd trinkets from eras unknown. Colorful parasols, stubs of carnival admission tickets, cocktail stirrers with umbrellas on them--all carefully laid out on the carpet. Geoffrey hardly knew what to make of it all.

Brian went charging into the various rooms and found them all to be empty, with the exception of what was most likely the master bedroom. There he came upon a luxurious four poster bed covered with fine lace, and a writing table in the corner covered with letters written on scented stationary--there was still the faint scent of lilac. More trash, he thought, letters are worth nothing. The books, dolls and the bed though, they might be worth some money. Then, as Geoffrey stepped into the bedroom, they both saw the painting on the wall.

She was young, dressed all in pink, ribbons adorning her golden ringlets, sitting in a field of multi-colored flowers, her empty hands open, reaching, seeking something not seen, her eyes tearful, her smile quite forced. Both men were quite shocked at the sight of her. Geoffrey was unsure of her identity and the sorrow depicted tugged at his heart. Brian, however, was trying to decide which appraiser to contact since this water-color of a sad-sack broad might be worth a fortune, even though no artist’s name was present.

“Well, that’s it then,” Brian said coldly. “A couple of pieces I can unload, dump the rest and sub-let this joint. Location like this? No limit to what we can charge. Get on that, Brigston, and I’ll call you in a couple of days to set up cleaning day. Bring trash bags and a dust mop, and we’ll have this place ship-shape in no time. One question though. Why in the hell is all this garbage in here and why was it kept so long and locked up like a bank vault? Makes no sense.”

Geoffrey had no answer, but in his heart, he knew there had to be a good reason. On his way out, he noticed Brian taking a gold letter opener from the desk and slip it into his pocket. It had jewels inlaid on the handle and was probably quite valuable. Probably take it to the nearest pawn shop, Geoffrey thought with disgust. He took one last look at the lady and told her he was so sorry, but he couldn’t protect her any longer. He scooped up the pile of letters from the writing table, determined to learn the identity of this poor creature and the reason for all the secrecy and seclusion. He returned to his office and awaited Brian’s call. If only his mind could be changed. The apartment lost in time must remain intact. He still didn’t know why. He just knew it must remain untouched.

That evening after dinner, he took the letters to his study. Each was dated, which revealed they were indeed from Brian’s great-grandmother Andrea’s time. They were all written by the young lady, whose name turned out to be Penelope. They were all written to Andrea and told a tale of love lost and the desire to simply disappear. Reading them revealed that Penelope had been the daughter of one of Andrea’s servants, who had died after a short illness. Andrea took the child into her home and cared for her until her 19th year, for which Penelope was forever grateful. Apparently, Penelope was to marry a gentleman in the spring, but he was killed by a band of robbers in the area and Penelope never recovered from the loss. She respectfully requested of her adoptive mother that she be allowed to take an apartment in the city, where she would be allowed to live her days out in seclusion. A tragic future for a beautiful and bright girl, but her request was granted.

The letters seemed a sort of journal the young girl kept, recording her thoughts and feelings to share them with her mother, even though she intended never to be in her company again. Geoffrey reasoned that following Penelope’s death, Andrea returned the letters to the writing desk out of respect, placed the girl’s favorite treasures carefully around the place, and made sure the apartment remained in the family. Out of her strong love for the girl, she instructed all that followed that none were to enter--ever. The memories were too painful. Geoffrey planned on returning the letters to their rightful place on the writing desk, and made up his mind to say nothing of what he had discovered. Geoffrey knew Brian would try to cash in somehow on the history of the place and all the mementos therein, and he could not allow this young lady’s name and heartache to be used that way.

Several days passed with no call and Geoffrey hoped against hope that Brian’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. After almost two weeks went by with no word however, Geoffrey became concerned. When he arrived at the Avery home, there were police cars everywhere and an ambulance stood, its doors wide open, waiting. He was stopped at the door by a detective, and after identifying himself as the family attorney, was told that the housekeeper discovered the owner’s body when she arrived for work. She was scheduled to clean weekly, but had been ill and came today to make up her time. Apparently, Mr. Brian Avery had been dead for some time, murdered actually. His throat had been savagely slashed from ear to ear. No weapon had been found at the scene and the detective said he would keep Geoffrey apprised of the status of the investigation. Geoffrey knew where he now needed to go.

When he entered the apartment, everything was as it was on their first visit. Evidently, Brian had not come on his own to remove anything. He felt a chill, but knew he must go to the master bedroom and look upon the lady in the painting one last time. As he entered the bedroom, he felt light-headed and sickened, but no actual fear. It was just as he had somehow known. The lady’s previously empty and open hands now grasped a bloody letter opener with jewels inlaid on the handle. Her tears were gone and her smile was warm and inviting.

“Everything will be alright now, Miss Penelope,” he said softly. “You will not be bothered again. Promise.”

He pulled the curtains closed and the place was enveloped once again in total darkness. He locked the door and returned to his office, planning to place the key once again in his safe. Brian had been the last of the line. Geoffrey would take the duty now as his own. Somehow, he knew the lady would want it that way.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 17: COMMITTED

2011-02-09T10:07:00.000-05:00

The prompt this time was such a super idea. We were told to grab the closest book at hand, go to Page 56, pick out the 5th sentence, and that was to be our starter sentence. How wild is that? My starter sentence, as you can guess, was ‘Very dead’. Right up my alley. What this came from was a book I’ve just recently finished and must recommend it highly. It is a thrill ride and a half from beginning to end. Definitely make sure you read this one. It’s called Fever Dream, from 2010, and it’s by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. Without further ado, I offer you Committed.

COMMITTED

Very dead. Yep. I guarantee it, so no worries. I know what you’re thinking--that dead is dead. I used to believe that too, but now, I know better. You can’t just make them sort of dead. You have to make sure they are very dead. You think I’m crazy, don’t you? Well, I am. Like a fox. Let me explain.

The first time I ran across one of them was eight years ago while I was living in Detroit. I had always known I was special in that way, you know what I mean. That I was a man who could see below the surface. That I could see behind the mask, as it were. You still don’t get it, do you? Okay. I’ll be blunt. I can recognize them anywhere, any time, in whatever form they’re using. Surprised?

Not being gifted in the way I have been, I’ll bet you’re wondering who they are. Whatever you do, hear me out because I don’t want you to get all caught up in stereotypes. We’ve all seen the movies, watched the TV shows, read the books, and developed images in our minds of, well, the things that they are. They are not from Venus or some other outer space region. They are not flesh-eating zombies or howl-at-the-moon werewolves you’ve seen on the late, late show. I’ll admit that I’m not positive about where they originally came from, but I think it’s probably from underground somewhere. Maybe.

All I know is they’re evil to the core and they’re here. They put themselves inside humans--I’m not exactly sure how they do that yet--but I always know when they’re in there. It’s the eyes, you see. I read in a book once that the eyes are the window to the soul or something like that. Now, I don’t know about all that soul stuff, but when I look into the eyes, I can see the evil and I know it’s one of them. Then I have to kill them. But, don’t be scared about it or of me either. It has to be done. Otherwise, they’ll just take us all over. See?

Going back to what I was saying before, about that first one in Detroit, I had just left work and one of them came up to me right there in the street. I was walking to the drug store for some smokes, and it was kind of late and there weren’t too many folks out at the time. It stepped out from one of the alleys and grabbed my arm. When I looked into its eyes, I knew. I took my knife out, the one that I’ve carried since I was a Cub Scout, and I stuck him good. I noticed right away that they make weird noises when you’re taking them out, so I promised myself that in the future, I‘d go for the throat first. Wouldn’t want them calling out to others of their kind to come and help or anything. I stuck him a few more times just for good measure so he wouldn’t get up. You can’t let them get back up because they know how to fix themselves if they’re not all the way dead. So, I make sure.

I ran into a few more of them while I was living there, but I took care of them real good. There was some talk at work about people finding the bodies around the city, but I couldn’t let on what I knew. I couldn’t let it get out that I was the one who could identify them and wasn’t afraid to take them on. Some of the guys at work started looking at me kind of funny after awhile, like I knew more than what I was telling, but I figured maybe they were starting to get taken over. The problem was, they were my friends, my brothers, you see. No matter what ended up being inside of them, it would always be that way. The only right thing I could do at that time was just to leave town.

I spent some time in Frisco, the Windy City, the Texas Panhandle, and it was always the same. After I would take a few of them out, those things would set their sights on those closest to me, knowing I couldn’t gut a friend, even to remove the evil within. The only thing I could do was just to keep moving on.

I’m currently living in Miami, the land of beautiful people and sunshine. There are so many people here, and of course, I know exactly what that means. Then again, now so do you. Right? With all the constant coming and going, I must be hyper-vigilant, but I haven’t run into any of them just yet, but I know it’s only a matter of time. They’re here. Somewhere. They’re everywhere.

I did get hired on real quick, which is always a good thing, so I was able to find myself a nice quiet place on the beach. The view is wide open on all sides, so none of them can ever sneak up on me. You have to be careful; they’re known for that. In spite of my previous bosses acting kind of strange around me, they still always refer me well to my new bosses, and they should, really. I’m very good at what I do. Of course, I’m talking about my job here, not the locating ‘them’ thing, although now, you know I’m good at that too. I love my day job. I always have. Especially our motto. Protect and Serve. That’s what I do.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 16: ONE, TWO, THREE...

2011-02-02T11:32:00.002-05:00

This time the prompt was a starter sentence. “I stepped out into the frigid cold, instinctively I cowered into the depths of my heavy coat, shoving bare hands deep into its pockets.” The word length was to be under 1500 words and the topic was Possession. Having things that belong to us is important, but is it possible to give that too high a priority in our lives?

ONE, TWO, THREE…

I stepped out into the frigid cold, instinctively I cowered into the depths of my heavy coat, shoving bare hands deep into its pockets. I couldn’t remember if I wiped down with my sleeve whatever I had touched, but there couldn’t have been that much. After all, I was only inside a minute or two. I was sure no one saw me, especially with this near-blizzard snowfall going on. Most people are safe and warm at home on this dreadful night. I would have been too if the evil man hadn’t taken it from me. It was supposed to be mine. I needed it to be mine. But, he wouldn’t give it up, so I took it. And now it is. Mine. It wasn’t my fault, but I’m sure you know that. If he had just given to me what was rightfully mine, I wouldn’t have had to follow him home to confront him about it. He kept trying to push me back outside and saying he was going to call the police and have me arrested. Arrested? Me? For what? Taking what was meant to be mine to begin with? No. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen. He pushed me really hard against the wall by the door, and so I hit him in the head with the ashtray on the small table by his front door three---one, two, three times. It was all his fault though, but I’m sure you know that. When I got back to my flat, I took one last peek over my shoulder, but I hadn’t been followed. I took it from my pants pocket, where it had been brought safely to its new home, and I placed it with the other two. Then, they were three---one, two, three.

I should be calmer now, but I am not certain how to work my way through the events of today. All should have been complete this evening, but the evil man almost ruined everything. When I went out to the grocery this morning and I passed the novelty shop on the corner, I saw them and knew they had to be mine. One was red, one was blue and one was green. I went into the shop and I asked the man behind the counter how much he wanted for them all. There were three---one, two three of them, you see. He told me they were the last of their kind and once he sold them, there would be no more. He wanted $10 for the whole set because he told me that they play a little tune when you use them. I told him I didn’t care about any little tune. I just needed to have them all, but I didn’t have all of the $10. I asked the man if I could get two of them and come back this evening for the other and he said that would be fine. I was so excited. I took the red one and the blue one home and put them on a stand I made for them and it was so sad because there was one empty place. But not for long.

It had already begun to snow, but I needed to get the rest of the $10, so I locked up my flat with all three---one, two, three locks because you just never knew about people. My landlady is the only one I ever allow in my flat to see all my sets, and she promised she wouldn’t tell anyone that I had them. They are all such beautiful and perfect things. Three---one, two, three in all of them. I have china dolls, I have pens and pencils, I have mugs, I have drinking glasses (although I would never drink out of them), and so many others. All the same---all the last of their kind---all sets of three---one, two, three---all mine. And one empty space. So sad.

By the time I got outside, it was already hard to see with the snow coming down so heavily. Even though it was so cold, I decided to walk to the train station to get the rest of the money that I needed. The train station was a long walk for me, but I was certain I would be able to get the rest of the money I needed there, especially today. When the weather was bad, a lot more people were in the train station and they were all in such a hurry and not calm and it was easy for me to get some money. Sometimes people would just give me money if I asked them for it after I explained that I needed it to complete a set of three---one, two, three. Other times though, I had to take it from them because I needed it to complete my sets and they didn’t. When I got there this time, there was so many people, and they were all in such a hurry and running around. No one was being very nice and I didn’t want to take the time to explain why I needed it, so I decided to just take it. There was a woman on Track 9 standing by herself talking on one of those phones you can take out of your house and still talk. I walked up behind her, pulled her purse off her arm and stabbed her three---one, two, three times with the nice sharp knife I take with me when I go out because you just never know about people. When you do it from behind them, you don’t get any of their blood on your clothes, which is a good thing because then you’d have to take your coat off before you could go anywhere else, and I couldn’t do that. I only had three---one, two, three coats on and there was no way I could have taken one off, but you already knew that. I pushed her down onto the tracks and no one even noticed. People never do when they are in such a hurry and running around.

I took her wallet and dropped her purse onto the tracks and went outside and saw that there would be enough money for me to get it. I practically ran to the novelty shop and I was ready to get it so I could complete my set, but the evil man was in there and he already had it in his hand. I told him he couldn’t have it and that it belonged to me and that the man behind the counter said he would keep it just for me. But they both laughed at me, and the man behind the counter said whoever had the money could buy whatever he had. I told him it wasn’t right. I told him I already had the other two and now I had the money to get number three---one, two, three and he couldn’t let someone else take it. The evil man told me he had already paid for it and I couldn’t have it and put it in his pocket and walked out of the store. The man behind the counter came around to where I was standing and told me to get out of his store and not to bother him anymore. I stabbed him three---one, two, three times with the same knife I stabbed the woman at the train station, but it wasn’t my fault, but you already know that. I got some blood on me that time, but it was snowing so hard, you couldn‘t really see it. Besides, I had to go after the evil man. He still had it.

I saw him walking and that was good because I always walk. He turned down the next street and went up to one of the houses and I was right behind him. After he unlocked the door and started to go inside, I went in right after him. You already know what happened after I went in, but it wasn’t my fault, but you already knew that.

The longer the green one is where it belongs with the other two, the calmer I am beginning to feel. All is never right with the world until there are three---one, two, three. I am truly enjoying looking at my new yo-yo’s. I wonder if someone else will be taking over the novelty shop soon. I didn’t have to wait too long after the last time this happened…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 15: DEAR DIARY

2011-01-24T21:50:00.002-05:00

I've been away too long and now that the bruises are going away (I took a nasty spill down an icy hill), and I can actually sit comfortably for more than a few minutes, I had to get in on the current FFF challenge.

The prompt this time was words: Grass, knee, sunburn and sister. The genre was open and the length was to be under 1,000 words. The theme was a delightful one. Our stories should deal with those glorious days before the loss of all things childlike--the wonder, the innocence--you remember. Hopefully mine captured a moment from that time. Please enjoy.

DEAR DIARY

Dear Diary, Today was just the bestest day ever, ever, ever. You know today is Saturday and that means no school and no Mrs. meanie the teacher and no homework and no other icky stuff. My very bestest friend in the whole world and me rolled around on the grass in the yard after lunch till we started to turn green and our mommies yelled at us to stop. We were laughing so hard our tummies hurt and that’s the bestest tummy hurt you can get. I love Carrie so much. She is like my sister but I don’t have a sister. Joey is my big brother but you know that. He picks on me sometimes but he is OK because he reaches stuff up high for me when I can’t. I have to get a bath now because mommy says I can’t get in the bed when I am green. Bye.

Dear Diary, Carrie and me couldn’t go outside today because it is raining. But her mommy got her a umbrella and they came to our house so we could play in my room. Our mommies were talking real quiet in the kitchen and we tried to hear but they are just too good at talking quiet. Mommies are like that. Daddies aren’t so good at that at all. I know because my mommy is always telling my daddy to talk quiet but he doesn’t know how. I don’t like it too much when he talks loud but when he laughs loud it makes me happy. My daddy is real good at that. Carrie hurt her knee when we were jumping on my bed. Our mommies told us to stop so we did and got some cookies. I love Carrie so much and I am happy she came over to play in my room today. When they left her mommy was crying. I don’t know why. I have to say my prayers now and go to sleep. I think I will say a little one for Carrie’s mom. Bye.

Dear Diary, Today I want to just die. Don’t try to make me change my mind because I won’t. I am going to lay down in the grass until I get so sunburn I turn into a pile of powder like the stuff daddy takes out of our fireplace when he cleans it. Then I will just disappear and no one will ever know that I was here. My mommy told me Carrie was moving away and her mommy was crying because she will miss my mommy. They are going to be so far away like across the oceans and I will never see Carrie again. There is no sunshine today, Diary, so I can’t burn myself up yet. I will try tomorrow. I have to go and eat my dinner now. We are having pizza. I love pizza. Bye.

Dear Diary, Laying in the grass didn’t burn me up into powder but I got kind of red and mommy had to put cream on my face and it felt nice and cool. She told me not to do that again and I said OK. Carrie is gone you know and I just don’t think I’ll lay down in the grass anymore ever. I’m going to have to figure out some other way to make myself die that doesn’t make my face hurt. I miss Carrie and her house is all empty. My mommy said when you remember somebody they are always with you in your heart. Maybe that’s enough for big people, but not for me. Daddy’s going to read me a story about trains now. Bye.

Dear Diary, Some people moveded into Carrie’s house today and I hate them. Joey said well just kick me down like a feather just look at all the furniture they have. Joey says stuff like that all the time and I don’t always get it but that’s OK. He said we should give them a chance but I don’t want to so I won’t. I looked at them through the window though. There’s a real big man with no hair on his head and I think he must be the daddy. The lady is very small but she has a old face like my mommy so I think she must be the mommy over there. There is a kid too and she looks like she is my size but I hate her. I hope she has bad dreams in Carrie’s room every night. I’m going to watch a movie about the circus now and we get to have popcorn too. Bye.

Dear Diary, The girl who sleeps in Carrie’s room came over to my house after breakfast today to ask if I could come outside to play. Her name is Lyla. I told her that my very bestest friend in the whole world used to sleep in her room but she moveded far far away. Lyla said she would like to be my very bestest friend in the whole world and I said OK. I don’t really want to die anymore either Diary because I found out that Lyla likes to roll around on the grass until she is green. Bye.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 12: WHAT A FOOL BELIEVES...

2010-12-28T19:16:00.004-05:00

The prompt this week was to choose a line from the poem, "Twas the Night Before Christmas" and use that as our starter sentence. The genre was open, and I went a bit wild with this one, but that's what makes these challenges so much fun. The sentence I chose was "He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot." Please enjoy.

WHAT A FOOL BELIEVES...

