Jim's Fiction: Flash fiction and Short stories.

Brothers Forever

2012-02-22T05:00:00.001-05:00

The stench grew stronger as I approached the rusted utility cart filled with mangled bicycles. The wagon and its contents stood as a monument to the four members of the Crescent Valley Mountain Bike Club, my brother among them, who died ten years and three days ago when Clarence Bonnell drove his Jeep into a pack of riders.

The judge dismissed the DWI and murder charges on a technicality. Clarence left Harriston the next day. He returned last week to attend his mother's funeral.

Blinking away the memory, I followed the scent up to the shrine and looked into the mound of disfigured metal. Amongst the rusted spokes, chains, and crossbars, I saw the silver glint of a watchband. I reached down and lifted one of the frames. The bodies of Clarence and his brother-in-law/lawyer, Franklin Demming, III, were still recognizable, as were the single bullet holes in each forehead. I inhaled the aroma of their putrefied corpses and held my breath. I hadn't smelled anything as sweet in ten years and three days.

I Can't Win

2012-02-19T10:33:00.000-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

My sister poisoned my relationship with Father. She baked Biscotti Toscani, served it with his favorite liquid pleasure. I struggled with the rigatoni. I knitted him a sweater and studied history. I wore dresses similar to mom's. One day he told me to stop. "My god, you have a penis!"

Family Business (warning: language)

2012-02-15T05:00:00.007-05:00

First published at Grift Magazine.

Two pairs of eyebrows jerked skyward when the gun went off.

“Shit,” Howard said, “I only meant to scare you.” He lowered Donnie to the stained mattress. “Why’d you have to go grab for the gun?”

“It hurts,” Donnie said.

“It should. You got a damn bullet in your gut.” Howard looked around the one-room pigsty Donnie called home. Dirty dishes filled the sink. Flies hovered over a pizza box spread open on the small table in the corner, a stack of phonebooks and a dowel supporting one corner. “You got any towels?” Donnie pointed to an open door across the room.

Howard hurried to the bathroom, walking like he was barefoot on a carpet of rose bushes. A bath towel lay on the floor. He picked it up. A family of roaches raced behind the cracked sink. Howard dropped the towel and backed out of the bathroom. He returned to Donnie, took off his hoodie, and held it against the wound.

“All you had to do was listen, and this wouldn’t have happened,” Howard wagged his head. “All you had to do was listen.”

“Wasn’t none of your business,” Donnie said. “You should've let us be.”

“My family is my business.”

“You gonna get me some help?” Donnie groaned as he straightened out his legs.

“I gotta think.” Howard sat and leaned against the wall. Worst thing he ever did, buy a gun. It didn’t protect anybody in the end. “All you had to do was walk away and leave my daughter alone.” Howard hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the sky through torn curtains.

He saw himself as a young boy, in the apartment with his mom and five siblings. He remembered the day Mr. Hodgins calmly answered his questions as the neighborhood electrician fixed a short in the plug for the refrigerator. Howard was seventeen, and old man Hodgins asked him if he’d like to earn some money. Howard worked for the man for ten years before Mr. Hodgins sold the business to Howard.

Now he had a wife and two kids of his own. He was a respected businessman and an elder in his church. He couldn’t lose all that over a stupid punk. He put his head in his hands and thought about his options.

“I can't believe Francine kept your relationship a secret from me.”

“She was afraid you’d find out, because. . . Well, you know.” Donny stared at the blood then lifted his head. “It doesn’t hurt as much, but I still need to get to a hospital.”

Howard inhaled the fetid air and ran a hand over his bald head. He took in a deep breath and blew it out through tense lips. He knew this neighborhood. Nobody ever saw anything.

“Okay, I know what we’re gonna do.” Howard heard the life wheezing out of the boy’s body. “We're gonna sit and wait.”

On a Dare

2012-02-12T10:08:00.001-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

Josh attended a magnet school before losing his sight. The radio contest sounded like fun -- a saltwater swim wearing a goofy costume. He chose orange feathers and Madonna mask. The locals stayed away. They were aware of all the pollutants that had killed the area. A star student once, now Josh couldn’t read a blind ad.

Saving Cletus Brockton

2012-02-08T05:00:00.001-05:00

First published at Powder Burn Flash

The phone startled Edward. He laid his book on the end table and placed his pipe in the cereal bowl.

"Hello?"

"Is this Edward Hairston, the attorney?"

"Retired attorney." Edward sat forward in his chair. "Is this another one of those telemarketer calls?"

"My name is Billy Gilbert. Moose Mankowski gave me your name. Said I could call you the next time I was in trouble."

"The next time?" Edward's eyebrows tightened, wrinkles outlined a V on his forehead.

"I've had a string of bad luck."

Edward heard a sniff on the other end of the line and imagined a man wiping a tattooed arm across his nose.

"Anyway, Moose told me you got him out of a sticky spot."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Billy Gilbert."

"Well, Billy Gilbert, I have an appointment in--"

"Wait. Don't hang up. I only get one call."

Edward placed the tip of his middle finger to his forehead and began massaging in tiny circles.

"I got arrested, but I didn't take the wallet. I found it."

Edward rubbed faster.

"I can't help you, sir," Edward said. "Like I stated, I'm retired."

"According to Moose, you're a damn good lawyer."

Moose. The curse that wouldn't go away. Edward fell back in his chair and lowered his hand. "What did you say?"

"Sorry. I was talking to the guard. He said I need to get off the phone. I told him to go screw himself. I have rights."

Edward shook his head. He'd had big plans when he applied for law school. Plans that didn't include guys named Moose and Billy.

"So when can you get here to bail me out?"

"Bail you out? How about April Fool's Day?"

"This ain't a joke, Ed? I got a party to go to."

"Well, Billy, I think you're going to miss the party."

"But Moose said--."

"Moose was wrong."

Edward loosened his grip on the phone, sensing the conversation was about to end.

"Do you live near Dallas, Edward?"

"Yes. Near there."

"I knew your name sounded familiar. You went to Garland High. Right? Class of '87?"

"Y-e-e-s." Edward didn't like where this was going.

"Still live in your parents' house on Buckingham?"

"Maybe." Edward felt sweat forming on his forehead. He'd returned home after his father passed and his mother moved to the nursing home.

"Bingo. Billy Gilbert is an alias."

"You need to speak up. I can hardly hear you."

"I don't want the guard to hear. My real name is Clete Brockton."

"Name doesn't..." Edward paused. "Cletus? The guy who gave principal Brown a wedgie? The Cletus who wrote my name on a Whoopie cushion and put it on Mrs. Flatston's chair?" Edward remembered his classmate as being 6' 3", 265 pounds, and mean.

"Yep. Ain't this a coincidence?"

Memories of Cletus flashed through Edward's mind, none pleasant. "Yes. A coincidence." His body tensed, and his finger gravitated back to his forehead.

"So now that you know me, you can help me. Right?"

"Why would I want to help you, Cletus?" The pulsing in Edward's forehead returned.

"Well. . .because I'm sorry for what I did, and I'd like to be friends now."

"Huh. Friends. Let me think about that." Edward counted to ten before responding. "Remember what you just said to the guard, Cletus?"

"You mean to go screw himself?"

"Yes, that." Edward sat up, spine stiff. "And I say to you ditto."

"Come on, Eddie. Can't you help an old friend just this once?"

"No."

"I could pay you back--with interest."

"If you have money, why did you steal the wallet?"

"I told you I found it."

"Okay, why did you "find" the wallet if you have money?"

"Well, I don't exactly have the money at the moment, but I can get it no problem."

Edward shook his head and let if flop forward into his palm. He supposed he could be wrong about Cletus, but he doubted it.

"You still there? The guard's threatening to zap me if I don't hang up the phone."

"Tell the guard I'm thinking." Edward heard Cletus say something and a long time smoker's voice reply.

"He said one minute."

Edward made mental lists of the pros and cons of helping Cletus. Neither was very long. He inhaled a deep breath, and by the time it oozed out, he knew the best thing he could do to save his former classmate. He hung up the phone.

Bio:
Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His recent stories have appeared in Flashshot, A Twist of Noir, The Short Humour Site, Dew on the Kudzu, and others. Jim's Six Questions For blog (http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/) provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.”

A Family Affair

2012-02-05T10:43:00.001-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

George retired and took up glassblowing. Ellen considered it a waste of time and money. Now, a year later, he sat in traffic with other cars and vans heading to the hobby show. His latest creation was on the seat, wrapped in cellophane and newspaper. The little bone chips in the glass were Ellen's contribution.

No Regrets

2012-02-01T05:00:00.002-05:00

First appeared in The Houston Literary Review (no longer publishing)

I had dreams once. I was going to be a famous model. The day after high school graduation, I bought a bus ticket to New York City with the money I earned at Cubby’s Diner. The town folk wished me luck. Mom gave me a big hug. Dad said I was a fool.

I bought a paper at the first newsstand I came to and answered every modeling ad. Nobody commented on my big smile, my perfect teeth, or my short, spiky, blonde hair. Instead, they said I was too tall, too short, too fat, too skinny, and that I needed surgery to make my boobs smaller. Smaller? The folks back home would’ve been outraged to hear such talk.

At the end of the week, I got a waitressing job in a bistro in the West Village. Like at Cubby’s, it didn’t pay much, the tips sucked, and I got my butt pinched or slapped at least five times every shift. Still, I earned enough to pay for my share of the flat I rented with Claire, another model-to-be I met at my first interview.

I wasted a year of my life before I realized I wasn’t going to be a model. I got back on the bus and headed home to West Virginia. Mom gave me a teary hug this time. Dad sat in front of the TV and mumbled a ‘knew you’d be back’ without missing a word of the news.

I sat in the tire swing in the back yard, facing away from the house, and cried every afternoon that first week. Saturday night I decided it was time to forget about modeling. I put on my little black dress and headed to Melvin’s for a drink. That’s when me and Richard got back together.

We’d dated our junior year until the night of the prom. He wanted me to have sex with him. I said no. This time, after two Bud Lights, when he asked if I wanted to have sex, I said sure. That was four babies ago.

I don’t regret having them. They make me complete. I don’t regret not being a model. It was just a dream. I don’t regret becoming the one person I said I never would be -- my mother. Most of all, I don’t regret that Richard’s nothing like my father.

Henry's Last Walk

2012-01-25T05:00:00.002-05:00

Henry shuffled along ignoring his surroundings. He'd walked this same path many times in seventy-five years, first as a mailman, then as a freelance photographer for an insurance company. He knew every crack, chip and uprooted slab along the sidewalk over the twelve blocks from Elm to Harvest. He traversed the route today to visit his Emma.

A warped twig in a ratty overcoat, Henry walked slower now. Flat feet and arthritic knees limited his movement. But Emma was all he had left. He needed to take care of her.

Every structure on the street held a story. He passed the Jeffersons. They'd given him a fruitcake every Christmas. Unlike most of his coworkers, he loved fruitcake. The next house belonged to the Victors and their three daughters, who never gave Henry as much as a smile, not even after he found their lost poodle. The rotting Douglas fir perched on the edge of their yard reminded Henry of the fun he and Emma had decorating their Christmas tree. The joyous look in her eyes almost made up for their inability to have children.

The walk to Emma's felt longer today. His legs hurt. His thin socks failed to protect his ankles from the cold. Still, he continued on. She got testy when he arrived late.

Henry walked into the Harvest Senior Home. He passed the reception desk with a nod and headed to Emma's room.

“Hello, Mr. Kemp," the aide said. "Emma's waiting for you.”

Henry struggled to lift a hand in response.

“You decent?” Henry asked at the door. There was no response. He entered the room and walked to the bed, checking on Emma before taking off his coat and hanging it on the hook in the bathroom. Emma would yell at him when she awoke if he put it anyplace else.

Back at the bed, he fluffed her pillow and straightened the covers. He checked her breathing and turned off the TV. He didn't like watching the soaps, and she didn't like watching sports, so they often sat in silence, one or both of them dozing.

He lifted the book off the table, Dr. Zhivago, opened it to where he'd stopped yesterday, and began reading out loud.

“Poor man,” the Head Nurse said to a trainee as they passed outside the room. “His wife passed away eight months ago. She used to reside in that room. Now he tends to Mrs. Cavender, even though she doesn't know he's there. She looks enough like his Emma that he doesn't know the difference.”

“Doesn't the family mind?” the trainee asked.

“She doesn't have any family that we know of. Just like Henry.” The nurse edged the girl along. "Mrs. Cavender won't be with us much longer. I don't know what he'll do then."

At the end of ninety minutes, his usual stay, Henry stood and gathered his things.

"So long, Henry," the Head Nurse said as he passed the desk. "See you tomorrow?"

"I don't think so." He said without looking at her. "Mrs. Cavender doesn't need me anymore."

Love is Blind

2012-01-22T11:36:00.000-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

His accent drew her in. He introduced her to red licorice, gave her rides in a wheelbarrow. She felt different. He was her Fountain of Youth. It didn't matter that he wore tattered clothes, or that he was unshaven and his teeth rotting. She was in love with a man who didn't own a penny.

The Borrowed Grave

2012-01-18T05:00:00.003-05:00

Harold lumbered past the houses where impatient witches, ghosts, and vampires had visited the previous night seeking treats to fill their bags. His sack contained possessions no one would see but him. Eyes and ears on alert, he continued his journey.

Tonight was the one year plus one day anniversary of his mother's disappearance. The police ceased their investigation after finding no clues. They now considered the woman a runaway.

Harold approached the cemetery, the fresh grave, someone else's resting place, awaiting him. What better place to hide his mother's bones.

Harold grinned.

She Should Have Stuck With Cooking

2012-01-15T14:51:00.000-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

She was a gourmet cook from Alabama. Here for the Harvest Festival Cookoff. Crimson tide squid was her entry. What I didn’t know was how she stole the antique porcelain vase from Uncle Karl, or if anyone would miss her. Probably should have considered that before I smacked her in the face with the shovel.

Do Unto Others

2012-01-11T05:00:00.003-05:00

First published at Flashes in the Dark.

Florence exited the house, opened her umbrella, and spotted the girl standing on the brick walkway. She was nine, maybe ten, tall for her age and dark-skinned, wearing a yellow dress with a green brocade collar. A wicker basket filled with green, yellow and red vegetables hung in the crook of the girl's right arm. Florence stared at the girl. The girl stared back.

"Do I know you?" Florence asked.

She saw the girl's lips move, but heard no sound. She inched forward, her hands choking the umbrella's handle. Florence felt like a trout on a hook being reeled in.

Who is this girl, and what is she doing here? She stopped, not wanting to get any closer. The girl stepped forward, her bare feet floating over the wet sidewalk. Florence heard the voice now, but not the words, until the girl was close enough to touch.

"Any minute now, something will happen," the girl said, emphasizing each syllable.

"What?"

"Any minute now, something will happen," the girl repeated without emotion.

Florence wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't let her. She looked around, her head snapping from side to side, eyes wide. Three houses down, Mr. Jenkins hobbled out to retrieve the morning paper. Florence opened her mouth to get his attention, felt her throat buzz, but no sound came out. She lifted her hand over her head and waved in quick, short motions. He waved back, a smile on his face, and retreated to his warm, dry house.

The girl leaned closer. "Any minute now, something will happen."

"Will. . .will it be something good?"

"No." The girl continued to stare with large, unblinking eyes.

"Are you sure?" Florence twirled the umbrella, thinking of the pointed end.

The girl's black hair framed her cheeks. The color and starkness of it matched the tone of her voice. "Yes."

"How do you know?"

"I just know." The girl stood, motionless, immune to the pouring rain. "It's your fault. You shouldn't have killed him."

Florence's eyes widened. She put one hand over her open mouth.

"I didn't kill him." She looked at the houses on both sides. "He was old and in pain. He wanted to die. I couldn't do anything more for him." She thought of the hours she'd spent at the patient's side, holding his hand, unable to lessen his pain, her nursing skills good only to a point. "It was the humane thing to do." She wiped a tear from her cheek.

"What about his family?" the girl asked.

"He has no family. He's all alone, except for me."

"You talk as if he's still alive."

Florence's lower lip curled between her teeth.

"None of that matters anyway," the girl said, waving her free hand, as if dismissing the older woman. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

"I didn't want him to suffer anymore."

"It was wrong."

Florence looked away. "He pulled the trigger." The words barely came out.

"With your help."

"I'm sorry."

Florence took a deep breath and panned her eyes back to the girl. Before she could say another word, the girl dropped the basket and raised both hands. Some of the vegetables split apart and lay in pieces on the brick walk. Florence recognized them as the broken pieces of her life.

She gazed at the girl's raised hands and pointed index fingers. Eyes narrowed to two slits, the girl uttered an unintelligible chant.

Florence retreated to the front door. She turned. The girl stood close by, her body shaking. Florence ran up the stairs to the bedroom where he lay. The girl followed. Removing the gun from his hands, Florence aimed at the child and squeezed the trigger. She heard a click but felt no recoil. She tried again with the same result.

The girl's body shook. The chant became louder.

"No," Florence yelled as the gun moved to her temple. Unable to control her actions, she pressed the trigger. This time the gun exploded, and she fell across the old man, her face on his chest. Blood oozed from the wound and mixed with his.

The girl stood in the doorway and waited until Florence stopped breathing, then turned and walked away. Exiting the house, she passed the vegetables and basket, leaving them where they'd fallen.

My BRF

2012-01-08T10:33:00.000-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

The rabbit died. No, not that rabbit. My forever rabbit, my BRF. I called her Precious. She called me Honey. They say love is blind. I only know I am, and Honey was the catalyst that made me want to get up in the morning. Now what do I do?

Revenge

2012-01-04T05:00:00.001-05:00

In public for the first time since the botched surgery that left her with a cabbage face, Alma held a blue and white umbrella over her head and spun it like a pinwheel to distract all but the most insipid. She approached the maroon Jaguar, the short, pointed screwdriver close to her side.

Happy New Year

2012-01-01T11:43:00.000-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

A mother. A father. Triplet girls. An apartment better suited for a dollhouse. Worn linen dresses. Shoes with holes. No job. Unemployment. An eviction notice hanging on the door. Little food for their empty bowls.

Still. Jokes. Laughter. Promises and dreams of better days. Songs sung for Auld Lang Syne.

The Alibi

2011-12-28T05:00:00.002-05:00

I told the detective I'd lapsed into a vodka-induced coma after playing my mandolin at a Ukrainian jazz festival in Pennsylvania. That was my alibi. One of your better ones, she said. Then she asked how the veterinarian's diamond got in my pocket. I stared at the fuzzy gem, back at her, and plead guilty.

We Three Kings

2011-12-21T05:00:00.002-05:00

First published at Grift Magazine.

The plan was simple. We'd play the parts of the three Magi in the living nativity at St. Bart's. Then we'd steal the week's donations, while the parishioners partied with birthday cake, homemade cookies, and cider. Like I said, simple.

Bernie and I kinda looked the part. Alice not so much, but her mustache helped. I would've made her stay home, but the plan was her idea. She arranged for us to be the ones in the costumes and, being the church treasurer, knew the combination to the safe.

We met Bernie on the unemployment line the morning after Alice told me about her plan. He'd been out of work almost as long as we had. Alice liked him, said he was funny. I didn't think funny was a personality trait one would find on a thief's criminal profile, but when Alice threatened to not have sex with me for a week, I reconsidered.

We arrived early for the ten p.m. Christmas Eve service and got into our costumes. The beards, hats, and long robes provided a good disguise--not that we needed them. Everyone knew Alice and me. And no one in the church would suspect us of being thieves, especially mousy Alice. We stood, quiet as ripples in a stream, until the final blessing, then Bernie and I followed Alice as she gathered the night's collection and headed for the office. Bernie took our costumes back to the changing room. I watched the hallway. Alice removed the money accumulated during the week from the safe and put it and the evening’s donations in the duffle bag she'd hidden in her desk earlier in the day. She knelt on one knee before standing.

"I hate to do this," she said. "A lot of people are going to go without this year." She stood with her head bowed.

I stepped next to her and put my arm on her shoulders. "I know how you feel, but we've been without for over a year. We don't have a choice." I squeezed her and took the satchel from her. "Besides," I said with a smile, "once we hit it big in Vegas, we can send the church a check for the money we took--plus interest."

"That's the plan," Alice said without enthusiasm. She crossed herself and took my hand. "Let's get out of here."

***

"How much did we get?" I asked Alice. We were back at her house, the one she got in the divorce four years ago. It'd been on the market for eight months, but she hadn't got any offers. Bernie lay on the sofa, snoring through open lips.

"Six thousand, three hundred and forty-five dollars." She said. "It was a better week for donations than last year." She nodded toward Bernie and lowered her voice. "He didn't do all that much. Do we need to give him an even share?"

I glanced toward the couch. "Na. We'll tell him we only got four thousand and his cut is twenty-five percent." Bernie kept snoring. "Why don't we leave it on the kitchen table? We don't need to wake him."

Alice nodded and started putting the money in an overnight bag, setting Bernie's share aside. I left to take a leak before packing the car. It was a seven hour trip from Tucson to Vegas. We'd be on the road by midnight. Traffic should be light and there wasn't any bad weather predicted. Hopefully, we could make it in six. I dried my hands, exited the bathroom, and headed down the hall. When I reached the kitchen, I saw Alice facedown on the floor. I stepped into the room and felt something hard hit my head.

***

I awoke to a hand rocking my shoulder and someone calling my name. At first, I thought it was Alice. It wasn't.

"Come on, James. Wake up."

I opened my eyes. I didn't recognize the face. I did the badge.

