The Flash Fiction Offensive

Guest Writer Spot - Stuart Ayris.

2012-01-28T12:29:00.000Z

I met this months Guest Writer a while back on Facebook. Yeah, yeah, I know that's where we meet most of our "online buddies", but when I'd read a few of his posts I thought to myself, here's a bloke I could really enjoy a few beers with.

I've had a few good chinwags with him since and got to know a bit more about him and his writing. I think you're going to like his writing and I reckon he's got a bright future in the writing world.

By the way, did I mention he has a twin brother who's also a very talented writer? Wonder if you can guess who that is...?

Without further ado, I'm sure you'll enjoy...

A Day in the Death of Stafford Plank by Stuart Ayris.

There comes a time when all of us have considered killing. Come on, deny it. See - you can’t can you? Whether it was that first time you got the cane at school or the last time your wife cheated on you. To kill, my friends, is an innate, throbbing, living being within you. It’s not a concept, an act or a crime. It’s a fucking inevitability.

And it was inevitable that one day, one fine day, Stafford Plank would kill.

It was a Thursday of all days. Thursday is a nothing day. It’s not the middle of the week, it always rains and the only football is the Europa League. Sure, Test Matches start on a Thursday. But what’s the point of that when it rains? And Eastenders, that started off on a Thursday - what a load of bollocks. Thursday was a good choice for Stafford Plank. For Stafford Plank wanted to change the world. What better day to start than a Thursday?

Stafford Plank has always considered the word ‘station’ to be something of an anomaly. You see he thought long and hard about the world and everything in it. ‘Station’ to him was derived from the word ‘stationary’ - which meant paper and stuff. And the word ‘train’ surely implied an element of learning. What learning takes place, he thought, when all the train does is follow the same track to the same destination over and over again? The station isn’t made of paper and the train doesn’t learn - that, to Stafford Plank, was indicative of the lies thrust upon us by society. And you wouldn’t want to ever get him started on Bank Trust Funds…

So on Thursday 12th January 2012, Stafford Plank resolved to rid the world of terror. The so-called ‘war on terror’ he considered to have been a failure. Time and again he would scream at the telly “just fucking nuke them, nuke the fuckers, just do them, fuck them all!!!!” But the lady that worked at Curry’s would always wander out of the shop and move him on. He would initially protest by apologising and then go to Argos to browse through the catalogues.

But people did not understand Stafford Plank. From an early age he had experimented with shouting at old people whilst they weren’t looking. He had then graduated to pissing on statues before moving on to throwing eggs at chickens in an ironic fashion. Whilst many of us would perhaps consider these acts of virtue, Stafford Plank believed he was merely treading the inevitable path to the gallows. For a serial killer he would be - and we’re not talking cornflakes people.

The sun was high in the sky and there was not a cloud in sight. The streets were free of the debris of people and the air reeked of promise. Stafford Plank breathed it in. Today was the beginning of it all - the beginning of a better world. It was his duty to kill, to rid the world of menace. It had come to him during the night, this notion that he was to do the work of millions. Terror? You’ve never fucking seen terror - Stafford Plank roared at the world through his yawn - not ‘til you’ve seen me. For Stafford Plank had drawn up, over the years, a sort of wish list, a deathly menu if you will. And he had not written upon it names of specific people like perhaps you or I would - not even groups of people. His list consisted of three items:

Every fucker that is posh
Every fucker that hates me
Every other fucker

It wasn’t an extensive list by any means, but it was pretty good to be going on with.

Stafford would sit in his bedroom every evening and visualise how he would begin his killing spree. He loved the idea of asphyxiation - the gradual removing of air from a living being. There was something appealing about the symmetry of it, or so he imagined - that just as they were resigned, with their last breath, to their fate, so he would be resigned to the fact that he had killed. There is something perfect about moments with which mere minutes can never compete. And he would see blood when he opened his eyes in the morning. Everything would be dripping in red - the bed sheets, the curtains, the carpet, the door-frame. He would have to rub his eyes incessantly before the scene would right itself before him.

Stafford had visions of killing animals, children, old people - visions that did not stop. Night after night he was regaled with them. He kept a knife upon him at all times just in case the urge to kill overwhelmed him. His bookcase was full of Jilly Cooper books. He listened to Take That’s first album incessantly. And whenever he saw someone smile he wanted to rip their face in two.

And one morning, this Thursday morning in question, he had awoken with the guilt of the murderer thudding within him. When the vision of blood had cleared from his eyes and his breathing had slowed, he looked around his bedroom, half-expecting to find a newly hewn corpse. But there was nothing - not under the bed, not behind the shower curtain - nothing. He checked the kitchen - nothing; the small living room - nothing. There was no evidence at all that he had killed anybody but his whole being TOLD HIM THAT HE HAD!