"He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, and he was wearing one of the Santa suits from the Mission. I know it was one of theirs because I’ve been doing the Santa thing for years--you get a hot meal and a bed every night from Christmas Eve until New Year’s Day. All you have to do is ring the bell when people walk by and hope they put money into the pot. At the end of the night, you turn the money in to the ladies there.”

Lyle Richmond, Detective with the Pleasant River PD for about three years, was losing any patience he had when this began. Why do the holidays bring out the crazies? He tried to keep this moving. It was already half an hour past his shift’s end when this weirdo ran in raving about someone being eaten. Yes. Eaten.

“Mr…uh…, so you saw somebody out there bothering your friend?” Lyle checked his watch again.

“Yes. Well, no. I mean, we weren’t friends. It’s just that I do the Santa thing every year so I can get a meal and a bed and so does he and in between, sometimes we run into each other. They have lunches at the Mission, but on the holidays, they find stuff for us to do so we can have a place to sleep. It’s warm in there…”

Lyle was getting ready to dump this old geezer on one of the patrolmen in the stationhouse who were standing around trying desperately not to laugh out loud.

“Focus here. Tell me what happened tonight.”

The man in the shabby Santa suit took a sip of the coffee provided for him, and continued.

“Oh, okay. I had my pot on the corner of Fifth and Broad. You know, down the street from Maisey’s Coffee Shop? This other guy, the one who got eaten, I think his name was James. Anyway, he was across the street on the corner. Well, he wasn’t exactly on the corner. He had his pot set up in front of the alley. You know, the one between the old movie theatre that’s been closed for years now, and that nudie shop you boys shut down a few weeks ago. You know.”

Lyle nodded. Today, old man. Today.

“Anyway, there weren’t too many cars out tonight, since it’s cold and snowy, so we were yelling back and forth to each other about stuff to pass the time. Not too much longer and we could take our pots to the Mission and get something hot to drink and some cookies and then a bed for the night. So, we’re yelling back and forth about how we both decided we weren’t going to help ourselves to any of the money, when I saw this--uh--thing, come out of the alley. He--it, was dressed in the Santa suit and it was so big. It had claws on its hands and was furry all over, and it had really big teeth, and growled and then grabbed James from behind and bit his neck. Looked like it just bit his throat out, and then it pulled him into the alley and started eating him, and that’s when I ran here to tell you about it so you could catch him--uh, it.”

The detective closed his eyes and silently counted to ten.

“Okay, then, thanks for reporting that and we’ll get over there. You’d better get over to the Mission now so you don’t miss out on the cocoa, cookies and bed. Can we reach you there if we need more info? Great. We’ll be in touch. You be careful out there now.”

He managed to get the old man back out onto the street and closed the stationhouse door. Alright. Not too late. Still plenty of time to head over to Jimbo’s for a couple of beers before he went home. Maybe Sarah from Hale’s Department Store would be there having a quick one. Running into her would be a nice way to finish up Christmas Eve. He’d be spending Christmas Day at his brother’s house with him and his family, but tonight he was on his own. Sure be great if he could spend some of it with that pretty lady. As he rounded the corner into the parking lot, the old man in the Santa suit grabbed his arm.

“Don’t ever do that,” he released the grip on his gun. “I almost fucking shot you. What is your problem, old man? You want this to be your last Christmas?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Detective, sir, I didn’t mean to startle you, but I remembered something that I thought you might need to know about James that might explain why this happened to him.”

Oh God, the detective thought, will this never end?

“Great,” he said, trying to appear calm, even though his hand still rested lightly on his gun. “Tell me what you remembered that will probably solve this case.”

“Okay,” the man said quietly. “I had asked him where he got those gloves he was wearing, and he said he had grabbed them out of a bag a lady had when she walked by. She was hollering at her kids and put the bag down to swat one of them, and he grabbed the gloves out of the bag. Then when she was done swatting the kid, she picked up the bag and went on and didn’t notice the gloves were gone.”

Detective Richmond vowed to request some leave as soon as the holidays were over--a lot of leave.

“And” he asked, “what does that have to do with why he was kil…, eaten?”

“Oh,” the man said, “he took what didn’t belong to him. He was naughty on Christmas Eve. The furry Santa with the big teeth was probably real mad about that.”

The old man in the Santa suit gave the detective a knowing look, a small salute and went on his way toward downtown. Oh yeah, he thought, it’s time for a few drinks and the company of anybody who’s sane. His partner, Detective Danser, certainly didn’t qualify. After the old man had been removed to the street, he had actually asked Lyle if he wanted him to check the alley out and then get on the phone to see if there were similar cases in any of the surrounding towns. After all, there were documented cases of lycanthropy and there were people with a particular medical condition… Maybe this guy dresses up like Santa and stands on corners at night so he can find victims. Who’s going to pay attention to a guy in a Santa suit at Christmas? But, Danser wondered aloud, I wonder what he does the rest of the year? Definitely, Richmond had told him, you do just that. Then I want you to put an APB out on Santa aka Werewolf Claus. And next spring, we’ll put one out on the Easter Bunny. I’ll bet he can deliver a helluva bite too. He told Danser to go home to his wife and kids and have a Merry Christmas. This ‘case’ was closed. They’re all nuts, he said aloud. All. Nuts.

The man didn’t see anyone on either side of the street and his and James’ pots were still there. I’ll just empty his into mine, he decided. That way, maybe I’ll get an extra helping of cookies. He crossed the street, wishing a stream of cars would come by. But the area was totally deserted. He put the change from James’ pot in his pockets and peeked into the alley. It had begun to sleet and the old man thought it so odd that there was no trace left of the man he had been speaking to a couple of hours before. Nothing but one of his gloves. The growl from the back of the alley startled him. Before it even dawned on him to scream, the furry thing in the Santa suit jumped out and was on him, biting and tearing. All he could think before it all went dark was how he really shouldn’t have bumped into that man and taken his wallet. Shouldn’t have been naughty on Christmas Eve…

* * * * *

A couple of days into the new year, when Richmond got the report that one ice-covered glove and one of his cards with blood mixed with saliva all over them had been found in an alley on the other side of town, he felt a chill. Both empty collection pots were returned to the Mission, and nothing about that night was ever mentioned again. He kept the file containing one sheet of paper that contained the old man’s narration in the middle drawer of his desk as a reminder to listen next time. Really listen. And if he came upon a corner Santa at Christmastime, he’d cross the street before he got to him. You just never know…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 11: ONE GOOD TURN...

2010-12-22T11:55:00.002-05:00

In accordance with this time of year, the theme was The Christmas Spirit. The prompt was a themed word list: Unearthly, Concealed, Attic and Shiver.

We are all familiar with the stories about the ghosts of Christmas and what effect encounters with them have had on the living. But can the reverse also be true? Can the effect be a mutual thing? Let's see. I present,

ONE GOOD TURN...

Sully Janofsky was pissed. It was Christmas Eve, the sky was going to dump a ton and a half of the white crap, and he had been looking forward to yet another uneventful holiday. But, no such luck. He had been up in the attic in an attempt at a brief change of scenery when he heard them come in. Sounded like a man, a woman, and what the fuck? Was that a kid? Hell. He would take a great deal of pleasure scaring the crap out of mom and pop, but kids were bad luck. They whined and cried and raised such a ruckus, it wasn’t near worth the effort. Maybe they wouldn’t be staying for the whole weekend, what with the big storm coming. Maybe they’re just lost and stopping to see if there’s a phone. Maybe Sully wasn’t really a ghost, cursed to forever inhabit this lousy cabin and roam the bear-infested lot it was on. Oh yeah. And a few maybe’s and a dollar might buy you a pack of smokes.

Sully could hear the man downstairs shouting obscenities at the woman and then he heard what sounded like a powerful slap. Wonderful, Sully thought, he’s a woman beater. A Class A mope. Of all the shit he had done in his life, one thing Sully wouldn’t put up with was a man who hits a woman. If a man really is a man, he should only fight another man. Use a fist, a knife, a .38, whatever’s handy, but whatever the beef, it should be handled man to man. He heard a door slam. Probably the woman went into one of the bedrooms. Just as well. The frames and doors were solid and strong. She’d be safe in there. But what about the kid?

He heard someone coming up the attic stairs and sat down on some boxes. No point in hiding, he thought, the living can’t see me. Sully found he could touch the living though, and pick up objects and throw them around if he wanted to. All that made it so much easier to run folks off. He wasn’t sure how all that worked, but there was no one to ask and he’d learned a long time ago to just use what you got. The door opened and in walked a little girl, probably around 8 or so. Pain in the ass like all kids, Sully was certain, but still a pretty little thing. Problem was, this one had the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. Like her world never stopped ending. Fuck. He wasn’t sure why or how, but Sully felt a headache coming on.

“I knew it,” the girl smiled a tiny smile. “I prayed you’d be here and you are. Are you going to be at my door when I go to sleep to watch over me? Is that how guardian angels work?”

Sully wasn’t sure what was happening here. If this kid was talking to him, that could only mean that she could see… Damn. Guardian what?

“Uh, kid?” he began, “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m not your guardian anything. I’m a spoo…, I mean, spirit, I guess, and don’t go getting all bent out of shape over it either. I’m getting a migraine and I don’t need any noise. See, I’m a very bad man, kid, and this is my Hell, I think, because I can’t leave this cabin or go past the property line. This guy double-crossed me awhile back and I fuc…, I mean, I messed him up real bad and he died. Then his partner, that I didn’t know about, splattered my brai…, shot me dead. I woke up here, this used to be my hideout, and I supposed this was what I got for crossing the line once too many times. Or some shi…, stuff like that. Anyway, this is my place, used to be, and I can’t stand having anybody around, so the three of you can just scram. Okay?”

It was like he hadn’t said a word because the girl just shook her head and there was that tiny smile again.

“It’s alright. I won’t bother you, guardian angel. I go to bed around seven because Richie says I should, so if you could stay by my door, that would be super. I have to go now and make Richie something to eat. That way, Mommy can rest some more after her accident. Love you.”

Why’d she have to go and say shit like that? Damn kids. But, still. Sully didn’t like the images running through his mind. Why does the kid want me to stand guard outside her bedroom door? Maybe this Richie-not-Daddy and he should have a spook-to-prick chat…

Sully waited until after the kid went to bed and he made sure her door was closed tight. Richie-not-Daddy was alone in the living room gulping beer, and never noticed Sully enter the room. Why can just this kid see me, he wondered. Creepy. Richie tossed the empty bottle into the fireplace and put on his coat and hat and went out the back door. Sully decided he’d pay for that move; ever hear of a garbage can? And, what the hell was he doing outside at this hour?

Sully couldn’t believe his eyes. The idiot’s out there with the back porch light on, digging a hole. Deeper and deeper. What? When Richie’s cell phone rang, Sully moved in closer. He didn’t want to miss a word.

“Yeah, we’re here and they’re both asleep. I’m digging a nice deep one out back here for her. Rachel gets up before anybody and gets her own breakfast. I’ll tell her I’ve got something to show her and then get her out here and a quick snap of the neck, into the hole, throw on a few leaves, and I’m rid of that little pest forever. I’m going to tell Rosie a bear grabbed her; nothing I could do. Then, I’ll shoot her up, we’ll come back to the city, and I can turn her out and she can make me some money. She won’t do squat as long as that pesky kid’s around. Okay. I’ll let you know. Later.”

Sully couldn’t believe what he had heard. First, he’s a woman beater. Second, probably a pedophile. Now, he’s going to murder a child? Well, we’ll just see about that. Sully peeked in on little Rachel and then on her mother. Mommy’s entire face was swollen and black and blue. No doubt Richie-not-Daddy had delivered so much more than a slap. Fucking coward.

Morning came and true to his word, Richie waited until Rachel finished her bowl of cereal and then told her he found something special out in the backyard. He took her small hand and led her out the door. Sully could see the child shiver at his touch. The edge of the hole was concealed behind a big pile of leaves. As they moved closer, Richie let go of Rachel’s hand and started to put them on her neck. All at once, he felt his left arm being pulled behind him and twisted, hard.

“What the fuck? Who’s there? What’s going…”

He took a hard punch to the back. Now, Sully was grateful for the being-able-to-touch thing. Rachel looked up, frightened.

“Don’t worry, kid. You go inside now, and get Mommy up and put your stuff in the car and go back home. Richie-not-Daddy and I are going to discuss good parenting practices and then he’s going to have an accident. You’re familiar with accidents, right, bud?”

“Who the fuck are you and what do you want? Are you one of those invisible unearthly things? Please don’t experiment on me. Take the woman and the kid. You’ll have a better time with them. I won’t tell anybody about this, I swear.”

Invisible what? That remark just reinforced what Sully already knew. This jerk double deserved what he was going to get this Christmas. He had prepared a big speech, but decided this scum wasn’t worth the effort. Just a quick snap of the neck and Richie-not-Daddy was tossed, and not gently, into the hole and covered with a few leaves. That way, Sully knew the bears wouldn’t have any problem locating their next meal.

Rosie took a quick peek out the back window after Rachel told her about Richie‘s accident. There was a small pang of guilt--her finally feeling free, and it being Christmas and all, but knowing the two of them would now be safe erased all of it. While she was packing the car, Rachel ran back inside, where Sully was waiting.

“Thank you, guardian angel,” she whispered.

Sully took the child’s face in his hands.

“I told you, kid, I’m no angel. And there’s nothing to thank me for. All I did was remove some trash from my cabin. Besides, I’m a really bad man. Remember?”

“Yes,” Rachel said with a smile. “I remember. Thank you again, and have a Merry Christmas.”

She gave Sully a big hug and ran to the car. Sully thought that for once in his miserable existence, he might be able to do just that.

While he didn’t expect to sprout wings and fly up into some Heavenly light, he did believe that if, in some far off corner of this fucked up universe, his Maker did briefly allow Himself a small grin on Sully’s behalf, that would be just enough.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 10: PUNCH LINE

2010-12-15T13:52:00.003-05:00

Prompt: You are trapped (alone or with others) in a single location during the fury and/or aftermath of a blizzard of historic proportions.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1500 words or less

What delightful circumstances, and what a perfect setting for a monumental practical joke. Or maybe not...

PUNCH LINE

Jerome Hoggstratten couldn’t be happier. He had never belonged to any in-crowds, either during his school years or during his be-on-your-own years. Actually, he had never really belonged to anything or anyone, for that matter. Of course, in the past, that was perfectly alright with Jerome. After all, he read the papers, religiously followed the news, and watched each and every forensic, cop, mystery, and cold case show on TV. He’d seen some of them two or three times. Reruns were such a blessing, as sometimes one was momentarily distracted by outside occurrences and one might miss a detail or two. It might appear small on the front end, but more often than not, these minor points ended up turning the investigation every which way from Sunday, and resulted in the identification and apprehension of the perpetrator. Lives were saved and the world was made right again. At least until the next one decided to show his or her stuff…

Serial killers, mass murderers, devil worshipers who performed human sacrifices--they were out there all around us. Jerome knew it, and accepted the harsh reality of it. So, he was going to make sure that he was totally prepared for the day he crossed paths with one. Statistically, it was a very real possibility. Many individuals’ lives connected in some way with one of these monsters, and unless victimized, never knew it until the face of evil was plastered all over the 6 o’clock news. Then came the ‘he seemed so normal’ and the ‘she was such a nice girl and helped me with my groceries’. Well, Jerome wasn’t about to be duped like so many others. He would know. He watched documentaries.

Funny how others didn’t appreciate this critical insight of his. People would seem friendly and appear to want to get to know the real Jerome, but the minute he tried to share some life-saving tips of how to see behind the mask of evil, they were gone. Jerome knew they would be the ones identified as being the body found dismembered under a picnic table in the park. So, if they didn’t want to take advantage of his expertise, fine. They would become victims of the Ted Bundys and the John Wayne Gacys of this world. But not him--not Jerome.

The co-workers at his new job were so different though. They shared all his interests and even invited him up to spend a long weekend at a cabin one of the guys owned. He could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of being able to spend several days with those who viewed the world his way and saw it as the dark and terrifying place it was, with danger and death around every corner. He couldn’t wait to get up there, so he decided to leave hours ahead of schedule. He had been told where the key was, so he packed a couple changes of clothes and several books exploring the minds of those who kill for some light reading while he waited for his new friends to arrive.

He had been wise to arrive ahead of schedule since the weather had taken a real turn. Light snow had been forecasted, but as it was, he was barely able to find the cabin in the blizzard that came out of nowhere, much less even make it out of his car. The snow was coming down so thick and fast, by the time he parked at the side of the cabin, he could barely open his door. He fought the wind and white-out conditions as he brought his suitcases in and finally shut and bolted the door. The generator would keep the power on, the fireplace was a Godsend, the cupboards were well stocked and there was even a full walk-in freezer off the kitchen. Everything he would need to get through the next few days in warmth and comfort. Everything except friends.

Jerome knew none of them would be able to get there in those conditions and he would be alone. Again. Well, he thought, at least I brought my books and I can study and take notes. When the storm lets up and my friends arrive, I can use my notes during our discussions. I’m sure it won’t be too much longer.

* * *

Jack Knowles couldn’t believe that weird-ass from the mailroom, Jerome whatever, had fallen for it and actually shown up. He, Tommy Silverman, Sharon Gitsby and Lucille Wohby, had laid it on pretty thick to him how truly interested they were in all that killer bullshit of his. What a Class A jerk. Sharon had approached Jerome and handled the invite. The way she looked deeply into those vacant black eyes of his and told him he simply must join them this weekend, while gently stroking his cheeks and running her hands through his barely there hair had done the trick. Now, the four of them sat in an RV behind the cabin, drinking beer and planning how to scare the crap out of good old Jer. They knew he’d be early, so they came earlier than early and hooked the RV up to the generator and waited. They knew Jerome wouldn’t go out back, what with the woods and all that surrounded the cabin. A serial killer might be hiding there. One never knew. They had to laugh. What a grand time they were going to have and what an even grander time they would have telling everyone back at the office what a pussy Jerome was. They knew he’d freak and the girls had their camcorders ready to catch every second of his meltdown. Trapped by a blizzard in a snowstorm, total white-out so no running to the car and trying to summon help… Maybe they’d upload it to the Web. Oh yeah. Now, that would really be an award-winning joke on the Jermeister.

* * *

On Monday evening while on his drive home, Jerome felt conflicted. On the one hand, he was so proud of himself having survived his encounters with what he knew would be called ‘The Cabin Killers’. He’d send an anonymous letter to the authorities explaining how they’d been caught, but taking no credit for himself. Give credit where credit is due. Basking in glory was not Jerome’s way. The downside of all of this was the betrayal by his co-workers. All of them psychotic, sociopathic and deadly. Lying in wait for him at the cabin, moving around in the dark when they thought he was asleep, planning his demise. And the cameras? My God, he shuddered, those evil girls were going to film it all: My torture, my death, and most likely, my dismemberment. The axes had been plentiful around the cabin. Bastards. Now, the world was all upside down again and he’d have to find yet another job. How could he ever be sure there weren’t more of them within that firm. He couldn’t. Not really.