"Come on. We know about the robbery."

"How?"

"An anonymous tip."

I looked up and saw the small stack of bills on the table. Bernie. That bastard.

No Place to Run

2011-12-18T11:27:00.000-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

No matter how fast she ran, Crystal couldn’t escape the vulgar shadow. Its trance-like movements stuck to her like fungus to tree. In a desperate attempt to free herself from her fate, Crystal ran to the childhood lake, only to find it barren -- an unwanted reminder of her own condition.

Redlining

2011-12-14T05:00:00.000-05:00

First published in the Pulp Ink anthology

Walter rested his forehead against the steering wheel while he waited for Malcolm to return. He'd warned the fool about drinking so much water. At the sound of a voice, Walter looked up as Malcolm emerged from the woods talking on his cell phone.

"What the . . .?" Walter pounded his fist on the dash and exited the truck. He adjusted his cap against the sun, stomped to his partner, grabbed the phone, and hurled it into the mix of budding trees and rotted trunks.

"Hey, that phone's expensive."

"We agreed," Walter said between gasps for air, his hands on his knees. "No phone calls until we crossed the state line."

"I know, but I had to tell Suze. Smashing those glass tops and grabbing all that jewelry. Man, what a high." Malcolm raised his hand for a high five, a thin-lipped smile exposed a row of crooked teeth missing an incisor. "I see a new career in my future, Walter."

Walter ignored his partner's hand. Instead, he hiked up his jeans and marched back to the pea green Malibu. "Dumb shit."

"What'd you say?" Malcolm asked.

"Nothing," Walter replied, waving like he was flying with one arm. "Just get back in the car." He glanced up and down the zigzaggy dirt road, glad he'd decided to avoid the paved routes. He usually worked alone, but this time his sister had insisted he let his brother-in-law help. Since Malcolm'd lost his job, he'd been a pest, she'd said.

"And leave the damn phone," he said when Malcolm turned toward the woods. "I'll buy you a new one when we get to where we're going."

Walter massaged his left bicep. His mind wouldn't let go of how stupid he'd been to agree to work with Malcolm. Shaking his head, Walter turned the key. The car's corroded muffler roared its disgust. He reached for the gear shift at the same time Malcolm removed a pearl and ruby necklace from the black garbage bag and held it at eye level.

"What the hell are you doing now?" Walter asked. He glared into the rearview mirror and pushed Malcolm's hand below the dash. "Someone might see."

"Ain't no one here," Malcolm said. He twisted around and squinted through the dirty rear window.

"You didn't know that when you put that doodad on display. We're on a back road, but that doesn't mean nobody else might come along." Walter rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension in his neck.

"I guess, but still. . ." Malcolm raised the necklace again and stared at it like it was a stripper taking off her g-string, not that Walter imagined Malcolm had ever been to a strip joint. Suzie wouldn't stand for that.

"That's it," Walter said. "Get out of the car."

"What?"

Walter turned off the engine.

"I said get out." When Malcolm didn't move, Walter opened the center console and grabbed the gun.

"What're you going to do with that six-shooter?"

"Ease my stress. Now get out of the damn car and get down on the ground."

Malcolm did as he was told. Walter slid out of the driver's seat keeping his eyes on Malcolm.

"What about Suze?" Malcolm asked.

"She and I haven't spoken to each other in years. I don't know why I listened to her now."

Walter looked around to see if anyone was coming. When he turned back, Malcolm was on his feet, racing forward. He rammed his shoulder into Walter's stomach, and they fell to the ground. Walter groaned at the same time the gun went off. Malcolm collapsed on Walter's chest.

Having trouble breathing, Walter rolled his dead partner onto the ground. "Stupid son of a bitch. I only wanted to scare him." Walter got to his feet and grabbed Malcolm by the ankles. He dragged the body behind the Malibu, opened the trunk, and struggled to get the corpse inside. He removed his bloodied work shirt, placed it over Malcolm's face, and slammed the lid shut. Looking around, Walter climbed in the driver's seat and restarted the engine. He gripped the wheel tightly as the car fishtailed down the road, the tach's needle edging into the red.

He eased up on the gas as he approached the road that would take him back to his sister's house. The pain in his back had gotten worse. Before he reached the stop sign, he saw steam coming from the engine compartment. He pulled over, opened the hood, and spotted the hole in the radiator right away. Old age had done it in. He grabbed the bag from the front seat and headed toward town. He needed a new plan.

It wasn't long before a pickup spewing diesel fumes pulled up alongside.

"Need some help?" An old man sat inside hunched over the wheel. A stained cap, the brim cocked to one side, rested on his bald head. A young woman sat in the passenger seat. Dark roots supported blonde hair. Hard nipples poked through a white tube top decorated with daisies.

"Car broke down." Walter shook his head and contorted his face into a look of helplessness. "I'd appreciate a ride to town."

"Hop in." The girl--Walter assumed her to be the man's granddaughter--moved over, and Walter climbed in. The smell of cigarettes filled the air, even with the windows open.

"What'cha got in the bag?" the driver asked.

"Just some family heirlooms. I'm taking them to my sister."

"Thought I heard something like pebbles banging together when you got in," the old man said.

Walter gazed out the side window and held his breath, hoping there wouldn't be any more questions. There weren't.

The old man spent the three-mile ride to town going on about his grandchildren, while the girl, Elsie, smiled, played footsie with Walter, and rubbed her thigh against his. Walter didn't mind the old man's banter. It meant he didn't have to answer questions about what he'd been doing. He wasn't as comfortable with the girl. Neither one noticed the specks of blood on Walter's t-shirt. Or, at least, they didn't say anything.

Walter exited the truck at Frank's Garage, tapped the bill of his cap to the old man and gave the girl an uneasy smile. "Thanks for the ride," he said. "Appreciate it."

Walter waved as the truck pulled away, then walked the four blocks to his sister's house. He was glad she was at work and wouldn't be home for another two hours. It'd give him time to think.

Inside her dining room, he inched open the curtain with the tip of his finger and checked outside. The street was empty for now, but the cops'd be around once they found the Malibu. Walter had planned to drive to New York where he knew a fence and then to Canada to have the operation the doctor said he needed. He wasn't sure how he would do that now.

He slid down the wall to a sitting position and used his shirt to wipe the beads of sweat from his face. His back still hurt and now his jaw ached from the tension he felt. "You're too old for this, Walter," he said, massaging his cheeks. "You should have run off last year after you got out of prison." He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. "Nobody would've cared."

He heard the siren in the distance, and a few minutes later, tires squealed to a stop in front of the house. Within seconds, three other cars joined the first.

"This is Sheriff Jacobs," the bull-horned voice said. "We know you're in there, Walter. We found the car and Malcolm. We need you to come out so we can talk."

Walter took a deep breath and placed his hand on the gun lying next to his right leg. "Sure you want to talk." Walter felt his chest tighten. "You think I'm stupid, Harvey?" Walter and Harvey Jacobs had been in school together. Neither one was a star student, but Walter wasn't the one with an IQ slightly higher than dirt. Everyone knew Harvey got his job because his father was once the mayor and still controlled what happened in town.

"You're the one who killed Malcolm, Walter. I'd say that was pretty stupid."

"It was an accident. The fool jumped me." Walter picked up the gun, undecided as to whether he'd use it. He'd been somebody's bitch once before. He wasn't going to be again.

"It looked like he'd been shot, Walter. You know you can't have a gun, having been in prison and all."

Walter massaged his arm again. He needed to think, but he was out of time.

"Come on out, Walter. Let's not make this any harder than it has to be."

"Hard for who, you jackass?"

Walter heard the boots climb the porch steps. He stood up, took off his shirt and placed it over his mouth and nose, waiting for the tear gas canister to come through the window.

"I've got a kid in here. Tell your men to back off." Walter looked around the empty room and wondered how long it would take before the police realized he was lying. A table, six chairs, and a hutch full of chipped dishes didn't make good hostages.

"You need to let the kid go, Walter. He ain't got nothing to do with this."

"I don't have to do anything, Harv. You, on the other hand, need to tell your men to back off and let me think."

Walter leaned against the wall and waited for a response.

"Okay, Walter. We'll do it your way for now."

Walter heard the sheriff tell his men to move off the porch, and the sounds of boots descending the steps.

"Hey, Walter. What's the kid's name?"

"Hell if I know."

"Can you describe him?"

Shit. Walter took a deep breath. Somewhere Harvey'd borrowed some brains.

"Skinny. Nine or ten. Brown hair. You want to know the color of his socks?" Walter peeked out the window. The sheriff stood behind the driver's side door of a blue on white police car. Two deputies in helmets and vests, one holding a shotgun, the other a short rifle of some kind, waited behind an old oak. A female officer stood next to a barrier keeping curious neighbors from getting too close.

"You mean the Richards boy?"

"Yeah, that's him." Walter wondered if maybe there was a way out.

"Can't be, Walt. He and his mom are standing behind the barricade down the block. I can see him clear as day."

Seconds later the dining room window shattered, and the front door sprung open. Tear gas filled the room. Walter raised the pistol, but a boulder of pain struck him in the chest before he could pull the trigger. He fell to his knees, then collapsed ear first to the floor. One hand pressed against his chest. That stupid Malcolm. If only he'd followed the plan.

A lone officer entered the house wearing a gas mask and holding a rifle to his shoulder. He hollered through the mask. Walter could only groan in response. He watched the officer inch toward him. Walter tried to reach for the deputy, but a sharp pain stopped him. He grinned and let his hand fall to the floor. He wouldn't need the operation after all. It was just as well. He hated hospitals.

Jilted

2011-12-11T14:12:00.000-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

Jason stared at the white screen waiting for the words to come, hoping an identity developed he could use, one that demonstrated his frustration. His fragile ego bruised by Sara’s departure, he so wanted to get even. Was he a makeshift lover, noise to be blocked out? “To Sara’s current lover:” he began the letter.

I Thought It'd Last Longer This Time

2011-12-07T05:00:00.000-05:00

Confetti. That's what my brain feels like. No wait. Not confetti. Pieces of fish food floating toward the bottom of the tank. Yeah, that's it.

Jack called her a tart that night at Bottom's Up. A tease. I told him he was crazy. She was too pretty, her smile too. . . too. . . brilliant, radiant. All those cliches and more.

Mocha is how I described Lauren's skin to my mother. Mom raised her eyebrows. Incredulous. Polite. Probably wondering where she'd gone wrong. She'd envisioned me marrying a nice white, Catholic girl. She wanted grandchildren she could be proud of.

A scarf? Lauren left me because of a scarf? It was a present. Not for her birthday. Not for Christmas. A gesture. An attempt to cheer her up. She'd been so grumpy all week. Did I break some rule I didn't know about? I'd never gotten this far with any of the others. Perhaps chocolates would have been better. Or maybe it was the way my mother treated her on our last visit.

She said we didn't have any rhythm. I didn't understand. Still don't, but I keep thinking about that.

It was somewhere between remembering her face that night at the bar, her kiss the first night she invited me into her apartment, then her back when she moved out--a suitcase in each hand--that my brain turned to fish food.

I hope it's not a permanent condition.

On Being a Grandfather

2011-12-04T10:43:00.000-05:00

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50 challenge prompt words in bold.

Raymond would never be a legend. His strict, penurious management style wouldn’t win him any awards. But he didn’t care about such things. The only reward he needed was this view of the playground, where his one-legged grandson played on the monkey bars as if he was like everyone else.

For &*%$ or %^@ Or Worse

2011-11-30T05:00:00.007-05:00

"What's with Grandma?" eleven year old Jake asked.

Grandpa Phil rubbed his temple, stalling.

"You know the way she gets when she watches those reality shows since her accident," he replied.

"You mean how her face turns red, and she uses those words I'm not supposed to know."

Grandpa Phil smiled and nodded.

"You bibelot, sere, inchoate, idiot." The shrill words coming from the TV room pierced the wall.

"Is she speaking in a different language?" Jake peeked around the corner and saw Grandma Faith sitting on the edge of the chair, hair falling out of its bun, fists pounding the air.

"I don't think so." Grandpa Phil sat at the dining room table and waved Jake to him. "She's been like this since she got struck by lightning. You remember that happening?"

"She went out to get the mail in a thunder storm." Jake shook his head. "Not a good thing to do."

"That's right." Grandpa Phil tousled Jake's hair. "The doctors don't know what happened, but they think she'll get better." He looked out the window and chewed on his lip. "At least, they hope she will."

"Hey, tenebrous, even Dr. Phil couldn't fix you," Grandma Faith yelled.

"Does she know what those words mean?"

"Probably not."

Jake walked to the doorway, covered his ears, and stuck his head into the TV room.

He turned to Grandpa Phil. "You think it works the other way, too?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there are a lot adults that don't make any sense when they talk. Maybe if they got hit by lightning, they would?"

Grandpa Phil laughed for the first time since the accident.

Oops

2011-11-27T10:18:00.000-05:00

NOTE: Every Sunday, The Flash Factory (a private office at Zoetrope.com) challenges the members to write a 50- or 55-word story using a set of five words. Today's words are in bold.

Seven porcelain caterpillars perched on the oak dresser stared in unison at the lifeless body lying contorted on the bed.

His client had said to make it quick and painless. One silenced pfft, one bullet to the head. It wasn’t until he pulled the instructions from his pocket he realized he had the wrong address.

Cleavage

2011-11-23T05:00:00.008-05:00

First published at A Twist of Noir (2011) - read editor interview

It's no fun having sex with an alien.

Her name is Jenny. We used to be best friends. We used to be married. Sex used to mean something. Then she changed.

She turned thirty and decided to be somebody else, someone I didn't recognize. She cut her hair short, dyed it red, got a tattoo of a macaw over her left breast, and started talking funny--like she was on drugs. I didn't mind the hair or the language. I hated the damn parrot.

She ran away twice, once with her yoga instructor. I hunted her down and welcomed her back both times. When she tried to leave again . . . I had to stop her.

It wasn't always like this. We met at a college frat party. Jenny's major was art history, mine biology. She acted like she wasn't interested in me, but I knew better. It was during Spring Break in Cancun our junior year when she finally came around. We married that August, ignoring her parents' concerns, and were very happy -- despite not having children. The quack doctor said I was impotent.

Jenny is still the prettiest woman I know. She's lying on the bed, her eyes and mouth open, the look of pain and surprise gone. A sheen of sweat from our lovemaking covers her naked body and glistens in the moonlight coming through the open window, the beacon accompanied by the sounds of the night critters that surround the cabin. Jenny never liked this place. Said she was a city girl and always would be. Guess it doesn't matter now.

The sun will be coming up over the lake in a few minutes. I'll call the police shortly after that, or maybe I'll take a shower first. I'm not going anywhere. Everyone will know I killed her, especially since it's my hunting knife sticking up from between her naked breasts, blood oozing around the blade. I threatened to harm her every time I had too much to drink, which I wouldn't have done if she hadn't turned herself into an alien.

At Last

2011-11-20T11:10:00.000-05:00

The Flash Factory's Sunday 5 to 50/55 prompt words are in bold.

Her final episode of The Mistress at the Bar complete, Dawn exited the hotel with no regrets. It wouldn't take a genius to understand the note saying she was leaving. Her husband would get it. A breeze tickled her cheek as she entered the cab waiting to take her to the airport.

"Where to?"

"Freedom."

Her Friends Didn't Know

2011-11-16T02:00:00.003-05:00

Everyone called her Butterscotch because of her orange hair. She was an all-terrain partygoer. Happy was how her friends described her, until she bid them farewell and jumped from the roof. A crowd gathered on the sidewalk, looked at her as if they cared, called her Dead.

The Distracted Hostess

2011-11-13T10:46:00.001-05:00

*The Flash Factory's Sunday 5 to 50 challenge words in bold.

An anonymous crescendo fills the room as the hostess mingles with the guests. A velvet smile hides her pain. A trial from God, she calls it. She thought she knew her husband, thought he cared about her friends. Nobody’s asked where he is. The police will. Soon. Her smile tightens.

The Good Lie

2011-11-09T08:00:00.001-05:00

First published at Microstory a Week (2011)

My mother sits across from me, a sliver of white slip visible beneath the hem of her wool skirt. She looks out the window of the single room that’s now her home, a question forming in her mind. It’s the same one she always asks.

My answer is the same each time, too. One she struggles to process, but eventually accepts. I can tell her the truth. She won’t remember what I say any longer than she remembers what she eats for lunch. But I don’t. Ignorance is less painful than truth.

I used to regret lying to my mother. Not anymore. The truth might do more damage, like when she shut down after my older sister, Susan, died. I tell mom the truth about Susan, though. A tumor the doctors found too late is more acceptable to a woman of mom’s upbringing than carbon monoxide poisoning, in Germany, in a car, with a married man, while serving in the army.

“Do you know how Kathryn died?” she asks.

I glance at the picture of my other sister, Kathryn, part of a family montage pinned to a corkboard hanging on the wall.

“No, Mom. They never told us what happened.”

I look her straight in the eye, sincere, remorseless, and thank God she’s the way she is.

It Didn't Last

2011-11-06T14:10:00.000-05:00

NOTE: Every Sunday, The Flash Factory (a private office at Zoetrope.com) challenges the members to write a 50- or 55-word story using a set of five words. Today's words were orgy, innocuous, window, river, and tarp. Here's my 50-word story.

It Didn't Last

He thought asking her to the orgy was an innocuous proposal. They’d known each other for six months and had been intimate a number of times. He stood by the window, gazed at the river--the water flowing freely--waiting for her response. She remained under the tarp, warm, safe.

Born to be Stars

2011-10-31T15:57:00.000-04:00

First published in The Ultimate Writer (print only)

Robbie stepped into the clearing and froze, one foot ahead of the other, rainwater dripping from his brown hair, the cuffs of his jeans muddy. Before him stood a creature unlike anything he'd ever seen. It had gray fur, a dirty-white cottontail, long ears, and a single eye in the center of its face.

Robbie stared. The thing stared back. Robbie moved to his left. The eye moved with him. He moved to the right, and the eye followed, like a tractor beam on an alien spaceship. Robbie took three steps closer and sat on his haunches. The animal lowered itself into a Sphynx-like position.

"My name's Robbie."

The creature squinched its nose.

"You look lonely."

The single eye continued to stare.

Robbie rocked his head from side to side looking at the thing from different angles. "I guess you're a rabbit."

The rabbit's eye blinked twice.

"I'll take that for a yes." Robbie rested mud-stained hands on his knees. "Are you lost?"

Blink.

"Do you have anyone to play with?"

Blink.

Robbie and the rabbit sat in silence, thinking. Robbie inhaled. He liked the smell of the forest after a rain.

"Do you have any friends?" Blink. "Me, neither." Robbie swatted at a mosquito and wiped his hand on his green t-shirt. "Maybe we can be friends."

Blink. Blink.

"I go to a special school. The kids there are friendly, but none of them live close to me; and the ones in my neighborhood don't like me. I guess they think I'm weird or something."

Blink. Blink.

"So, you know how I feel. I'm glad someone does." Robbie picked up a pebble, threw it as high as he could into the trees, and listened as it bounced from branch to branch. "I told my mom I'd like to go to a regular school. Then the other kids might not think I'm different. She said it wouldn't help." He watched a daddy long-legs crawl across the toe of his sneaker. "She may be right. Jillian and Tommy from next door don't play with me. Jillian told me through the fence their mom won't let them."

Blink. Blink.

"You, too? That's too bad."

Blink. Blink.

"Hey, maybe we could run away to the circus."

Blink. Blink.

Robbie's face turned serious. "Would your parents miss you?"

Blink.

"Mine would. I think." Robbie rubbed a finger across his cheek. "I could always write them letters."
The rabbit cocked its head.

"Oh right. You don't know what letters are. I'll show you sometime. I can even write one for you, if you like."

Robbie stood and spread his arms above his head. "I can see the big sign with bright red letters hanging at the entrance to the circus. 'Ladies and gentlemen, the Big Top circus is proud to present the one, the only, Blinky the one-eyed rabbit and his one-eyed friend, Robbie.' We'll be stars, Blinky. Big time stars."

Blink. Blink.

The Posse

2011-10-28T11:05:00.000-04:00

First published at Flash Jab Fiction (2011)

Every able-bodied male in the county volunteered to help find the Andrews boy. He was the second child to disappear in the past four months.

I neglected to tell the men two things: I'd already found his body, and I didn't have a suspect. I would have, though, when the killer tried to steer his group away from the gorge by the Franklin farm.

Ralph's Ruse

2011-10-28T10:58:00.000-04:00

First published at Eric's Hysterics (2011) - read editor interview

"Oh, my God. She's going to do it."

Ralph looked up from his jigsaw puzzle to see Millie peeking out the family room window. When the clap of thunder rattled the windows, he dropped the piece it'd taken him forever to find.

"Do what?" Ralph said. He located the elusive piece and locked it in place. After forty years of marriage, he knew how animated Millie could get over nothing.

Millie turned to him.

"Remember how Suzanne told us about Albert's wish to die on the golf course if he got too sick to take care of himself?"

"Yea. So what about it?"

"Well, he must be sicker than we thought. She's pushing him in a wheelchair onto the fifteenth fairway, and she's got something in her hand." Millie pointed at the window. "Get over here and see for yourself."

Ralph pushed himself to a standing position, knowing Millie would keep after him until he obeyed. He walked on stiff legs, bent at the waist. He'd sat too long working on the puzzle.

"Maybe they're just being frisky," Ralph said, as he approached the window. A light along the street opposite the green expanse provided enough illumination to see the two figures.

"Really, Ralph. At their age?"