Stafford Plank was at once thrilled and appalled - thrilled that he felt like he had committed murder and appalled that there was no evidence to show for the act. A friend of his, when he had once had friends, had always said “what’s the point of banging a bird that you can’t tell your mates about.” In Stafford’s mind, murder was much the same. So he eagerly searched his flat for signs that a killing had taken place. He looked behind photo frames, he checked bin bags and he had a wank. Nothing. No sign at all. Yet in his heart he knew, deep down as it were, that he was a murderer. And that there would be no end to the killings.

And then a vision did befall him, an angel from the firmament, all white and winged, nice tits, you know the type…

“Stafford Plank!” called the angel.

“Ugh?” he replied.

“Stafford Plank!” repeated the angel.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I am an angel.”

“Fuck off are you.”

“I am, you know,” stated the angel somewhat firmly.

“Prove it,” replied Stafford Plank.

“No,” came the angel’s retort.

“Fair enough,” Stafford conceded.

“Stafford Plank. I have come upon you this day to tell you that you have been chosen.”

Stafford looked up at the angel - for he was still recovering from his wank and she was suspended from the ceiling by a piece of wire.

“Chosen for what?”

“You have been chosen to save the world!”

“Me? Save the world?”

“Yes, Stafford Plank. Save the world.”

“How am I supposed to do that then?”

“You will know, Stafford. In your heart you will know what to do.”

And the angel did leave Stafford’s flat and get a taxi back to Salford.

So there he was, Stafford Plank - he was you and he was me, in our darkest moments, except his went on forever, they plagued him and nudged him, taunted and teased him. He was never truly free of the feelings that you get when you kill. For killing was what he was born for and killing was what was on his mind when he arrived at the station.

There were the usual early morning concoction of business types, students and thieves - the posh ones, the ones that hated him, and everyone else. To Stafford, they all looked like crappy pencil drawings from some child’s book - stick people in a non-stick fucking world. He despised every one of them as he looked about. They had lives he could only dream of. If he could dream of anything other than murder that its. He saw no colours but red and he felt no emotion but guilt. And with that sort of combination, well that is an explosion of which the world itself should be rightly afraid.

And so the words of the angel returned to Stafford Plank as he stood trembling upon the platform. Had it really been an angel? Were there even such things?

But all Stafford Plank could feel was the dull throb of the murderer’s heart and all he could see out of the corner of his wretched eyes was the deep crimson dripping of blood.

Saving the world suddenly appealed to him. He, Stafford Plank, would not be destroyer, but saviour! He would give the world an opportunity to live in peace and harmony, to breathe again, to sigh the sigh of the loved and to imbibe of the beauty of fellowship!

So, as the unlearned train approached, he threw himself in front of it.

Well, it was a start…

Six years ago, Stuart (former Roadsweeper, Market Stall Putter Upper and now Psychiatric Nurse) moved to Tollesbury, a small village on the North Essex coastline. He fell instantly in love with it, or more precisely, The King's Head, a pub so fine that it led him to sleep in the spare room of his new house on unpacked bags for his first two nights as a Tollesbury resident. The ensuing protestations of "I did it for you so we could get to know people!" and "It's not about the alcohol it's about being friendly!" fell upon stony ground.

The idea for Tollesbury Time Forever came from Stuary being inherently untidy and disorganised. For some reason long forgotten, he was looking for something under his bed one day, as you do, and he came across the original deeds to his house in Tollesbury. He discovered that it had been built in 1836 and that the first occupant had been a man named Zachariah Leonard. He went to The King's Head across the road and drank more than a few pints of the local cider, as you do, and all the while wondered what Zachariah Leonard had been like and what Tollesbury had been like back in 1836. Staggering out, he found himself face to face with the village lock-up, a six foot by three foot perpendicular locked box that had been used in years passed to secure the local drunk whilst they sobered up.

He got home that night and wrote the first chapter of Tollesbury Time Forever, awoke the next morning, read it through and kind of liked it. And that was the pattern for the next three years – King's Head, write, wake-up, read…

He sent the manuscript to various agents and publishers and those who bothered to reply just turned it down flat. So he started a blog about his experiences in trying to get the novel published and then decided to do it himself.

Tollesbury Time Forever became available on Kindle and Kindle for PC on 4^th January 2012 and has sold over 200 copies in its first three weeks, received 22 five-star reviews and has been in the top 60 Amazon Literary Bestseller Rankings for almost the entire time.

Get Tollesbury Time Forever here (UK) and here (USA).