One by one they had come and one by one he had vanquished them. Them in their ski masks and black clothes jumping out at him and laughing. All that laughter. Once Jerome ran Jack through with a poker, his laughter stopped. A carving knife drawn quickly across Tommy’s throat ended his mirth. Lucille had come in with her little camera whispering for Jack and a swift twist of her neck had put her down. Sharon had been the last, creeping in and calling for the others. Jerome let her see it coming. She deserved it, luring him there the way she did. He did her with a pair of gardening shears. It was slow, and she was still breathing and reaching for him when he placed her, along with her co-conspirators, inside the walk-in. Thought you put one over on Jerome, didn’t you, he had said to her as he closed the door and bolted it shut. That’ll hold them till the police can get up here.

No one would know he had been there since he had kept his gloves on the whole time. Forensically, that was wise. There were never going to be any DNA errors where he was concerned. He wouldn’t be wasting away on Death Row for a crime he didn’t commit. Not him--not Jerome.

What he most agonized over though was how he had almost been taken in. He had obviously missed a sign somewhere in their behavior. He had to give them credit though. As mass murderers or serial killers--he would have to figure out what category they fit in later--they were good. So very good. Give credit where credit is due, Jerome always said.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 9: A SMALL MISUNDERSTANDING

2010-12-07T00:21:00.004-05:00

Prompt: The common, or not so common, cold — at least one character must be miserable. Really miserable.
Genre: Open
Word Count: Under 1500 words

Before we begin our story, a word to the wise. If you're not 100% certain about something, ask. NEVER assume. EVER...

A SMALL MISUNDERSTANDING

I lost my job two days ago. It was a good job too. I was doing well, but recently, took it upon myself to go above and beyond. That’s when it all went terribly wrong. Let me explain.

I was employed by Mr. Winston Grafton. Yes, you heard me correctly. THE Mr. Winston Grafton who was accused of ordering the execution of several United States’ Senators. THE Mr. Winston Grafton who was accused of defrauding several CEO’s of major international corporations out of billions of dollars. THE Mr. Winston Grafton who was accused of money laundering, dealing in narcotics, as well as other assorted illegal activities. Remember, I said ‘accused’--not ‘indicted’ or ‘prosecuted’. Mr. G. is very powerful, and has a way of making accusations--and accusers--go away. Permanently.

My role was as a numbers cruncher. Not to crunch anything literally, since I’m on the hard edge of 55, 5’2” when I’m wearing thick socks and my orthopedic shoes, and huggably round. But I am a whiz with numbers. I would accompany Mr. G’s enforcers on their weekly calls and when they would explain compound interest and such, I was there to refigure their new payment amount. My job paid well, and I was always treated with respect. By Mr. G, that is, which is why I felt the need to get personally involved when the big guy fell ill.

One day, he’s out and about, and the next, he’s down for the count. It started with some sneezing and a stuffed head, and within a couple of days, it left him confined to bed, feverish, with swollen eyes and a voice that was barely a whisper. His doctor told us that some virus had taken hold of him and was not going to let go until it pulled him six feet under. He could be kept comfortable, but beyond that, there wasn’t much that could be done.

I remember peeking in his room one morning to pay my respects when I witnessed the saddest display I have ever seen. There he was, clutching a photo of his dead wife, with tears spilling down his cheeks. I knew there were no words I could offer, so I simply went in, sat in the chair at his bedside, and asked if there was anything I could do for him. He looked at me with eyes that were nearly swollen shut, and pointed at the photo. I told him I knew what had happened and how sorry I was. He looked away briefly, and remembered his pain.

When I came on board, Jeff, one of the fellas who took care of the grounds, told me what had happened to Mrs. G because, even though her pictures were all over the house, she was no longer around since she had been killed by a drunk driver the year before. The boss had used all his resources and his money flowed like water trying to find out who was responsible, but to no avail. The search took a backseat over time, but he never gave up. His one wish was that he would be able to someday look into the eyes of the one who was responsible for his wife’s death. Now, it appeared as if the one hope that kept him going all these years was going to elude him.

As I sat there, he reached for my hand and pulled me close. He tried to speak, but his voice was so weak, I could barely hear him. I finally figured out what he was trying to tell me. It was a name, but what was it? David? No. Darnell? Close. Danny? Yes. Then, he began again. I assumed that he was trying to tell me Danny’s last name. Bridges?. No. Binger? His nails were digging into my knuckles. Bidden? That’s it. He whispered the name and pointed to his wife’s photo. Oh God. That was what he wanted me to do. After all this time, he had located the man who killed his wife, and he was telling me his name so that I could find him.

Yes, I’ll find him. I knew that I couldn’t stop there though. This was such an important task he had given me, and I was not about to let him down. I would bring this excuse for a human being here, but after the big guy had his final look, I would send this slug on his way to Hell by my own hand. After all, I knew how to pull a trigger. I would join the ranks of the ones who made things right. The ones who evened the score. I would assume the role of leveler on this playing field.

It hadn’t been easy, but I tracked the scum known as Danny Bidden down. He was living in one of those pay by the week dumps, and I waited until he left his room and then went in with no problem. The fool didn’t even lock his door. What I saw when I stepped in filled me with a wave of nausea like I have never in my life felt before. Taped on the walls were newspaper clippings of the crash that killed Mrs. G. Some showed the mangled car, some showed the body bag being placed inside the ambulance, and most had a photo of her taken at some society luncheon on a bright summer day. She had a warm smile and bright eyes so full of life. The clippings were everywhere. The sick bastard. Reliving that night over and over. What kind of a monster was he? If I ever had second thoughts about being HIS Angel of Death, they had evaporated. This was going to be a pleasure.

It had been easier than I anticipated, overpowering this young punk. I have no doubt the gun I was holding was what ultimately convinced him to accompany me, but regardless. The end really does justify the means. I was so proud of myself. I was doing something for someone who had lost the will to live. Perhaps this would at least give him a moment’s peace on his way from this life to the next.

We stood at the foot of Mr. G’s bed. Big guy reached out and tried to sit up. I almost wept. I was so moved. I told him not to worry. I would take care of everything. For him. And for her. I put the gun up to his temple and pulled the trigger. The piece of garbage that was Danny fell in a heap. There wasn’t as much blood as I had thought there would be, which was a good thing, because I had just bought a new suit for the occasion, and I really didn’t want to mess up the old man’s room.

So, it was done. Mr. G pushed the button on his nightstand and Barry and Richie, two of his enforcers, came in. They looked at the lump on the carpet, and then at me in the oddest of ways. I hadn’t a clue as to the reason for their concern until later that day when the situation was explained to me.

Apparently, Mr. G and his wife had a son. It was obvious from the start that he wasn’t going to follow in his father’s footsteps by joining the business, but he was family, so he was tolerated. However, after Mrs. G died, Daddy told his son that his presence would no longer be acceptable. He was given access to a trust fund and sent on his way, and never spoken of again. That is, until his name was spoken to me. Danny Bidden had been born Danny Grafton, and while he was never the apple of Pop’s eye, blood is blood after all, and Mr. G. didn’t want any glitches in the hinges of those Pearly Gates he was on his way to, so he wanted to make peace with his only son before he died. That was why he asked me to find him. That was why he said his name and pointed to the photo of his wife. He was asking me to find his son. And that was why Danny had all the clippings. It was all he had left of his mother. And I found him. And I brought him home. And I shot him.

And so, here I sit in the basement pantry. I’ve been locked in here for the past couple of days, but at least there’s bottled water and cookies in here. I’m sure they have nasty plans for me once the old man gets back on his feet. Oh, did I forget to tell you? His virus seems to be loosening its hold on him, and he is expected to make a full recovery. We are all blessed, his doctor had said. It won‘t be long, and he‘ll be up and around and back to business as usual. Yeah boy. Lucky me.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 8: TIME ON YOUR HANDS

2010-11-30T22:35:00.003-05:00

This week, the prompt was a starter sentence, and the challenge dealt with time. My offering deals with what could happen if an individual found himself with just a little bit too much time on his hands. Too much time to think and wonder. Perhaps, on occasion, that might be a good thing. In this case however... Please enjoy.

TIME ON YOUR HANDS

The clock ticked off the seconds, each a piercing reminder that time moved forward. It wouldn’t be too long now before he stepped through the door. Edwin Hoopmeyer. My co-worker. My friend. My Judas. No. Not too long now before he steps through his front door and I put a bullet into his brain.

I’ve been sitting here in his living room, in the dark, for about an hour, waiting. I could have cut it a lot closer since you can set your watch by the skunk. I used to admire and appreciate that trait of his, but now, I choke on the air we share.

How could he do this to me? To me. His best friend, trusted confidante, and ardent supporter. I am the one who deserved that promotion to supervisor. Not him with his ‘content to be crew‘ claim. I am the one who has 15 years of faithful service. Not him with his measly four. I am the one who has been boffing the company President’s skank of a daughter. Then again, I recently discovered, so has he.

That‘s right. How could I not have seen it? She was doing the deed with Edwin as well, the hypocritical bitch. Oh, how entranced she was with me, and how she simply melted at my touch. That lying demon. I’m willing to bet a week’s salary that she told him exactly the same thing. Probably that and then some. She was just using us both to satisfy her own demented desires. I’ll bet she never intended to recommend either one of us for the job upgrade. All she was ever after was a man with a pulse. Didn’t much matter where he was at in life or where he ended up when she was through with him. I should have seen right through that lovey dovey act of hers. And always texting somebody right when I was at the peak of my game. Of course, at the time, that activity was preferable to me having to lock lips with the girl. Her mustache was so much fuller than mine. I did always mean to ask her how she…

I just figured out what all that chit chat on her cell was about. She was playing one against the other and probably telling that slug of a hairdresser of hers that both Edwin and I were going to be kicked to the curb in a hot minute and somebody off the line was going to get the corner office and the raise. Then they would both laugh about it when she went in for her manicure and electrolysis treatments.

Oh yeah. I see it all now. It was actually the one with the comb and the hairspray and the pasted on smile. When the Zone VP’s wife went in to his shop to have her wig glued on for the week, Zorro Fitzmeister himself of Zorro’s Treasure Chest Salon and Boutique, would whisper in her diamond-studded ear to cross Edwin and me off the list of potential promotees. Of all the underhanded, hateful, savage…

No. Damn. It was her. The whole time. The VP’s snake of a spouse. It was she who would deliver the lamb to the lions. She was the link in the chain that I had been missing. Once she completed her beauty ritual with Zorro and received the encoded instructions, she would return home and pass the word onto the eager ear of the next waiting car in their little underground railroad setup: Her gardener, Roland. Yes, yes, yes. Is it coincidence that her gardener is also the one who does the landscaping outside my office and around the company? Oh how obvious their evil little plan is to me now.

So, that’s what Roland was up to, was it? Every time he was landscaping the area outside my office, he made sure he timed it so he would run into me on my way out. That was so he could tell me how much I deserved that promotion, and tell me over and over how hard I was working, and I was so dedicated staying over all those nights to finish my paperwork. Standing outside by the parking lot where God and everybody could hear him. Hear him building me up and not mentioning my dear friend, Edwin at all. Throw everybody off the track, and create the supreme diversion. Totally leaving Edwin out of the picture where the supervisor’s job was concerned. Trying to undermine and completely derail his future--his destiny. And what would possess the ingrate to do such a thing? Everybody knows Edwin earned that promotion months ago. The man had already given the company four years worth of his blood, sweat and tears, and here’s this gardener, the guy who wields the rake and thinks he runs the operation, doing all he can to shaft my very best friend in this whole world out of the prestige and respect this new position would generate. But, it all backfired on you Roland, didn’t it? All your spying and all your lies were for naught, weren’t they? The message never got through in time and the promotion was given to Edwin after all. You see? Right is right. You can’t hold back the mighty sword if it is in the hand of Lady Justice. Fate will not be denied.

My God. It is all so clear now. Something has to be done to curtail all this backbiting and sabotage by this spawn of Satan. Something must be done before he can actually succeed in destroying another man’s dreams and divine right. He believes that no one knows what’s behind the mask he wears, but I have seen the serpent that lies beneath. Changing his schedule this week so he can be on the road tomorrow afternoon to spend a long weekend at his cabin on the lake, alone. Like his leaving so abruptly following the promotion announcement wouldn’t raise any suspicion…

Oh, there’s Edwin’s key in the lock. I can’t wait for him to come in so I can let him know I’ll always be there for him. He never has to ask for help or support, because I will make sure it’s there before he even knows he needs it. The man’s a saint.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, buddy boy. I bribed your Super to let me in so I could surprise you. Drinks and dinner on me, okay? We need to celebrate your well-deserved promotion to Supervisor. You name the place, and it’s all my treat. And we can take our time too, pal o’mine, since I don’t have other plans any time soon. At least, not until late tomorrow afternoon. Thought I’d take a nice long drive. You know, out by the lake. Somebody I know has a cabin there…”

APOSTLE RISING

2010-11-24T11:07:00.010-05:00

Richard Godwin's novel, Apostle Rising is coming soon. Here's a peek from his website:

"Detective Chief Inspector Frank Castle never caught the Woodlands Killer and it almost destroyed him. Now many years later and still suffering from nightmares, he is faced with a copycat killer with detailed inside knowledge of the original case. Someone is crucifying politicians, and Castle and his partner DI Jacki Stone enter a labyrinth. At its centre is the man Castle believes was responsible for the first killings. He’s running a sinister cult and playing mind games with the police. And the ritualistic killer keeps raising the stakes and slipping through their hands. The body count is rising. Castle employs a brilliant psychologist to help him solve the case, and he begins to dig into the killer’s psyche. But some psychopaths are cleverer than others."

Make sure you check out Richard's website for updates on the release date of this novel, links to his stories, and his blog. You won't want to miss any of it!

http://www.richardgodwin.net

THE HOUSE ON BLACKSTONE MOOR

2010-11-24T08:16:00.016-05:00

Carole Gill's deliciously dark novel is coming soon from Vamplit Publishing. The themes are vampirism, devil worship, madness and obsession. The perfect read for that nice, quiet evening when you're all alone.

Carole has many other terrifying treats in store for you as well. She writes dark-themed horror and sci-fi. Mythica Publishing's Sci-Fi Anthology, Maybe Tomorrow, will include her story, Deathless. Sci-Fi Almanac 2009, Vol. I, No. 1 included her story, The Habinger, in its collection. Sci-Fi Talk's Anthology entitled Tales of Time and Space contains her story, Aftermath, in that collection, which is available from Amazon.

Triskaideka Books has included her horror story, Truth Hurts, in its Masters of Horror Anthology, which is available in paperback and ebook.

She is one of the writers Sonar 4 Publications has chosen to be in the Ladies of Horror 2010 collection. She is also working with the Timeship Universe Project on writing spin-offs for their Timeship Chronicles. Currently, the project is an alternate history of World War II.

You can find her free online vampire stories at Vamplit Publishing's Blood Read Magazine. Also, make sure you check out her blog for updates on all her projects.

Carole will take you on a journey filled with fallen angels, demons, vampires and insanity. It will be a ride you will never forget!

http://vamplit.com/category/vamplit-writers/carole-gill

http://demonvampirehorror.blogspot.com

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 7: TIME FOR THANKS

2010-11-23T21:27:00.003-05:00

During this time of appreciation and gratitude for all the people and good times we have in our lives, this week's challenge was to compose some Thanksgiving Hell. No way could I pass this one up! This time, the prompt was words to incorporate into the story. They were slap, sleet, tureen, and felt. The genre was of our own choice and word count was 1,000 or less. I wish to all a very Happy Thanksgiving, and hopefully, your family get-togethers are much less stressful than my main character's. Please enjoy.

TIME FOR THANKS

“I can’t believe this. What a surprise. Renting a hall at this nice café just for me? I have to tell you, this is just what I needed after the day I’ve had today. Let me tell you…”

“Anna? How could you do this to me? You knew I was going to wear my favorite sweater and the skirt with the poodle design. But here you are, showing up in that hideous copycat outfit you made just to spite me. Your poodle doesn’t even look like a dog anyway. It looks like a beaver with sequins on it. Why don’t you just walk right up and slap me in the face? That would have hurt a whole lot less. How can I stay here now in the same restaurant with you? I’ll never be able to show my face in this town again.”

“Sara, it’s alright. No one is going to notice what the two of you are wearing. I mean, we’re all going to end up in the back room that you rented for my birthday party, aren’t we? It’s not really that important after all.”

“Not important? Not important? I don’t know what you consider important, but my reputation is critical to me. I have never felt so humiliated. And you, my own sister? How dare you talk to me like that? There’s just no accounting for taste sometimes. You know as well as I do that I told you first that I was going to wear this outfit tonight, and it is not a copycat outfit. Mother knows that I made this skirt and sweater long before you bought your dollar store version. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

“Aunt Estelle, please make your girls understand that it doesn’t make any difference to me or anyone else. I think they both look lovely and I’m just grateful that you all got together to throw me a surprise birthday party tonight. I love having my family with me on this special occasion, and I think we should just go on now to the back and have some cake and punch and just forget about all this nonsense. You see, I had a very rough day today. When I walked into work…”

“Nonsense? You think this is all nonsense? I never imagined you of all people to be so insensitive to your cousins’ feelings. How can you be so selfish? Sara, Anna, Uncle Bob and I are all the family you have left. Well, there’s your Uncle Dan, Aunt Flora, and their sons, William and Lester. Of course, they couldn’t make it tonight because they had other plans. Other plans. Right. They just think they’re better than the rest of us since Dan got that promotion. Let me tell you something. Being promoted to senior cook at the Burger Barn isn’t that big of a deal. All that means is that he’s the oldest windbag on that crew of thugs. I’ve had enough. I’m going home. You can go back there and have your cake and punch if that’s what you want so badly. Bob? Let’s get Anna and Sara home. They’re both upset and somebody here doesn’t have any regard for anyone’s feelings but his own. Come on girls, would you like to stop for some ice cream on the way home?”

Okay. Happy Birthday to me. You’re fucking right I’m going on back to eat that cake and drink that punch. Hope to God this joint’s got some 90 proof I can stir into it though. Yet another delightful evening with my family. Mom and Pop got lucky that night when they couldn’t see for all the sleet and Pop crossed the center line just in time to lock front ends with that semi. Their suffering was over. And mine? It had just begun. Yeah, the aunts and uncles and cousins took care of me those 8 years till I went out on my own, but now, on every occasion they deem special, like holidays, my birthday, their birthdays, Arbor Day, you know the drill, they make sure we all have to get together to have a party. I arrive, say 10 or so words, they start in on each other, they go home, and I’m left behind with plastic containers full of salads. Oh well. I’m not much of a cook and the stuff does feed me for a few days. Thanksgiving is coming up though and it’s my turn. They’ve all been invited to my house for dinner. The whole crowd. They’re all coming too. Dan and his gang don’t have other plans that day. I’m going to give them all different dinner times so they don’t all arrive together. This holiday is going to be the best ever.