"Yes, at our age," Ralph mouthed behind Millie's back.

Invigorated by the brief walk and the sight of his neighbors, Ralph reached out and pinched Millie's bottom. She slapped his hand away and gave him a look. Ralph stepped to one side and peered through the spotless glass.

"Don't stand right in front of the window. They'll see you," Millie said, pulling him halfway behind the curtain. "Oh my. Is Albert naked?"

Ralph squinted at the couple. "He must have shorts on. Can't really tell, though. It's kinda dark."

"I think he's naked," she said. He turned to see Millie looking through the binoculars she used for birding. "Oh my God, he is naked."

Ralph didn't know how she could tell, but he knew better than to argue. "How about Suzanne. Is she naked, too?"

"Ralph. That's disgusting," Millie said and gave him that look again.

"Geez, did you see that lightning?" Ralph said to change the subject. "She better turn him around and get inside."

As they watched, Suzanne bent down, first on the right side, and then the left.

"Looks like she's putting the brakes on," Ralph said.

Millie stood speechless, a hand over her mouth.

"And now she's putting something in his hand," Ralph said and moved closer to Millie. "It looks like a 2-iron. What the hell is she doing?"

"I don't know, but I think you should call the police."

"Wait. Let's see what happens." Ralph put his arm around Millie's waist.

"The storm is getting closer," Millie said, pointing to the western sky. She shifted her slender body into him. "We should do something."

"Wait," Ralph said. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

They watched Suzanne put the club in Albert's left hand and raise it as high as his arm would go. At that moment, a bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree. Suzanne fell to the ground and covered her head. Albert rose from his chair and yelled to the heavens, the club held high. Millie turned into Ralph's arms. This was better than he could have hoped for.

"OH MY GOD," Millie said. "He's...he's...huge."

"That is quite a boner." Albert lowered his hand to Millie's rear and gently rubbed up and down. He waited for Millie to say something. Instead, she swayed her body against his caress.

"Ralph."

"Yes, dear."

"I..." Millie put a hand on Ralph's chest and smiled. "Let's go upstairs."

Ralph put his arms around Millie, pulling her body to his, and gave a thumbs-up sign through the window. He didn't know if Suzanne and Albert could see him or not, but he'd be sure to tell them how well the skin-colored body suit and ten inch strap-on dildo had worked.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

2011-10-25T12:59:00.000-04:00

First published Flash Jab Fiction (2011)

Johnny and I sat in these windows everyday after school, like a pair of twin tabbies. We started when we were six, watching the other kids play stickball, and kickball, and flag football in the street. We couldn’t join them. Dad said we weren’t to go outside until he got home from work. He didn’t give us a reason, but we knew it was because mom got hit by a delivery truck while jaywalking and talking on her cellphone.

We ate snacks--Ritz crackers, or Wheat Thins, or dried fruit--as Mrs. Browning walked her yappy Yorkie, Lady Gladys. Mr. Jameson would wave on his way to the lobby to deliver the mail. Ratty Ron--that’s what we called him--played his taped-up saxophone on the corner. He wasn't very good, but a few folks dropped money into the hat lying uninterested by his feet.

We were on the seventh floor and the windows didn’t open, so we took turns having a conversation with each one of them. We agreed we didn’t like Mrs. Browning much, nor Lady Gladys. They both walked with their noses in the air and ignored everyone else, including us.

One Wednesday afternoon, when we were ten, a firetruck, it’s siren screaming for blocks, came to a halt across the street. Six firemen in black and yellow coats and hats--three in the cab and three on the back--jumped off the truck and rushed through the door, almost knocking over a girl who dad ordered us to stay away from because she was a hooker. There was smoke coming out of Mrs. Browning’s apartment. We noticed it, but didn’t call 911. We just waited to see what would happen. The only fireman wearing a white hat stared up at us. We moved away from the windows, afraid he might come and ask us questions. We didn’t want him to know what we knew.

Johnny brought some crack home from school on our sixteenth birthday. I told him he was crazy and that I wouldn't try it, but he called me a chicken. The walls started changing shapes, and then I saw the delivery truck that killed mom. I pushed it. Once. Twice. A third time. The truck crashed through the window. Shards of glass flew beside it in slow motion. I stuck my head outside, saw the truck lying on its back on the sidewalk, its legs bent at odd angles, and smiled. Dad would be proud of me.

The police came. They took me to the hospital and one of them waited in my room until I could talk to him. Dad was there, too. The policeman asked him to leave, but dad refused. That’s when the officer told us about Mrs. Browning seeing me push Johnny out the window.

“The bitch is lying,” I screamed. “She never liked us.”

Dad laid his hand on my arm. I continued to yell until a nurse came in and gave me a shot.

I got home about an hour ago. Dad had to go back to work, but he asked his sister, Aunt Jessie, to stay with me. She hadn't arrived by the time he left, but that was okay. I needed to decide how I was going to make Mrs. Browning tell the truth, and what I would do to her if she didn't. Her and Lady Gladys.

I asked Johnny, and he said a smoke bomb wouldn't do this time. It needed to be a real fire. I perched by the window and waited for Mrs. Browning and Lady Gladys to finish their late morning walk. Our new plan wouldn't be any fun if the two of them weren't home.

I Couldn't Do It

2011-10-24T13:39:00.000-04:00

First published at Apollo's Lyre (2011) - read editor interview

I stood over Virgil waiting for him to stop hyperventilating into my lunch bag. He didn't seem to mind the smell of the Swiss cheese and horseradish sandwich. Or maybe he was too inebriated to notice.

"It wasn't my fault," he said. His eyes were teary, but that could have been the booze. "This raccoon came running out of the shadows and distracted me."

I didn't know if the raccoon was real or not, but the beer puddling on the front passenger seat of Virgil's pickup was. Franklin Forbes' dead body lay a few feet away, his legs and arms splayed on the ground like a prone scarecrow. I'd noticed blood on the front of the grill as I pulled up to where Virgil's truck had collided with Franklin's bicycle. A piece of cloth that looked like the shirt Franklin wore hung from the tip of one of the cattle horns mounted on the front of Virgil's truck. The bicycle lay crippled a few feet away, its wheels twisted, spokes broken. It didn't take much in the way of brains to connect the dots.

"I guess it's just coincidence that the man you hated most in town ended up bouncing off the grill of your pickup," I said.

Everybody knew Virgil had a drinking problem and shouldn't be driving. Everyone except him and his Uncle Walter, the town justice.

I rolled the toothpick from one side of my mouth to the other and stared down at Virgil's slumped body. If Franklin was Virgil's biggest enemy, I was second on the list, ever since he hit my son Jacob and put him in a wheelchair.

Virgil squinted up at me. I'd purposely stood so the morning sun was at my back. Served the bastard right.

"Nasty cut you got on your arm," I said.

Blood dripped from his fingers, and his leg lay in an awkward position. He lifted his hand and his face paled.

"Jesus, you gotta call for help, Bob." His arm fell limp. "My phone's dead." He tried to stand up, but when he put weight on his leg, the bone snapped clean through. He screamed, grabbed his leg with both hands, and plopped back to the ground. I should have felt sorry for him. I didn't.

"Come on, Bob. Make the call."

I stayed where I was, thinking. If I didn't call for help, Virgil would probably bleed out and die, or starve to death. If I did call, and they saved his miserable life, odds were he'd kill someone else, maybe with his daddy's yacht next time, or at least that's what they called the sorry excuse for a boat they owned. I had to make a choice between the churchly thing to do and the fatherly thing. I looked from Virgil to Franklin to the bicycle and the cloth dangling from the horns.

I turned and walked away, ignoring his pleas, opened the door to my Camaro and climbed in. I squeezed the steering wheel with both hands and pounded my head against the leather covering. Jacob's face appeared when I closed my eyes. Remembering what he said about forgiving Virgil, how he'd seen the pain in the boy's eyes at the trial, I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. That bastard Virgil deserved to die, but not like this.

Make Them Stop

2011-10-24T13:33:00.000-04:00

First published in MicroHorror (2011)

Angelina knelt on the kitchen floor, the carving knife in her hand. The names her mother called her fought for a front row seat in Angelina’s brain—Lardo, Laggard, Lollygagger, as if her mother was one to talk. The fat slob. Angelina stared at the body, like an onlooker at a crime scene, waiting for her mother to awaken. A Beatles song played on the radio.

Mother Mary comes to me…

“She’s comin’ all right, bitch.” She’d never called her mother that, not to her face, not until now.

“Bitch!”

Angelina’s stomach tightened. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth.

“Twenty-six years you kept me in this house.” The words fell like tiny spit grenades on her mother’s bruised face. “Twenty-six years of tellin’ me how ugly I was, twenty-six years of makin’ your problems mine, twenty-six years of puttin’ me down. Well no more—bitch.”

Angelina sat on her heels, placed her hands over her ears, and rocked back and forth, waiting. She forced her breathing to slow. Her mother’s words echoed through Angelina’s brain. She lowered her hands to allow the words to escape. They didn’t. She rocked faster.

“You told me I was evil. I guess you was right. Did you see it in my eyes? Did you? Right before that skillet rearranged your ugly face—bitch?”

Angelina raised the knife over her head with both hands. Her lips parted, her eyes widened. The rage overtaking her, Angelina rocked back one last time before driving the knife into her mother’s forehead. She yanked the blade back and plunged it into the bloodied body—again, and again, and again—but her mother’s voice wouldn’t stop.

The Foolish Art Lover

2011-10-22T09:48:00.000-04:00

First published in 50 to 1 (2011)

He carries the Eiffel Tower in his pocket, the steeple a pointed reminder of his folly. They met over coffee on the Rue Bonaparte, a meeting between art connoisseur and museum curator. His lasting image is of her wiping mascara from her cheek, the result of him remembering his wife.

Her Last Diary Entry

2011-10-20T14:09:00.000-04:00

First published at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers (2011) - read editor interview

I wasn't aware of him until he sat next to me. He was the unshaven, fingerless glove type I'd expect to find at a bus station or sitting on the sidewalk with a paper cup at his feet--not someone I'd encounter at the motor vehicle office. I tightened the grip on my purse and looked around for another seat. There wasn't one.

The man coughed into his sleeve and asked if the author of the book I was reading was any good. I ignored him and wondered why he cared. He didn't look like the reading type. Was he hitting on me? He coughed and asked again.

"I like her," I replied, without taking my eyes from the page.

He coughed and said, "Good."

I guess he didn't get to talk much, because even though I only grunted in response to most of his forays into conversational topics, he kept on coughing and yakking. Our "discussion" remained like that until he brought up the mother who killed her children because they wouldn't stop crying. I glanced from side to side. No one was paying attention to him that I could tell. I let out a slow breath and turned an unread page, hoping the man would stop.

"How can a mother do that?" he said, looking at me for the first time.

Leave me alone.

He didn't.

I only half listened as he prattled on, until he mentioned a similar case from my hometown. That's when I heard him say my former name. My body tensed. I dropped the book. I leaned down to pick it up, my hand shaking, and tried to act like I hadn't heard him.

"That case remains unsolved," he said. "The woman's car was found at the bottom of a cliff along the Pacific Coast Highway, but the police never located a body." He leaned closer and spoke in a near whisper. "Some think she's dead, like her kids. Others are sure she's alive and remarried with new children, children who are in danger. Me? I don't have an opinion. Well, except if she is alive, she should turn herself in."

I remained quiet, staring at my book without seeing the words. Five minutes later, too frightened to listen any more, I left without taking the eye test. I sensed him following me out the door, but when I turned around, he was gone.

***

Back home, I take a sip of scotch, and stare at the distant tree tops. The gun I keep around, just in case, rests on the kitchen table. I'm tired of waiting for someone to recognize me after all these years, like the man at the DMV maybe. That's why I called the police and told them what I did. They're outside, threatening to ram the door in if I don't open it.

On the way home, I decided to turn myself in, but now I realize I fear going to jail more than I dread committing suicide. Good things can't happen to a woman in prison convicted of shooting her own children. The man at the motor vehicle office had that right. He was wrong about me remarrying and having more children.

I know. I'm babbling. I'm afraid of what will happen if I stop writing. God, my hand is shaking so much I can hardly write.

I'm sorry, Katie and Sam. I do love you and know I won't be going where you are. I've missed you every day, even the days I tried to forget, but now it's time for all of us to rest.

Do Unto Buzz

2011-10-17T15:09:00.000-04:00

First published at The Flash Fiction Offensive (2011)

I parked an outhouse in Buzz's front yard late last night and blew it up. I suppose I should feel bad, but I don't. In fact, I think I strained something trying not to laugh out loud as I watched the contents of the crapper spatter all over the front of Buzz's house.

Buzz'll know who did it. He ain't that dense. We been pulling stunts on each other since high school.

Martha, that's my wife, says I need to grow up. If I really want to get to her, I raise my arms and fly around the house like I'm Peter fucking Pan. If it's close to supper time, I simply duck my head and say, "He did it to me last." That argument usually gets me this pose from Martha, like Superman staring down some bad guy, but I keep trying.

Buzz's pranks almost always have something to do with my truck. He probably figures it's in such bad shape he can't do it much harm. Once he hid a hornet's nest under the seat. I never bailed out of anything as fast as I did that beat-up Ford. Ran into the neighbor's driveway and nearly got run over by Old Lady Moss heading to church. I couldn't believe the language coming outta her mouth.

Martha reminded me about the time her daddy caught us in the barn. Said I ran fast then, also. Too bad he didn't get there sooner. Maybe I wouldn't of had to marry Martha before she birthed Jesse.

I tried to talk to Buzz about stopping, but all he wanted to do was argue. Didn't surprise me. He can be a mean son of a bitch. Kinda like a billy goat left alone too long in a pasture.

The argument turned into a real scorcher of a fight, and the best time I had with Buzz. I got to use all my cuss words without Martha saying something.

We ended up on the ground rolling around and beating on each other. He was winning, until I landed a hard punch on his liver.

I know someday we'll have to stop, probably soon. Martha's right. It's time for me to grow up. Jesse is five and needs a better example of how to be a man. Martha deserves better for putting up with me, too.

Buzz is coming down the street. I can't see his face, but he's not using his happy walk. He's carrying one of those fancy squirt guns with the big tank. I suppose now would be good time to tell him I pulled my last prank, but I want to see what he does to my truck this time. Besides, I still got a stick of dynamite left. It'd be a shame to waste it on some old tree.

Two Down Zero to Go

2011-10-17T15:04:00.000-04:00

First published at Yellow Mama (2011) - read editor interview

I sat alone on a barstool at Mack’s waiting for the sudsy foam on my Guinness to settle. I hated beer with a head. Mack knew that, but he was pissed at me for turning his brother in for the bounty. It was a job to me, that was all. I liked Mack. I liked his brother, Jesse. I also liked paying the rent, drinking beer, and eating taco salads.

I'd known the twins since we played football together in high school. We were big for our ages and competed like it. Jesse had been the friendly one of his family until his third deployment to Iraq. He came home that last time an angry bastard. Too many good people died for nothing, he said. Later, Mack told me Jesse's best pal Javier had died in Jesse's arms after their vehicle ran over an IED. It made me feel good that all I brought home from the first Iraq war was a bum knee.

Jesse'd learned some nasty ways to kill people in the Marines and used one of them when he robbed the convenience store. He would've wrung the clerk's neck clean off his shoulders if his partner hadn't pulled Jesse away before he did any real damage. Not that I was there. My buddy in the police department told me about the heist. I liked to know what I was getting into, if possible, before I tried to apprehend a bail jumper, especially one as mean as Jesse.

I tracked Jesse to the junkyard across town and waited until darkness blanketed the neighborhood before climbing the chain-link fence. Using a penlight to make my way to the shack Jesse had called home since he'd gone into hiding, I sidled up to a grease-stained window and peeked inside. Jesse sat on a plastic chair in front of a TV, its rabbit ears held together by tape.

Jesse cheered on the Jets as I watched. "You boneheaded asshole," he said. "What made you think you could play quarterback?" He threw the bottle of beer he was working on toward the screen and missed.

I couldn't help but laugh. It was the same line he used on his brother when we lost the district championship. The only difference was this time he meant it.

The memory made me wonder what I was doing. Unlike the other criminals I'd tracked down, Jesse was a friend. After a few seconds--I wasn't one to over think a problem--I decided it didn't matter. I had to eat, and Jesse did the crime.

Shouldering the door open, I charged across the room. Jesse rose from his chair at the noise, and I thrust my fist into his face. A punch like that wouldn't have done much if Jesse was sober. The dozen or so empty bottles of Coors Light scattered on the floor told me he wasn't. I shackled Jesse and called the police. I would have taken him in myself, but he was too big for me to drag to my Explorer.

I stopped by Buck's Bail Bonds on my way to Mack's. I knew there wouldn't be any free drinks once I told Mack about his brother. I figured it'd be best if I told him.

Mack leaned forward, placed his hands on the bar, and looked at the floor when I told him about Jesse. Without saying a word, he grabbed a towel, wiped a spot on the bar, and moved away.

I considered finding a different job while watching Mack walk to the other end of the bar, but there wasn't much out there I could do. Some might say I wasn't much of a bounty hunter, but it paid enough for me. I wasn't about to buy a Mercedes or a fancy TV. They would ruin my image as a no good bum who hunted down his friends as if they weren't.

I finished my beer and left a ten on the bar to settle my tab. I wasn't sure Mack would touch it. It didn't bother me...well, not much. I was a loner. Except for Mack and Jesse, I didn't have any friends. Hadn't since high school. And now I was pretty sure I could cross them off the list.

We Made Them Proud

2011-10-14T10:47:00.000-04:00

First published in Muscadine Lines (2011) - read editor interview

I hadn't smiled since Soldier chased a squirrel into the street and was killed by a car. He was six. I was twelve. Mom told me it was her fault for leaving the gate open.

She snatched a coin from behind my ear and pulled a streamer from her mouth, like she did after Dad's funeral, to cheer me up. The first time I was surprised, but her tricks didn't make me smile--not a real smile, anyway.

Dad worked with dogs in his job. When he told me he was going to Iraq, I asked if I could have a dog. Mom wasn't keen on the idea, but I promised I'd take care of it. Dad and I went to the pound and found a small mutt he thought I could handle. I named him Soldier. He didn't respond to any commands, so Dad showed me how to train Soldier to sit and stay and walk on a leash. It was the last thing the three of us did together, except for attending Dad's funeral. He'd been in Iraq for eight months. Soldier sat next to me, military proud, his tongue hanging out in salute to the fallen, as they handed the flag to my mom. It was the first time I'd seen her cry.

The funeral was six months ago, and I never thought Mom might still be sad, until I heard her crying in her room last night. I realized then she needed someone to help her, too. I didn't know the kind of magic she did, but I had one of my own tricks to show her, one I hadn't performed since Dad came home in the box with a flag on it. I'd been thinking too much about myself and Dad and Soldier to be of any help to Mom. But I changed that a few minutes ago when I walked into the kitchen, gave her a big hug, and told her I loved her. She hugged me back, and I felt her heart beating. I looked out the window into the backyard and saw Dad, in his uniform, smiling, and Soldier saluting us with his tongue. I felt my face grow a real smile, and when I looked up, Mom was smiling, too.

Edward and Lily's First Date

2011-10-14T10:37:00.000-04:00

First published at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers (2011) - read editor interview

Edward eyed Lily from the bailiff’s desk as her long fingers captured the District Attorney's closing statement. Edward had nicknamed her Little Miss Echo, because, as the court reporter, the only time Lily spoke was to repeat witness testimony. She’d first appeared in Judge Franklin’s courtroom on Monday, wearing a pale green pantsuit -- one similar to what she had on now -- that complemented her short, red hair. For Edward, it was love at first sight. Seeing no ring on her finger, he’d asked her out the second day of the trial. She'd declined. Undaunted, Edward continued his pursuit and finally succeeded. He and Lily had a date for lunch as soon as the judge adjourned the morning session.

Edward placed a hand on Lily's back as they entered Le Petite Cafe, a broad smile on his face. The word little described her perfectly, Edward thought. She was no bigger than a sapling; and except for the scar bisecting her right eyebrow, her face was flawless.

“I'm so glad you decided to have lunch with me,” Edward said.

“I'm so glad you decided to have lunch with me,” Lily replied.

Edward smiled and placed the maroon napkin in his lap.

The waiter asked them what they'd like to drink.

“I'll have an iced tea, please,” Edward said.

“And you, ma'am?” the waiter asked.

“I'll have an iced tea, please.”

At first, Edward thought her funny; but when she ordered exactly the same lunch, he began to wonder if she knew about his nickname for her and was teasing him.

“Do you ever say anything original?” Edward continued to smile.

Lily unwrapped her napkin and spread it in her lap. She kept her eyes down and didn't respond.

“Come on. I know there's an original thought in that pretty little noggin.” He tapped his forehead.

The waiter delivered their drinks and a basket of breads.

Edward bounced his heels on the carpet and waited for a reply.

Lily bit into a slice of cornbread and sipped her tea. She patted her lips with the napkin and returned it to her lap.

Edward placed his hands on his thighs and squeezed. The smile vacated his face. Enough is enough. He leaned forward and spoke so the nearby diners wouldn't hear him.

"What's wrong? Don't bailiffs make enough money? Am I not handsome enough?"

Lily raised her eyes and hesitated before leaning closer. "Not handsome enough," she whispered.

Edward's face turned red. He threw his napkin on the table. Still leaning forward he said, "Why you little." He looked around and then back at Lily.

“You should be careful what you say.” He inched closer until their noses almost touched. “You're not the first one who's insulted me, and the others never did it again. I saw to that.”