You can find Stuart's blog at www.tollesburytimeforever.blogspot.com and his website at www.stuartayrisbooks.co.uk

You can also follow him on Facebook here

And on Twitter @StuartAyris here

Framed by C.J. Edwards.

2012-01-24T20:00:00.003Z

Billy didn’t know how many police cars were behind him. Their red and blue lights filled his rearview mirror and flickered off green exit signs. His speedometer hovered at ninety. The front end of the Ford F150 quad cab shook. Both front tires had been taken out by spike strips six miles back. Prying his right hand from the wheel, Billy wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Fuck!”

He’d said the word so many times in the last ten minutes it had lost its flavor. How the hell had he gotten into this?

His eyes flicked to the passenger seat. A pair of white Nikes laced to Ray’s feet jutted up from the floor board. What was left of his friend lay crumpled under the dash. Looking back out to the stretch of I65 in front of him, Billy stared past the smear of blood he had tried to wipe away. Small bits of bone and brain peppered the dash.

On the seat next to him was a gun, a Glock .45. Billy knew his prints were on it. They were on each round in the clip as well. The prints were there because he had loaded the gun about an hour ago, after buying it from Morris for $300.

The sun was starting to come up. The traffic was thickening from the odd semi to the morning rush. It was ten more miles to his granddad’s farm, eight to the Rosemont exit, and two more till the gravel drive that led to the twenty two acre spread. Morris, Ray, and Billy had played three musketeers and cops and robbers there as kids during summer break. A snicker wormed it way past Billy’s lips.

“Just like old times.” Only this wasn’t a game

Morris had suggested the old farm because Granddad raised pigs. Pigs were what Billy needed, hungry pigs. Swine ate anything. He looked back down at Ray’s feet. The Ford hit a pot hole and the Nikes hopped into the air. Billy thought of the movie “White Men Can’t Jump” and laughed till he started coughing. His lungs wheezed.

“I am so fucked.”

Up ahead the right lane was blocked by two semis. They had been stopped by more cops under the overpass, probably state troopers. The left was open, but as Billy got closer he could see another spike strip glinting in the morning sun.

“Shit! Common, just one more exit.”

Across the grassy median the traffic had slimmed down. The overpass on that side was clear. Billy knew what he had to do. It was his only hope of making it past the roadblock. Letting off the gas he let the crippled truck slow. His hand grabbed the Glock. Billy hurled the pistol through the shattered driver’s window into the median. He’d aimed it at some trees growing near the roadway, hoping it wouldn’t be found. In the side mirror he watched as one of the cop cars pulled over where he had thrown the gun. It had been a long shot anyway. He should have dumped it before they had tried to stop him back in Indianapolis. Morris told him to get rid of it at the farm, along with Ray. At the time it had seemed like good advice. Taking the gun over to Ray’s had been Morris’ idea too.

“We can go toss a few rounds at some cars in the junk yard,” he’d said.

Ray thought it would be cool too, and after they all had sucked down some prime crystal, he offered to drive. Billy called shotgun. Morris climbed into the back seat of Ray’s brand new quad cab, and hit the pipe again.

Half way to the junk yard Morris smacked Billy on the arm.

“Hey man. Let me check out that piece real quick.”

Billy thought nothing of it as he handed it back. Two blocks later Ray pulled up to Rick and Ray’s You Pull, and slipped the Ford into park.

When Ray’s head came apart Billy just stared. His ears rang from the shot. Morris’ mouth was moving but Billy couldn’t hear what he was saying. When he got out of the truck he had meant to run, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Ray. Morris had jumped out to open the driver’s door. He shoved Ray to the side. Ray flopped forward onto the passenger side floor, smearing blood across the seat. Billy stared.

“Meet me at yo grandpa’s farm. If I go down for this shit, we both go down.”

Billy just nodded.

Just before the overpass, Billy slowed even more, and steered the truck into the median. He made it half way across before the bare rims dug into the soggy turf. Billy gunned the engine but the rims only ground in deeper. The back end of the truck spun around a few times. He gave it up.

Now the sirens were louder as the white cars spread out behind him. They stopped. A dog was barking.

Several voices began yelling at him to show his hands. Billy looked down at his gore covered fingers. He raised them up over his head.

“Open the door and get out of the vehicle!”

He got out. Just before his face smacked the muddy grass Billy gaped at the circle of badges and guns.

“He’s dead,” he shouted. "He’s dead, but I didn’t shoot him!”

Bio: C. J. Edwards lives in Indianapolis IN, and has been a police officer for just over eleven years. His work can be found in American Blue: Real Stories by Real Cops, the crime fiction journal All Due Respect, the debut issue of Pulp Modern, and in the anthology, Indiana Crime Jurst released on Amazon.