* *

“A Very Happy Thanksgiving to us all! I’m so glad you could all make it today. I’m anxious for all of you to try out the meal I’ve prepared. As you know, I’m not much for cooking, but I wanted everything today to be extra special. Let me get you some homemade vegetable soup, Aunt Estelle. Recognize the tureen? It was Mom’s. Keeps everything nice and hot. Uncle Dan? You’ve got to try my dressing. I found some recipes in a magazine and tried them all. Cousin Anna and Cousin Sara? You both look so beautiful today in your striped sweaters and poodle skirts. William and Lester, get some ham and turkey. I know you are both still growing boys. Aunt Flora, why so quiet today? You usually have so many interesting tidbits of your life to share with the rest of us. Uncle Bob, more wine? I know how much you love the dark red kind.

Isn’t this the best time we’ve ever had together? None of you minded the double taps as you walked through the front door, did you? I didn’t think you would. Isn’t this cozy, all of us sitting here around the table. Now, about my day…”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY CYCLE 6: ATTRITION

2010-11-17T11:39:00.004-05:00

This week's prompt was a starter sentence, and an enticing one it was. For your reading pleasure, I offer you, Attrition.

ATTRITION

The train seemed unusually empty this morning. It was very odd to see so few of the regular riders in the middle of the workweek.

I, of course, was first on. I am always first on. Mrs. Johnston was there on the Winchester platform. She’s such a sweetheart, but she works way too hard for someone her age. I wish she didn’t have to get off at the second to last stop. That’s such an awful neighborhood. Why on earth would they even put a platform there when the only people around over there are gang members and drug dealers. I have to admit that I have never seen any one of them hop on the 7:04, that’s for sure. She doesn’t have to walk far to get to the houses she cleans, just a few blocks, and that area isn’t too bad. But getting to Grove Place from where she gets off this train has to be a frightening experience for her, what with all those low-lifes hanging around the platform and stairs, saying hateful things to her, grabbing at her handbag, when all she’s trying to do is get to her job. Well, this morning, she didn’t have to put up with that. I heard her telling Mr. Rivera that she was going all the way downtown right to the station this morning so that she could pop in and visit her husband in the hospital for a few minutes. Apparently, he had been cleaning their gutters and his foot slipped from the ladder and he fractured his hip. One of her employers told her they would pick her up by the First Street entrance and take her to her first house until he was discharged so she wouldn’t have to take the train twice. At least she will be safe for a few days anyway.

Mr. Rivera. That poor dear man. He got on right after Mrs. Johnston, which was strange since I hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks. I heard him telling her that he hasn’t been riding since basically, he had nowhere to go. Evidently, his job at the plant had been eliminated when they lost three of their biggest customers. He hadn’t had much luck finding another position either, but this morning, he was on his way to a formal interview at one of the new factories by the docks. It would be a longer trip for him since he’d have to ride the train to the station and then take a couple of buses, but he had said the money would be well worth it. And, after all, any port in a storm. Right?

I really got worried when we just sailed right on through the stop at Clark because there was no one waiting there. I wondered what happened to Sara. She’s so young to be a mother, barely out of high school, but her baby boy is so adorable. She always rides on Wednesdays since she has a part-time job cleaning the offices down on Grove Avenue. She always gets off at Twelfth so she can drop the baby off at her mother’s, then catches the 8:50 to the station. I hope the baby’s not ill. She’s having such a hard time trying to make a living for her and her child. The baby’s father works three jobs at least and is trying to provide for them, but if the baby’s sick, that means doctors, and medicines and that kind of thing can end up being very expensive. I hope all is well with her.

I was so happy when we stopped at Palisades and Mr. O’Reilly got on. How I adore that fellow. He’s always smiling, and he always has a ’good morning’ for the conductor and everyone in the car. I always take a peek over his shoulder at the daily papers so I can keep up with current events. He always reads the comics too, and I love them so.

Usually, there are one or two new people every week, but perhaps they’re all getting on the other cars. That’s okay though, because this car’s riders are like family. We all know each other and each other’s lives and day-to-day issues, and it’s comforting somehow to just keep the car to ourselves. One new person did get on today however, but this person was not welcome today and would never be welcome again. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her get on. With you.

You were both laughing at some private joke when you got on. That was bad enough. I can’t tell you how much more it hurt when you guided her right to our seat. Our seat. The one you and I sat on every Wednesday for all those months while you were going to school downtown. Always that car. Always that seat. Now, you sit there with her. I heard you tell her how excited you were about graduating and getting the new job and how happy you were that since she also worked downtown, you could both ride the 7:04 together every morning. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to take that, having your affair thrown in my face every day. I just don’t know how I’m going to handle that.

I always believed you and I would be together. We first met on this train and I fell in love with you at the very moment I looked into your eyes. We talked and smiled and shared our hopes and dreams. You brought me coffee and treats and even a rose on my last birthday. Everyone in the car knew we were a couple. Everyone. Except you.

That last morning we were together--it seems so long ago now. There was no coffee. There were no treats. And, there definitely was no rose. You had told me you wouldn’t be going in that morning, and asked if I’d get off at your stop so we could chat. You said to meet you at the diner on the corner and we could have coffee there. I knew then that you were going to declare your eternal love for me. It made me smile. All that passion and romance at a corner table over coffee and perhaps toast with marmalade. It would be a moment I would remember all my life.

All I recall running through my mind as you walked me back up to the platform was how could this be happening. How could you tell me at a corner table over coffee and toast with marmalade that you were certain that I had misinterpreted your intentions? When you asked me where I got the insane idea that there was anything between us beyond two people who happened to share a seat on a morning train, I couldn’t breathe. I felt myself feeling very disoriented and disconnected while we ascended the stairs to the benches. You sat, and motioned for me to join you while we awaited the next run. You’d see me on my way, you said, this last time. In the future, you’d be riding in one of the other cars, you said. Because that would be for the best, you said.

I heard the next train long before I saw it. I knew you didn’t. You were too busy trying to explain to me that we never were. Never. As the train neared the platform and I jumped down onto the tracks, the last thing I heard was you saying ‘no‘, and the last thing I saw was your hand reaching out for me. Right. Now, you reach out for me.

So, here I am tonight, alone in the car, our car, sitting in our seat, waiting for the first morning run to begin. I had always believed there would be a brightly lit garden with a fountain full of cool, sweet water, and wings. Everyone would have wings. I would have wings. And I would feel safe. But, there is no garden. There is no cool, sweet water. There are no wings There is only darkness and loneliness and regret. I didn’t know I would have to forever ride this train. I didn’t know I couldn’t ever touch or be touched again. I didn’t know I’d be frightened of the night. I wish now at that very last second I had taken your hand. Then we would have been together. Forever.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY CYCLE 5: MY SUMMER VACATION

2010-11-09T22:20:00.002-05:00

The prompt this time was Teenage Summer, with the genre of your choice, and the word count under 1000. I should warn you--this is not exactly Frankie and Annette at Beach Blanket Bingo, but there are teenagers and then, there are teenagers. This is simply the recounting of how two of them spent one summer. After all, we all do march to a different drummer, don’t we… Please enjoy.

MY SUMMER VACATION

Mrs. Chamberlain and esteemed classmates, I am very pleased to be able to present to you the slides from my recent summer excursion. For our latest birthday, my twin brother, Zach, and I received new camera equipment and various types of mounts, which we happily took with us so that we would be able to share our experience with all of you. We were able to quickly make duplicates, so Zach is at Riverfront Boys Academy at this very moment sharing our memories with his professor and classmates. I cannot express strongly enough what this trip meant to both of us. Boarding here at our respective academic institutions since first grade has, of course, been an extremely rewarding experience. But at the time of holidays and other special occasions, our parents came to visit us, and we were not permitted to visit or view the outside world. However, since we now have both attained the age of 16, we can begin to utilize our training and go beyond the books. We can now truly experience life with all its perks and blessings.

Dale, would you please assist me and shut off the lights? I will now share with all of you my fondest memories.

This first one is a shot of our arrival at the airstrip. It’s a bit dark, since we were the only arrival that night, but that does really make things a whole lot easier. The crowds are so annoying, and all of you know how waiting irritates me. Our vehicles were readily available, and we were able to get quickly on our way to our cabin on the beach. We decided to go to Fort Lauderdale in Florida. Apparently, young people of all ages congregate there for their summer vacations. We had heard that they party all night long and would be willing to go anywhere to do absolutely anything. Zach and I quickly decided that would be the perfect locale.

This next one was taken at the beach about a half mile from our cabin at noon. Notice all the young people, and all their bright and eager faces. Such a friendly crowd to be sure; all ready and willing to lend a hand with planning yet another evening’s festivities.

Here we have one showing a group of teens staying at a hotel down the beach from where Zach and I stayed. There were seven of them altogether. They had come down from some high school up north to spend a couple of weeks on the sand. We invited them all over for a cookout the third evening we were there, and they all came. They were positively delightful. Every one.

Here are Zach and I sitting down to breakfast in our cottage. We had plenty of leftovers from the cookout the night before, and we thought it would be fun to have something different in the morning. Notice how much space we had in that cabin. All the rooms were huge, especially the kitchen. All the latest appliances and cooking utensils, which really came in handy when you consider how much Zach and I both love to cook.

Now, this next one has such an odd side. We met this boy and his sister, who were also there on summer vacation just like us. We had them over for a cookout the very same night, and it was too wonderful. Small world, huh?

Here’s one of Zach and I at one of their gatherings one afternoon. We didn’t attend too many of them, of course, as Zach and I have quite the aversion to the sun. But it was enjoyable in its own way, and it did allow us to make the acquaintance of quite a number of young people and allow us to learn where they were staying. This made it possible for us to approach them at a later time to invite them to our cabin for a meal. The whole process seemed to flow quite smoothly when we encountered them away from larger groups.

This last one is of Zach and I after we had finished packing for our return and we so desired a remembrance of that wonderful cabin and the yard behind it that bordered the shore. See in the corner there, the large built-in grill. We truly enjoyed so many tasty meals that were prepared there, and it was perfectly constructed to accommodate our particular tastes. Believe it or not, after removing the heads and limbs, one was able to broil two entire torsos at the same time, and all the flesh cooked quite evenly.

This Fort Lauderdale place is quite the perfect location and Zach and I intend to return next summer. It is quite well stocked with the young and the fit--not an ounce of fat on any of them to be sure. A bit of seasoning of course, but tenderizing was not necessary for any of them. Let me know if any of you would like some recipes. I don’t have any for pre-teens; there weren’t too many of them at that particular time. Now, the older ones, for instance, the ones between, say, 21 and 25, I believe a rotisserie setup would be more advisable. Being larger and having more meat on them would most likely require a longer cooking time and constant turning for even browning.

In case any one of you would like to join us next year, you are more than welcome. In the event you plan on going on your own, you will have a very easy time of it. It’s amazing how complacent and trusting these young people are. Make sure you offer them some free alcoholic beverages and food, and they will come quite willingly. A couple of tablets in their drinks renders them quite cooperative, and then it’s on the grill with them and you’re off to prepare a nice salad.

Any questions?

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY CYCLE 4: MY OWN LITTLE PIECE OF HEAVEN

2010-10-24T00:24:00.009-04:00

The Cycle 4 prompt was:
Monsters – write a story featuring at least one classic monster.
Genre: Mash-up! Mix monsters with genre of your choice.

I guess you could call mine a kind of suspense tale, maybe, with a monster thrown in the mix. Enjoy.

MY OWN LITTLE PIECE OF HEAVEN

It was yet another dark and starless night--cool, crisp and overpoweringly seductive. I was intoxicated with the lure of your love and it drove me on to heights never before reached or even contemplated. The strong wind carried me to your balcony doors, open and ever inviting. Once within, I became, again, The One. The One for whom this moment in time has long awaited. I gaze upon your beauty in awe, knowing it is for this moment in time I also was created. My hand brushes against your alabaster cheek and you stir slightly--knowing, wanting, hoping. You turn your head and your raven hair shifts and reveals the prize I seek. The veins in your graceful neck pulse, and summon me home. I will bite deep and drink until your soul and mine are…

“SSSSSSCCCCCCRRRRRREEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHH!”

Thump. Crash.

"Damn owl! See what you’ve done? Again? You woke me up from my favorite dream. Only this time, I’ve also knocked down one of the vases from the side table. You know, if you keep this up, one of these days real soon, you’re going to find yourself laid out on a serving platter with parsley stuffed up your butt, a nice salad on the side and a goblet of chilled Chardonnay."

“SSSSSSCCCCCCRRRRRREEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHH!”

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, no point in straining your throat or anything. I’m up now. Time to find some supper. Must be some O pos. or AB neg. in the fridge. I’m usually not this hungry when I first get up. Oh, terrific. First, you wake me from the only great dream I've ever had, and now you barge into my home and start poking around. I suppose you expect me to be hospitable and offer you something to eat. Well, alright, guy, I'm sure I can find something for you. What's your name anyway? What would an owl's name be? How about Blackie? Will that work for you? When I was a kid, I used to have a dog named Blackie. Not exactly the same thing here, but I'll just call you that, okay?

Stu? You're beyond pathetic. You're a vampire living in a deserted dusty old shell of a house that backs up against a no name dried out forest, entertaining and having a conversation with a bird. A one sided conversation, I might add. Ah well. Nobody promised me a rose garden, did they?

My 'Dark Gift'. Right. What a load of crap. You know, Blackie, here's some water for you. Anyhow, I was on my way home one night and there was this guy who looked like he'd been mugged or something on the road. So, I pulled over to see if I could give him a hand, and what do I get for my trouble? A bite on the neck, that's what. Another car came by, and he couldn't finish me off, so he does me just enough to turn me into a vamp like him. Then, he leaves me laying on the side of the road and takes off in my car. In my car. What kind of a self respecting bloodsucker drives? I always thought they turned into bats and flew away. Boy, did I have a lot to learn.

But, Blackie, old friend, we're a good team, huh? Couple of misfits. We'll do alright though. If you'd just stop waking me up from... What the hell is that?"

Stu saw a brief flash of light from the forest side of the property. The moon was shining brightly enough to enable him to see two men pushing something in a wheelbarrow. He couldn't figure out how they got back there without his knowing. They would have had to come up the long driveway from the road, then go around the house, through all the overgrown bushes and that certainly would have been noisy enough to attract his attention. Unless they had made the trek back there while he was asleep. Blackie's ungodly screech always woke him up, but this was a bad omen. Obviously, a person or persons unknown could roam the property at will while he was resting. What if they had decided to come into the house? Maybe he should get a dog. He knew he'd have to go back there to see what they were doing, and what in the world was in that wheelbarrow? When Stu got closer, he could hear them, and he also got a clear view of their load.

"Richie," the shorter one whined loudly, "can't we dump him here? He's so heavy, dead. Lonny was a fat pig alive, but now? What difference does it make anyway? Nobody lives here anymore. Why do we have to bury him? No one would ever come this far back?"

"Saul, Mr. Costanza said to take Lonny where no one would find him and bury him, and that's exactly what we are going to do."

Richie often wondered why he worked with Saul, and tonight was no exception. He was never content to simply follow orders. No matter what the job was, he always found something to complain about. Even this latest one, which had been going very smoothly until Saul decided to open his mouth.

"We got him outside of town, put a bullet between his eyes, and made it all the way back behind this old dump without anybody being the wiser. All we have to do is dig a bit and drop him in and then we'll cover him up with a bunch of leaves or something. No one's going to find him here, so it's not like we've got to put him deep. This place has been deserted for years. Alright, we'll do it here, Saulie, get started over there. The ground looks soft. I'll go through his pockets and make sure he's got no papers on him. Then, we'll just push the wheelbarrow behind those trees."

Saul started digging a shallow grave while Richie went through the corpse's pockets. Nothing. Perfect. Stu had heard enough. These men--these outsiders--were going to bury their kill on his land behind his house. How did this Richie character even know the house was back here? Only locals knew what was at the end of the long driveway, and they knew better than to come calling. He decided he'd have to teach these intruders a lesson. He'd have to make it clear that they need to bury their dead in their own back yard. He couldn't have snoopers and reporters and coppers roaming all over. That's how it went down on the TV shows. Criminals think they haven't left any clues, but something gives them away, and then there's no stopping it. Searchlights and crime scene tape, the yard all dug up, and then, the house. Yes. They'd come in and tear it apart looking for anything and they would find Stu, resting.

That would be bad enough because he knew what people did when they found vamps. He'd seen enough documentaries. Worse yet, what if he was out and they came in and discovered his bed, surrounded by all those dark curtains. They'd know something was up and he could never go back there. Where would he spend his days then? He probably should have listened to the others and got himself a coffin and stashed it in the cellar. But, he couldn't stand the thought of laying down in one of those contraptions. Too creepy.

No. He wasn't going to just stand by and allow his home to be violated and taken away from him. He'd figure out something to keep them all away. Let's see now, he thought, what would Columbo do?

Early the next morning as Stu was preparing to hit the sack for the day, he heard the first of the sirens. He had to smile. He had time before sunrise, and decided to stroll down to the village and get as close as he could to see if his plan had worked. Seeing all the flashing red lights and policemen told him it had. So many people standing around, taking pictures, measuring just everything in sight, and sealing off the area. And right in the middle of it all, a body right in the center of Main Street. While Stu was proud of the location he chose for Lonnie's new resting place, he was most proud of the note he's pinned to the body's jacket. Stu had written 'My name is Lonnie. Richie and Saul murdered me on orders from Mr. Costanza.' He had no idea who any of those people actually were, but he was sure the police would. Now, the focus would be on the individuals involved and not on his back yard. He put the wheelbarrow left behind that he used to move Lonnie right in front of Mr. Johanson's lumber yard. He was sure they'd be able to make use of it.

He hurried home to find Blackie sitting on one of the living room window's sills.

"Hello, old boy. Well, that took care of the problem this time, but what about the next? You know as well as I do that sooner or later, somebody's going to find us back here and ruin everything. I was thinking maybe I'd take in a boarder. Someone who's up during the day. I know this werewolf one county over, sleeps in somebody's garage. I'll bet he'd be happy to have a roof over his head. But, that screech thing you do. You might want to watch that. He might not be quite as understanding as I am..."

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY CYCLE 3: BACK TO BASICS

2010-10-21T23:41:00.003-04:00

This week things were a bit different. The prompt was a themed word list. The words were omen, umbrella, shallow and death. Perfect for this scary time of year. Here's my tale--a bit of darkness for you. Enjoy!

BACK TO BASICS

“Well, good morning, dear. How are you on this bright and sunny morning? Fancy running into you on the Boulevard. I’ve never seen you strolling here before, or anywhere, for that matter. I’d heard you even order your groceries on your computer thingy and have Billy Turner deliver them to your doorstep. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, my dear, nothing wrong with it at all. I mean, Billy does have his mama to provide for…in that awful place. Of course, I’m not one to spread stories about folks, but before you moved here, his mama had been found doing just some terrible things to Billy’s sister, Cassie Jean, and then they found Cassie Jean dead, hanging from the barn rafters, and according to the paper, the manner of her death was said to be suicide. Billy was there when they came and took his mama away, but he’s such a good boy. He makes sure she has money in some account where she’s at so she can buy some candy. She did always love her candy. Did you see that new shop on the corner? I’ve just made a purchase there. I bought a brand new umbrella. I didn’t require a new one, mind you, but it was so precious looking and so functional and I just couldn’t pass it by. Do stop in there now, honey, they have some lovely handbags and such, and reasonably priced too. Well, I’ve got to run now. You take care, and don’t be such a stranger. I’ll have to add you to my list of notifications about card parties and charity luncheons and the like. You all alone in that big house on the hill--bring some life into it, host some events and…got to run. The light changed. See you, sweet pea!”