“Really?” Lily stared back. "What'd you do, take them to a hotel room and strangle them?"

Edward's body tensed, more blood rushed to his head. He reached for Lily's arm. She jerked it away.

"Isn't that what you did to the others, Edward?"

"How...?" He sat up and snatched the napkin off the table. "I'm afraid the stress from the trial has gotten to you, my dear. Let's just finish lunch."

"I believe you're the one stressed out by all that rejection." Lily kept her eyes on Edward and reached into her jacket pocket. "You've been a person of interest ever since a maid found number three." She showed Edward a detective's shield and nodded toward the small counter. Edward looked up. A man wearing a gray suit and blue striped tie nonchalantly saluted. In her other hand, Lily held a recording device between her thumb and finger. "And unlike the first two, you left DNA samples. She must have really made you mad for you to get so careless."

"I know all the cops in this district," Edward said.

"I'm on loan from the 38th."

"What about the trial? Won't your little deception set the perp free?"

"I served as a court reporter for five years. The judge and both attorneys knew what was going on."

Edward grabbed Lily by the wrist with one hand and reached for the recorder with the other.

The detective rushed from the counter to the table and pulled Edward away.

“You bitch,” Edward said. “I'll get you for this.”

“I doubt it,” the partner said, “but she will see you in court.”

“Yea, see you in court,” Lily said, as the detective pushed Edward out of the restaurant.

Hail to the Chief

2011-10-13T13:38:00.000-04:00

First Published at The Short Humour Site (2010) - read editor interview

Boy, that was some inauguration. And one Betty May Halpern won’t ever forget.

She was at Gus’ with me and the boys watching the event on the big screen TV. Betty and I were at a table sharing a roast beef sandwich, chips and a pitcher of Budweiser, while we waited for the ceremony to start. The others sat at the bar and talked about how the new president was going to get their jobs back, and how he would kick all those crooked CEOs out on the street, and how he’d show them commies who was boss.

A big cheer went up when Obama stepped into view, especially from Cletus Boyer. He jumped off his stool, let out a good old yell and held his bottle of Old Milwaukee high in salute. He did it again once the president finished his oath. It was after the benediction, though, when Betty May ended up having to go to the hospital. You see, when that preacher told people to say “amen,’ Cletus jumped up and joined in. When the preacher said to do it again, Cletus lifted his beer and said it louder. The third time Cletus raised his arm, the lone working suspender strap let loose and his pants fell to the floor. When that happened, Betty May fainted and hit her head on the table pretty good.

I learned later, when I picked her up at the hospital, it wasn’t that Cletus wasn’t wearing any underwear that made her pass out. No she didn’t faint until after she thought she saw the face of Jesus on his right butt cheek.

I just left Betty May at her home after her second visit to the emergency room. We stopped at Ginnie’s Liquor Mart on the way home the first time so Betty May could buy some medicine to help her sleep. When I opened the store door, Cletus stepped out and gave her a big howdy and asked how she was feeling. Just the sight of him reminded Betty May of her earlier vision, and she dropped into my arms like a tree hit by lightning.

I gave Cletus twenty bucks and told him to go to Gus’ and stay there until I showed up. Yes sir, this was an inauguration for the ages. And before the next one, I’ll make sure to buy a TV so Betty May and I can watch it somewhere Cletus won’t be. We don’t need Jesus crashing the party again.

Frienemies

2011-10-13T13:14:00.000-04:00

First published in Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers (2010) - read editor interview

Crouched, two hands on my weapon, I scurried across the gravel path to where Cory waited. I rushed past him to a spot on the opposite end of the brick wall and stumbled into position. "Ouch."

"Hey, new kid. Quiet. They'll find us." Cory retrieved a small boring tool from his pouch and quickly rotated the handle, drilling a spy hole in the mortar. "Idiot," he mumbled.

"Sorry," I said, speaking in a loud whisper. "Some asshole left pieces of a broken beer bottle." I didn't normally use words like asshole, but Cory wasn't normal, or so I was told--after I agreed to be his partner. I pulled the shard from my palm and used my tongue for a pressure bandage.

We sat in silence. Listening. An awning of thick branches dammed most of the sun's rays from reaching us. The humid air thick with the scents of pine and decay assaulted my nose. I looked at Cory. His face was cloaked in anger. I didn't know much about him. Only what my friend, Frankie, had learned from Cory's brother. And a few rumors.

"Didn't you and Zach used to be friends?"

"Yeah." Cory's body was hard, stiff. His breathing shallow. He swallowed, and his Adam's Apple bounced in response.

"Frankie told me you two used to do everything together," I said to break the silence. "That he taught you how to do this."

"Yeah."

"I also heard he asked Becky out." I look at the ground. "Is that why you're pissed at him?"

"Hey. Either shut your mouth the fuck up, or I'll shut it the fuck up for you." He turned, and his eyes nailed me to the wall. "Clear?"

I began to understand why no one else would be his partner.

Snapping twigs and furtive voices sounded the alert. Cory waved. I took his position at the hole.

He lay prone, legs spread, and readied his gun. "Let me know when he's in range."

I watched Zach approach. He motioned to his left and right. His partners spread out. I thought we were supposed to work in pairs. Zach crept forward, bent over, moving his head from side to side. I couldn't see the others. I gripped my gun harder to stop my hands from shaking. It didn't help.

Three more paces, and he would be in range. I waited. Waited.

As Zach crossed the imaginary line, I tapped Cory on the leg. He sidled sideways until his gun and head emerged from behind the wall. He raised the barrel and sighted his target.

I jumped when the gun went off. Cory sneered and rose to his knees, unconcerned about the others. I peered through the hole and saw the blob of paint over Zach's heart. Yellow tentacles slithered down his shirt.

Cory raised his weapon over his head and laughed as paint exploded on his chest. Losing the game didn't matter to him. He'd accomplished his goal.

I pulled the gold cross from its hiding place under my shirt, rubbed it between my thumb and finger, and stared at Cory. What I saw frightened me. His clenched fist. The menacing black streaks across his cheeks. His smile, rigid, unforgiving. His eyes displayed a message--a message that said next time the gun would be real.

He Should Have Known Better

2011-10-13T13:09:00.000-04:00

First published in A Twist of Noir (2011) - read editor interview

She stepped into the lounge and spotted him sitting at the bar. The room was unremarkable and so was he. Three men and four women, wearing name tags, chatted at a table near the door. They watched as she sauntered across the room. She didn't care that the men ogled her ass, or that the women thought her hem too high and her bodice too low. She was here to show the man at the bar a night he wouldn't remember.

“Hi, Tom,” she said, sliding onto the stool to his right. “Allison. We met last week at the Townsend's.” She held out a limp hand.

“Yes, I remember.” He took her hand in both of his. “You know my wife.” He wasn't drunk, but his speech indicated he was getting there.

“I met Ellen a few weeks ago, and we became instant friends.”

The bartender took her order.

“Tonic water?” Tom said ordering another scotch. “Is that as strong as it gets?”

“For now.”

He'd forgotten about the others in the room. Long, athletic legs and stocking tops peeking out from under the little black dress captured his attention. Bloodshot eyes moved up her legs and paused to admire two tanned breasts before leveling to meet hers. They talked about his boring work, his boring life and how things should have been better for him. After his third round, he leaned forward and kissed the side of her neck. His hand wandered up her leg; she stopped him when it reached bare skin.

“Not here, Tommy.”

“Let's get a room.” His thick speech told her it was time.

“Yes, lets,” Allison said, caressing his thigh. “But you need to be careful. We wouldn't want Ellen to find out.”

“No, we wouldn't want that.”

“I'll wait by the elevator while you register.”

“Good idea,” he said, tottering off the stool.

As soon as they were in the suite, she excused herself to go to the bathroom. She took off her dress and hung it on the hook behind the door, then removed her thigh highs. She looked at her profile in the mirror and cupped her naked breasts. Dr. Watts had done a wonderful job. She faced the mirror and fluffed her blond curls. It was true what they said, she thought. Blondes do have more fun, especially if they have big boobs.

She refreshed her lipstick, looked at her profile once more, retrieved the weapon from her purse and opened the door.

Tom stood naked in front of her. “Wow, Allison, you are—“

The often-practiced knuckle thrust damaged his vocal chords and muted his open-mouthed scream. As he fell to his knees, Allison moved behind him. She used her legs to pin his arms to his sides, put the knife to his throat and placed a hand under his chin.

“I forgot to tell you something about Ellen and me.” She pressed the blade harder into his skin, but not enough to draw blood. “She hired me to find out who you were sleeping with and was despondent when I showed her pictures of you with three different women.”

Tom tried to get up, but she was stronger than he thought a woman could be. His yell for help never made it out of his mouth.

Allison lifted his chin, inched the blade across the soft skin of his neck and watched the blood trickle onto his chest.

“Don't worry, Tommy, I've had lots of practice at this. That cut won't kill you.” She leaned away and tilted his head back so she could see his eyes. The fear in them excited her.

“Your wife has quite an imagination. She wanted me to do all sorts of nasty things to you, but I assured her you would suffer in proportion to your level of infidelity. She can't wait to hear the details.”

Tommy's lips moved and this time muffled sounds escaped. He tried again to get free.

Allison lowered the knife to his chest and opened a second gash from nipple to nipple. “Somehow, I doubt this is what you had in mind while you were pawing me in the bar. Am I right, Tommy?”

Tommy's breathing slowed, and his body went limp.

She repositioned the knife at his neck and sliced a third gash, this one deeper. A gurgling noise caressed her ears as blood entered his throat. She held him to her breasts, waiting for the end, and chanted the same mantra she had with the others. “Why, Josh? Why did you cheat on me?”

Why I Should Avoid Married Women

2011-10-12T10:42:00.001-04:00

First published in A Twist of Noir (2010) - read editor interview

I awoke and saw a guy squeezed into the recliner across the room, his feet up. His right eyeball was fake, like an agate. The gun looked real.

"You know my wife, Betty," he said.

Betty was blonde and petite. This guy wasn't either of those. His voice came out higher pitched than I expected, given his build.

"How did you get in my apartment?" I asked.

He held up the gun.

I nodded. "Super let you in?"

"Yep," he said. He waived the gun in anticipation of my next question. "Said he didn't think the cops needed to know anything."

"Well, I'm afraid you have the wrong--."

Before I could finish, he tossed four glossy pictures across the room. One of them made it to the bed. I turned it over and saw Betty and me kissing outside a Red Lobster. My hand rested on her ass. My groin twitched at the thought of Betty naked on her hands and knees. I pulled the sheet up and looked at the guy, Rick, I think she said his name was, and smiled. His expression didn't change. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and lit one. I inhaled and blew the smoke out my nose. He wasn't impressed.

"Want one?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Hey, you a Raider fan?" I got up on one elbow. "I got a couple tickets you can have." I didn't lack for ideas on how to get out of this, but Rick's disinterest in my offer made me realize he wasn't the kind of guy who could be bribed. Or maybe he wasn't a Raider's fan.

We stared at each other for a while until he put his hand on the chair arm and pushed himself to a standing position. I opened my mouth, but decided to keep quiet. Not only did he have the gun, he outweighed me by at least one hundred and fifty pounds.

He took a step toward the bed.

"Okay, I'll stop seeing your wife. It was only six times."

He stopped. I could tell by the look on his face I'd told him more than he knew. He started toward the bed, again. I slid to the other side next to the wall. The only window in the room was at the bottom of the bed. I would've considered making a run for it, but my place was on the fourth floor of an old building with no fire escape.

He pointed the gun in my direction, stepped to the edge of the bed, and laid a hand on my shoulder.

I had to pee.

"Calm down. I ain't going to shoot you." His face tightened. "Unless you stop seeing Betty."

My mouth fell open.

"Hell, that woman's a pain in the ass." He stepped back. "You'll find out. The others did." He smiled for the first time. "Sneaking out with you has been the best thing happened this year."

"But what about the gun?"  

"This thing?" He raised the gun in front of his face. "Last couple of guys I spoke to got scared and dumped my Betty. I figure if I tell you I'll shoot you if you stop seeing her, you won't." He lowered the gun. "Least when she's with you I can watch the ballgame in peace."

He walked to the door, turned back to me, and held the gun up once more. "If I have to come back, next time it'll be loaded." He tapped the barrel to his forehead in salute and left.

I slouched against the wall wondering what the hell I was going to do now. If I wanted to be with a nagging woman, I would have stayed married to Clarice.

The Morning After

2011-10-12T10:35:00.000-04:00

First published at Rusty Typer (2010)

Karen bit into the fried egg sandwich, its taste as insipid as last night’s lover. The place had been a zoo, that she remembered. But why that loser? She was a nurse, graceful and caring. He preferred cowgirls, rough and raunchy. She gawked at her breakfast. Maybe ketchup would help.

Speechless at Last

2011-10-12T10:31:00.000-04:00

First published in FlashShot (2010)

The etude's salubrious sounds wafted from Carlo's cello filling the room with calm. Head tilted toward the ceiling, he allowed the music to soothe and relax his stressed muscles. Opposite him, his wife rested in a recliner, her eyes closed, her nagging stopped, her body sandwiched from head to toe in a bubble wrap uniform.

Antoine's Last Caper

2011-10-12T10:27:00.000-04:00

First published in Powder Burn Flash (2011)

Antoine watched his partner, T-Bone, saunter along Fourth Street as if nothing important was supposed to happen.

"Where you been?" Antoine checked his watch. "We were to meet in the alley thirty minutes ago."

"Momma needed help putting the groceries away."

Antoine threw his hands in the air and turned to look into the window of Ling's Buffet. The smell of garbage oozing from the alley two stores away mingled with the aroma of Thai Chicken and Orange Beef. Antoine inhaled and didn't notice a difference.

"Well now we got to improvise." Antoine removed his glasses and wiped sweat from his eyes.

"That illegal, too?" T-Bone asked.

"What? No, that ain't illegal, too. It means we got to change our plan."

T-Bone removed a cigarette from the pack of Marlboros tucked into the sleeve of his stained t-shirt and lit it. "Want one?" he said, offering the pack to Antoine.

"No way. Those things'll kill you."

"So will Maurice if you don't pay him what you owe him by tomorrow," T-Bone said. He blew a smoke ring and watched it drift away and dissolve.

Antoine scanned the people standing at the corner waiting for the light to change. Everyone one was either reading the paper or talking on a phone. Nobody appeared to be paying attention to them. Still, he dragged T-Bone into the alley.

"That's why we was robbing the jewelry store this morning before any customers showed up. Remember?" Antoine pointed at Finn's Jewelers nestled across the street between Javier's Bodega and Maggie's Alterations.

"Yeah, but I don't need the money no more." T-Bone nudged a brown paper bag with his shoe and winced at the damp blob underneath.

"What do you mean you don't need the money? You owe Maurice, too. We stole his pills together."

"I told momma what I did and how I owed Maurice a bunch of money. She had some stashed away for me to go to college."

"How much?"

"Don't know for sure. Enough to pay off Maurice. Not enough left over for college."

Antoine stared at his partner, his mouth open.

"Only thing is," T-Bone said, "Momma says I can't see you no more. Says I shouldn't be hanging around with guys your age." T-Bone looked toward the street. "Probably a good thing."

Antoine's eyes grew wider.

"Well what am I supposed to do now? It's not like my problem is reversible. Maurice is sure to escalate things."

"I came to tell you I can't talk to you no more." T-Bone's back remained toward Antoine. "Don't know what you're going to do about Maurice. Don't want to know. I learned my lesson." He put his hands in his pants pockets. "See you around, Antoine. Good luck with Maurice."

Antoine watched T-Bone leave the alley and disappear from view. He started to yell something when his cell phone chirped. "Hey, Maurice, just talking about you to T-Bone."

"Yeah, T-Bone told me."

"Sure I'll have the money tomorrow."

"Oh yeah, Maurice, I know what will happen if I don't."

"No, I can't walk far on two broken legs. Don't worry, man. I'll have the money."

"Right. Tomorrow at noon. See you then."

Antoine snapped the phone shut and looked across the street at the jewelers. He checked his watch. 9:43. Late, but what choice did he have? He took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders, and followed T-Bone's path out of the alley.

He joined the crowd at the corner and crossed the street at the next light change. He paused at the Open sign in the jeweler's window, reached under his denim jacket, and felt the revolver resting in its holster. It wasn't how he'd planned on doing it, but this way might be better. With any luck he'd be arrested. That would give him time to figure what to do about Maurice.

Next in Line

2011-10-11T19:25:00.000-04:00

First published in Weirdyear (2010) -- read editor interview

Gerald noticed the smell first. He rounded the corner and saw a woman with three chins sitting on the top step leading to the apartment building entrance. Sweat spotted her yellow dress. An overmatched, oriental fan struggled to cool her face.

"Hot, ain't it," she said, not looking at him.

"Worst ever," he replied.

She laughed. "How would you know? You're barely out of diapers."

Twenty-seven, he said to himself, not that it's any of your business.

"What's that terrible smell?" Gerald asked.

"What smell?"

"You don't smell anything?"

She stuck her nose in the air and inhaled. "Oh, that smell." She pointed to the stairs leading to the ground floor apartment.

Keeping his eyes on the woman, Gerald walked over to the railing, glanced down, and saw the contorted body.

"Is she. . .?"

"Dead?" the woman said. "Oh, yea. A doornail, for sure."

Gerald stepped back and put the back of his hand over his nose.

"Did you call the cops?"

"Not yet." The woman continued to fan herself.

"Are you going to?"

"Thought you might want to."

"Why's that?"

"Cops go easier on someone who admits to a crime."

Gerald's mouth fell open, and he gagged.

"I didn't kill anybody." He looked over the railing. "I don't even know that woman?"

"Can't see her face. How do you know you don't know her?"

"I...I just know."

"According to the note in her purse, you do." The woman swatted a bug from her face.

"What the hell are you talking about. I've never seen her before."

"Maybe she was a lot younger, and you forgot."

Gerald stood silent.

"Maybe," the woman continued, "you like to molest girls. Maybe it was too much for her to handle, even after five years, and she jumped off the roof of the building."

Gerald tilted his eyes toward the top of the building, then back to the body.

"Then it was suicide. The cops can't blame me."

"Could be, but there's still the note."

Gerald turned to run.

"Won't do you no good. I'll find you again."

Gerald took a step.

"Not a good idea, Gerald. You don't want to piss me off any more than I am."

"You're crazy."

"And evil." She turned and looked him in the face for the first time, her eyes red. "And not even the Devil likes men who do things to girls without their permission."

Gerald ran.

The woman nodded. Three men stepped out of an alley and grabbed Gerald.

"It's time for you to go, Gerald," the woman said. "And to a place worse than Hell."

She nodded again. The men dragged Gerald into the alley. The woman nodded a third time, and the girl climbed the steps, mouthed a 'thank you,' and scurried away.

An hour later Gerald's screams died, as did he.

The woman hoisted herself from the steps and headed south on Lilith Street. She was late for her appointment with Father Raymond.

What's a Father to Do?

2011-10-11T19:21:00.000-04:00

First published in Flash Fiction Offensive (2010)

Pervis leaned down and scowled at his son, Tommy Joe, through the open window of the '74 Barracuda.

“Listen up for a change, boy,” Pervis said. “This is important. If the ‘shine don't get to the buyer today, we're gonna lose the house.”

Pervis grabbed Tommy by the shoulder.

“Look at me. Now remember. You go down to Sutter’s Creek, take a left on highway 59, and head toward the Miller farm. If the police spot you, cut across the corn field and turn left onto County Road 27. You got that?” Pervis could tell by the look on Tommy Joe’s face the boy hadn’t heard a thing. He was more interested in the dashboard of the ’74 classic.

“Pay attention, dang it.” Pervis cuffed the shaggy head of his only son. “You’re seventeen. It’s time you start helping out more, but you got to listen to me, you hear?” Pervis felt like he was talking to a pile of dead branches.

“Now this here is a specially designed automobile,” he said, pointing to a toggle switch on the dash above the radio. “That there's connected to the booster. If anybody catches up to you, just flip the switch an' hold on. No, don’t flip it now.” Pervis loved his son, but wondered sometimes if the boy had manure for brains.

“This handle by the seat is for using if you know the police is gonna catch you. Pull it back to open the tank in the trunk holding the 'shine . And see that pack of cigarettes on the passenger seat?" Pervis pointed to the Marlboro box. "If you have to dump the load, light one before you pull the lever, then throw it out the window when the dumping’s done. The police can’t hardly arrest you if the evidence is burnt up.” Pervis retrieved a baggie from his coveralls' pocket and tucked a wad of tobacco in his cheek. He could tell he was going too fast.

“Okay then. Once you get to George’s Hollow, you go straight to Uncle Frank’s. He’ll take care of transferring the 'shine to another vehicle and getting it into Kentucky."

Pervis paused. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake, but what choice did he have. He couldn't do it anymore, not with the arthritis in his knees, and his regular driver, Cletus, was in jail for driving drunk.

“You got a full tank of gas, plus the nitrogen booster. The tires are balding a little, so be careful on those dirt roads. I don’t want you running into some big old oak out in the middle of nowhere. Don’t play the radio too loud. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself. And don’t stop at Anna May’s to show off. You can do that on the way back. Are you hearing me?”

Tommy looked out the window, a smile on his face, and said, "Can I go now?"

“I know this is exciting for you, getting to drive the 'Cuda and all, but you got to take this serious. You’re the only chance we have of saving the house.”

Pervis placed his hands on the roof and waited until Tommy Joe started the car. “God go with you, son. Your mother and me are relying on you.”