Dudley Do Right by R Thomas Brown

2012-01-21T22:00:00.002Z

“Look, you’ve got it wrong.” Dudley tried to stand up before the officer pushed him back into his chair.

“Sir, remain seated while we evacuate the endangered areas.” The officer kept his hand on Dudley’s shoulder and motioned to his weapon.

“There is no damn endangered area.”

“Sir, did you inform officers that you posed a threat and that there was something in your trunk?”

“Yes, but…” He tried to stand again. The hand didn’t move.

“Sir. Remain where you are.”

“Fine, but there’s no fucking bomb.”

People continued to file out of the Comal County Jail into the back parking lot. Drunks, hookers, strung out vagrants and Texas State College students being taught a lesson filed out under the occasional eyes of officers who had their attention on the car.

The white sedan looked at home at the station. Large, wide, and very white. Officers in bulky green garb huddled near the car, one of them controlling the robot that edged toward the vehicle.

Dudley looked out the window to view what he could from a distance. He wished he had parked closer to the station. “Hey, is that fucking robot gonna hurt my car?”

The officer didn’t speak.

“Looks like that thing from the stupid Steve Gutenberg movie.” He waved his arms. “Number Five is Alive.”

His laughing was stopped with a forceful squeeze of his shoulder. “Geez, calm the fuck down.”

The officer glared at him. “My friends are risking their lives out there, so you stop talking.”

“No one’s risking their life.”

The robot popped the trunk open.

“There’s no bomb.”

No boom.

An officer pulled off his helmet and peered through binoculars at the trunk.

“See, I told you there wasn’t no fucking bomb.”

The officer pulled his hand away absently. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is some people can’t just leave you the fuck alone, you know?” Dudley adjusted in his chair and rubbed his shoulder. “They just keep on you, no matter how many times you say no.”

The officer outside stepped up to the trunk and waved for help while staring at Dudley across the lot.

“Sir, what did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you, to turn myself in. I tried to figure my way out of it, but I just couldn’t. Thought I could make it all go away with a trip up north to the casinos.”

“Casinos, sir?”

“Yeah, the one’s right across the border in Oklahoma. Huge, these fucking places, but the slots are tight.”

“You came to confess to gambling?” The officer looked outside and saw several officers heading his way.

“No. Fuck no. That’s not illegal. I just hoped it would make me forget. I tried to make it up to the universe you know. I mean, I even fed the damn cat. Two days.”

The officers entered the department. “Who is that?”

Dudley exhaled. “Finally, no more fucking bomb talk.”

“Who is it?”

“Just some old fucker who kept coming at me. Kept trying get me to handle up on his old wrinkly dick.”

The officer next to Dudley looked down at him. “What?”

“Yeah, old perv. So I told him I needed car help, and beat his ass with a tire iron. I mean he was a nice old man, but fucking leave me alone.”

The officer began stating his rights.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I came to confess. Guilt is a bitch. I mean, I cleaned him up, laid him out all nice, I even fed his fucking cat, like I said. Twice.”

The officer led him back to a cell.

“Still, couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

The officer opened the cell and nudged him in. “Turn around.” He removed Dudley’s cuffs through the bars after the door was shut.

Dudley turned around. “I mean, for once, I try to do right by someone, and fucking guilt gets me.”

“Do right by someone?”

“Yeah, I mean, I just cut up the other old fucks and shoved them in the freezer.”

BIO: R Thomas Brown spends most of his free time having fake sword fights with his three kids and quickly cleaning up before his wife gets home. He squeezes in writing and a job that pays into the other hours. To see his thoughts about short crime fiction and other stuff, you can visit rthomasbrown.blogspot.com

What Could Happen By Matthew C. Funk.

2012-01-14T20:00:00.010Z

Cassie's hands were shaking when she woke up. They were able to turn off the alarm clock. They grabbed a Power Bar just in time. They turned the lock on the door even though it would only take a small rock to break her front window.

Her hands were no good when it came to making things steady, though. Cassie kept them at her side as she walked down Claiborne Street toward the Saturn Bar.

Cassie's hands hadn't been steady since she read about Laurie Young being found.

Passing by the Black Cat Mini Mart, Cassie looked at the hand-painted sign propped in its windows. The sign was a pair of dice showing boxcars-two sixes. Cassie wondered if people had to dream of being lucky before they actually were.

Was it the same with death? Did people have nightmares the night before they died? Did they wake up, shake the monsters away and go into their day, never suspecting that this would be the day it all ended?

The alternative seemed worse.

Cassie looked at the sidewalk ahead. Kids had chalked a picture of flowers and guns there. An ambulance roared by down Claiborne. Somewhere there was laughter.