Oh. My. God. I need a nap. And a drink. Or a drink. Then a nap. Then another drink. And I neither drink or nap. Serena Mc-something-something-something--she’s got three or four last names from three or four husbands--is someone I try wholeheartedly to avoid at all costs, and I usually succeed. But, on occasion, even the best laid plans and all that. Sweet and caring person, she is, who has taken me on as her personal cause. Get me out of the house. Get me involved in the town’s activities. Fix me up with some eligible man. Hell. I like being in the house, I’m not a shallow or vindictive individual, I’m just pathologically anti-social, and the love of my life was taken from me at our front door just a few months ago in a mugging attempt. Attempt. Why do they call it an attempt? They mugged him after all. Witnesses said he gave them what they asked for without resisting, but they shot him in the face anyway. They were subsequently arrested and convicted, and so? No sense of closure there for me though. No such fucking thing.

Then, I get the news that my father, who left us when I was a kid, had died safe and warm in his bed--oh, I’ll sleep much better now--and left me a big house in some rinky-dink town a hundred miles from the ass end of nowhere. So, never being one to stop to weigh the consequences of anything, ever, I left my apartment in the city, with it’s dark and deadly doorway, and came here, basically, to regroup. I didn’t know where my father had been all these years and didn’t care much really, but he did leave his house to me, so there’s that, I guess. I’m trying to look at it like it’s some kind of omen of good things to come. Like, maybe the place he began again might be a chance for my new beginning. I know that’s all crap, but I have to have something to grab, you know? Stop the freefall.

I did make a friend here though, and that’s a big deal for me. Like I said, I’m generally so anti-people. My Davey was what’s called a people person. He got along with anybody and everybody and was a friend to all he met. He often told me that’s what made us the perfect couple--complete opposites who each compliment the other. But he’s dead, so I should move on, right? Live in the now, right? Yeah. Right.

My new friend’s name is Charmaine. Charmaine Bradley. She’s a few years older than I am, but that’s okay. She’s honest and straight-talking, and she’s a widow too. Hers died in some battle in one of the wars and she carries his dog-tags in her pocketbook to this day. She’s a feisty broad, and I love her. Well, I did. No. I do. Why is it just because somebody hasn’t been around for a few days, we start speaking of them in the past tense? Charmaine is. Not was. She probably decided to visit her grandkids for a few days. Her car’s still in her driveway, but nothing’s disturbed and her house is locked up tight. I checked. I’ll see her at the soda shop by week’s end. I’m certain of it. I will. Please.

A new shop did just open in town on the Boulevard, as Serena calls it. The Boulevard. Sure. One block of a few small Mom-and-Pop businesses. Well, work with what you have. Apparently, the location has been dormant for some time. Goes to show that not too many exciting things occur here because I think the entire town showed up for the opening. Not me. I wait until Day Two. You know. That being-around-people thing.

Looks good from the outside. Basil’s Basics. How quaint. Gag and a half. Oh well, I’m here, so I may as well look around. I see now. Basics. Handbags, umbrellas and wallets for men and women and that’s it. Interesting. The stuff does look like quality merchandise, and buying a new wallet or purse here wouldn’t exactly put me in the poor house. You have to wonder though, how long they’ll last. How many purses and such can one town buy? Ah well. Not my concern.

Now, this umbrella looks like something I could live with. Nice and sturdy looking. The tag says it won’t fold up in a strong wind and will never leak. Alright. I’ll take it. Then, I’ll return to my home, alone, and await an invitation to one of Serena’s social events. Or a call from Charmaine saying she’s back and let’s meet at the corner for a root beer float. I could sure go for a root beer float. With Charmaine.

It just occurred to me that maybe Serena and her friends are right. I have zero life. I’m in my house, alone, with all the drapes, blinds and windows closed, inspecting my new umbrella. It’s got such a great feel to it, I have to admit, like it’s been treated with something. That’s probably what stops it from folding up and leaking. Weird. Weird, yes, but soft and comforting somehow. I know it’s supposed to be bad luck, but you know I want to open it. Just to see. Okay. So the inside of an umbrella is nothing earth-shattering, but I’m opening it anyway. First, though, I think I’ll fix myself a drink.

Great. Opens really big. One finally that will actually prevent me from getting wet in the rain. But, what’s this? A mark? A stain next to one of the spokes? Crap. I didn’t pay a fortune, but I don’t pay for garbage. No. Wait. I’ll be damned. It’s like a picture of something. No. A word, maybe. Tor…? Ton…” Yes. Tomm. Tomm? No. Can’t be. What the fuck? Charmaine showed me a tattoo she got the night her husband got shipped overseas. The doer was a friend of a friend and drunk as a skunk and spelled his name wrong. They laughed about it and decided to leave it, thinking it would someday turn out to be one of those memories you treasure, and all that gunk. She never got it fixed. His name was Tom, but the moron tattooed it on as Tomm. Just like on the inside of my new umbrella. I say again. What the fuck? What’s their number? Where did I put that damn receipt?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Pack up everything now, boys, we’re on the move again. Just got a call from the lady who bought that umbrella. You know, the one I didn’t want to put out in the showroom? Raymond, it was you who said no one will ever notice because who looks inside their umbrella. Well, this lady evidently did, and she said she saw something very disturbing and wants to bring it by in the morning to see if I can clear up her confusion about it.

I hate to relocate so soon; we’ve just opened up and have almost depleted our inventory from the last shop. We could have done a good business here, but no sense taking any chances. We’ll just go across the river and change our name again and start fresh. We’ll need to build up some stock though, so we’ll make a quick sweep of the homeless camps on our way. There are a number of them just outside the city limits. They’re always willing to go along with the promise of a few dollars and a home-cooked meal. No time at all and we’ll be open for business again.

And Raymond? Just a couple of reminders. First of all, let’s try to keep customers as customers and not use them as merchandize, okay? Not much profit in that, is there? Secondly, before you skin a person and prepare their hide for the chemical bath, check them thoroughly for any identifying marks and/or tattoos. Those really don’t come out during processing, and someone picking up a wallet or a handbag that reminds them, literally, of their Uncle Phil who’s been missing for a week or so, is not terribly good for business. Alright then? Super. Let’s load up the van. Sun’s almost up. We want to get to the camps before they’re all up getting their breakfast. Hard to cut a few from the herd by then, so to speak…”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY CYCLE 2: MY BROTHER'S KEEPER

2010-10-04T13:05:00.002-04:00

Another tempting prompt this week for Flash Fiction Friday. This time, the first sentence was supposed to be "Mom said I was going to be something one day." How can you pass that one up! Here's my story. Hope you enjoy.

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER

“Mom said I was going to be something one day. She meant it too. She always knew I was destined for greatness.”

“Oh, right. You. And , I suppose I was destined to reside in a cardboard box at the ass end of an alley.”

“Now, Randall, you know I didn’t mean anything like that. You always were a bright fellow. It’s just that, well, I am able to function comfortably on an academic level, and you seem to be more at home…”

“Where, Richard, you fucking moron? Academic level? You’re such a waste of good space. You’re afraid to leave the damn house. You want the groceries delivered to your doorstep. You want your mail shot silently through a slot in your front door. You keep all the six-inch thick curtains drawn and all of your stainless steel blinds closed. So, because I choose to live in the real world and actually have physical contact with other people, I’m not as good as you? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course not, Rand, and let’s not exaggerate about my choices in window dressings. It is simply that the sort of other people you desire to have physical contact with is, at times, most distressing. I am, of course, referring to those, um, unsanitary women. I will just never understand how you could bring such shame into our household. You broke our mother’s heart, you know. And dad? He was positively livid when he caught you with that three-legged woman. A three-legged woman, Ran? I mean, how could you?”

“Richard, Richard, Richard, don’t make such a big fucking deal out of it. It was only the one time, and I was basically just experimenting. There was no reason for the old man to go ballistic and start hollering and making her feel so bad. You know I’m right, don’t you? It was his fault to begin with. In the first place, he should have knocked. After all, I was in my own room, wasn’t I? Okay. So he just barged in and saw what he saw. You have to admit, it was kind of funny. Well, maybe not exactly funny, but regardless. Once he was in and when he was finished gasping, he should have just gone back to his den or wherever and left us alone. It wouldn’t have taken long, and the whole incident would have been forgotten. But, no. He had to go and grab mom and pull her in there and point at us, and then they’re both gasping and hollering… I had to do something, didn’t I? I had to react, didn’t I? I couldn’t just sit back and let them both call her ugly names and hurt her feelings, now, could I?”

“Well, no, I suppose not. But, Randall, I do believe you crossed a line. I mean, did you have to go so far as to…”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Dr. Milner, sir, I have a question if I may. How long has the patient been exhibiting this type of behavior--alternating between his own personality and that of his deceased brother?”

“Jackson, is it? Yes. Mr. Jackson. As a medical student, and frankly, even without any clinical training, common sense tells us that separation of conjoined twins is, at the very least, a complex process, physically. But, from a psychological standpoint, one can only imagine the trauma each party is experiencing before, during, and after the surgery. Now, add to that having your expectations and anticipations dashed when the other part of you is not only removed, but does not survive the procedure. Once recovery was well underway following the operation, he began speaking to, and for, his lost sibling. That is also when he began his violent attacks on the staff, and it was then that the decision was made that he, as well as his caregivers, would be safer if he remained in the isolation unit. It became more and more difficult to discern which of ‘them’ was initiating the attacks as well. Their identities have literally become a blur over time. But, as you can all see, that hasn’t diminished the bond with his brother--in his mind, that is. Therefore, we must exercise great caution when interacting with this particular patient or any of the others, for that matter, since the reality in their minds is the only reality they know. To feel compassion for them is to let your guard down, and unwittingly buy into their distorted view of their existence.

Any further questions? Simms?”

“Well, sir, a few of us were wondering about something. Under the law, did they murder their parents, or would the courts just consider one of them guilty, and is it even correct to refer to them as a ‘them’?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Simms, was it? They were two separate and distinct human beings joined at the hip, to put it very simply. As to who actually committed the murder, well, that depends on which one of them you were speaking with at the time. They were both covered with blood and they called each other by both names at the time, and since no one was ever really close to the family, it was impossible to make that determination. The hope was that by separating them physically, the truth might come to light. Of course, at present, that’s not relevant. Both in one body and both extremely dangerous. But since he’s confined for life, I suppose it could be said that justice has been served, no?

Well, let’s leave them to their verbal volleys, and head on over to the hospital cafeteria for a bite of lunch. Oh, look. It’s Bar-B-Q on special today. Pick up the pace, people. The line’s already out into the hallway. Following our meal, I thought we’d swing by Unit 11 to observe some of our younger killers. Not one over the age of 12 in there. There’s one you just have to observe to believe. That ten year old took two of the family’s carving knives and…

Wait. Cherry pie with whipped cream for dessert. Mr. Rivers, grab one and then pass it down to me. They always run out by the time I get to the desserts. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. The killer children. On a warm and breezy summer day not long ago, the ten year old fruit loop in Room 1107 gets up before mommy, daddy, and sissy...”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY 1: ENOUGH

2010-09-23T20:40:00.008-04:00

This is my story for the first prompt of Flash Fiction Friday, and the prompt is a great one. We were supposed to use the following as the first sentence: 'Why aren't shoes ever abandoned in pairs?' The possibilities are endless. Make sure you check out the site and read every one of the stories. I most certainly plan to. I really enjoy seeing what different people do with the same phrase or prompt. No two are ever the same. So, without further ado, my little tale. Hope you enjoy.

ENOUGH

“Why aren’t shoes ever abandoned in pairs?”

When I said that out loud, I wasn’t so much asking with the hope of receiving an answer, as I was attempting to ease the tension on what was quickly promising to become yet another in a long line of depressing and disappointing investigations.

I’m a detective--homicide’s my specialty, and whatever the outcome of any of my cases, trust me, nobody wins. The thing is, there’s always a somebody who dies, always a mother or father who lose a child, always a grandma or grandpa brought to their knees in shame when they find out their grandbaby’s a killer. Oh yeah. It’s really rewarding work. Whichever way you look at it, it’s nothing but loss all the way around.

And tonight? I got sent out to the warehouse and dock district at 2 am because some good citizen, who chose to remain nameless and who had no legitimate reason for being down there in that hellhole anyway, stumbled upon a large pool of blood, and about 20 feet away, a woman’s red high heeled shoe. Just the one. In its heyday, it probably had some sparkle. I wondered if it’s owner had some too. Sparkle, that is.

Damn, I hate this one. I hate them all, but cases like this, I despise most of all. I’m going to walk around in a haze, wondering what kind of a woman wore that shoe and what was she doing down here and where is she now and why did she leave the one shoe behind for me to find. And she did leave it there for me to find. I’m sure of it. Well, I know why. To push me back to waking up staring at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, wondering where the fuck I was. It’s been four years, 8 months, 3 weeks, 6 days, and 13 hours, give or take. Just in case you were wondering.

“Boss? Hey, boss? You still with me?”

My partner. The next Dirty Harry Callahan? Not likely. The little hotshot believes he’s super cop. The way he pushes, he won’t live to see 30, but his mom will get his badge in a nice frame for her mantle. So there’s that.

So, there’s a whole lot of nothing to do now; just go home and wait for something. And dream of my mystery lady wearing her one red high heeled shoe. And wondering. Is she safe and warm tonight? Is she anything? Tonight?

*****

Her body washed up the next afternoon and got caught in the pilings by one of the piers. She still had the little tote bag fastened to her waste-band with a safety pin, and the red high heeled shoe’s mate was still tucked safely inside. I should have seen it. I should have known it belonged to Rosie. Old and worn, with a touch of light. Like her. Before.

I’d known Rosie for the past 10 or 15 from my very first beat. We all used to call her Nosey Rosie, because she was always where she shouldn’t have been, watching what she shouldn’t have been watching, taking what she shouldn’t have been taking… You get the picture. Once I made detective, and a few more bucks, I made sure I slipped her a twenty every Sunday night on the corner of Harris and Champlain to cover a roof for the week and some eats. Thing is, I was temporarily tapped yesterday, and figured I’d catch up with her Monday evening. Well, it’s Monday evening, and Rosie just got zipped up in a gray body bag. So much for the best laid plans…

The man surfaced about a hour after Rosie did--gutted like a fish. No doubt the owner of the entire blood pool. No ID, no fingerprints--no fingers, actually. Teeth still there though, so maybe we can get something from dental records; although, his didn’t appear to have enjoyed too many regular 6-month checkups. But, you never know. He was wearing a fairly decent looking suit when he was sliced and diced, so maybe someone might miss him and report it. Then, Adam 12 and I will find out who he was, which usually puts you on the road to resolution. But for some reason, I have my doubts about solving this one. It’s my gut again telling me not to get my hopes up. Years of slurping the hard stuff have messed it up something awful, but when it talks to me, it’s usually right.

Decided to begin the paper trail before Cap got his hooks in me. Our precinct captain was a by-the-book, dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’ kind of prick. Not that there’s anything really wrong with doing things right, you understand, but there are times when his attitude really gets in the way of good police work. Know what I mean? Anyhow, I get to the station and start grabbing some of the forms, when Himself summons me to his office.

It would appear there’s been some word from the top, whatever and whoever that is, that this case needs to be solved just as quickly as is humanly possible. Apparently, our gentleman, who had the misfortune of running into a descendant of Jack The Ripper, was of more importance than I had realized, fairly decent suit notwithstanding. I was informed that the large blood deposit had been 'removed' so as not to associate that area of town with his demise. Evidently, the techs were being 'advised' to confirm that he was 'violated' elsewhere, and dumped up river and just so happened to drift there.

Hmmm. The things people will do so as not to tarnish somebody’s reputation. I didn’t give a damn why he was there. All I gave a crap about was that he was murdered there and dumped like yesterday’s leftovers. There was somebody bigger than me though who did care if people knew he was there, so that’s the way it would be written up. For me, by the way--not by me. I was told I didn’t need to 'worry' myself about writing this one up. It was all being taken care of. I could just go home and look forward to the next callout at 2 am.

I asked my esteemed boss about Rosie and the shoe she lost. I mean, she was there where she obviously shouldn’t have been--again, and saw what she shouldn’t have seen, and paid for it with her life this time. I suggested maybe dusting the shoe for prints, DNA, something, and was told it had been sent to City with her body to be ‘disposed of’. There would definitely be no mention of Cozy Rosie…Nosey Rosie, I corrected him…whatever, he continued. No mention of her or that ridiculous shoe in the vicinity of this crime. That would just be adding way too much more drama to an already extremely stressful situation. ‘Extremely stressful situation’? What?

*****

Went to the corner diner and had a BLT and black coffee and waited until I saw my boss leave the building. I went back in and dropped my gun and badge on his desk. Made a stop on my way home and picked up a quart of one of my old friends. Just poured myself a shot.

Rosie had always said that I was one of the good guys, and she also said that I was smart enough to know when to tap out. Here’s to you, Rose. I sure as hell hope you were at least half right…

F-F-F #41 - SECOND CHANCE?

2010-09-06T23:05:00.003-04:00

What an intriguing starter sentence! Of course, they are ALL classic, aren't they? I was determined I was going to complete this one on time, and I'm back on track--I hope. Please enjoy.

SECOND CHANCE?

He walked in and slid the photograph across my desk. Can you believe it? I picked it up and what did I see? An ugly black dot of a pooch squatting on somebody’s ten grand lawn. I thought, this old dude is a nut job. You want to hire me to do what--and you want me to split what--and where’s your straight jacket, pops? You leave it in the taxi on your way in here?

Let me back peddle some right about here. Name’s Lenny. Lenny Worchovsky, and you’re…? Well. Anyhow, I’m a dick. Now, get your mind up out of that sewer. I’m a detective. That kind of dick. Private, mind you. I don’t serve the public. Only those who pay cash up front.

Fast forward. This old guy that I figure to be around 175 years old, strolls into my base like he knows what day of the week it is, drops a few bills on the desk, and offers me a proposition. This dwarf of a mongrel in the photo, he says, belongs to a rich fella who will pay a pretty penny to get it back in the event the furry thing should turn up missing. He wants to share this score with me since my legs still work.

Now, I’ve been known to take some gigs that were, shall we say, peculiar, but snatch a dog and hold it for ransom? Even I wouldn’t dip that low. But, you see, since cash fanned out in front of me in hundred dollar denominations works wonders on any ethical dilemmas I might be experiencing, I said I was in.

He had done the recon and knew when ‘it’ would be alone in the yard for a time. I’m to stuff it into a valise, drop a note, and later on, trade the valise for the cash. Then, meet up with my new ‘partner’ and split the take. I wondered what Rio was like this time of year.