Pervis jumped back as Tommy Joe stomped on the gas pedal. The ‘Cuda fishtailed along the rutted driveway, its tires spitting pebbles into the air. Pervis took off his cap and ran his hand through thinning hair. He shook his head and slapped the cap against his leg before heading toward the house. It was time to tell his wife to start packing.

Sharing a Ride on a Rainy Morning

2011-10-11T19:17:00.000-04:00

First published in Dark Valentine Magazine (2010)

The sound of tires creeping over gravel alerted Cassidy to the approaching vehicle. A fender edged past followed by a tinted window on its way into hiding. She knew the car. There was only one black BMW in town. Cassidy kept walking until the driver spoke.

“Cassidy Parker, right? Hop in. You’re getting soaked.”

The car and Cassidy came to a halt. She bent down and placed a hand on the door frame. Mrs. Allenby sat torso forward, twisted, her head tilted back. The pose reminded Cassidy of the yoga DVD in her backpack.

“Hi, Mrs. Allenby," Cassidy said, forcing a smile. "I’m fine, really.”

“Nonsense, you’ll catch a cold dressed like that. Get in.” Mrs. Allenby patted the leather seat. “I know it's not raining hard now, but there's a chill. It's the kind of weather that fools you." She looked at the hand resting on the door frame. "Is that blood?”

Cassidy looked at the back of her hand, lifted it to her lips, and silently cursed herself for being so careless. “I scratched it on a nail sticking out of the neighbor’s fence."

“You need to have that wound checked by a doctor? It could get infected."

Cassidy lowered the hand to her side. She felt her heart racing. Her hands shook, but not from the cold. This wasn't part of the plan.

“It’s just a scratch. Besides, my dad thinks doctors are quacks.”

The woman and Cassidy locked eyes for a moment before Mrs. Allenby waved Cassidy into the car. “Come on. I’ll see you get home.”

“But I’ll get the seat wet.”

Mrs. Allenby tossed a leather briefcase into the backseat between two boxes. “Nonsense. Water can’t hurt them.” She patted the seat again, harder this time.

Cassidy glanced toward the town where Jared waited. He would be angry if he saw her with someone. Not knowing what else to do, she settled into the seat and placed the backpack on her lap. Her eyes scanned the dashboard. Unlike her dad’s pickup, it was dust free and shiny. There were no empty beer bottles on the floor, and the ashtray held only coins. A crucifix and air freshener hung from the rear view mirror. She heard the sound of a small motor and watched the passenger window return to its closed position, her lower lip tucked between her teeth.

“Sorry about the mess.” Mrs. Allenby put the car in gear and rolled onto the highway. “I usually keep stuff in the trunk, but I hope to finalize three contracts today, and the back is full of For Sale signs.”

Cassidy spied a leaf on the floor and toed it through an imaginary maze. The car being immaculate except for the leaf, Cassidy assumed it came off her shoe.

“I need to pick up a prescription, then I’ll take you home.”

A hint of a smile appeared on Cassidy’s face when a large insect splatted against the windshield, and a wiper smeared the glass with bug body parts.

“It’s been what, two, three years since I helped your parents purchase the house on Peach View? They got quite a deal.”

“Three,” Cassidy said, before her dad lost his job and the drinking became a problem. She fidgeted with the backpack’s buckle, opening and closing it, and watched a herd of cows laze in the misty rain.

“Let’s see. That means you’re seventeen now. Still a straight-A student?”

“I’ll be eighteen in two months.”

“Have any plans for college? An education is very important these days.”

Cassidy saw the pharmacy up ahead.

“Would you mind parking around back?” Cassidy asked. “Billy Jacobs has been stalking me. I don’t want him to see us.” She wasn’t used to lying and was surprised at how easy it was.

“You poor thing. Have you reported him to the police?”

“Not yet.”

The last people Cassidy wanted to talk to were the police. She sat in silence as Mrs. Allenby maneuvered the car between two SUVs. Cassidy had never considered herself the killing type, but had learned today she’d been wrong. Given the right circumstances, anybody could kill. Jared had been right. The only way for them to be together was to get rid of her parents. She took a breath to calm herself. It didn't help. She needed more time. They needed more time. It was too soon for the police to find her parents. Why had this woman interfered? Damn her. Cassidy couldn't let this woman ruin everything. Not now.

Mrs. Allenby shifted into park at the same time Cassidy reached into the backpack and clutched the bloody knife handle. She gritted her teeth and turned to the woman. There was no other choice. Still, Cassidy regretted having to mess up such a nice car.

There's a Rule for That

2011-10-11T19:16:00.000-04:00

First published at Flash Fiction Offensive (2010)

Rule: As that singer said, you gotta know when to hold 'em.

Chester tromped down the street toward me. I could see he wasn't happy, even from a distance. I smiled from under the beach umbrella planted in the ankle-high grass of my front yard and saluted him with an O'Doul's. He gave me the double finger. I guess he found out I was living with his ex. The problem was Chester didn't consider Melanie his ex. My brother had called to warn me Chester was back in town and on his way to my place. That's why there was a revolver resting next to my leg.

Rule: Obey all restraining orders.

I didn't know much about Chester other than he'd spent two years in prison for assaulting Melanie, and she was still afraid of him. I could tell by the way he pounded his feet into the sidewalk he wan't interested in talking. I wasn't the fighting kind, but I wasn't about to run neither. He needed to realize there were rules, and he hadn't followed them. One important one was to stay away from Melanie, who was inside hiding in the laundry room.

Rule: Sometimes it's okay to ask for help.

Now, I realized there were some rules that didn't make much sense and some that were plain stupid; but rules were rules, as my daddy always said. We couldn't ignore them because we didn't agree with them. Well, maybe some of the stupid ones. Anyway, Chester had violated every rule of being a good husband and a loving man, and someone needed to tell him so. As he stepped onto my yard, I wondered if it really had to be me.

Rule: Compromise whenever possible.

Panting, sweat dripping from his chin, his t-shirt soaked, his eyes cold in the heat, Chester headed my way. I thought about getting up, but decided that would only enrage him more. Instead, I gripped the pistol and waited.

Rule: Never try to choke a man who's holding a gun.

He Lost at Love

2011-10-11T19:12:00.000-04:00

First published at 50 to 1 (2010)

A sorry excuse for a rooster tail dogged me as I surfed toward the beach. Discordant melodies commingled with inconsolable thoughts. She lay under an umbrella wearing the emerald bikini I'd given her. He lay next to her, their legs touching. I sank into the water wishing it was deeper.

Lonely is the Hunter

2011-10-11T13:40:00.000-04:00

First published in Long Story Short (2011)

Evie sat on a metal chair in a cramped office sequestered in a section of the mall she never knew existed and waited for the young man who escorted her there to return. She squinted at the corkboard fastened to the opposite wall. On it hung discolored instructions explaining what to do in case of a fire, a top ten list, its edges rolled inward, of ways to improve customer relations, and an employee of the month citation for someone named Gordon. Evie hooked the cuff of her sweater with arthritic fingers, pulled it back and glanced at her watch.

She turned at the sound of voices and scrutinized the young man as he entered the room, followed by an older woman. He wore black pants, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a red, white and blue striped tie, the knot loose around his neck. The woman, wearing a navy pantsuit and white blouse, leaned against a file cabinet, her arms crossed over her chest like a mobster in an Edward G. Robinson movie. The man sat next to Evie and placed a plastic shopping bag on the desk.

“Hello, Mrs. McIntyre. My name is Gordon Fisher, and this is Mary Clark.”

“Oh, please, call me Evie,” Holding her pocketbook secure, Evie turned and faced her new friend, Gordon.

“Okay, Evie --”

“That’s a beautiful wedding ring, Gordon. Do you have any children?” She reached out to touch the ring. He moved his hand away.

“Three, two boys and a girl,” he said. “Now about this bag --”

“Do they live at home with you?” Evie asked.

“For now. My oldest boy goes to college next fall. He’s been accepted to Dartmouth. The wife and I want him to go someplace closer.”

“That would be nice. It’s good to keep a family together.” She lowered her head and spoke to her purse. “My son’s company closed the local office and transferred him to Cleveland last month.” She looked at the woman and continued. “He hasn’t called me once. Isn’t that terrible, Mary?”

Mary remained silent, unmoving, unfriendly. Evie decided Mary would make a terrible daughter.

“He made me sell my home, moved me into an apartment because it was safer, and then went off to Ohio.” She looked from Gordon to Mary and back. “I don’t get to see my grandchildren any more, and my friends are either dead or too far away for me to visit.” She opened her pocketbook, took out a rumpled handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Sorry,” she said.

“I’m sorry, too, Mrs… Evie.” Gordon removed an item from the bag and put it on the desk. “Now, about this wig--”

“It’s pretty, isn’t it,” Evie said. “I used to have auburn hair.” She patted a strand of grey curls. “I thought about dying mine. Do you think I should, Gordon?”

“I…” He looked at Mary, who rolled her eyes. “Evie, we have pictures of you taking this wig off a mannequin and putting it in this shopping bag. You know you shouldn’t do that, don’t you?”

“Oh, you must have me confused with someone else, Gordon.” She smiled in an effort to hide her nervousness.

He opened a folder, removed a photograph and placed it on the desk in front of Evie.

“Well...um…” Evie looked up at Gordon. “I really need to get going. The bus that takes me back to my apartment will be here soon. If I miss it, I don’t have any way to get home.”

“Evie.” Gordon put his hand on hers. “This isn’t the first time, is it.”

Evie clutched her purse and remembered the lipstick inside.

“If I catch you stealing again, I’ll have to ban you from the store. You don’t want that, do you?”

Evie shook her head.

“Good. I’d hate to have that happen, too.” He squeezed Evie’s hands and smiled. She reminded Gordon of his grandmother. He made a mental note to visit her soon. “Mary will walk you out to the bus stop.”

Evie rocked out of the chair and headed toward the door.

“Oh, and Evie” Gordon said.

She turned.

“Anytime you need someone to talk to, come and find me. Maybe we could eat lunch together.”

Evie smiled and stood a little taller. “I’d like that, Gordon.” She looked at Mary. “You could join us too, if you like, dear. You look like you could use a friend.”

Love Forfeited

2011-10-11T13:38:00.000-04:00

First published in Litsnack (2010) - read editor interview
(three stories using the words wistful, mistake, scarf, wince, and expression)

His eyes lost interest when she entered the kitchen, her wistful expression a reminder of an indiscretion, a mistake she'd called it. She began to speak, just his name. Joe. He raised a hand. Her grin evaporated. In silence, she placed a scarf over her head, knotted it under her chin, and quietly left. His heart winced.

***

She winced when he caught her staring at him from across the cafe. Her face reddened. An expression of guilt? Hands in her lap, she wistfully rotated the diamond. She wondered which was the mistake, thinking about being with a stranger, or remaining in a loveless marriage. She paid the bill, flipped her scarf around her neck, and left without a word. Her husband would be worried.

.***

She had loved him since before she knew him. In the motel, lying next to his spent body, a satisfied smile on his face, his wrists captured by silk scarves, she opened the drawer and reached inside. His mistake was to take her for granted. She raised up and placed a wistful kiss on his lips. He winced at the touch of the knife's point. His expression changed as the blade pierced his chest. So did hers.

He Will Pay

2011-10-11T13:32:00.000-04:00

First published in Flash Shot (2010)

In public for the first time since the botched surgery that left her with a cabbage patch face, Alma held a blue, yellow, and red umbrella over her head and spun it like a pinwheel to distract all but the most insipid from her scars. Strolling into the parking lot, her back to the street, she lowered the umbrella and approached the maroon Jaguar, a short, pointed screwdriver close to her side.

Young Love

2011-10-11T13:30:00.000-04:00

First published in Perpetual Magazine (2010)

Sharon stepped into the alleyway behind Metzer’s Hardware, turned an ear toward the street and listened for any sounds of trouble. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Barry perched on the first floor balcony outside his mother’s apartment. She clutched the canvas bag with the day’s receipts to her chest and took a step toward the street.

“Evening, Sharon.”

“Hey, Barry.” She looked up. Seeing him reminded her of the five dates they’d gone on in tenth grade and the crush she’d had on him. She also recalled his trial and how he claimed it was an accident the gun went off and shot the convenience store clerk.

“How’s your mom?” Sharon said, confused by her willingness to stay.

Barry frowned at the question and looked into the apartment.

“‘Bout the same.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Spends most of her day on the sofa sleepin’, drinkin’ beer, and bitchin’.” He stopped and blew a wad of snot from his right nostril.

Sharon winced. She’d watched her son do the same disgusting thing at his little league game last Saturday.

“Fell asleep on Tuesday with one of them putrid cigars in her mouth. Nearly burned the place down.” He cleared the other nostril.

“Too bad. I remember her as being a nice lady.” A neon light on the bodega across the street flashed. She observed Barry’s bare feet sticking out of baggy jeans.

“It’s been a long time”.

“Fifteen years,” he said. “Coulda been longer.” He rocked forward. “Junior Prom.”

“What?” Sharon said. “Oh right.” It was the last time she’d seen him in person before tonight. He’d robbed the store the next day. “You went with Judy Smithson.”

“Wanted to go with you,” Barry said to his toes.

A shiver raced down Sharon’s spine. She wanted to ask him why he never asked her out again. Instead, she said, “How long do you plan on staying with your mom?” She wondered if he heard the same nervousness in her voice she did.

“Parole is for three years.” He grabbed an iron bar in each hand. “Can’t stay that long, though. Need to get some money and leave.”

Sharon nodded and tightened her grip on the canvas bag.

The sign flashed, and she saw the desperation in his eyes.

“Your mom came in the store a couple years after you left and told me you earned your GED.” Sharon said, her hands shaking.

“Learned I was good at fixing things, too.” He leaned back against the window sash. “Don’t matter. Nobody’s gonna hire a yardbird.”

Silence filled the alley.

“Well, I’ve got to get going.” Sharon said.

“See you tomorrow?” Barry asked.

“Tomorrow’s my day off,” she said and turned to leave.

“Sharon.”

She paused and kept her back to him. “Yes, Barry?”

“Maybe we could get some coffee sometime.”

Sharon stood motionless.

“Probably not a good idea, you being married and all,” Barry said when she didn’t reply.

Sharon chased the what-might-have-been thoughts from her mind, and in a soft voice said, “Probably not.”

The Clarinet

2011-10-11T13:23:00.000-04:00

First published in Mirror Magazine Online (2010)

A man sits on the beach playing a dirge on his clarinet. His bare toes tap sand as white as new-fallen snow. A dateless palm mourns in rhythm with notes that sway on carefree waves. The smells of salt air and dead fish join the procession.

He tilts his head back and watches wispy clouds ride a westward current across winter’s evening sky, as if pursued by a posse. The music stops.

The man holds the instrument at arm’s length and stares at it, tilting his head first to the right, then the left, and then back to center. He returns the instrument to his mouth, and the plaintive music continues. He performs this routine twice more. Each time the music resumes it is louder and angrier than before, yet the melody does not change.

Finally, he springs to his feet and hurls the clarinet into the ocean. It disappears, resurfaces—its keys glistening in the moonlight—and floats out to sea, waving goodbye as it moves from one wave to the next. The man brushes the sand from his shorts, pivots in place like a soldier on parade, and tromps in the soft sand toward weathered beach houses. He’s whistling a happy tune. There’s a smile on his face.

The Accident

2011-10-11T13:18:00.000-04:00

Published at Everyday Weirdness (2010)

Adam rotated his head toward the passenger seat where Karen, his sister-in-law, sat. Her eyes glazed over, her face red and swollen, she mumbled something he couldn't understand. Twin airbags lay like melted marshmallows in their laps. Steam rose from the front of her car, its hood crumpled into a sneer, the victim of a patch of ice and an ill-placed oak.

Adam forced the door open and rocked once, twice, three times out of the Mustang's bucket seat. He wobbled around the back of the vehicle, checked the trunk to make sure it was closed, and inched his way along the riverbank to the passenger door.

"Come on, Karen. We've gotta get out of here." He yanked the door open and slipped his arms around Karen. He guided her behind the car, lowered her to the ground, and propped her against a tree. "I'll be right back."

He stumbled to the driver's door and reached inside. The trunk lid groaned and yawned open, as if awakened from a sound sleep. Adam hauled his brother's body from the trunk and hoisted it over his shoulder. He placed the body in the driver's seat and slammed its head against the steering wheel.

"What are you doing?" Karen asked.

"Fixing things," Adam replied. He looked up and saw Karen hunched over, holding her head with both hands. He rubbed a section of the airbag across his brother's face but couldn't match the burn marks on Karen's. He hoped the small-town police wouldn't notice.

"Who's in the car?" Karen asked.

"Charlie."

Karen squinted at Adam, her face a portrait of confusion.

"It's perfect. The police will think he was driving when the car hit the ice."

Karen opened her mouth, but Adam spoke first.

"You said if he wasn't around we could be together. Right?"

Karen stood, her eyes open as wide as her mouth.

"Right?"

Childhood Memories

2011-10-11T13:12:00.000-04:00

First published in Bartleby Snopes (2010) - read editor interview

Loretta clutched Jacob's arm as she studied the flames gorging themselves on their family's farmhouse. The smell of melting plastic, the fireworks display created by sparks rising from the inferno, the sounds of wood sizzling and fuel tanks bursting filled the air. The house would be gone before the firemen arrived.

She wiped a tear from her cheek and gazed at her brother. His face stoic, his back stiff, as if someone had rammed a shovel handle down his shirt, Jacob watched in silence. "Why?" Loretta asked.

When Jacob didn't respond, she returned her attention to the house and noticed two children playing. Jacob pushed her on a tire swing, while she squealed through giggles, "Stop, Jacob, it's too high." Jacob laughed and pushed harder. Her eyes blurred, and the scene shifted to the day they climbed a ladder to the roof of the long shed to escape the aliens. When one appeared near the ladder, Jacob peeked over the side to see if it was safe to jump. He screeched and stood up. A swarm of hornets blanketed his face. She and Jacob leapt off the roof and raced home. The next day, they laughed about it and pinkie-swore they would be victorious next time.

Loretta's focus shifted to four people playing in their backyard. She smiled at the memory of the evening baseball game when Jacob hit a popup. Her mother tripped chasing the ball and fell face first into a muddy patch. "Hey, mom," Jacob said, "I thought we weren't supposed to play in the mud." Loretta's mother wiped a brown blob from her cheek and raced after the howling boy. When she caught him, she lifted Jacob to her waist and spun him around like a ride at a carnival. Loretta and her father stood by, his arm around her shoulders, and laughed until their stomachs ached.

Years later, after their mother died, when Loretta was seventeen and Jacob fifteen, Loretta heard the rumors about her dad. How he was lazy, selfish, and unfit to be a husband. How his wife, "the poor woman," was beaten, and raped, and made to work in the fields like an indentured servant. The town folk had their proof when yesterday, on the day of their father's funeral, a single dark cloud hovered over the casket as Loretta said her goodbyes. Jacob stood next to her, silent, like now.

Loretta knew none of it was true. She remembered hearing muffled sounds coming from her parents' bedroom on Saturday nights and once in a while during the week, too. The sounds of two people in love. When the noises resumed after her mother's funeral, Loretta decided it was the new TV her dad had purchased for his bedroom.

She jumped when Jacob spoke. "Sorry, did you say something?" she asked.

"I set the house on fire because of what he did to me." For the fist time since the flames began their ravenous journey, Jacob looked her in the eye. "I wish he was burning, too."

They stood in the silent smoke, her fingers entwined with his, a hand on his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, like two figurines on a mantel. She closed her eyes as the last wall fell and squeezed Jacob's hand. She opened her mouth but couldn't say the words Jacob needed to hear. The words that would validate everything she'd lied to herself about for too long.

Harold Brewster, Literary Critic

2011-10-11T13:07:00.000-04:00

Published at Powder Burn Flash (2010)

Oliver sipped his tea and peered through the diner window. Two men in short blue jackets, the letters JSPD on the back, prepared to leave the alley. Chalk marks and blood stains denoted the spot where Harold Brewster's body had been found.

Oliver nodded in agreement with those around him who mumbled about what a wretched man Brewster had been and how he'd ruined many careers. Oliver had received his share of caustic reviews from the man, but unlike the others, he welcomed them. For every time Harold Brewster panned one of Oliver's novels, the local bookstore's stock sold out within days.

But Harold had gone too far this time.

Oliver's eyes darted around the room to make sure no one was watching. He removed the knife he'd cleaned in the diner's ill-kept restroom from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and swapped it with the identical one on the table. Oliver figured that even if someone thought to look in the diner for the murder weapon, the knife would have been washed a number of times by then.

You got what you deserved, you old bastard, Oliver thought. How dare you give one of my books a positive review.

Together At Last

2011-10-11T13:04:00.001-04:00

First published in Thrillers, Killers, 'n Chillers - read editor interview

Glenda turned from the window, placed the mug on the counter, and rubbed damp palms down the front of her brown slacks.

“So you’re my son.” She slid onto a cushioned stool, swiveled slender legs under the glass-topped table, and stared at the stranger. Black bangs loomed over his dark eyes. The head of a green dragon with red eyes peeked out from the sleeve of the young man's black t-shirt.

“According to the adoption agency.”

“I thought those records were sealed.” Glenda, back stiff, held his eyes with hers.

“When your adoptive parents are rich, you can do lots of things.”

“You’re rich? Dressed like that? And when was the last time you got a haircut?"