Did Laurie Young dream good dreams the night before she was taken and torn and dropped in the alley behind Big Lots? Did she have a dream of dancing at the prom she had shared with Cassie? Did she dream of her family, wake with a smile, and was taken anyway?

The Saturn Bar door jingled. Neon was smiling above beer signs and posters of jazz musicians. The air smelled like cigarettes and peppers and a dozen perfumes.

So much joy, sad and happy alike. Cassie marveled at it. She lifted the bar divider with shaking hands and did not meet the eyes of Alan, the bartender.

"Alan," Cassie said. "Do we have a gun here?"

If Alan gave her a look, Cassie didn't see it. She was looking at the cherries and the limes and the olives in their neat containers. She wondered what taste would be good enough to be a last taste.

"A gun?" Alan chuckled. "Why? What could happen?"

Cassie no more knew how to answer than she knew how to stop her hands from shaking. She used them to punch the clock and tie on her apron.

That would have to do.

Matthew C. Funk is a social media consultant, professional marketing copywriter and writing mentor. He is the editor of the Genre section of the critically acclaimed zine, FictionDaily, and a writer for FangirlTastic and Spinetingler Magazine. M. C. Funk's work features at numerous sites online and in print with Needle Magazine, Howl, 6S and Crimefactory. He is represented by Stacia J. N. Decker of the Donald Maass Literary Agency.

Shirt City Blues by Angel Zapata.

2012-01-11T20:00:00.005Z

“You’re hurting me, Dad. Please don’t do this.”

“Do you know what time it is, Conner?”

“I know. But let me explain.”

“It’s two hours after curfew. Your mother and I—”

“But I have a good reason.”

“Let me guess. You lost track of time again.”

“That’s not it!”

“Keep your voice down. Your mother’s asleep.”

“Whatever. It’s not like she’d hear us anyway with all those fuckin’ pills she swallows every night.”

“You better watch your mouth, boy. You’re walking on some painfully thin ice.”

“Stop squeezing my arm, Dad! It hurts!”

“Hey, isn’t that my blue shirt you’re wearing? What the hell did you get all over it?”

“It’s blood.”

“Blood? Are you hurt?”

“Let go of me. It’s not my blood.”

“Huh? Well then, whose blood is it?”

“It’s Jimmy’s.”

“The kid that lives next door?”

“Yep.”

“Is he alright?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, son. What the hell is going on?”

“Jimmy’s dead. I hit him with your car.”

“Is this some kind of prank? Cause I’ll tell you right now, Conner, it ain’t funny.”

“No! He’s really dead.”

“Jesus Christ. I need a drink.”

“Haven’t you had enough already? Ow! That hurt.”

“Quit squirming and tell me what happened.”

“We were down at Astoria Park talking to some girl Jimmy knew from school. Jimmy asked her if she needed a ride. She said, yeah.”

“Get to the damn point.”

“Jimmy knew a place to park out behind the old drive-in theater. He told me to wait in the car, kill the engine and lights. After he got out, I waited like five minutes. It was dark, but I saw him take off his jacket and lay it on the grass. Then the girl started unbuttoning her jeans and Jimmy pulled her down to the ground. She screamed and then went real quiet.”

“I still don’t understand how—”

“I was curious. I switched on the headlights and I saw what Jimmy was doing to her. He was on top of her with his hand over her mouth. I started the car and stepped on the gas. I was just trying to scare him. Next thing I know, I felt both their bodies under the tires.”

“Jesus. You killed them?”

“Not at first.”

“Uh… what are you saying?”

“They were screaming. I was afraid someone might hear.”

“Oh, fuck no. Don’t tell me—”

“I shifted in reverse. After a few passes, neither one of them made any more noise.”

“Oh, God. Are you sure they’re dead?”

“Yeah, I got out of the car and made sure.”

“Made sure?”

“There was so much blood everywhere. The girl’s head was a mess, but Jimmy was still moving around. I found your shirt in the back seat. I rolled it up and put it over his face until he stopped breathing.”

“My God, Conner. Do you think anyone saw you?”

“Yeah, someone did.”

“Aw, hell. Who was it?”

“As I pulled off the dirt road back onto I-421, this old guy waved at me. I’m not really sure who he was, but he thought I was you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, the guy called out, ‘Good seeing you, Mr. Hutchens’.”

“You mean he thought you were me?”

“Uh-huh. That’s when I got the idea to put on your shirt and drive around town for a little while. You even had one of your baseball caps in the trunk. It seems I look a lot more like you than I thought. Plenty of people recognized you behind the wheel. And as far as Mom knows, I was in bed when she went to sleep. Where were… you?”

“Wh-wh-why?”

“I promised myself I would never let you come home drunk and hurt me or Mom again. Jimmy and that girl helped me keep that promise.”