I get back to the office with the mutt, and the first thing the geezer does is pull off its collar, remove the tracker on it, and drop it, still blinking, on my desk. Of course, the dog is wearing a tracking device, Lenny--you stupid chump. Then, the old man sucker punches me twice. Once, with the news that the animal is worthless--it’s the millions worth of diamond chips sewn inside his collar that he’s after. Apparently, the fleabag is a world traveler and new collars containing different treasures await him at his various destinations. The second punch came hard, and was over the head with the vase that once held roses I bought for my ex. I never refilled it once she bailed on me. Silly me.

So here I am now, in a phone booth, on the corner of Going-Nowhere Street and I’m-So-Fucked Boulevard. On the run, since somebody went through my office last night like a cyclone. Not one of my better decisions, taking on the old cuss, but you know? We all err, my friend, do we not? I sincerely appreciate your letting me spill here too, Mr….uh….dog guy, and if I may, I’d like to just conclude with a couple of points.

First, let me find the old man and return your diamonds to you. If you want to know the absolute truth, there’s a few issues my fists would like to discuss with both sides of his head. Last, and really not least, give a sap a break and don’t have me snuffed. Keep all the bling and stick me with the dog. Going into this whole mess blind like I did, I figure I deserve that.

Of course, I’ve found that carrying this minute dust ball around in my breast pocket is a real babe magnet. You know? Maybe we can both still come out of all this as winners. What do you think, Mr., didn’t catch the name, um, dog guy? Sir? Hello? Hello? You still there?

BACK IN THE SADDLE?

2010-09-06T22:01:00.002-04:00

Well, it has been forever it seems. The move to Tennessee actually went very smoothly. Chattanooga is incredible, and the view of the mountains from anywhere is breathtaking. The people are terrific and there's so much to see and do. Unfortunately, I've had to limit my daily walks to the mailbox and back. We no longer live behind a bike/jogging trail. The parking lots and roadways literally go straight up here, so it's an interesting challenge taking a stroll to retrieve the mail. But, it's still great fun, and we are all enjoying it here.

Getting back to writing, well, it's about time I did, don't you think? So many problems with the computer--new Internet provider--all kinds of glitches, but that all seems to be resolving itself over time. I've been working on my novel (the first in the series), and a story that started out as a flash piece, but I do believe it's going to run quite a bit longer. I have currently finished Friday Flash Fiction #41 and will be posting it here this evening. Feels good to actually complete something again. It's been one thing after another since we got here, but I think possibly life may be through messing with us for the time being, so I'm going to take advantage and get as much written as I can. Like I said, it feels good to be creating again. You don't really realize how much you miss it when you can't.

After I post this week's flash challenge, I'm going to get back to working on my next blog too. That one is going to be about the coolest of the cool members of the undead: the vampires, and how writers vary in their portrayals. Stay tuned because this one's going to be such fun to write and share. Later...

F-F-F #35 - So Close

2010-07-10T20:37:00.005-04:00

So long away--getting ready for the big move to Tennessee! Very excited about it, but much packing and planning to be done. Stepped away from the mountain of boxes long enough to write an entry for this week's Friday Flash Fiction. The starter sentence made me do it. I do hope you enjoy!

SO CLOSE

‘I don’t disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position.’

Damn. I hate when this happens. The best laid plans, and all that. You work things out right down to the smallest of details and along comes somebody who fucks it all to Hell. May I explain?

My name is Jake Ard…, um, Wardm…, oh, I forget. It was something like that this week anyway. I don’t really use the same name for too long because I wouldn’t want to begin to create any kind of a trail--paper or otherwise. The thing is, you see, I kill people. Not for fun or anything like that; although, over the years, I have run across a couple of fellas that did it just for the kick of it. That’s not for me though. I’m in it strictly for the monetary gain.

You know, I am really good at what I do and I make a good living, so what’s all the fuss. I don’t get any real pleasure out of it, but then, who literally loves their job anyway. But, I digress…

Let’s be very direct and to the point here. My current assignment (if you will) is to kill this guy who is a sort of entrepreneurial type, you know? He puts money into different businesses, makes a quick profit, pulls out his share and then some, and then moves on. Apparently, of late, he has been spreading a lot of money around and pulling in big returns using bucks that belonged to someone other than himself. Now, in and of itself, that’s not really a bad thing. However, in this case, he’s been doing it without the someone else’s knowledge or permission. Not a terribly healthy practice, if you want my unbiased opinion.

To cut to the chase, normally, I do not engage in random chit-chat with my…, uh…, ‘jobs’, but circumstances totally beyond my control, kind of like a Force Majeur, really fucked up the required stealth aspect of this particular task. All is well again, of course, but this guy started yapping about this, that and the other thing, and now, he’s trying to upset my proverbial applecart, if you get my drift.

This wouldn’t otherwise be an issue of any concern to myself, but this fella’s ‘this, that and the other thing’ are relative to my latest client. According to, let’s call him Dave (I like the name, Dave. My little brother’s name is Dave), I’ve been hired by a simpleton (you don’t often hear that term, do you) who claims to have a killer in his pocket. Evidently, the gentleman enjoys sharing his exploits and the like with anyone who possesses a functioning ear, and it had allegedly become known that a hit was on and that I was the individual contracted to perform same. Thus, Dave, it would appear, was kind of expecting me, which is why there was only minimal fuss when I took him.

He’s claiming to have made provisions of a sort so that in the event he should disappear or perhaps, be found already well on his way to the Pearly Gates, the law would immediately be drawn first to the employer we share, then ultimately to me, personally. Interesting? Yes. Fascinating. Really. But, it is also a tremendous annoyance to someone in my line. The question is, is he speaking the truth or could he possibly just be feigning the sincerity to stall for time, trying to play games with my inner sense of security and stability?

I guess we’ll never really know for sure. An assignment is an assignment, after all. I am intensely grateful, however, for Dave’s concern for my welfare and, after having given it some serious consideration, I decided to proceed. There actually have been those in the past who mistook my temp work as some type of long-term commitment to them and their cause. Naturally, it became necessary for me to resolve that discrepancy in their perception of my role, as it were--to quietly and discreetly ‘terminate‘ our relationship. Perhaps this new client of mine might require the same clarification down the road as well. Only time will tell.

In the interim, I sincerely thanked Dave for his input, and pointed out there weren’t many who would try to offer such insight--all things considered. When I delivered the headshot, I made sure it was right on the money--so to speak. After all, this was a real classy kind of guy, and classy kind of guys deserve only the best.

Penance!

2010-05-30T20:45:00.016-04:00

My latest story, Penance, is up at Dark Valentine. It's one of their Through a Lens Darkly flash challenges. Your story should be based, or focused on, a photo prompt. This one of a stone castle-type corridor was just too good for me to pass up. Hope you enjoy!
http://darkvalentine.net/index.php/2010/05/penance/

Needle Flash Fiction Challenge

2010-05-16T19:37:00.013-04:00

Here's my entry in the contest.

TILL DEATH...

I’m home, my sweet. Are you awake? I’m sorry to be so late, but I had some extra forms to take care of at work. I can make it up to you though. I brought a surprise for you. I’m getting it ready and I’ll bring it down with me. Can you guess what it is? No? Alright, I’ll tell you. It’s a vanilla shake with a touch of cinnamon. You love those. I’m putting it in a fresh IV bag for you. Now, once I hook this one up, it should provide quite a pleasant sensation, you think?

Oh my. The bulb’s flickering on the basement stairs again. I really have to remember to change that. I know how being in the dark frightens you. I do need to start turning off all the lights at night though so you can get some good rest. Besides, keeping the basement lights on all the time might attract some unwanted attention. You do remember, I’m sure, how nosy some of our neighbors can be.

Darling one, you sewed the button on my work shirt just as I had asked you. You are such a dear. I know it can be difficult, what with the pole, the IV needle and the restraints. But you do know they’re all necessary, don’t you, my love? I can’t have you wandering off again. It was such a terrible ordeal finding you this last time. You remember. You had run off with that handyman I hired, telling him such awful things about me. You even told some of the neighbors terrible stories about how I treated you.

One good thing did come out of all that though. Once those busybodies in our cove found out you took off with that nasty man, they felt ever so sorry for me. Why, the ladies brought me delicious casseroles and their husbands helped me to tend our yard. You know, our garden’s doing really well now too since I buried your boyfriend in it. At least he turned out to be good for something, huh? No one saw us arrive when I brought you back, so you’re completely safe down here. You won’t ever be bothered.

Say, how does that shake taste? Can you actually taste it, or do you just kind of feel it?

Oh, my pet, don’t you cry. I know you can’t answer me, but it’s alright. The sutures sealing your lips together are almost totally healed now. Now, don’t you start fussing again. You have to admit that I was within my rights when I stitched them in, what with you speaking so poorly of me to everyone you knew and met. That was really quite disrespectful, and you know how strongly I feel about not being respected.

Wow. It’s getting so late. Time certainly does fly when I’m with the love of my life. I’ll let the shake keep dripping for awhile. It’s almost totally melted now and should be flowing really smoothly. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to leave the lights on down here for, say, another half hour so you can see well enough to mend the cuff on my blue shirt. I was planning to wear that to work in the morning, but see how the cuff is beginning to fray? It is in desperate need of your magic touch. I’ll change that bulb on the stairs as well to give you a bit more light while you sew. I wouldn’t want you to have an accident with the needle. That would be very painful.

When I go up, I’m going to watch the news before bed. I won’t be back down tonight, so have loads of sweet dreams, love. Just always remember, my angel, what I told you on the day we first met. I said, from this moment forward, you will be mine. Only. Mine. For always.
Remember also, heart of my heart, when I said it,
I meant it.
Too.

F-F-F #31 - Killer Scent

2010-05-09T21:04:00.007-04:00

This is my contribution to F-F-F #31, and an interesting challenge it was. No starter sentences this time around. Instead there were five words to be used in the story. They are: batch, catch, latch, patch, and coriander. Well, here goes. Hope you enjoy!

KILLER SCENT

“Patch,” tell me the truth. You own stock in all the evil-smelling cologne companies on the planet, don’t ya?”

“I can’t help it if you can smell mosquito sweat from a mile away, Rich. Marie likes to buy me cologne, and even if it smells funky, I still have to wear it, you know?”

Yeah. I know. My old man had the same problem. My ma, God love her, was color-blind as all hell, but Pop wore every butt-ugly tie she ever bought. I’m so glad I’m a prick that ladies date only once.

I’m also a cop--a homicide detective if you want to get technical about it. Name’s Richard Demar--Rich, to those close. My partner’s Patch--well, Julius, really. Julius Swathby. Yeah. I know. I call him Patch cause he always wears jackets with patches sewn around the elbows. Believes it makes him look like a sophisticate.

It doesn’t.

One last bit about me. I was blessed/cursed with the sense of smell from Hell. Not bad enough to cripple me and like, force me to live in a bubble, but there are certain places I will not go. Some smells would just send me fucking screaming into the night. Why don’t I just leave what those are to your imagination.

Anywho, we’ve just caught a case; young woman butchered in her apartment. Butchered? That’s candy-coating it. Place settings for a cozy dinner for two (eaten), a batch of freshly baked cookies on a silver platter (untouched), and wall-to-wall blood spatter.

Leftovers and dessert were still warm when we arrived. Neighbor heard a man shouting, a woman screaming, and dialed 911. Guy did a runner out her patio. Broke the latch off her glass door and went where? Had to be drenched in her blood. So. To the highway in front or to the field in back? Either way, he was a ghost. But, I’m gonna catch this spook cause I know who he is.

Nobody but Patch would understand, so he’s the only one I tell. My proof is bizarre at best, so we take the roundabout. We fill every street snitch with our killer’s name, plans to collar him, and that we just need a little more to nail him. Big man’s in too deep financially with his business ventures to risk even the hint of arrest. Wouldn’t hesitate to take out a couple of dicks either, so we set ourselves up as targets and wait for the hit. Patch isn’t sure this is the way to go, but I tell him to trust me. He does.

Late last night, Patch and me are clanging around in the alley behind one of the man’s strip joints. Noisy, so he’d know just where to find us. Nothing going down, so we decided to lay low for awhile. We passed a stack of crates, and I immediately pulled my pistol, turned and fired into the stack. What should tumble out but our killer, gun in hand, ready to deliver a couple of headshots to me and the Patchmaster. I thought my partner was going to pee himself then and there.

“I know how you knew he killed our vic, but how did you know he was back there?”

“The smell, my friend,” I explained, “the coriander.”

It’s a well-known fact that this piece of garbage topped off everything he ate with coriander leaves. Just to make sure they were always handy, he carried a baggie full of them in his pocket. I had seen some of those leaves in one of the bowls at the murder scene and that’s when I knew. I registered the smell, and in the alley, I picked it up right after I passed the stack of boxes. It was way too close for comfort, so I turned and fired. Righteous kill, by the way. Total self-defense.

Notes were found later in one of his offices documenting that our vic wanted to be more than a good time and was going to make trouble if he refused. Not smart to try to blackmail the Devil himself. But still. She deserved better than what she got. Maybe now, the kid can rest in peace.

And me? Patch’s wife just bought him a new bottle of cologne. Maybe I should just start taking the bus to work. Well, maybe not the bus…

Flash Fiction Challenge!

2010-05-07T11:39:00.019-04:00

Here's the scoop on a truly SHARP event: Needle's first flash contest. You've got until May 18th, so there's plenty of time.

Your story must include a needle. Any kind, any size, any shape--you get the POINT. This is way too cool to pass up. Make sure you keep an EYE out for the entries!

http://needlemag.wordpress.com/2010/05/06/needles-first-flash-fiction-challenge/

A Necessary Reprimand

2010-05-05T17:42:00.005-04:00

A strange little tale about quality of life and an odd sense of justice. Hope you enjoy.

A NECESSARY REPRIMAND

Maria wiped the tear from her eye. Spending time locked up in a jail cell was the last activity she had ever envisioned for herself. She was not bad, and had never hurt anyone. She just didn't understand why it had to be this way. She knew she had broken the rules, but she had been careful this time. She had always been very careful. She hadn't been seen or caught the first two times she crossed the border, and hadn't been seen or caught this time either--at least, not by the residents of the Forbidden Zone. This time, she had been betrayed by her own.

"This kind of behavior cannot be tolerated," the Mayor had said. "If we overlook your blatant disregard for the law, others will follow suit and bring destruction unto us all. You have already been warned twice and yet, it is as if you care nothing for the lives of your family, friends, and the rest us who depend on our anonymity for survival in this harsh, new world."

"Please, Mr. Mayor, everyone, please try to understand why I did what I did. I know it is dangerous, but you have to believe I would never do anything to put the rest of you in any jeopardy. I asked the children who were on the swings in the playground not to say anything when they saw me approaching the border. I told them I was going to bring back wondrous things for us all to eat, but they reported me just the same. I wanted to help our town, not hurt it.

You've never seen what they have on the other side, but I have. There are fruits and vegetables, and juices and milk, and pastries and cheeses, all fresh and all sitting out just ripe for the taking. What do we have available here to feed our families, friends and children? That colorless, tasteless rubbish on the shelves in our grocery store? And, what of our bakery and our candy shop? I just wish you could see all that is theirs."

Their response had certainly not been what she anticipated. She knew the Council would be angry, but they had no right to imprison her as if she were a criminal. She knew they were deciding on her sentence and would be coming for her soon. This was all so confusing. Why was this happening to her?

The guards unlocked her cell and took her out to the center of town, where the Mayor and the rest of the townspeople were waiting.

"Maria?" the Mayor began, "you have been found guilty of the violation of crossing our border and entering the Forbidden Zone. Three times you have disregarded our warnings, and run the risk of being seen and captured, which would have resulted in the death of us all. The members of the Council and I have decided upon your sentence, and it is to be imposed immediately."

* * * * * * * *

Janie ran into her room and made a beeline immediately for the area on the side of her bed where she had set up the birthday present she had received just the day before. As soon as her mind registered what she was seeing, she put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. This is too horrible, she thought, my poor sweet dear, Maria. She reached down and untied the shoelace that had been tied tightly around her favorite lady doll's neck and wound around a hastily constructed gallows fashioned from some of the storefront's beams in the doll village. She also undid the twist-tie that had been used to secure the doll's hands together behind her back. The child had placed one of her shoelaces in the hands of two of her little girl dolls so they could play jump rope in the playground. The twist tie had been added to function as a leash so the little boy doll could walk his dog around the town square. All at once, Janie felt like she couldn't breathe and knew just who had to be responsible for this abomination. She called out to her brother in the hallway.

"Billy, I told you not to mess with my doll village. I'm telling Mommy and Daddy what you did!"

She began to cry. Billy knelt down beside his little sister and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Sis, really, I didn't. Don't cry. Please. I wouldn't do something awful like that. Really. Truly. I'm going to go and play with my soldiers now, and you can come in my room and play with any of my toys if you want to. Okay?"

Billy got up and started back to his own room. When he turned and displayed a small smile, Janie saw in his eyes that he was telling the truth.

"Well," Janie sniffled, "if you didn't do this, then who did? I suppose her friends in my doll town did this to her?"

Billy couldn't help but laugh at that, and Janie felt a giggle of her own beginning. Her friends. Right.

Janie bent down and got very close to all the small figures arranged in a semi-circle around the gallows that had been set up in the town square.

"Did you do this to Maria?" she whispered, cheerful now, despite being as upset as she had been a moment earlier. "So, which one of you was it? Now, speak up."

She placed her ear close to the mouths of all the dolls in the group, but none answered. They dared not. They knew the cost.

F-F-F #30 - Be Careful

2010-05-01T23:53:00.009-04:00

Here's my contribution to Friday Flash Fiction. I couldn't let these two super sentences go to waste. Hope you enjoy!

BE CAREFUL

“I know what I saw and years of anti-psychotics and group therapies couldn’t convince me otherwise. You have to believe me, Ethan. I know everybody around here thinks I’m the loony in 4B, but I do take my meds for my depression, and I’m not crazy.”

Marissa’s eyes filled with tears. The pained look on her neighbor’s face made her feel ashamed she had run across the hall and pounded on his door in the middle of the night. A second glance, however, revealed that she was squeezing his hand so hard it was turning a deep shade of purple. She quickly released her grip.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Ethan. I’m just so upset. It’s not every day you see someone getting killed.”

Ethan massaged his hand to try to get some of the feeling back.

“Marissa,” he said quietly, “nobody think you’re crazy, least of all, me. We all have problems, you know, but yours just happen to be rather public. I mean, your parents being killed in that accident because the train signal failed, then the train jumps the track, the lawsuit and the trial--why, the media was all over it. You know how those people are. The more gruesome a story is, the more coverage it gets. Your moving here could have provided you with some peace, but everyone had already seen you on those court television shows. I’ll tell you, your public breakdown was quite understandable and actually predictable.”

Marissa now knew she had made the right decision to tell Ethan what she had seen. She hadn’t known him for long, but he was so calm and self-assured, he made her feel so safe. Yes, he could be trusted. He would let her know what she should do.

“Tell me again now, slowly,” he began, “exactly what it is that you saw.” Ethan got up and put the kettle on. Something hot and soothing was definitely what she needed.