“You sound just like my mother.” Jonathan's gaze lowered to his lap where his hands lay motionless. “She didn’t approve either.”

Glenda swiveled out of the chair and retrieved a bottle of Dewars from the cupboard. Her eyes widened when his last statement sunk in. She returned to the table. “Didn’t? Is she—?”

“They died in a car accident five months ago.” He looked up. “Two days after I learned about you, as a matter of fact.”

“I’m sorry.” Glenda rose and retrieved another glass from a stained dish rack. Was it an accident? She chased the words from her mind. “So I guess I know why you’re here.”

“To see you, mother.”

“Don’t call me that.” She set the glass down and offered him the Dewars.

“No thanks.”

“No thanks?” She put a hand on her hip. “You don’t drink?” He shook his head.

They sat in silence. Glenda poured two fingers of amber liquid into the glass and swallowed it in one gulp. She had to think. This intruder could ruin everything if he found out the truth.

“My adoptive parents left me well-off. I thought I—”

“You thought you could buy my love?" She forced rage into her words. "I don’t need your money. I have plenty of my own.” Her eyes narrowed. She placed her palms on the table and leaned forward. “And anyway, how do I know you’re telling the truth. You could be after my money.”

They stared at each other as silence returned to the room.

“I need to show you something.” Glenda rose, stepped through the door and down two steps into the back yard. Jonathan followed as she led him into a forest of oak and pine trees. Forty paces into the woods she stopped and pointed.

Jonathan dragged his eyes from the aged mound of dirt to Glenda’s face. “It’s your mother’s grave--my half-sister--the lucky one who married a plastic surgeon.” Those were the last words Jonathan heard.

The last thing he saw was the unyielding shovel nanoseconds before it slammed into his face.

My Summer Vacation: An Essay for Mrs. Baker’s 9th Grade English Class By Jeremy Fitzhugh

2011-10-11T12:58:00.000-04:00

Published by Dew on the Kudzu (2010) - read editor interview

My summer vacation started at a Boy Scout Roundup. Kids from all over the state attended. The first day, Frankie Jacobs decided to show Billy Maine, both members of my troop, how to throw a hatchet. I came out of my tent and stood up as the blade whizzed by my head and buried itself in a tree. Unfortunately, the rope holding up one end of my tent wasn’t as lucky as my head. The next day we had a pig roast. I could smell them cooking all day. By dinner time, everyone was ready but the pigs.

Eight days after I got home, I got the measles. My little brother came down with them the next week. His were worse than mine. Served him right for forgetting to feed my goldfish while I was at camp. I wasn’t mad the fish died. I was upset, because I didn’t get to watch Sharkey circle a few laps of the toilet before going to fish heaven.

I saw Frankie Jacobs in the park one day. I rode my bike to where he was throwing a knife into the ground and yelled at him for almost killing me. He charged at me, and we fought, until he pinned me spread-eagle on the ground and told me he’d knee me you-know-where if I tried to get up. I stayed very still, only breathing when I had to, until he got bored and left.

Mom, dad, my brother and me spent a week in Florida. Disney World would have been fun if my brother hadn’t thrown up (twice) and gotten us kicked off a couple of rides. Mom was so embarrassed she made us go back to the motel. The next day we went to Daytona Beach. I hung out with some guys I met and got one of the worst sunburns mom had ever seen. She’d forgotten the sunscreen.

I learned a lot during summer vacation. I learned I don’t like to eat raw pork. I learned that people are like snowflakes. No two get the same disease the same way. I learned that Frankie Jacobs is stronger than me and a little crazy. I learned the importance of not staying on the beach all day. I learned what a thong bikini is, and that my mom thinks my dad shouldn’t smile when a girl walks by wearing one. And I learned that no matter how bad my summer vacation is, it’s still better than writing a dumb essay.

Anyway, I hope you like my essay, and that you had as much fun this summer as I did.

An Old Friend

2011-10-11T12:53:00.000-04:00

First published in Blink Ink (2010) - read editor interview

Caleb stands at the end of the wharf knowing he’ll never be cured, his immune system too weak to repel the disease’s progression. He inhales as deeply as his lungs allow, turns, and shuffles toward home. This place has rejuvenated him many times in the past. It won’t be where he dies.

The Mechanic

2011-10-11T12:49:00.000-04:00

First published in 50 to 1 (2010)

Clara fixed things, personal things. She stood outside the atrium of the Bellagio with the others, in pajamas, the pealing alarm assaulting her ears. The firemen disembarked, lumbered into the hotel. The story in room 1224 one she wouldn’t tell. Her husband. The hooker. An itch he shouldn’t have scratched.

She Wants Him Dead

2011-10-11T12:45:00.000-04:00

First published in Word Catalyst (2010)

I died in a car crash four hours ago. Fortunately, it was my children’s day with their father. The other driver was drunk, and he’s in a coma. Serves him right. Moron.

We’re in his hospital room. I’m sitting in the chair, waiting, my heels bouncing off the floor in no particular pattern. The neurologist looks at the chart and tells Mrs. Richardson—“Karen. Please call me Karen,” she says—her husband’s condition is unchanged. After the doctor leaves, Karen looks at the bed, says with a shake of her head, “I warned you about the drinking, Bradley,” walks to the chair, and sits on me.

She’s calmer than I would be if my husband lay in a bed, in a coma, with a needle in his arm and a tube up his nose; and I’ve yet to see her cry. She must still be numb from hearing about the accident. I felt the same way after Jonathan told me he wanted a divorce.

Karen pulls a set of beads from her purse and recites a rosary while we wait. I can’t remember the last time I said one. Not that it matters now.

She stands and walks to the bed, the beads still in her hand. Her face changes, like rain turned to sleet, and she whispers something in Bradley’s ear.

She moves to the other side of the bed, her back to the door, and takes a syringe out of her purse. It’s like the one my Aunt Lizzy uses for her diabetes. Without hesitation, Karen sticks the needle into Bradley’s IV line and pushes the plunger. “You can’t even die right,” she says, her words dripping with disgust.

I move so I can see the monitor and watch Bradley’s heart rate flatline. A nurse rushes in and pushes Karen aside.

Watching Karen, her face feigning shock, I realize she’s not the nice person I assumed she was. Perhaps I’m wrong about Bradley, too. Maybe the drinking is his way to escape. I used to be a good judge of character, but not anymore apparently. I wonder how else I’ve changed now that I’m a ghost.

Three Couples, One Story

2011-10-10T11:47:00.000-04:00

First published in Eclectic Flash (2010) - read editor interview

The Promise

She promised not to leave again. Karen was the entertainment at my friend Chuck’s bachelor party. I was jealous of the way the other guys looked at her even before she removed her clothes. We went out twice before her trip to St. Louis to be with her sick mother, fell in love over the phone, and married one year after we met. I thought everything was fine between us—until I kissed her goodbye on the morning of our fifth wedding anniversary, and she wasn’t there when I returned home. I don’t know what I did wrong, or if she’ll be back. She turned thirty.

Kissing a Frog

She turned thirty, and Alice’s passion wire disconnected. We met our sophomore year in college. She was shy, with the most outgoing smile I’d ever seen. We spent as much time together as we could, almost got caught by a security guard doing the naughty in a science lab. It was Alice’s idea. Now her hugs are platonic, bland, like sugarless cotton candy. And when our lips meet, it’s like kissing the frog that doesn’t turn into a prince. I asked our doctor what I should do. He said to give her time. Six months later the old Alice is still missing. I want to help her, help us, but I don’t know how.

A Good Day

I want to help her, help us, but I don’t know how. We were both on the rebound when a mutual friend suggested we meet. Eight months later, I moved into Paula’s apartment and everything was good, until Max showed up while I was at work. She left me a note saying she was sorry; but he was her husband, and we were only living together. I thought that was how she wanted it. The doorbell rang last night. Paula stood on the porch, arms and legs bruised, her left eye nearly closed. I held her in my arms and told her I loved her. She promised not to leave again.

College Life (language)

2011-10-10T11:45:00.000-04:00

First published in The Legendary (2010) - read editor interview

Refluent? Spandrel? What the fuck’s that, Josh? At least she doesn’t holler out some other guy’s name when she comes. Fucking English major. What’d she do spend Spring Break with her head pressed in a dictionary like some fucking rose? True. She’s aces in bed. Great hands, too. Really great hands. Hey, toss me another brew while you’re up. College life. Fucking A, man.

The Return Trip

2011-10-10T11:42:00.000-04:00

First published in Weirdyear (2010) - read editor interview

Brad hooked a carabiner into the bolt in the granite wall. He planted his feet against the stone and leaned back in the harness. His left hand held the rope. He rolled his shoulders forward and back. The climb had been more strenuous today, the anger fermenting in his gut the probable cause, he assumed. Regardless, he felt the same rush he always did when he looked down the eight hundred feet to the base of the mountain and inhaled the pollutant-free air.

His climbing partner, Erik, wasn’t with him today. They hadn’t spoken since Erik had been promoted to a corporate sales manager position and transferred to the headquarters in Chicago. Brad had wanted the job and didn’t know Erik was under consideration. He wondered what else Erik had neglected to tell him. September hadn’t been a good month for Brad. Besides losing the promotion, his father had passed away; and on the night he planned to propose, Jessica told him her true calling was to be a nun. He didn’t know which one of the three he hated more.

He pulled himself back into position and prepared to continue when he heard the voices. He looked up, down, left, right, and saw no one. Yet the voices continued. Shouts for help? He paused. Silence.

He placed his foot on an outcropping; and when he put his weight on it, he heard a moan, as if he’d kicked someone in the stomach. He shook his head, wondering if the altitude was getting to him, and continued his climb. After a few more steps, he heard another moan.

“Who’s there?”

He listened, looked, but no answer came.

“Come on. This isn’t a joke.”

The voices began again, their chant louder. They were cries for help. He was certain of it, but from where. As he restarted his climb, the rock moved and shook him from his perch. He repelled away from the wall and watched a vertical seam open in front of him. He swung back to the rock and bounced off once more. The crack widened. He returned to the cliff face and felt a suction on his chest, pulling him into the opening. He propped a foot on either side of the hole, leaned back, and twisted his torso in an attempt to free himself from the eerie force. It was no use. The grip was too strong.

Brad screamed for help as the mountain enveloped him. Whatever held him lowered Brad to the floor of the cave, and the pressure on his chest eased. He saw the fissure closing and raced to escape, but it was too late. He turned and noticed the figures of other climbers—some asleep, in fetal positions—nested among the layered rock. A few waved to him and called his name.

It was warm and damp inside, like his impression of a womb. A solitary figure stood at the back of the cave. It was a woman, a woman he knew well, his mother, or maybe everyone’s mother. It was then he realized the voices from earlier weren’t crying for help. They were saying “Welcome home.”

The Decision

2011-10-10T11:40:00.000-04:00

First published in Boston Literary Magazine (2010) - read editor interview

Susan stabbed a piece of apple harder than needed. The leftover Waldorf salad offered little solace. She wanted a marriage, a family. He remained indifferent. Two sparrows argued outside her window. One yammered, “Leave,” the other, “Stay.” Her gaze seesawed from the interlopers to her luggage. The fork, suspended, waited.

What’s Good for the Goose

2011-10-10T11:37:00.001-04:00

First published in 50 to 1 (2010)

Claudia located the yearbook section for the senior class, uncapped her Sharpie, and obliterated Ethan’s smiling face. Next she called the switchboard at Cumberland, asked for the registrar’s office, and cancelled his registration for fall classes. If the baby meant she had to give up her dreams, why shouldn’t he?

Goldilocks is Busy in the Getaway Car (sexual content, language)

2011-10-10T11:34:00.000-04:00

First published in The Legendary (2010) - read editor interview

Goldilocks. That maggot. Where is he? Probably bare-assed screwing Cinnamon. She’s a damned gluttonous piranha. Shouldn’t have brought her this time. Doesn’t realize friendship is stronger than pussy. Don’t know what to do now. Cops are outside, guns drawn. Goldilocks is the lookout. Bull-horned voice roars. Don’t shoot. Screwed.

The Straw

2011-10-10T11:30:00.000-04:00

First published in Blink Ink (2010) - read editor interview

They had nothing more to say to each other, the chasm between them wider since Josh brought Maggie home. Distraught, Carol puttered in the kitchen with anger's dark mask mounted on her face. Josh flipped unread book pages to fill the taut silence. Finally breaking the mood, he said quietly, “She's only a dog.”

The Treadmill

2011-10-09T11:34:00.000-04:00

First published at Clever Magazine (2010) - read editor interview

NOTE: The story is dedicated to the always thinking Master Dylan Kabasakalian.

I am not vain. Certainly not like that Milt Jensen down at the bank, who wears those expensive-looking suits and slicks his hair back. And, God forgive me, not like Edna Mae Rounders strutting down the center aisle of the church wearing those god awful dresses. It’s bad enough they could sleep six, but those bright colors make a guy’s eyes water.

Nor am I like Marty Pierson who drives that fancy, foreign car. Probably bought it cause he thought other folks would be impressed. Me, I drive a ten year old Chevy. Did have to get those pock marks fixed after the hail storm, but the engine runs fine.

I do not live in a house because it’s in the “right neighborhood,” and I do not need plastic surgery to make me feel better about myself. Not like Rachel whats-her-name down at the post office. It’ll take more than bigger breasts or removing a mole to make either of us one of the beautiful people.

And to be clear, I am on this treadmill everyday because it’s good for my heart, not because my five-year-old grandson asked his mother if grandpa is pregnant.

It’s Like Driving a Car

2011-10-09T11:30:00.000-04:00

First published in Dew on the Kudzu (2010) - read editor interview

Jessie and I sit on my front porch every Wednesday night and drink beer. Have since we were fifteen. That’s one advantage to living in a nothing town no one cares much about. Tonight, like every Wednesday for the past three months, after his third Flying Monkey, Jessie starts in. I considered cutting him off at two. I lost my job at the mill; and I’m not sure I’m up to listening to his problems, but I can’t do that to my best friend. Besides, it’s not the beer that loosens his lips. Maddie left him on a Wednesday.

“Fifteen years of marriage, and she just up and ran off.” he says, shaking his head. “And on my thirty-third birthday to boot.”

Jessie stares at the floor and rolls the brown bottle between his hands. The Mets cap rides high on his forehead. A shock of graying brown hair rests on his brow, and a torn shirt pocket hangs in a neat triangle over his heart.

I take a swig of beer and wait for him to continue.

“I always thought it was like driving a car.”

“What was?” I ask.

“Being married.” His eyes follow a spider as it scampers across the wooden floor and through the aisle created by his steel-toed boots. “You know. You strap yourself in, start the engine, and you go where you need to, regardless of the detours along the way.”

“Can’t say I ever thought about it like that.” I’ve known Jessie all my life, and I’ve never seen him without a smile. At least not until Maddie took off with Brad, the insurance guy. She and Brad dated a few times in high school, but then he left for college. Maddie hadn’t seemed interested in him after that.

“Sometimes you get a little lost,” Jessie continues, “but you get back on course eventually. No need to ask directions. You just work it out.” He tilts the bottle to his lips and swallows a couple of times. “Course you need to keep the tank full and the chassis lubed.”

Beer explodes from my mouth and sails over the paint-starved railing. “Geez, Jessie.” I wipe my mouth on my flannel sleeve. “Take it easy. That’s my sister you’re talking about. I don’t need to know about lube jobs.”

“Well, it’s true, ain’t it?”

I rock out of my chair and stand up. “I need to take a leak. Want another one?”

“Not yet.” He rolls the bottle in his hands some more.

“You know, that beer ain’t like a woman.”

He stares at me, a puzzled look on his face.

“It’s better cold,” I say.

He gazes at the bottle for a bit, tilts his head back, gulps down the rest of the amber liquid, and tosses me the empty. “Now that’s something I understand.”

“Yep,” I say and head inside for a couple of fresh ones.

Skirts

2011-10-08T19:59:00.000-04:00

First published in Camroc Press Review (2010) - read editor interview

“You can't go out wearing that skirt.”

“Why not?”

“It's no bigger than a Band-aid.”

“It's what everyone's wearing.”

“You're not everyone. You're my daughter.”

“Daaad.”

“You're not going to the movie dressed like that. Go change.”

“But, Jeff will be here any minute.”

“He'll wait.”

“We'll be late.”

“Late, or not at all. Your choice.”

“Mom would let me go.”

“Your mother's not here.”

“Maybe she would be if you weren’t such a control freak.”

“And maybe she left because she started wearing Band-aid sized skirts. Now go change ... please?”

He Had It Coming

2011-10-08T19:54:00.001-04:00

First published in Powder Burn Flash (2009)

The nurse left work at five o’clock. She turned right, walked three blocks to the corner of Mann and Wolfe, and melded with the pedestrians waiting for the light to change. She dipped her head and put a hand over her eyes, as if to shade them from the sun, when she saw him standing on the opposite corner. A knit cap covered her red hair.

Richard had surprised her last week when he said he wanted a divorce. The bastard just walked into the kitchen and announced his plan to move into an apartment. At least her first husband had provided some clues that the marriage was in trouble.

She turned so she could see him at an angle and thought about Richard’s new lover, Bernie. Short for Bernice she assumed when he let the name slip the afternoon he packed his stuff. She slammed his stupid basketball trophies on the living room floor while he was in the bedroom and screamed she was glad to be rid of the clutter. When he came out and saw the tiny body parts scattered on the floor, she fell on the sofa and laughed until sometime after the front door banged shut. She continued to giggle as the vacuum sucked up the mangled men.

Moving with the crowd when the light changed, her head down, she reached into her purse. “Bernard?” she said, as he passed by. Bernie stopped; but before he could respond, the needle pierced his pants and entered his thigh. His expression transformed from smile to grimace to confusion. She deposited the empty syringe in her purse and rejoined the tidal wave of workers headed home. Given the dosage, she expected Richard’s beloved Bernie would last about two blocks before he felt the pain, clutched his chest, and fell to the ground.

Later, on the plane, she sipped from a glass of Chardonnay and waited for the craft to take off. The drug was fast-acting and difficult to detect. By the time suspicion fell on her, she’d be on safari in Mozambique, far away from Richard, and out of the reach of the U.S. justice system. She leaned back in her seat, took a deep breath, and smiled for the first time in weeks. She couldn’t wait to call Richard from Africa with her condolences. She prayed Richard would ask her how she knew about Bernie’s death. She looked forward to providing the answer.

The Woman in the Mirror

2011-10-07T19:06:00.001-04:00

First published in Golden Visions Magazine (2009)

Breathing through his mouth, Harold trudged up the stairs and entered the master bedroom. He stopped when he saw his wife -- or someone who looked like her -- step out of the full length mirror. This can’t be, he thought.

“Mabel?”

“Hi, Harold,” the woman said.

Harold slumped to the floor, his skinny legs unable to hold his torso erect. “You can’t be Mabel. I just buried her in the backyard.”

“It’s me.” She smiled, held her arms out to her side, and pirouetted on feet too small for her body. “See?”

“But...”

The woman turned to the mirror. Harold watched, his mouth open, while the impostor fluffed her auburn hair just the way Mabel used to.

He slid his body up the wall to a standing position and inched toward the woman. She wore Mabel’s favorite bathrobe, the one with the blue, orange, and pink splotches, and had Mabel’s green eyes and pale skin. Even the birthmark below her left eye looked genuine. He reached out, touched a silky sleeve, and noted her warmth. He captured her wrist and felt for a pulse.

“I don’t know who you are, but I want you out of my house -- now.” He pulled her toward the door.

“Oh, Harold. Don’t be silly.” Mabel freed her arm and walked away. She sat on the bed, leaned on her hands, and crossed her ankles.

Anger spread across Harold’s face. “Get out of here right now, or I’ll call the police.” He pointed toward the door.

Mabel remained on the bed, lips taut.

“Okay. I get it.” Nubby fingers plowed through his slicked back hair. “How much do you want?”

“Don’t be silly, Harold. You don’t have any money.” She pouted. “Besides I’m your wife, and I believe in the sanctity of marriage, just like the reverend preaches, and don’t plan on going anywhere.”

“But you’re not real.”

“You touched me. Didn’t I feel real?”

“But you came from the mirror,” he said.

She shook her head. “You’re such a baby, Harold. It’s time to grow up.”

“Maybe if you’d quit nagging me--”

“Oh, Harold. You are pathetic. You know I would have married Freddie Jacobs if you hadn’t knocked me up first.” Her face hardened. “And it’s not my fault your son is a damned druggie who can’t stay out of jail.”

As Mabel’s diatribe intensified, the pain grew behind Harold’s eyes. He covered his ears, but her whiny voice prevailed. He strode to the bed, grabbed Mabel by the neck, and squeezed. Harold watched her eyes widen and her tongue snake between her lips, as animal-like grunts oozed from his mouth. He continued the pressure until the woman’s eyes rolled into her head and her body fell limp. Harold released his grip, and his rage turned to worry once he realized what he’d done. He lugged Mabel down the stairs and out to the backyard, as he had earlier.

His task completed, he returned to the kitchen, sank into a chair, and picked up the sports section of the morning paper. Unable to locate his glasses, he realized he’d left them upstairs.

Breathing through his mouth, Harold trudged up the stairs and entered the master bedroom. He stopped when he saw his wife -- or someone who looked like her -- step out of the full length mirror. This can’t be, he thought.

They Laughed

2011-10-07T14:38:00.001-04:00

First published in CAMROC PRESS REVIEW (2009) - read editor interview

Mom said I wasn’t capable of living by myself and couldn’t move out of her house until I married. Sounded easy enough. Lots of people did it.