“Oh God, I feel sick. Who’s that? A car’s pulling up in the driveway.”

“It’s probably the cops. I called them just before I walked in.”

“The police!”

“Yeah, I told them I saw my father drive off drunk earlier tonight with the neighbor’s kid, Jimmy.”

“Oh, shit. Please don’t do this.”

“Where have I heard that before?”

“Conner, I’m so sorr—”

“You better put something on while I get the door. Here’s your shirt, Dad.”

Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta, Georgia. Some of his fiction and poetry has appeared in the Toe Tags Anthology, Mausoleum Memoirs, Long Live the New Flesh: Year One and Year Two, The Best of Every Day Fiction: Volume 2, Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal, Branded Words, The Best of Every Day Poets: Volume 2, and the zombie anthology: Putrid Poetry and Sickening Sketches. He is also author of the Trestle Press short story horror series, The Man of Shadows. http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/

Interlude.

2012-01-10T17:02:00.001Z

Let's get this over with then. It's the last night of voting over at The Critters Writers Workshop readers poll.

I've been nominated in the Magazine/e-zine editor category. If you fancy voting for David Barber + The Flash Fiction Offensive then click here...http://critters.org/predpoll/zineeditor.shtml

The Flash Fiction Offensive has also been nominated for best Fiction e-zine. You can vote for it here...http://critters.org/predpoll/fictionzine.shtml

You can choose to vote in all other categories here...http://critters.org/predpoll/

Thanks and good luck to all other nominees!

Welcome To Shitsville, Asshole by Richard Godwin.

2012-01-08T14:37:00.002Z

After a busy festive period and some fantastic stories in the Christmas Grit series, the magazine is now back to normal and getting up to speed.

I've also been running the magazine for 12 months now and I'd like to thank you all for a fantastic first year as editor. Long may it continue!

Right, without further ado...

Welcome To Shitsville, Asshole by Richard Godwin.

Candy lost a tooth giving the mayor of Spruceville a blow job. She never expected the stud on his cock to be so deeply embedded, nor for an old guy like him to be able to raise that kind of hard on. She could feel blood running into her jaw as she stared up at his banner on the wall. ‘Welcome to my town’, it read. It had always bothered her and she never knew what the Mayor was so proud of.

Back at the apartment she told Larry what had happened.

‘I’m a tooth down and he almost knocked my larynx out of place. Spruceville is a shit hole.’

‘Screw him’, Larry said, ‘you’re the deep throat Queen, so go suck another one and buy me some more beers.’

‘I’m sick of this Larry, I didn’t give up crack to become no whore.’

‘It ain’t whoring, it’s paying the fucking rent.’

Larry had a flag on the wall on which he’d written ‘We’re all fucking losers’. His favourite saying was ‘ain’t nothing wrong with paying for sex’.

He and Candy had met at a bar a few years before when she’d stopped using and he fucked her in the john and wiped his cock on the back of her skirt before taking her back to his place.

‘I ain’t never going back inside’, Candy told him that night as they sipped beer beneath a summer moon.

‘What were you in for?’, Larry said.

‘Theft mainly.’

She didn’t tell him about the time she stuck a fork in a trick’s throat for trying to bugger her.

She’d given it up, done the church thing, gone and prayed for weeks looking for Jesus. She wanted to find the hidden meaning of the gospel.

Then one day Jesus told her she was nothing better than a goddamned whore and to get the fuck out of his house.

‘I ain’t going back there’, she said to Larry. ‘There’s something wrong with those people.’

‘Yeah, they believe in a freak’, Larry said.

And so she settled down with him and whenever he gambled away his earnings from the gas station she’d go out and give a few blow jobs. Occasionally she’d lift her skirt and let a few tricks climb inside her snatch so she and Larry could stay in their stinking cockroach infested apartment in a town they both hated.

Larry kept her on a tight rein. She knew he had a secret stash of cash.

Over supper she winced as she tried to eat.

‘You need to get that seen to’, Larry said.

Candy laid her fork down slowly on her plate.

‘I know I need to get it seen to, how are we going to afford it?’

Larry shrugged.

‘Maybe I can find some money.’

‘Oh really? Besides there’s another problem.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t do drugs.’

‘I know you don’t do drugs.’

‘If I go to the dentist he’s going to shoot me full of novocaine and I don’t want nothing like that in my system.’

‘That ain’t a drug.’

‘Larry, you didn’t know me when I was off my head on drugs, you wouldn’t have liked me, I did some things. If I get high I want it to be pure.’

That night as Candy lay next to Larry her tooth gave her such pain she rose from their bed remembering who she used to be. It was always pain that brought the memories back and she looked at Larry and thought how innocent he seemed.