“Alright,” Marissa took a deep breath and continued, “I had finished my dinner, took my medicine and decided to lay down for a bit. When I woke up, I realized I had fallen sound asleep and it was after 11, so I decided I’d have a cup of coffee and go to bed. I didn’t need the kitchen lights on because of all the streetlights and traffic and all. I was pulling the curtains closed by the window above the sink when I noticed something odd across the way. You know those new apartments across the street with the big picture windows in the living rooms?

Well, a light was on in the one directly across from me on the 3rd floor and I saw this woman backing up in the room, holding her hands up. All of a sudden, a man came into view--I couldn’t see his face--but he grabbed her around the neck with his left hand, picked up a lamp with his right, and began to hit her on the head with it over and over, then it all went dark. It was so horrible. I just can’t seem to get that picture out of my head. I wanted to ask somebody what to do and I knew you’d be able to advise me. I know I should call the police, but like I said, I never saw his face, but there was one thing. When he held the lamp up right before he hit her, I saw a bright silver ring on his finger. The light caught it and it flashed so brightly, I could see it all the way over here. It had a really strange shape, like a long, narrow diamond shape. I will never forget that image. But what good would that do the police?”

“A silver ring? Really?” Ethan began. “I’ll bet that would help the police find the killer. An unusual piece of jewelry like that? They could probably check around and find the jeweler that sold or made it and be able to identify the purchaser. Oh, look, the coffee’s ready. Let’s have a cup and then you can call the police. I’ll stay here with you when you call if you’d like.”

Marissa was feeling so much better. This young man’s moving in across the hall was a real Godsend. The coffee smelled fantastic and the company was charming. She’d be able to get through this ordeal in one piece after all. She looked at the coffee Ethan set down in front of her and smiled. He’d added the perfect amount of her favorite creamer and it looked so warm and somehow comforting.

She had finished about half her cup when the began to feel as if something wasn’t quite right.

“Ethan,” she was already slurring her words,” is it me, or does this coffee taste weir…”

The cup slipped from her hand and Ethan caught it before it hit the floor.

“’Weird’? Is that what you were going to ask? Does the coffee taste weird? Truth is, mine was just great. Yours may have seemed a bit off since I spiced it up quite a bit with some of that bottled Prozac you’ve got on the counter. Nice of your doctor to prescribe it like that for you since you can’t swallow pills. Handy, really.”

Ethan began washing the cups and straightening up the kitchen.

“No sense confusing the authorities with extraneous details. The simplest explanation is always the best. You’ve been very depressed of late, and tonight while you were alone, you accidentally took way too much of your medicine. Overdoses are so tragic.”

Marissa was having great difficulty breathing and it was getting harder to keep her eyes open. She looked up at the young man she thought she knew--thought she could trust--and wondered why.

Once all traces of his being there had been wiped clean, on his way out, he decided to explain.

“I had to off that bitch. Just because I got tired of fucking her, she decided she was going to tell her old man I had been helping myself to his investment money. She needed to be silenced, like, permanently. Oh, and the ring you saw? She had that made special for me. It’s supposed to be some kind of Egyptian symbol or something, and was very expensive and one of a kind. One call to the right jeweler and…, well, all I can say is, you should have just closed your curtains and gone to bed.”

He took one last look, and Marissa’s eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow and strained. It should be over by the time he got back to his apartment. The ring should be done soaking in that solution too, he thought, and no more blood should be visible. He looked forward to putting it back on now that he was free to wear it in public. The dumb bitch did have good taste in jewelry, at least. He made sure Marissa’s door was securely locked when he left. These days, one just couldn’t be too careful.

A Real Friend

2010-04-26T22:19:00.005-04:00

Here's my entry into Jason Duke's writing contest. Hope you enjoy.

A REAL FRIEND - by J. F. Juzwik

Well, hello. Do you mind if I sit? Have you seen the Crosstown go by yet? I believe it’s the #7. They keep changing the bus routes and numbers on them all the time, and it gets me mixed up sometimes, don’t you know. You too? It’s the times though, don’t you think? The times are so crazy. Can’t even leave the buses alone.

Donut hole? Go ahead. Help yourself. I always buy a box full at Dinah’s Bakery when I’m out this way and if you don’t take some, why, I’ll just end up eating them all up by myself. Now, that wouldn’t be a good thing, would it. Some are glazed and some have sprinkles. Sure. Take a couple of each.

You’re out here visiting your uncle? I see. That’s hard when it’s family. He’s in for writing some bad checks? Oh, well, that’s not too bad. He should probably be coming home to you soon enough. I’m up here to the prison visiting my very bestest friend in the whole world. See, he’s locked up in that death row part because he got himself convicted of several murders in the very first degree. They’re going to do that executing thing in a couple of days and this was the last day he could be visited. They’ll be taking him to a special place down the hall where he’ll be waiting out his final hours. I won’t be there to see them do it to him. I don’t believe I could watch something like that. He’s in there still whining and crying; just like he’s been doing all his life. He never was able to move himself away from that.

You know, I’ve been knowing Jimbo since the very first grade. That’s his name, in case I forgot to mention it. Jimbo McCullough is actually his given name. Well, I do believe it may have been something else McCullough, but Jimbo is what we all ended up calling him. Anyway, Jimbo and me got to be the very bestest friends right from the first day. He was always on the small side, you know, and some of the bigger boys in the bigger grades commenced to picking on him and trying to take his little bit of lunch and snack money. Well, the teacher, she wasn’t paying him any attention at all, so I came upon the scene and told them they’d better stop bothering my friend or else they were going to have some hell to pay. They started laughing and thinking it was all a big joke, but they went away just the same. After school on that very first day, one of those bigger boys got runned over by a car on the highway. Didn’t anybody know how he got over to the highway all by himself either. One good thing did come out of it though. The rest of that bunch didn’t do too much laughing after that for quite some while. Not at anybody.

Jimbo and I were in all the same grades though elementary, middle, junior high and high school. Funny, huh? We always made sure we sat in the same row too, if we could. Those were great days, don’t you know. Well, great days, except for when my friend would be getting picked on and all. All through those times, he stayed kinda small and I’m not sure why they do it, but some folks just seem to try to go out of their way to pick on the smaller ones. You take Jeremiah Copperling. He went all through school with the both of us. Well, at least up until the end of the fifth grade. He had the same teachers and learned the same lessons as us, but the older he got, the stupider he got. It was as if every year that he grew bigger, his brain got emptier. He didn’t know to do anything except to pick on those smaller than him.

He sure was big in those days. I seem to remember one day right in the fifth grade. We were all out running around outside on the playground, you know how kids do, and here comes Jeremiah Copperling, clomping out of the school building out to where us kids were running around. I believe he had been called in to the Principal’s office again for doing something or another. Anyway, he comes out to the playground, and all you had to do was take one good look on that face of his to know that he was looking for trouble and wasn’t going to quit until he found some. He found a group of smaller ones, probably like third or fourth grade maybe, and started kicking mud all over them and pushing and shoving them around. Nobody out there did anything about it, not even the teachers, who mostly just looked the other way. Probably thought he’d kick mud on them and push them around as well.

Jeremiah wasn’t through though, because he came right over to where Jimbo and me were looking over some comics we had bought at the five and dime the Saturday before and Jeremiah just walked over and spit right on them. Yes, that’s what I did say. He just walked up and spit right on our brand new comic books that we had spent our allowance on. Then he started laughing and kicked some mud on both of us and just walked away to go and bother another group of small ones.

Nobody missed Jeremiah the following year when he didn’t show up for sixth grade though. Word went around that he was in one of those house-type hospitals where the patients are living and all, but just pretty much lay around and drool their days away. Some kind of accident, folks said. He was big and clumsy and he fell off of something. Nobody saw him fall sure enough, so the account of it never was very clear.

Jeremiah wasn’t the only one, you see. There was a whole group of them that picked on Jimbo. But, you know, it wasn’t just at the school. They ran together like a pack of something or other and if they saw him out front of his house, they’d pick on him. If they saw him coming out of the five and dime, they’d pick on him. If they saw him going into the grocer’s, they pick on him. It was like they had nothing better to do with their days but to make his life miserable. Things did get just a bit better by the time we graduated from high school though because most of them weren’t around anymore. They were a right dim bunch, probably ought to have been carrying some rabbits’ feet or some such thing. Good luck didn’t really follow these fellows too close, if you know what I mean.

Take Jerry Fuller for a real good sample. He was trucking down Highway 7 going South, and really had the pedal to the metal like he always did. Problem was, when he tried to slow down for that curve out by Aggie’s Bend, you know that one?, his brakes didn’t hold and he just went sailing out over the bluff and right down into Jake Corrigan’s field. His car had flipped a couple times before it landed, and when it did, it caught fire and exploded. Folks were saying that was odd, because the car shouldn’t have caught fire that quick and burned to a crisp like it did, but you know? You never can tell about those things. How would anybody know what a car would or wouldn’t do in that situation. Jerry’s mama was real upset at the funeral because the casket had to be kept shut and she kept telling everybody how she had found out Jerry was alive when the car caught fire and she couldn’t understand why he didn’t get out of it before it exploded. I guess we won’t ever know the answer to that one.

When Jimbo and me finished our school days, we decided to head to the city to get our jobs and make our livings. We both got good jobs working for this medical type place where we pick up and deliver stuff to doctors’ offices and the like. We both had our driving licenses by that time and even though we drove different vans, there were many days when we would meet up and have some burgers and beers together. Weren’t supposed to be having beers of course while we were driving, but nobody ever knew because we made our deliveries and pickups on time. Some days though, Jimbo didn’t make it until late so he only had time for the beer and had to take his burger to go. He never did say where he had been or why he was late, but I never asked either. He was my very bestest friend and you don’t question your very bestest friend. Not ever.

Things were going so good for both of us by then. We had already got us a big place that we shared the bills on. But, you know what? Just when you think things are going to start leveling off for you and maybe have smoother times, those old bad pennies start showing up. Mama used to tell me all the time that you just can’t rid yourself of a bad penny. You can throw it away again and again, but eventually, it’s going to turn up in your pocket. I would ask her, then, how do you rid yourself of a bad penny when it keeps following you wherever you go. She said, you got to bury it, know what I mean? Bury it. Then, it can‘t come back. I knew what she meant and I told Jimbo what she said, and I knew it deep down in my heart that he knew what she meant too.

We were having burgers and beer at lunch during one of our delivery routes, on a Tuesday I believe it was, and who did actually come into the diner where we were eating, but Thomas Krantz and Willie Hoover. Now, I don’t know if those names ring any bells for you, but it sure did chime a dark tune for Jimbo and me. Thomas Krantz and Willie Hoover had went to high school with us and never did anything all during that whole time but bother Jimbo and me. Now, with me, they’d push me in the hallway up against the lockers and such and sometimes spit on my books, but Jimbo? They would get much more rougher with him.

They’d wait for him outside the buildings when we had to go to our different classes, and they would toss his books around on the grass and jump up and down on them, and then push him down and jump up and down on him too. He’d come into the class all bloody and snotty--you know, from crying and all--and the teacher would get so mad at him. Can you believe it? The teacher would get mad at Jimbo and never said one thing to Thomas Krantz or Willie Hoover, who were actually in the same class. They would come in after him and just sit down like nothing at all had been happening and like they were as sweet and fresh as one of mama’s apple pies.

They did see us when they came walking into the diner, and what do you think they did? Why, they just walked over, right in front of everybody and they took Jimbo’s beer and poured it all over his delivery and pickup uniform and dropped his burger on the floor and stepped on it. Just like the teacher in the class too, nobody did anything or even said anything. They just started laughing and walked out. Didn’t order not one thing. It was like they just came over to that part of town into that diner just to ruin Jimbo’s lunch and then go back to wherever it was that they came from. Jimbo started whining and crying, again, as was his custom of doing, and went back to the house to change into a clean uniform and go back to work. That night, we didn’t even speak of it at all.

I have to admit to you that I didn’t feel too badly when I read in the newspaper not too long after that somebody had found their bodies in an alley across town. They were both cut up pretty bad, only the cutting isn’t what they died from. Paper said they were both just cut a lot to where they couldn’t move too well and then they both just laid there and bleeded to death. Took awhile too. Can’t say I was bothered much by that either.

When Jimbo and I next talked, it was at our house that we shared the bills on. He asked if I had seen that in the paper about those two old boys and I told him I did see it. He laughed about it, and I have to tell you, that was a good thing. Jimbo didn’t laugh too much really and it was nice to see him in good spirits for a change.

Life can be a bitter pill to swallow some days--my mama used to say that too sometimes. You’ll never guess who turned up at one of my delivery and pickup doctors’ offices--I believe that was a Monday if I recall correctly. It was one of Jimbo’s and my old teachers from middle school. I remember she was one of the nastiest people I had ever known in my life back then, and it was interesting for real that she was still just as nasty looking. She seen me and remembered me from middle school and started calling me stupid and saying why was I there and why wasn’t I in jail or dead in a field or something. Now, what kind of a way is that to talk to a person? She didn’t have a job in the doctor’s office, but she was one of the sick people waiting to see the doctor. If I had been that doctor, I would not get within ten feet of that dirty old witch, but since I was only the delivery and pickup person, I just put some containers down and took some other ones and left. When I got home at the end of the day though, I told Jimbo all about it. I told him where I saw her and how she acted and all. He got real upset and we didn’t talk about it anymore, and I was glad.

I never did see her ugly face again when I went to deliver and pickup at that doctor’s office. There was a little writeup in the paper awhile after though about her body being found inside her house, which wasn’t all that far from our house that we shared the bills on. She had lots of cords wrapped around her neck and her hands and feet and she was all swelled up and stuff. The paper said she didn’t die easy and that was alright with me. Jimbo laughed about her when I showed him that and I did too. Those were the good times. Yes, they were.

On the day when the police came knocking, now, that was the start of the bad times. I don’t ever remember seeing Jimbo whine and cry that much over anything. They under arrested him for killing some people. They said he killed Thomas Krantz and Willie Hoover. They had a whole list. On the list was old Mrs. Trousdale (the nasty, dirty old teacher I had run into at the doctor‘s office), and then they had some names from our school days, like Jeremiah Copperling and Jerry Fuller too. The other names were some of those boys that used to bother Jimbo and they had all been killed and there was evidence on hand, they said, that made them know that Jimbo had done all the killings.

Well, they did handcuff him and take him out, crying and whining, but you knew that, didn’t you? When they did his trial, he went through boxes of tissues and you should have seen him when they said they were going to do the executing thing to him. He just about fell over, but I suppose anybody would have done that under the same situation. Then they locked him up in the death row part so he could do his waiting, and now his waiting is almost over. I’ve been coming up to the prison to visit him ever since and do you know, that he has never grown up. He has never even tried to. He keeps whining and crying about all of this and this time, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to set him straight once and for all.

I let him know that today was going to have to be the last time I would be let in to see him since his executing would be coming soon and I said this is going to be your last chance to act like a man. I told him that I hoped he knew just how lucky he has been during his whole life because he had me with him all during it. Not very many people are so lucky as him to have a friend like me--I mean, a real friend. One who will do things to help you get grown and so you can stand up straight and tall and hold your head up. Well, I did those kinds of things for Jimbo--things that would make people look up to him and be afeared of him so he could stop all his whining and crying, and did he appreciate it? Not one little bit.

Here, I killed all them for him--I ‘buried’ all those bad pennies mama talked about and left something of Jimbo’s there so the police would know it was him who had done them all. Then, you see, people wouldn’t pick on him any more because they’d know they’d end up dead if they did. I looked him right in his eyes and told him when he was on his way to meet his maker, he should square his shoulders back and lay nice and straight and tall on that table when they stick him and be proud because nobody believed he was a pussy anymore. I did that. I did that for him. Because I was always his very bestest friend. A real friend.

Oh, I see the #7 coming. I need to get my fare out. The driver doesn’t like it when you start digging in your pockets after you get on. He likes the fare put in right away. You can keep the rest of those donut holes if you like. I shouldn’t take them with me because from here I’m going to visit my new bestest friend, Tyler. Tyler Johanson. Can’t bring sweets into his house, you see, all because of his missus. She won’t tolerate sweets in the house, or strong drink either. Truly, she doesn’t tolerate much of anything being brought into the house. Tyler having people over either. Now, my friend, Tyler, he generally lets her have her way about most things. He says it’s easier on him if he doesn’t create a fuss with her. But I’m helping him with that because I’m his very bestest friend. Really.

Robert Jackson Bennett's Debut Novel!

2010-04-25T19:11:00.004-04:00

I just finished Mr. Bennett's debut novel, Mr. Shivers. This is described on the cover as an 'extraordinary debut' and I totally agree with this assessment. This is an excellent exploration of the human mind and heart when people are driven by an intense and deep sense of loss. It is a gritty and extremely realistic look into the daily lives of those who ride the rails and make migrant labor camps their home. It is a dark and dangerous world that most of us, thankfully, never see, but the author has given us a deep look inside from a safe vantagepoint. There is quite a mystical quality about the story, but it is relevent and quite appropriate. It's ending, while uplifting and full of hope, is also full of more despair than one can imagine. Anyone who has seen the movie Pumpkinhead and is familiar with its tragic ending, will understand that I mean. This is a moving story and the characters will touch you. Looking forward to more from Mr. Bennett. He certainly knows how to tell a tale.

Jason Duke's Writing Contest!

2010-04-18T17:01:00.037-04:00

UPDATE: Jason graciously clarified deadlines for his contest regarding entry and posting. Stories can be posted anytime--whenever they're finished and the contest will be closed to entries on May 14, 2010. Thanks, Jason!

Jason Duke is sponsoring a writing contest, and for prizes, we're talking money, honey. The winner will get $100 and the runner-up will get $50. Deets follow, from the man himself:

'It's nice to get published, it's better to get paid. As writers, we know this all too well. My 15 minute claim to fame was an adventure for Dungeon Magazine that netted $100 bucks. I've been paid for other stories over the years, ten dollars here, twenty dollars there, but those are few and far between.

So why is it so fucking hard to get paid? I'm not the greatest writer. I'm good enough to get paid, but not the greatest. There are a lot of better writers out there, yet we're all in the same boat. Why? I think because there are so few paying magazines.

Which makes sense.

In the crime fiction circle, it seems books are even a hard sell nowadays. I hear firsthand from authors how hard they work to get word out about their books in the hopes of selling copies, authors like Anthony Neil Smith, Eric Beetner, Seth Harwood, Megan Abbott, Tim Maleeny, Nick Quantrill, the list goes on.

If books are a hard sell, then probably crime magazines too, right? Especially paying magazines. Sometimes, I wonder how publishers and magazines manage to stay afloat, because not all of them stay afloat, a lot of them sink. My hat's off to the ones that survive. Without them, no one would have a shot at getting paid.

Which brings me back to my point: it's nice to get published, it's better to get paid. There are a lot of great crime magazines available right now, mostly online, and some more prestigious than others, where writers like myself can get published, just not paid. Exposure is great, don't get me wrong. With everyone struggling to climb the same pay ladders, not everyone is going to make it, and exposure helps our ascent.

So what I offer is a shot at getting paid. Not just a token amount, either, at least I don't think so. I believe in karma. I believe in altruism. I consider myself a generous person. I try to be. If I have the cash, and life is good, I believe in spreading the wealth.