I tried and tried to find me a woman. The last one laughed when I proposed. The sound erupted from her like someone had performed that hindlick thing on her. The noise followed me out the door like monkeys on a rope and into my car. I thought covering my ears would help. It didn’t.

I was so upset when I got home Mom decided to send me to a psychiatrist. He said I had gynohobia, whatever that was. Told me rejection was a good thing, a learning experience. I learned I didn’t like rejection.

I heard about this new game show on a local TV station where you filled out a survey, and they matched you up with your perfect mate. Tonight was my turn on the show. I used extra deodorant after my shower and slicked my hair real good.

When they called my name, I walked out of the Green Room and onto the stage. I saw her sitting on the couch. Well, I saw someone. She was too far away for me to see her face, even when I squinted. I thought about going home, but then I heard Mom’s voice in my head.

A man whispered in my ear and gave me a shove to jump start me. I baby-stepped across the shiny floor until I was in front of a redhead with purple lips. I lowered myself to one knee and took the paper out of my shirt pocket with the words I’d written out so I’d get them right. Trouble was the paper was soaked with sweat and the letters had disappeared.

I closed my eyes and took a breath like the doc showed me. The pressure in my head eased, and I pulled Mom’s ring from my pocket. It felt heavy. When I looked up, the woman smiled. That was a first. Maybe I’d finally found the one.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My mouth dry, I tried again. Nothing. On the third attempt, I heard words, but they weren’t mine. At first, I didn’t understand. Then the words repeated from behind me.

“Contestant number four? I’m sorry, but time’s up for this week’s show.”

The woman covered her mouth, but I still heard her snicker. The nice man told me I could come back next week and try again. I told him no thanks.

I inched along the freeway on the way home, stuck in traffic. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t in any hurry.

Waiting Out The Storm

2011-10-07T14:36:00.001-04:00

First published in The Shine Journal (2010)

Ruthie's not talking to me. I don’t blame her. The authorities warned that anyone who failed to evacuate from the path of the hurricane faced certain death. I told her she should leave with the Evans, but that I wouldn’t go. We did last time. Fifty miles out of town, in a place where there was nothing but road and fields and dust, traffic stopped. We sat in the August heat for three days. No one came to get us or bring us food or water. Ruthie spent the next week in the hospital. I hate hospitals.

The wind picked up a few minutes ago. Ruthie said we still had time to leave. Dang it, Ruthie, I said. 'I told you before I’m too old to race a storm.' She stood, hands on hips, head cocked to one side, and nailed me to the wall with those tiny eyes she gets when she wants to say something, but knows it won't do any good.

Ruthie’s in her sewing room now, making something. Does that whenever she’s worried. She was in there for four days straight when our daughter, Ellen, the one who lives in El Paso, had her hysterectomy. Ruthie wanted to fly up for the operation, but the doctor said it wasn't safe given her heart condition. I waited until she wasn't looking before letting out a big sigh after she told me what the doctor said. I hate flying almost as much as I hate hospitals.

The man on the radio says the winds are over ninety miles an hour. I believe him. Through the bay window, I see a garbage can skitter from behind the Jenkins’ house across the street. The traffic light on Baxter dances a jig over the last cars trying to get out of town, and the oaks and pines along the street strain to remain upright.

I walked by the sewing room a couple of minutes ago. The door was closed, but I’m pretty sure I heard Ruthie praying. I’m not the praying type. I let Ruthie do that for the both of us.

The electricity went out at twelve minutes after three. The radio fell silent. I forgot to get batteries. I did find a working flashlight in case we need it later. I decided it was time to get upstairs for good when I noticed water coming in under the front door. I paused outside the sewing room, both hands on my cane to ease the pain in my hip, and whispered to Ruthie I was sorry.

I looked down the stairs a few minute ago. Two feet of water covers the first floor, a couple of windows are broken, the house is rocking, and I smell smoke. Ruthie and I are in the master bedroom closet. Her only conversation since we settled in has been with God. Maybe I should have agreed to go for her sake. Too late now. Geez, something just hit the house.

Hurricane must be over us. Head hurts. Ears ache. Hard to breathe.Flashlight done. Ruthie curled up. Back to me. Don’t know how much more a house can take. Ruthie’s right. Am a damned, old fool. Next time I’ll go. Touch her elbow. Remain silent. Don’t want to interrupt her dialog with God.

The wind has calmed down. The rain continues. There was a noise a while ago loud enough to make Ruthie jump up and into my arms. It won't surprise me to see that big, old oak in the backyard lying across our bed when I open the closet door. Neither of us has said anything yet. She knows next time we'll leave when told to, even if I have to fly, but I'll tell her anyway soon as we're safe. For now, I hug her tighter, thank God we're together, and wait for help to arrive.

Motivation:In 2008, Hurricane Ike hit Galveston, causing the evacuation of the city's residents. Hundreds became stranded as they drove north. This fictional tale relates one man's reluctance to evacuate in preparation for the next storm to hit the area.

My Dad Who Wasn’t Jack

2011-10-07T14:31:00.001-04:00

First published in Writer's Bloc3

Dad stood a few feet from my brother Nick’s casket talking to Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson. He tilted his head down, looked over the top of his sunglasses, and, speaking with a breathy rasp he thought made him sound like his idol, rattled off a favorite movie line. “We live, we die, and the wheels on the bus go round and round. Jack Nicholson, The Bucket List. Great movie.” It was what he did next that reminded me why I didn’t come home more often.

He pinched Mrs. Jefferson’s ass, then reached up and stopped her hand before it slapped his face. His thin lips parted showing a single row of cigarette-stained teeth, and a guttural laugh burst into the room. A knot formed in my stomach at the sound, and I felt sorry for those kind enough to come for visiting hours. The only reason people put up with my dad was because he owned the biggest construction company in the county, and they depended on his business.

He moved on to the next group. This time it was Stacy Morgan’s turn. “Do you think God knew what he was doing when he created woman? Jack Nicholson, The Witches of Eastwich. Great movie.” The look. The laugh. Pinch and parry.

Dad’s given name was Robert, but he insisted everyone call him Jack, including his family. He combed his hair back, exposing a pocked forehead, and always wore sunglasses, even inside. There were pictures of his idol in every room of our house, and most evenings Dad walked around wearing a bathrobe. Jewish boys celebrated a bar mitzvah when they turned thirteen. Nick and I watched our first Jack movie. When my turn came, I sat in the den with Dad and listened to him recite Jack’s lines in unison with the on-screen character. After my initiation, Saturday became family movie night. Every week we watched a Jack movie. Over and over and over.

The only time I remembered seeing my dad angry was when the police showed up after Nick died of an overdose in the local no-tell motel. “That’s a lie,” Dad said, spittle projectiles launching from his mouth. “And you know it.” Dad, bright red scalp showing through his thinning hair, stood and tugged the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. “You can’t handle the truth. Jack Nicholson. A Few Good Men. Damn fine movie.” Nose in the air, chest raised, he marched out of the room.

Nick was Dad’s favorite. Star athlete. Prom king. A real BMOC in high school. I was none of those. After high school, Nick joined the Marines. I enrolled at Harvard on a full scholarship. He fought in the first Gulf War. I went to medical school. Nick returned home minus his right leg, and Dad threw him a party. When I came home for a visit before beginning my internship at Boston Medical Center, Dad put an arm around my shoulder and asked me what I thought of my brother the war hero.

I thanked the last of the mourners for coming and joined Dad at the front of the room. We stood in silence before Nick’s coffin. It reminded me of when the three of us stood over Mom in this same room. Dad bowed his head, mumbled a prayer, crossed himself and, the rasp gone, said, “You make me want to be a better man.”

“As Good As It Gets,” I said and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure Nick knew that.”

Dad removed the sunglasses and slid them into the inside pocket of his sport coat. “I was talking to you.”

Now, ten years later, as I stood over my father’s casket, another Nicholson quote came to mind. “Jack is dead, my friend. You can call me… Joker. And as you can see, I’m in a lot happier place.” I looked down and attempted a smile. “Jack Nicholson. Batman. Damn fine movie.” I closed my eyes. My own son’s image appeared, and I did smile. In eight years, he’d see his first Jack movie. “But only one, Dad. Only one.”

A New Deputy in Town

2011-10-07T14:20:00.001-04:00

First appeared in Dew on the Kudzu (2009) - read editor interview

“Hey, Morgan.” He jumped at the sound of my voice. “Is that a real badge?”

Morgan hoisted himself off the stool, stood at attention and snapped a salute. I struggled to keep a straight face. The missing button on his flannel shirt, the glass of beer in his left hand and the Boy Scout salute didn’t exactly shout Deputy Morgan to the rescue.

“That’s a ten-four, good buddy. The sheriff swore me in this morning. Good thing, too. Mildred was threatening to have me arrested for loitering on the couch.” He took a sip of his beer. “It’s not my fault my job got outhoused to Asia.”

“Outsourced,” I said. I saw the empty look on Morgan’s face. “You mean your job was outsourced to Asia.”

“Whatever,” he said with a wave. “My job still went in the crapper.”

Morgan got back on the stool, finished his beer and signaled to Ernie for another. I waggled a finger, and Ernie poured me one, too.

“What happened to Jake?”

“Sheriff fired him for drinking on duty.”

I scratched a phantom itch on my wrist and glanced at my watch: four fifty-five. Close enough to quitting time for Morgan, I guess.

“You know something, Abe? I like the way this badge looks on me. I think I’m going to run for sheriff in the next election.”

I choked on my beer and couldn’t stop coughing. Morgan slid off his stool, knocking it over, slapped me on the back a couple of times and told me to hold my hands over my head.

“Thanks,” I said. I grabbed a napkin and wiped my eyes.

“No problem, Abe.” He picked up the stool and climbed back on. “It’s all part of being a deputy. You need to be ready to handle any situation that comes up.”

“Arrest anyone yet?”

Morgan sat at attention and said, “We are not aware of any perpetrators who have perpetrated a perpetration at this time.”

“Wow. Very official sounding there, deputy. You should be the spokesman for the department.”

“The sheriff mentioned part of my duties might include being the press lesson.”

I watched a fly wade through a puddle on the bar and let Morgan’s comment sink in.

“Oh, you mean liaison.”

Morgan’s head swiveled on a non-existent neck, and he gave me one of his what-did-you-think-I-said looks.

“Well, I think you’ll make a fine press lesson.” Anything would be an improvement over the sheriff’s vocabulary, which consisted of variations on a grunt. “So, you think you might run for sheriff.”

“Yep. Sheriff Riley ain’t going to do nothing this year. Well, he’ll arrest someone if enough people complain. And if they complain he’s arresting too many people, he’ll stop. You know how them politicians are in election season.”

“I can see where that might upset a few people, especially all those malcontents, like the mayor and the city council.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said, pounding his fist on the bar.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll make a fine sheriff.” I raised my glass in a salute.

“Better than fine. I’m going to be the best damn sheriff this town’s ever had.”

I clinked his glass with mine and finally let my smile out of its dungeon. I planned on voting for Morgan. Heck, anyone would be better than the current sheriff.

Infidels

2011-10-07T14:14:00.002-04:00

First appeared in Toasted Cheese (2009) - read editor interview

The photon blast rocketed past my ear and hit the metal wall behind me. Fiery tendrils exploded from its core like fireworks on the Fourth of July. I uncovered my eyes in time to see the heel of Zorton’s boot disappear down the hallway leading to the crew’s quarters.

I paused when I reached the junction of the two passageways and snapped my head around the corner and back. No Zorton. I edged into the hallway and was greeted by a waving Nolander. He wore a purple and yellow tunic. His hair sprouted from his head like the branches of a willow tree. The thump, thump of a cane tapping the floor proceeded him down the hall.

“Did a man run past you?”

“Yes, don’t know who he was, though.”

“He escaped from the Mitros penal colony a three months ago and is here to kill me.”

“Why would he want to do that?” The man rested both hands on the cane and leaned against the wall.

“To get even with me for sending him there. He tried to kill me just now, but I got off the first shot. Thought I hit him, but he’s damn fast for a man with a wounded leg.”

“He dragged his leg, and I thought I smelled burnt flesh.” The Nolander bowed and excused himself.

I continued my search without success. I knew Zorton wouldn’t leave the ship until one of us was dead.

I returned to my apartment around ten that evening. Cassandra leaned against the wall waiting. “Did you forget about our dinner date, Alexi?”

“Oh, shit. Yes. I’m so sorry. Something came up.” I unlocked the door and motioned for her to enter. “Did you hurt your leg?”

“It’s nothing.”

I met Cassandra two months ago in the ship’s game room. Tall, with long white hair, her pale blue Andrean uniform molded to her sleek body, she yelled with every kill, until her opponent was out of players. Victorious, she turned, looked my way, and wagged me over with a long finger. After she kicked my butt in every viral game the place had to offer, we went to the bar, where she out drank me as well. Before I was unable to think or talk, I asked her to dinner. What started as a platonic affair turned into something more by the end of the week.

“It must have been something important. You’ve never missed a date before.”

“It was.” I put my weapon in the wall safe and turned to her. “How can I make it up to you?”

Cassandra pouted a smile and lowered the zipper down the front of her uniform. She was naked underneath. We made love, slow at first, then as if we hadn’t been together for weeks, instead of days.

Afterward, we lay naked, spooned, my back to her front, her arm across my chest. I opened my eyes and saw the hair on her arm change from white wisps to dark strands. I felt hot breath assaulting my neck in angry puffs. The arm increased its pressure on my chest. The hand edged toward my neck. I heard a growl and reached my own hand under the mattress. Tonight my battle with Zorton would finally end.

Lost and Found

2011-10-07T13:56:00.001-04:00

First published in Apollo's Lyre (2009) - read editor interview

Hazel rested on a tree stump while she waited for Gordon to catch up. An ashen hand, its veins prominent, protected her eyes from the setting sun as she squinted through the maze of pines, maples and oaks, wondering where he was. She couldn’t get home without him.

A twig snapped to her right, and Gordon stepped into the clearing.

“I can’t see Jack and Amy anymore,” he said. “Don’t hear them either.”

Hazel saw the worried look on his face. “I’m sure they’ll be along.” She gazed at the buttercups, violets, and honeysuckle dancing in the breeze in an attempt to hide her own anxiety.

“I hope so. It’s getting late.” He pulled the red and white bandanna from around his neck and wiped the sweat from his face and the top of his head. “Shouldn’t have done all that bending over.” He put his hands on his back and arched his stomach forward. A groan escaped through wrinkled lips. “I sure wish we’d found Amy’s ring.”

“Me, too.” Hazel took off her metal-framed glasses and blew a strand of curly grey hair off the left lens.

“I can’t imagine she and Jack strolled this far into the woods last night,” Gordon said. “They weren’t gone that long.”

“They’re a lot faster at some things than we are.” Hazel greeted Gordon’s eyes with a mischievous grin, one she hadn’t allowed out for a while.

“When they told us about the ring and asked if we could help them find it, I wondered how it got lost in the first place.” He smiled back. “Maybe now I know.”

Gordon walked to Hazel and laid his hand on her shoulder. He scanned the woods while Hazel inhaled the floral fragrances offered by the forest. Neither one spoke until Hazel said, “It may be just as well if we don’t return.” She put the glasses on. “You know how much of a burden we are to Jack and Amy.”

“What are you saying?”

“Didn’t you hear them arguing last night?” Hazel reached up and took Gordon’s hand in hers. “They can’t afford to feed four, especially now that Jack’s lost his job.”

“Damn that Frank Reynolds. If he hadn’t run off with our retirement money—”

“Calm down, dear. It’s not your fault.” Hazel felt the tension in Gordon’s hand.

Gordon closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

“Once I find a job we’ll be able to help out,” he said.

Hazel grinned and grimaced at the same time. With Gordon’s bad heart and the arthritis crippling her hands, she knew no one would hire them.

“We should get going,” she said. “We can follow our tracks back to the house.”

“It’ll be dark soon. We won’t be able to see them.” Gordon looked into the woods. “If it hadn’t rained most of the day, we could have started looking earlier.”

Hazel patted Gordon’s hand. “Well, like I said, it’s probably just as well. If we’re not around, Jack and Amy stand a better chance.”

Silence prevailed as they bowed their heads. Wispy orange and yellow clouds watched over them from the horizon. Hazel intoned a prayer and Gordon joined in, their voices soft and shaky. The screech of a hawk flying unseen above the trees accompanied their amen.

“Did you hear that?” Hazel said.

“It was a hawk.”

“No. I thought I heard voices.”

“Mom? Dad? Where are you?”

“Jack?” Gordon said. “Over here.”

Jack and Amy stepped into the clearing. “You’re okay,” Jack said.

Hazel watched the worry melt from Jack’s face as he reached for Amy.

“We...,” Amy said, her hands clamped to Jack’s arm.

Hazel noticed the wedding ring on Amy’s finger. It was the ring she and Gordon had been asked to help find.

“It’s all right,” Hazel said. “We understand.” She walked over and put her arms around Jack and Amy. Gordon followed.

“We want you to come home with us,” Jack said. “We can make it work.”

And they did.

Weak Days

2011-10-07T13:53:00.001-04:00

First published in The Houston Literary Review (2009)

Franklin Delano Archibald, IV, the stubby owner and CEO of the financially-imperiled Archibald Electric & Gas, a company and position he inherited from his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, arrived at his office Monday morning dressed in his customary charcoal-grey suit, starched white shirt, blue tie, and patent leather shoes. He mumbled a hello to his smiling, thirty-something secretary, slapped her ample behind as she bent over her desk shuffling through a stack of papers, entered his office, and prepared to write his usual demeaning notes on the reports submitted by his shift supervisors for review at the regular Monday afternoon meeting.

Tuesday morning he spent an hour chairing the Mayor's economic council, a position he thought of as a waste of time, but a useful experience if he ever ran for political office – something he might have to do if his company failed.

Wednesday afternoon, Franklin played golf, at which he cheated, with the mayor, the head of the city council, and the mayor's son, an Assistant District Attorney. Afterwards, they ate dinner and played a late-night poker game, at which Franklin also cheated, given the opportunity.

Thursday Franklin visited his mother in the Eternal Spring Nursing Home for exactly fifty minutes, the time starting when he rocked out of the driver's seat of his new Mercedes convertible. On his way home, he ate dinner at his mistress' apartment, followed by dessert in her bedroom.

On Friday, Franklin met his wife for lunch and ignored her while she whined about whatever was bothering her that day. At dinner, he asked the children if they'd learned anything at that worthless school he paid for them to attend, to appease his wife. Franklin looked at them as they responded, but didn’t hear what they said.

Saturday started with Franklin attending his son's karate class, where he flirted with a divorced mother of two. That afternoon, he wiped the dirty bleachers with a handkerchief, then sat down next to his wife to watch his daughter's soccer game, glancing at his watch every fifteen minutes. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, while his wife bought Chinese take-out for dinner on their way home. Later, he went to the local whorehouse, hired two girls for the evening, stripped to his boxers, and stopped thinking of himself as a gentleman.

Sunday morning Franklin Delano Archibald, IV paraded down the center aisle of the Mt. Zion Methodist church, his wife and children in single file behind, sat in the same front pew his family had for generations, bowed his head, and asked God to save the Archibald family business.

Screwed

2011-10-07T13:51:00.001-04:00

First published in Flashshot (2009)

I‘m screwed. Not in the way you’re thinking. There’s a screw jutting from the wart in my forehead.

I’d complained to my friend Manny about the ugly growth, and he said screw it. I thought he meant to ignore it. That was until I woke up this morning and saw him standing over me, twirling a Phillips in his fingers.

“Damn it, Manny,” I’d said. “It hurts.”

“Life hurts,” he’d replied.

That’s Manny’s philosophy on living. No matter what we do, something or someone hurts. Maybe he’s right. I can’t think about it now. I have a headache.

The Killer Storm

2011-10-07T13:47:00.002-04:00

First Published in Clever Magazine (2009) - read editor interview

Zachary struggled against the hurricane’s wind and rain to get to the shelter door. He reached for the handle, but a sudden gust hurled him two steps back. He turned his head away from the gale to catch his breath, regained his balance, leaned into the wind as if pushing a great weight, inched forward, grabbed the handle and pushed down. The door, propelled by the wind, flew open and launched Zachary off his feet and into the street. Stunned, he crawled toward the opening and watched as meaty fingers gripped the door and began to pull it shut.

Zachary tripped as he lunged for the entrance, yet managed to grasp the metal panel at the same time his chest slammed the sidewalk. He closed his eyes against the rain and battled to maintain his hold. Without warning, a hand seized his wrist and dragged him inside. As he crossed the threshold, an iPod fell from Zachary’s jacket and landed at the feet in front of him. He looked up ready to thank his rescuer, but stopped when he saw Sheriff Mumford looming over him.

“All citizens were told to evacuate,” the sheriff said. He spread his legs and placed his hands on his hips.

“Didn’t hear nothin’ about no evacuation,” Zachary said, getting to his knees.

“Right,” the sheriff mumbled. He bent down to pick up the shiny object. “Nice doodad you got here.”

Zachary reached for the iPod, but the sheriff jerked it behind his ear, out of Zachary’s reach.

“I found it,” Zachary said.

“Sure you did,” The sheriff’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head to one side. “Where was it? In somebody’s home or still in the store?”

“A guy’s gotta make a living.” Zachary stood. “Besides, the owner’s got insurance. It’s not like he can’t afford to replace it.”

“It doesn’t matter if the owner can afford to get another one. You stole it.”

“Gotta get some money somehow. Daddy needs his medicine.”