The next morning he rose to find her making breakfast.

‘I need to go to the dentist’, she said.

Larry gave her the cash.

As she tilted back in the chair and looked up at the dentist’s face she knew her problem was that the Mayor’s message was a lie. She felt the needle in her cheek and then the ceiling moved farther off.

She paid and left and made her way home and detoured at the Mayor’s office, as if someone else was steering the car. It was clear, she would ask for the money to pay for her tooth, that was reasonable, he was a business man, he would understand.

It was lunch time, his secretary had gone out and Candy found him alone eating a sandwich.

He stood up, dabbing his mouth with a napkin when she entered the room.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I lost a tooth, I had it fixed and I would like the money.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘I think you should pay me.’

‘You got rotten teeth, bitch. Come on, give it another suck.’

He yanked out his cock.

And as the light caught the gold stud Candy saw it all in a vision before it happened.

She heard the heavenly choirs and knew what she needed to do, that if she did it she would make it all right with the Lord.

‘How can you run this town?’, she said.

‘I do all right’, he said, sitting down.

Candy walked over to him and stood inches from his face, smelling the salami on his breath.

‘Do you know what I think of this place?’, she said, pointing at his banner. ‘Do you know what I am going to name it?’

‘What?’

‘I’ll show you.’

And she raised her heel and punched her stiletto into his cheek. She didn’t stop kicking him until his tongue lolled out of his head.

Then she pulled down his banner and dumped it on him.

‘Welcome to shitsville asshole’, she said.

Back at the apartment she ate supper with Larry and went to bed.

She woke up the next morning feeling high.

Over breakfast she said ‘Larry I’m going back to church.’

Larry chewed indifferently on his bacon.

‘Yeah, well just make sure you suck some cock on the way back, I want my money back.’

On her way out Candy looked at Larry’s flag.

She smiled and knew she’d found the hidden meaning of the gospel.

Richard Godwin is the author of crime novel Apostle Rising, in which a serial killer is crucifying politicians and recreating the murder scenes of an original case. The novel has received great reviews http://www.richardgodwin.net/media

It has just sold foreign rights to the largest publisher in Hungary.

http://www.amazon.com/Apostle-Rising-Richard-Godwin/dp/0956711308/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1325697920&sr=1-1

He is widely published in many magazines and anthologies and also writes horror and Bizarro as well as literary fiction and poetry. You can find out more about him here http://richardgodwin.net . His Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are popular and penetrating interviews he conducts with other authors at his Blog http://www.richardgodwin.net/blog .

His second crime novel, Mr. Glamour will be published this year (April) by Black Jackal Books as a paperback.

Interlude.

2012-01-02T15:54:00.001Z

Update.

Now the festivities are coming to a stop, I have started sorting through the current submissions and will be in contact with writers over the next few day. There are a few writer's stories ready and waiting to be published, including Matt Funk, Angel Zapatta and Richard Godwin.

In other news.

The magazine has done well the past 12 months and has been acknowledged with a couple of nominations at the Prditors & Editors Readers Poll. You can vote at the following links.

Best Fiction E-Zine - The Flash Fiction Offensive. Vote Here.

Best Magazine/E-Zine Editor. Vote Here. I have been nominated twice in this section but I'll leave it up to you as to which one you vote for.

I also had a story published over at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers last year. Best Mates and Lovers has been nominated in the Short Story category. If you wanted to, you can vote here.

All votes would be totally appreciated. It's your magazine too!

Don't Forget.

There have been some fantastic stories published over the past couple of weeks. If you've missed any whilst partying with your families and friends please check them out and let the writers know your thoughts.

Thank you for your continued support. Let's push this Magazine to the top of the tree this year.

Best wishes for the coming 12 months.

Thanks,
David.

Christmas/New Year Grit - Quitting Cold by Chad Haskins.

2011-12-31T18:48:00.000Z

May I take this opportunity to wish each and every one of you a fantastic New Year. I sincerely hope that 2012 is good to all the writers who have appeared on these pages and the readers/supporters of this fine establishment. Long may it continue into the year ahead.

Without further ado, feast your eyes upon the last of the mag's Christmas Grit stories. You won't be disappointed.

Quitting Cold.

My New Year’s resolution is to make an honest living, which means I have thirty minutes to complete this job.

I hold Vanessa in my arms and look into her glittering eyes. It has taken me a year to get to this point…the point of our relationship where we are talking about marriage…the point where her parents like me…and the point where I know where they keep the combination to the safe containing the diamond necklace that I will retire on.

Vanessa’s parents have some friends and family members visiting their large home to ring in the New Year. They are all wealthy stiffs that talk about empty things that make a fart sound appealing.