Every time I log on to Facebook, or read your blogs, or read magazines like Spinetingler, Thuglit, Plots With Guns, Darkest Before the Dawn, A Twist of Noir, I see this great community of fellow crime writers, all struggling to climb that ladder, all deserving to get paid.

A community looks out for each other, helps each other, encourages the other to aspire to something greater, to reach for and change the stars.

We all play our part in some way.

That is why I've decided to throw down some scratch for a crime fiction contest. The winner gets paid $50. The runner-up gets paid $25.

You know what?

Fuck that.

The winner gets paid $100 and the runner-up gets paid $50 bucks.

Call the contest whatever you want. I don't give a shit what it's called, but if someone comes up with something really catchy we'll run with it.

Everyone has a month to get their stories in. I think it goes without saying, only submit your best. We'll handle entries the same as other contests such as Daniel B. O'Shea's “Let Us Prey” fiction challenge, the “Recession” fiction challenge over on Do Some Damage, or the various contests hosted on A Twist of Noir. In other words, post your stories on your blogs, on A Twist of Noir, Darkest Before the Dawn, anywhere on the internet, email me the link at dm_jasonduke@hotmail.com, and we'll link them for the judges at Paul David Brazill's blog You Would Say That, Wouldn't You:

That's right, we have judges.

Excellent, qualified judges who know their shit. In the line-up are Aldo Calcagno, John McFetridge, Steve Weddle, and Stacia J.N. Decker.(Yes, that Stacia Decker.) They have very generously donated their time to read the entries and select two stories each. From those eight stories, David Hale Smith (Yeah, that David Hale Smith) has also generously donated his time to narrow the selection to four - two winners, and two runner-ups. From those four picks, I'll decide the winner and the runner-up. Yeah, I know I'm not as qualified or know my shit nearly as much as Aldo, John, Steve, Stacia, and David, but it's my fucking money, so ha.

Crime fiction only. It's broad, can mean a lot of different things, leaving it wide open, so if you ask me to explain what we're looking for I'm gonna put you in a fucking chokehold. Word limit on stories 2,000-3,500 words. I don't want them too short, but still quick for the judges to read.

The judges will have another month to narrow their selections. We will post the announcements on Paul's blog. Then I'll announce the winner and runner-up. Payment will be through paypal, money order, direct deposit, cash, however the fuck the winners choose to get paid. The winner and runner-up will also get published in Crimefactory, with a big thanks to the Crimefactory crew Keith Rawson, Cameron Ashley, and Liam Jose.

So what the fuck are you waiting for?

Get to it.'

I'm including links to a couple of Jason's tales right here for you. Let their darkness take your hand and pull you in. His stories will do that to you. Oh yeah. The man can write.

First, we have Midnight Hellride on Plots With Guns.
http://www.plotswithguns.com/8duke.htm

Second, we have Route Cobra on House of Horror.
http://www.houseofhorror.org.uk/#/route-cobra/4539822747

I apologize. The links refuse to go on as actual links. I'll work on those. For now, please copy and paste. Oh come on. So you need to exert a little bit of effort. I never promised you a free ride, did I?

Come And Get Some Noir! I Mean Philip, of course...

2010-04-16T14:43:00.010-04:00

Noir, A Novel
Robert Coover
Overlook Duckworth, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
2010
$24.95 (US)

Had you going there for a second, didn't I? Well, when you read this book about Philip Noir, you really are going to get a hefty dose of literary type noir in the process. Let's take a closer look.

Philip Noir is a private investigator. Using the word 'sleaze' to describe him is the understatement of the millenium, but he's a hell of a compelling character. He smokes, he drinks, he spends an inordinate amount of time in the city morgue, he hangs with the lowest of the low, he sleeps on his office sofa or in rain-soaked gutters, he is a proud, and self-proclaimed, lecher, and an incredibly intuitive and competent investigator.

Out of nowhere, a mysterious woman, her face hidden behind a black veil, pays him a visit and hires him to investigate the death of her husband. She informs him his death was ruled a suicide, but she believes he was murdered, and that her life is also in danger. She provides him with a name on a piece of paper, a generous retainer and disappears into the night. He doesn't know her name, where she lives, or even her deceased husband's name, but is seduced by the dark and sinister feel of it all and takes it on. She meets with him in odd places at odd times--nothing pre-arranged--and continues to provide bizarre pieces of information about herself and her family, which only serves to confuse Noir further and propel him into more dangerous, and life-threatening situations. The lady ends up being murdered, and her body disappears. Then, the bodies of his friends and acquaintances start piling up--including the morgue attendant, all killed, of course, with his gun. Now, the cops are after him, he's not sure who can be trusted, and where the hell is the lady's corpse? He can't turn himself in and explain because what is there to explain? He doesn't know the lady's name, there's no body in the morgue, no record of her having been there in the first place, no witnesses to back up his claims of beatings he's received... His waking up with a headache in various gutters in the city is not exactly a novel occurrence. So, what is going on and where does he go from there? Guess what? I'll never tell! Go read the book!

Not trying to be mean here. Seriously, go read the book. It is SO amazing. One thing I do need to point out here though. When I first began to read this one, I got through maybe a chapter and a half and I put it down. I actually put it down for a couple of days because it put me off--annoyed me, really. Now, that was not because of the story or the quality of the writing or anything. It was because of the POV. This book is written entirely in second person POV, and if you aren't used to that, it can put you off, initially anyway. But the story begins in such a compelling way and draws you in from the start, so give it a chance. I picked it up again a couple of days later and sat down and read the whole thing in a little over a day. I couldn't put it down and didn't want to that time. You have to give it a shot.

Second person seems hard to follow at first, but you'll notice as you get further into it, that it doesn't stand out anymore and you don't focus on it. You end up feeling like the character has grabbed you by the hand and is leading you through the story and allowing you to see and experience everything he is the second he sees and experiences it. It's hard to explain, but take my word for it. If at first it puts you off, put it down for awhile, then go back and pick it up again and keep reading. You'll be so glad you did.

From the author himself, Robert Coover, in an interview about Noir: "The second person resonates with such familiar film noir techniques as the subjective camera, voice-over monologues, cities that speak to you, the mirrored double ('you talkin' to me?'), and it helps make the reader complicit in Noir's quest."

You sure got that right, Mr. Coover, it does indeed.

Forensics in your crime story? Better know your stuff!

2010-04-15T16:10:00.004-04:00

Even though we may be writing a work of crime fiction, any elements of it that have links to reality must be correctly presented. For instance, if you are referencing an intersection of two streets in downtown Seattle, you'd better make certain, not only that those two streets exist in downtown Seattle, but also that they do, in fact, intersect at some point. The necessity of realism doesn't only apply to location however. It applies to the use of any non-fictional material, especially in the area of forensic science.

Any work of crime fiction is going to incorporate some reference to evidence, clues, forensics, however you want to term it. Before you begin including or explaining any of these, make sure you have done extensive research on the subject. There are countless resources out there on the subject, but I recently finished reading an excellent one. Don't let the title fool you. It doesn't try to sensationalize any of the cases or be overly dramatic in any of the areas. It simply explains different areas of forensic science and the various procedures and protocols that go along with them. Real life is not like an episode of Law and Order. Perpetrators are not identified, apprehended, indicted, tried and convicted in an hour. While there are some cases that are solved in a relatively short period of time, depending on circumstances, there are those that remain insolved for decades, and also those that will probably remain so indefinitely. The collection and processing of the various types of evidence is a painstaking process and is handled by a group of very well educated and highly trained individuals. The book I just read even introduces you to a few of those. The book is entitled Jumped, Fell or Pushed?, published in 2009 by The Readers' Digest Association, Inc. It is by Steven A. Koehler, MPH, Ph.D., with Pete Moore, Ph.D., and David Owen.

I knew I was going to be very interested in what they had to say and that I was going to be able to learn a great deal about the different areas of forensics right from the beginning, when I read about a couple of terms. One was 'crime scene', and the other was 'scene of the crime'. These terms are interchangeable, right? Wrong. They explain how the scene of the crime might be the basement of a home where a dead body may have been found, but the crime scene may be the entire house and part of the driveway, where the killer first encountered the victim. This is why sealing off of the entire crime scene, however much ground that may encompass, is so critical. Evidence could be found anywhere within that area. When describing your 'scene of the crime' or 'crime scene', bear this important fact in mind. Great detail is paid to how searches are done, including the photographs that are taken and the use of video, in some cases.

Detailed descriptions are provided of how various substances are tested in the laboratory. There is an entire chapter devoted to the evidence exchange--explaining how 'any encounter between two individuals (or an individual and the environment) results in an exchange in physical material'. It is shown how samples are retrieved and compared, and how their characteristics are determined. The big one, DNA, and all the various databases containing same, is shown both to have convicted the guilty and exonerated the innocent. There is a chapter on the examination and analysis of body fluids. The chapter, What's your Poison?, deals with toxicology following the autopsy of a suspicious death. The one on ballistics begins by breaking firearms down to 'rifled' and 'nonrifled'. This was a variance in guns that I previously was unaware of. The one entitled Making an Impression confirms that even though a criminal may wear gloves or use other methods to try to disguise the fact they were at a particular location, they always leave a trace of something behind, be it a hair of theirs, of their pet, a fiber off their jacket, soil from their shoes, something always gets left behind. If a suspect denies ever having been at a certain place, and a trace of something can be linked back to them, well, let's just say, they've got a lot of explaining to do. They go over fingerprints and footprints, the use of voice prints, and some impressions deliberately made, such as bite marks. Lastly, they discuss the paper trail--i.e., forgeries and so on, and how documents and signatures are identified as such.

In between all the educational type information and the 'day-in-the-life' pieces from various forensic scientists, there are discussions of specific cases, and the role different areas of forensics played in obtaining the outcome. I recommend this very highly as a great source of information for the crime writer, fiction or otherwise. It is an easy read, very thorough, never boring, and covers a lot of ground.

Like I said at the start, even if your story is fictional, when your detective collects fiber evidence at the scene, or the technician matches the rifling on bullets from the victim and the test fire, make sure it was collected according to standard protocol and the chain of evidence properly followed at the lab. Readers of crime fiction watch The First 48 and Forensic Files too, and if you think you can slip one by and no one will notice, think again. The second they identify your 'forensic screw-up', and they will, they're done with your story and probably with you as an author as well. Make up crimes, make up characters, make up towns, but when it comes to the old 'bag and tag' stuff, keep it real.

First Issue of Needle is Available!

2010-04-09T18:27:00.014-04:00

The first issue of Needle Magazine is now available. It has been described as follows: "Needle Magazine is hardboiled, lean and mean. No silly reviews. No poetry. No advertising. Nothing but hard hitting stories. In your face and busting up your kiss-maker. Kapow." Well, KAPOW indeed--and only $7.00. Nothing but page after page of consummate noir. Just check out the names of whose stories are inside, and you'll know immediately why you need to get your hands on it. I'm putting the link in here so you can purchase it now. Go on. Let the delicious darkness take you away.
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/needle---spring-2010-issue-1/10263719

Horror Fiction: Is There Really Such a Thing?

2010-04-07T23:11:00.008-04:00

We have discussed different types of crime fiction, sub-genres and such, and found that this particular type of fiction is a multi-faceted one. So many different categories, cross-genre pieces; but, what about horror? Are there different sub-genres of horror fiction? Is the term 'horror fiction' even a valid one, or is it simply another story component? Can the idea of horror be incorporated into crime fiction/thriller tales, or is it already in there?

Let's begin at the very beginning. What exactly is horror about? I believe we can all agree that the concept of horror is all about fear. Fear and revulsion. So where does that take us story-wise? Generally, we encounter a 'normal' person caught up in some 'abnormal' situation, in which they are totally powerless and have completely lost control. What is it about these stories that dredges up the fear? What type of things/situations would cause us to feel utterly powerless? The possibility of madness would be one--the hint of the onset of insanity in ourselves or someone close. Others would certainly be death (by any means), specifically, by being murdered, being kidnapped/held captive, as well as those of a supernatural nature, like supernatural forces, evil spirits, ghosts, demonic possession, witches, vampires, werewolves, and other assorted creatures of that type. While other-worldly entities are generally associated with horror stories, I feel we have too narrowly viewed the whole concept of horror fiction by restricting it to only include the undead and those who commute via broomstick handles. Let's look at a general breakdown of the types of horror literature.

1. Psychological: This is an element of horror that toys with the mind and targets the psyche. There doesn't necessarily have to be anything supernatural involved here since usually, this type of horror is internalized and explores the inner darkness of the human mind.

2. Allegorical: Here we have an element of horror that is largely symbolic in nature and may possess a deep, or even, hidden meaning. This is the one that brings out fears from within to couple with fears brought on from outside oneself. Examples of this type of horror are The Big Bad Wolf, The Witch in the Gingerbread House, etc.

3. Sociological: This type of horror is generally a commentary on the evils of society, such as the lack of morality, the lack of traditional values, and sometimes focus on specific cultural issues. Often, the idea of corruption is utilized in this type of horror tale.

As you can see, these descriptions can stand alone, alongside, or co-mingle with any element in crime fiction. Let's see if there are any other similarities.

Following are some descriptions I found that are used to reference types of horror literature.

1. Dark Fantasy: These are generally fantasy stories that may or may not contain some supernatural elements. But, if they do, they do not utilize ones of vampires, werewolves, etc.

2. Dark Fiction: This is not a term used often, but when it is, it generally refers to a type of contemporary horror that is mixed with suspense.

3. Extreme Horror: This is the old cut 'em up/hack 'em up just because we can type of story. You know, the old 'let's go go camp and wander the woods at night in our underwear, even though there's an axe murderer loose' type of thing. Come on--we've all watched those, and sat in our living rooms and advised the kids not to go through THAT door into the dark room, but they do, and they die, and we knew they would and... Sorry. Next...

4. English Gothic: These usually involve hauntings that occur in castles, mansions, crypts and contain bleak settings. These are tales of ruin and decay, persecution and imprisonment.

5. Noir: Yes, I did say noir. This was included in the description of a type of horror. Stories that deal with an underworld of crime, moral ambiguity, and contain dark themes of violence, corruption, and have an aura of menace and suspicion.

6. Dark Suspense: These contain no supernatural elements, but contain an ever-present sense of threat from an outside source.

It would appear that if you omit the demons and such, elements of horror can be present in any type of crime fiction piece. Horror is an important component in suspense stories, thrillers, mysteries, etc., since they all involve the emotion of fear from some perspective, and that's what horror is and brings.

Author Douglas Winter stated in his anthology, Prime Evil, that "Horror is not a genre, like the mystery or science fiction or the western. It is not a kind of fiction, meant to be confined to the ghetto of a special shelf in libraries or bookstores. Horror is an emotion." Also, in one of his later anthologies, Revelations, he stated "Horror is that which cannot be made safe--evolving, ever-changing--because it is about our relentless need to confront the unknown, the unknowable, and the emotion we experience when in its thrall."

I do believe he really had something there. Horror is not a category, it is a feeling, something that comes over you in certain circumstances with certain stimuli. Whether you think the noise outside your bedroom window is a zombie with a craving for human flesh as a midnight snack or a serial killer who's been dismembering people in your town who wear shoes exactly like the ones you just bought, the fear--the sense of horror--is one and the same.

Too Late a Lesson Learned - Part 5

2010-03-29T22:25:00.005-04:00

Emily made her way upstairs to Amelia's room, where Amelia was sound asleep. Emily tore the blanket off the mattress and kicked her sister in the side.

"What's going on? Emily, why did you do that? That hurt."

"I don't care, bitch. Wake up. I want you to know what has happened, and what is going to happen.'

"What are you talking about? What has happened? What have you done?"

Emily folded her arms and leaned against the shabby bureau.

"Well, let's see now. First, I had a friend cut daddy's throat, and then I had the same friend cut Nanny's throat. What do you think about that?"

Amelia's eyes began to fill with tears.

"What do you mean, you had Nanny's throat cut?" She gasped and began to sob. "Why would you do such a thing? How could you do such a thing? You know I loved her and she loved me. Daddy never loved me so I'm not really sure how I should feel about that, but you had no right to take someone away from me that loved me."

Emily began to laugh.

"Loved you? Loved you? There's a hoot. You're dirt under the world's feet. You never have been, are not now, and will never be worth anything to anybody. Besides, I'm not finished. I haven't told you yet what is going to happen. I am going to take your miserable self downstairs and my friend is going to cut your throat, only slowly, so I can watch you die and enjoy every minute of it. Now, get your ugly self out of that bed and let's get it done."

Emily grabbed Amelia's arm and pulled her off the mattress and began to drag her to the stairwell. As they passed the small desk Amelia had fashioned for herself out of some old boxes so she could do her lessons, she could feel herself burning with rage. As Emily continued to pull her out of the room, Amelia reached across the desk and grabbed a pair of scissors she had been using to create a collage for Nanny's room. She held them at her side until they reached the stairwell and with no warning, she swung herself around and plunged the scissors deep into Emily's throat.

Emily let go of her and grabbed the rail, blood already running in rivers down the front of her gown. Her look of puzzlement only made Amelia angrier, and she pulled the scissors out and stabbed Emily in the throat one final time. Emily staggered backwards, slipped on the first step and tumbled down the stairs, landing in a sitting position against the front door, blood turning her blue gown bright red.

"Oh no," Amelia said aloud. "What have I done? Emily? Please? I didn't mean... You just made me so angry all these years, but I would never do anything to hurt you. But, killing the one and only person I have ever loved and who loved me back was too much. But, what have I done? Oh no..."

She trailed off as she saw the Ancient One moving around the bottom of the stairs to look at Emily. Amelia's blood ran cold.

What is that thing doing here, she wondered. Oh yes. Emily had said a 'friend' had murdered daddy and Nanny. That must be who she meant. Amelia scrambled to clear her head. Have to think. Have to figure out what to do. What to do about...it.

The Ancient One began to make its way slowly up the stairs to Amelia, arms extended, blood-drenched talons glistening in the moonlight.

"What do you want?" she screamed. "Don't come any closer. Oh, God, you don't understand me, do you? And, I don't know how to talk to you."

As it made its way closer and closer, it spoke in a deep and raspy voice.

"Yes, I understand you. I do speak your language. I prefer the ancient words in their proper form and they are the only ones I obey, but I have been among your kind long enough to be able to understand. You ask what it is that I want. What I want is to fulfill my mistress' last command. I must obey her last request of me."

"What last request? What are you talking about?"

Amelia found herself unable to move as the thing made its way upstairs to her.

"The last thing she said to me from the ancient script was that 'if anything should happen to me, kill everyone left in the house--avenge me'. From where I'm standing, it would appear that is you."

"I can stop you!" Amelia screamed. "There is a command to stop you. Oh God, what was it, something like--oh, I can't remember! What were the words? I heard Nanny say them many times. What were the words? Oh God..."

As the thing raised its arm to make the first cut, it spoke for the last time.

"Yes, you did hear them. You heard them many times. But, you never really listened, did you? You never paid attention to any of your lessons. You always waited until the last minute to read your assignments. You never learned to do things on time."

The last thing Amelia did was open her mouth to let the scream come out. As usual--too late.