“Your daddy needs his daily bottle of Johnny Walker,” the sheriff said, shaking his head.

“We don’t have enough money for real medicine.” Zachary locked his eyes on the sheriff’s. “Ain’t got health insurance like you rich folks.”

“Ever try getting a job?”

“Hell, Momma’s got two jobs and barely makes enough to buy food and pay the rent.” Zachary leaned back against the concrete wall. “Daddy’s workers’ comp ran out, and he’s been waitin’ nine months for the government to approve his disability and Medicare.” He picked mud from a fingernail while he waited for the sheriff to respond.

“You know I’m going to have to arrest you.” The sheriff held up the iPod.

“Won’t be the first time.” Zachary smiled. “I’ll be out in a day or so.”

“You’re probably right,” the sheriff said after a taking a moment to think. He grabbed Zachary’s arm and pulled him to the exit. Fighting the wind, the sheriff forced the door open and flung Zachary into the street.

“You can’t throw me out in this storm,” Zachary shouted.

“Sure I can,” the sheriff replied. “I’m breaking the law if I don’t. See that sign that says Maximum Occupancy 250? We’re at the limit. I can’t let anybody else in.”

Sheriff Mumford closed the door and locked the deadbolt before Zachary could reenter the shelter. He ignored Zachary’s screams and the pounding on the door. Smiling, he hitched up his trousers, straightened his tie and headed toward the two men fighting over a bottle of water. He had work to do.

The Target

2011-10-07T13:42:00.002-04:00

First appeared in Bent Pin (2009)

The assassin watched the apprentice remove the M24 sniper rifle from its case and hold it as if it was his firstborn son.

“Sweet. Where’d you get this?” the apprentice asked. “I thought the army and the police were the only ones who could buy them.”

“Gotta know the right people,” the assassin said.

“You gonna introduce me to these people?”

“We’ll see.” The assassin lit a cigarette and leaned against the stone wall, his ankles crossed.

The apprentice sat on the bell tower floor, lowered the rifle’s bipod to the edge of the arched window and placed the stock to his shoulder. He reversed his cap’s visor, sighted the target area through the Leopold Ultra M3 scope, then fingered the stock, cheek and day optic adjustments.

“Wind’s strong today,” the assassin said. He formed a circle with his lips and launched a lazy smoke ring.

“This is calm compared to the mountains in Afghanistan,” the apprentice replied. “And it’s only half as long a shot as this baby can handle. Hell, I got a kill outside of Kabul at 1000 meters.” He sighted the entrance to the building once more and imitated the sound of a silenced rifle expelling its projectile. “Now that was a hell of a shot.”

The assassin frowned at the younger man’s arrogance.

“Besides, one shot’s all I need.”

“Better be. This ain’t Afghanistan, and the people paying the money don’t like mistakes,” the assassin said. “I hear you had a problem on your first job.”

“The guy was unpredictable.” The apprentice shrugged. “The job got done.” He lifted the suppressor from its case, screwed it onto the end of the barrel, and adjusted the settings one last time.

“Maybe you didn’t do your homework.”

“Is that why we’ve been following this guy for a week? We could have killed him last Monday and been done with it,” the apprentice said as he continued to watch through the scope.

“You don’t do it right, you screw up, and screw ups get you in trouble” The assassin dropped the cigarette on the floor and flattened it with the toe of his boot.

The apprentice shook his head. “Or stuck with some old fart.”

“What?”

The apprentice pretended to adjust the scope, then changed the subject.

“Do you know who this guy is?”

“The man somebody wants dead. That’s all I need to know.”

“You’re never curious about the targets? Who they are? What they did to piss somebody off? If they have a family?”

“Nope.”

Neither spoke. A distant jackhammer, a plane passing overhead, car horns below and the smell of garbage filled the void.

“The wife left me and took my kids to her parents shortly after I got back from my third tour.” The apprentice pulled a cloth from the rifle case and wiped the eyepiece. “She said I was different.”

“Listen up, kid,” the assassin said. “I ain’t your friend, or your priest. I don’t care about you, or where you been, or what happened to your family. We’re here to do the job. Got it?”

The apprentice started to reply when the assassin said, “Here he comes.”

The apprentice angled the rifle to the right and saw the black Lincoln rolling toward the hotel. He panned the barrel to match the speed of the limo.

The assassin knelt next to the shooter.

“You’re making me nervous,” the apprentice said.

“Just concentrate on the shot.”

The apprentice slipped the safety off, placed his finger on the trigger and waited. A heavyset man in a grey suit stepped out of the car and up to the doorman. They shook hands and laughed.

The apprentice squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled. The target lurched into the doorman’s arms. And as grey suit fell to the ground, the apprentice felt the needle pierce his neck.

The assassin pushed the plunger and watched the apprentice slump to the floor. He sat back on his heels and waited for the end. As with the others, he felt no remorse. He knew if he ever did, he would end up on the wrong end of a needle, or gun, or whatever his killer’s preferred method would be.

He glanced at the confusion across the street, then packed the rifle in its case and stood. He looked at the cloudless sky. “Really good shot, kid. Too bad you screwed up.”

He picked up the case and walked calmly toward the exit. He had another apprentice to deal with.

A Soldier’s Wife

2011-10-07T13:40:00.001-04:00

First published in Ascent Aspirations Magazine (2009)

Carly watched the two marines get in their car and drive away. They’d offered to sit with her for a while, but she’d said it wasn’t necessary.

She stood at the window, numb, arms crossed over her chest. No tears filled her eyes. No sobs wretched her body. She’d understood when Brad left for his first tour in Afghanistan this day might come, but still didn’t expect their marriage to end this way.

She pictured a tall, handsome man in full military dress waiting for her as she walked down the aisle. She gazed through teary eyes when the proud father kissed the foreheads of his newborn twins. She replayed the scene over and over as Brad, dressed in full military gear, strode off with his buddies, while she smiled and embraced the twins in a way to let them know their dad would be back.

Bad memories replaced good ones, and she relived how the war had changed Brad. Her face tightened as the stench of the booze reached her nostrils. She heard the accusations of infidelity for the third time, and watched his green eyes narrow. Her body tensed at the sight of his cocked fist and relaxed when he lowered it and walked away. That last time she’d screamed at him, and he’d come back. It was after her trip to the infirmary to set the broken arm that she’d made her decision.

Brad’s angry face evaporated from Carly’s mind when the school bus stopped in front of the house. She watched Sara and Sam step off amidst the laughing children. A movie of her carrying a cake with thirteen candles to the dining room table invaded her consciousness. Next week’s birthday would be different from the others Brad had missed.

She heard the twins at the front door and remembered the divorce papers on the kitchen table. She scurried to the kitchen to hide them. The children didn’t need to know the truth. Not after today’s news.

A Serenade in D (for Desire)

2011-10-07T13:36:00.001-04:00

First published in MicroHorror (2008)

It says V. Westerman on her mailbox. I call her Victoria. She moved into the apartment above mine eight months ago, and my life’s been one long symphonic poem ever since. If it wasn’t for Frank, I would’ve asked her out by now.

She’s standing at the head of the line waiting for the bus with her friend A. Zelnick. They’re both tall. They have slim builds, dark hair, and their voices remind me of Julie Andrews’. They could be sisters, but they’re not. I remember the day shortly after Victoria moved in when they met at the mailboxes and introduced themselves. I stood off to one side and acted like I was reading my mail while I inhaled Victoria’s fragrance and listened to her genteel laugh.

They work in a legal office in the high-rise across the street from where I toil as the director of the local arts council. I know this because I rode up the elevator with them one day. Victoria acted like she didn’t recognize me. I waited for her to press a button and then selected 12, two floors above hers. The door opened, and they stepped into an area that contained the offices of Klein, Armour, Franks and Celeste, Attorneys at Law. I assume Victoria and A are paralegals. They don’t dress in suits or carry the kinds of briefcases I associate with lawyers. Someday when A’s not around, I’ll ask Victoria.

It’s been six days since Frank’s been in her apartment. Maybe they’re not seeing each other any longer. He’s not right for her anyway. Unlike my Victoria, he’s a horny rabbit.

One Saturday, I awoke to the sounds of her mattress squeaking and two people moaning. I looked at the clock on the table next to my bed. It was 7:53. I pulled the pillow and covers over my head and went back to sleep. The adagio movement of their erotic symphony started at 9:30 and lasted almost an hour. When the rondo commenced at 1:30, I went to a matinee. I returned home after dinner and saw them kissing in front of the elevators. His hands were all over my Victoria, like an orchestra conductor urging the musicians to a Wagnerian climax.

When I entered my apartment, I heard the introduction to the final allegro in progress, and left for another movie. A spirited encore was underway when I returned. Poor Victoria. Why didn’t he leave her alone?

The sounds of squealing brakes interrupt my reverie when the bus pulls up to the stop. The doors open and the melody in my heart strikes a dissonant chord when Frank exits. He and Victoria look at each other for a few seconds before she melts into his arms like butter on a hot English muffin, and they lock lips.

Damn, I guess Frank isn’t as ex as I thought. Oh well, one fish does not an ocean make, as my mother used to say whenever I told her about another lost love. I avert my eyes to A, look her over and wonder if she might make a worthy partner for my next pas de deux.

Alone

2011-10-06T14:27:00.001-04:00

First published in Ascent Aspirations Magazine (2008)

Barry moved silently through the water like a solitary U-boat separated from its pack. His eyes followed a beam along the ceiling to keep his mind on something other than the guilt he felt when he thought of Mildred.

He pushed off the gunite wall to begin lap twelve, ignoring the ladies doing water aerobics to his right. At the opposite end of the pool, Barry switched to his favorite, the breaststroke. When he did, Mildred’s sleek form drifted into his consciousness. It was the first day of practice for their college swim team. He was a junior, she a freshman. He watched her surge through the water propelled by strong, confident strokes. Twice she noticed him and smiled. Each time Barry’s face reddened, and he turned away.

She was waiting outside the locker room after practice. They stood in the hall and chatted until she had to go to class. He missed his.

Barry felt his stroke become labored at the thought of their time together. The last year of her life was his most painful, as he watched her shrivel and weaken. Typical of Mildred, she remained upbeat until the end. They recounted stories from the past — good and bad — and laughed and held hands until she tired. The only thing she insisted on was that he continue his daily swim.

He bobbed in the water at the end of his last lap, removed his goggles and laid his forehead against the tile. He stared at the rippling water. Guilt stared back. And the realization that he’d suppressed for too long crept, like bile, from deep inside him to the surface. For as much as he cared about Mildred when she was alive, and as much as he mourned her passing, he understood, at this point in his life, that he loved being alone more.

The Proposal

2011-10-06T14:24:00.001-04:00

First published in Word Slaw (2008)

I can’t believe it. It’s Saturday night, and I’m in my favorite restaurant, wearing my little, red dress and my date, Pat, positioned on one knee, proposes to me in front of a bazillion people.

Now Pat is a fun dinner companion and great in bed, but I’m not interested in a monogamous relationship. Not at twenty-two anyway. As I stare at Pat, a tornado of thoughts swirl through my head trying to get out. I stifle a laugh and motion to an empty chair.

“Pat, you know I like you a lot, but …” I take a deep breath and gaze into Pat’s eyes. “I don’t believe in same-sex marriage.”

Twelve Little Indians

2011-10-06T14:21:00.001-04:00

First published in Flashshot (2008)

Pamela remembered hearing Happy Birthday and thinking it was meant for her. She remembered the tires’ screech, the smell of burnt rubber, the impact as metal shattered brick, the screams of parents, the dying children, the police officer saying she blew a point-two-zero. She didn’t recall being locked in the cell with the other drunks.

Show Don’t Tell

2011-10-06T14:14:00.001-04:00

First published at Long Story Short (2008)

Molly can’t see his eyes. They’re hidden by the dark glasses he wears every time they meet here.

She stares, stoic, yet defiant, mirroring his demeanor, and waits. Despite the practiced exterior, her stomach feels like it’s at high tide. She refuses to show outward signs of fear, though. That’s what he expects.

She assumes the robotics have taken over his bodily reactions. They’re illegal, but everyone uses them to cheat, including her. She’s not concerned. The technology hasn’t been perfected. He’ll slip up. Everyone does. Molly taps two fingers on her forearm, sending him a message of her own.

She tilts her head down, the bill of the brown cap obscuring her eyes momentarily. Molly smiles, aware he’s eying her every move. She knows he hopes to see something when their eyes meet again, a sign. He won’t. Even without the mechanical assistance, she’s good at what she does and determined to show the men she belongs. Molly raises her head, the smile gone. She observes him licking his lower lip and tapping the table in reply.

There. She hesitates to see if he repeats himself. A twitch causes a wave to flutter across his cheek. That’s new. Is he trying to confuse her? Was the first message sent to throw her off? She takes her time, watches some more, and then decides her next move.

“All In,” Molly says and pushes her remaining two million in chips toward the center of the table.

The Purse

2011-10-06T14:12:00.001-04:00

First published in Clockwise Cat (2008) - read editor interview

It wasn’t until he pulled the chair out that Josh noticed the purse. He looked around the food court and saw no one coming his way. He slid the handbag onto his lap as he sat and glanced once more at the people near him. Certain no one was watching, he opened it.

*Looks like one the ex used to own,* he thought. He peered into the bag and noticed a folded piece of paper with writing on the inside.

“You were great the other night. I get excited every day just thinking about how many times you aroused me. I can’t wait until Friday,” it began. Josh continued to read and felt his cheeks heat up. He hoped no one noticed. He laid the note on the table and dug further into the purse. His blush increased when he pulled out the packet of Trojans, followed by a Pocket Rocket and a spare package of batteries.

*Wow, this broad must be something.* He stuck the objects between his legs and continued his search. The rest of the items in the main pocket were tame in comparison. He unzipped the side flap and found a wallet. He looked in the money compartment and was surprised to see five one hundred dollar bills.

*Naughty and rich,* he thought. *Maybe rich enough that she wouldn’t miss a measly five hundred.* His eyes swept the food court. Thoughts of the money faded as he shifted in his seat and felt the secreted items rub against his legs. *Or maybe she’d like a thirty-something boy toy.* Josh smiled.

He speared a piece of General Tso’s chicken with the plastic fork and slipped it between his lips. He savored the spicy flavor for a moment, then closed his eyes and fantasized about the purse’s owner. At first, the woman was a typical teenage fantasy, but then her hair darkened and became shorter, her breasts shrunk and her hips widened. When he imagined her on her hands and knees, he felt a sexual stirring. His reverie was interrupted by a familiar voice behind him.

“Young man, I believe that’s my purse.”

Josh turned and choked out his reply.

“Mom?”

Taking Inventory

2011-10-06T14:09:00.001-04:00

First published in Fiction at Work (2008)

1. She’s gone.
2. What did I do?
3. It’s not my fault I got assigned to the Seattle office for three months.
4. When I called on Sunday, Amy said she missed me, too.
5. Her phone’s been disconnected.
6. According to her landlord, she left yesterday.
7. Why didn’t she tell me she was going?
8. “No, she didn’t leave a note or a forwarding address,” he said.
9. Is he lying?
10. “Yes, she took everything,” he replied.
11. Even my dog.
12. From the stoop of her building, I watch the activity in the park across the street.
13. A Sheltie chases a squirrel up a tree.
14. Children play.
15. Bicyclists clad in colorful outfits pass by.
16. The fetid air full of exhaust fumes and last night’s dinners assaults my nose.
17. One of the mothers reminds me of Amy.
18. I told her Carrie meant nothing to me.
19. It was a chance meeting of high school classmates.
20. I close my eyes and try to visualize Amy’s face.
21. It takes a long time to form.
22. Did she ever love me?
23. Maybe she needs a break is all.
24. Time to think.
25. I wonder where she went.
26. Maybe to her mother’s.
27. I should call and find out.
28. No.
29. It’s Amy’s turn to call.
30. Will she change her mind if she hears my voice?
31. Probably not.
32. Eighteen months wasted.
33. Bitch.

No Laughing Matter

2011-10-06T14:06:00.001-04:00

First published in MicroHorror (2008)

Why won't they leave me alone? It's the same everyday. Ken and Maurice, dressed in white, escort me to Dr. Johanson's office. They tell jokes and laugh while I stumble down the hall feeling like I'm going to throw up.

Dr. Johanson's nice. She and I chat about how I'm doing and why I'm here. Well, I do most of the talking. It's all very serious, and that's fine with me. Dr. Johanson tells me I must have experienced a trauma when I was a child that made me this way.

I tell her about the time Matthew Peters picked on me for not laughing at his jokes.

***

“Let's see you do better,” Matthew says, crossing his arms on his chest. “Come on, Duh-wayne, make me laugh.” The girls standing near us giggle, the boys chant Duh-wayne, Duh-wayne. Mr. Grant, my Algebra teacher, smiles as he hands over his meal card to be punched.

I try to move away, but two boys block my path. My mouth is dry. I need something to drink. Water spots form on my shirt as the sweat soaks through. One of the boys notices and says milk is leaking from my tits. The kids laugh. Mr. Grant's teeth make an appearance. My body starts shaking. I scream and attack Matthew, punching and kicking as hard as I can.

***

“That's enough,” Dr. Johanson says. “You need to calm down.”

I look at Dr. Johanson. She's pretty. I wonder if she's an alien.

She asks me if I think that's when my problem started. I don't answer. I look out the window instead. She asks me again, and I say I don't think so. It's the first time in eight months I haven't replied I don't know.

The look on Dr. Johanson's face changes. She leans forward. A gap forms between the buttons of her black blouse. More black shows, bruises, just like mommy. Tell me what happened, she says.

I'm calm now. I know there won't be any laughter.

***

“Please,” I hear myself say. “Please don't hurt mommy.” I watch as he rips her blouse, pushes up her skirt and yanks her underwear down. Mommy struggles underneath him. “Please, Daddy.” I grab his leg and try to pull him away, but he's too strong. He carries me out of the room and closes the door. I sit outside, helpless, listening to mommy cry.

My dad's been away. Mommy told me he was in the Army. Once I heard Aunt Joyce ask when he was coming home from prison.

Daddy groans. I hear him say how good it was and how much he missed my mom and how she should be ready for more in a little while. And then he laughs.

The Kiss

2011-10-06T14:01:00.001-04:00

First published in Every Day Fiction (2008)

“I ain’t gonna kiss no pig on the lips.” Thomas straightened to his full six feet and glared down at his wife.

“But we really need the money,” Bobbie Jo said.

“Then you kiss it.”

“That wouldn’t be very lady-like.” Bobbie Jo squinted at the platform where the pig, wearing a pink tutu and dark glasses, waited. She crinkled her nose and continued. “Besides, it’s a girl pig.”

Bobbie Jo grabbed his arm when he started to stomp away and pressed her body against his.

“Pleeease? We really, really --”

“I know. We need the money.” Thomas stared at the pig and felt his resolve melt until it was as soft as his wife’s breast. Without another word, he plodded toward the stage, ignoring the laughs and hoots from the crowd, and climbed the three steps to the top of the platform.

He followed the carnival barker’s instructions and got on all fours. The animal raised its snout, like it knew what was about to happen.

Thomas touched his lips to the pig’s and held the kiss three seconds longer than the required five.

“We have a winner!” the barker announced and handed Thomas five one hundred dollar bills.

Thomas bounded off the stage without acknowledging the roar of the crowd and headed straight to Bobbie Jo.

“Here’s your money,” he said, then turned and trod off.

“Where’re you goin?”

“Away.”

Bobbie Jo stood with her feet apart and her hands on her hips. “You ain’t leavin me cause I made you kiss a pig, are you?”

“Nope,” Thomas said over his shoulder. “I’m leavin you cause the pig’s a better kisser.”

A Letter to Sara

2011-10-06T13:56:00.001-04:00

First publihed in MicorHorror (2008)

Dearest Sara,

It’s been ten years since we communicated last. I’ll never forget that day you screamed you never wanted to speak to your father or me again, and then raced out the door. I know you didn’t mean it. You were so pretty that day. Do you still wear your hair in a pony tail? I tried writing you many times, but your father found my letters and ran them through the shredder. He said you’d disgraced the family by running away. Not that it mattered since I didn’t know your address. If it hadn’t been for the news item on the television, I wouldn’t have known where to write now.

My fingers stopped mid-Perl when I saw you standing next to that District Attorney and heard him tell everyone about the case you’d won. You’re skinny like your father, you know; and when did you dye your hair blonde? I agree with you. It’s too bad Florida suspended its death penalty law.

I know you think I’m weak for allowing your father to abuse me the way he did. I hope you realize I did it for you. The beatings were bearable as long as I was saving you from his horrible ways. My God, you were only seventeen.

He might not have been the best father, but he was a good man until he was passed over a third time for the promotion he wanted. After that he was always so angry. I’ve thought about leaving him many times, but he’s extra nice to me when he’s sober. My one prayer all these years was that you’d call and ask me to live with you once you got settled. Maybe you will when you hear my news.

The doctors give your father three months to live. It’s pancreatic cancer. I learned how to administer his medications so the nurse doesn’t have to come here all the time. It’s not that difficult.

I sleep in your room with Cuddly. You remember your teddy bear, don’t you? You father’s in quite a bit of pain, and the walls muffle his moans. I kept your clothes, too. I tried on one of your dresses last week. It was a little tight; but for that moment, I was seventeen again. I even put ribbons in my hair. Your father would feel better if I’d stop withholding his pain medicine, but it only seems right that he suffer a little after all I went through.

I guess that’s all I have to say for this letter. It would please me to hear back from you if you have the time.

With all my love, your mother,

Brenda