“I have a bit of a headache,” I lie. “I’m going to rest in the study for a few minutes so I can be ready to give you a big wet kiss when the clock is on twelve.”

“The study?” She pauses for a moment then says, “Yes, that would be a good place. Do you need anything else, John?”

“No my sweet, just your love.”

“Well, you know you’ve got that. I’ve never been with anyone else longer.” She smiles and gives me an appetizingly long kiss on the lips that makes me wonder if I shouldn’t have got my headache after we did one last quickie in the laundry room.

Before I can enter the study, I run into Vanessa’s father, Bill. He is a retired doctor, and I have him in the palm of my hand.

“Happy New Year, John…well almost.”

“You too Bill,” I say, hoping he doesn’t try to come into the study with me.

“John I want you to know how lucky my Vanessa is to have met you. I can’t think of a better man I would trust with my daughter. She has had some rocky relationships that ended abruptly in the past, but seeing her with you now makes all that seem like a bad dream.

“I want nothing more than to make Vanessa happy,” except, well, stealing from you pricks.

“I know John. I know.”

“Oh Honey,” calls Vanessa’s mom, “would you come here and help me open this bottle of champaign?”

“Yes Dear! Let’s talk some more later John.”

“Sure,” I reply as he goes to help his wife.

I look left and right and then ease into the study. I turn on a lamp. Only ten minutes ‘till midnight. I’ve got to hurry so I can grab the necklace and leave before the celebration starts, and before my New Year’s resolution kicks in.

On the side of the oak desk there is a hidden sliding door, revealing a small safe that has been installed there. I found out through an acquaintance that they had the expensive necklace, and I kept planting subtle thoughts about necklaces and safes into my conversations with Vanessa; one day we were in here, and she just flat out told me about the necklace. And then not long afterward I discovered the combination carved underneath the desk.

I pull back the sliding door and twirl the tumblers to the numbers I memorized.

“click”

“Bingo!”

I open the door and pull out a black box. I take a peak, and the rocks are bigger than I even imagined. Wow!

I take the necklace out, put the case back in the safe and close it. I stand up and look at the clock—11:55. Shit. I’ve got to move.

“John, are you OK?”

“Fuck.”

I jump on the couch just as Vanessa walks in.

“Are you feeling better?”

“No, not really. I think I just need a few more minutes.”

She walks over and sits beside me.

“Let me give you a neck rub,” she insists, before I can argue.

She moves behind me and rubs my neck. I have my hand on my pocket, and I squeeze the necklace just to make sure it is still there.

“I overheard my father say something to you about my past boyfriends. I confess that I was always the one to break things off, but I’ve decided that my New Year’s resolution is to stop ending my relationships so sharply…”

“That’s good to know,” I say.

“…starting tomorrow.”

I look down and see the tip of a knife protruding through the front of my now blood soaked shirt.

“Daddy is going to help me.”

I feel dizzy, and suddenly I am in a hammock, on an island in the Pacific, sipping a blue drink—living the good life.

Chad Haskins lives in Newnan, Georgia with his wife and two sons. Chad's writing appears in Rose and Thorn Journal, Blue Collar Review, Untitled Country Review, The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, Pure Slush, Yellow Mama, and is forthcoming in Powder Burn Flash, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Dark River Magazine, and Flashes in the Dark.

Christmas Grit - Santa’s Helper by Bill Baber.

2011-12-29T20:39:00.003Z

It was a job and a shitty one at that. Wasn’t going to do much more than pay the rent for the month and make a small dent in the mountain of bills. It sure as hell wasn’t going to buy presents for her two kids- it might not leave enough for a goddamn tree and lord knows her ex wasn’t going to contribute anything, the bastard.

She had hoped she might have landed a job at the cosmetics counter at Goodall’s Department Store. Or, if not that, maybe in lingerie. Even fitting fat woman with bras and helping horny husbands and boyfriends pick out red satin and white fir trimmed nighties to dress their women in on Christmas Eve would have been better than this.

It started with the outfit. A scratchy, too short green felt dress. A goofy red hat, red tights to match and some stupid looking things she wore on her feet that curled up at the ends. On top of that, they expected her to paint two bright red dots the size o f a silver dollar on her cheeks.

She was supposed to be an elf, Santa’s helper. Santa was half in the bag most of the time and smelled like the crapper at O’Malley’s pub. On top of that, the fat bastard – she knew for a fact that he didn’t use any extra padding- goosed her every chance he got. She took the wee ones from their mothers and loaded them on the old goat’s lap. Then tried to coax a smile out of the poor things while some bored looking junkie took pictures.

It was a week before Christmas and, it was payday. The idea hit her like a lump of coal. Santa was especially frisky that evening. He had lewdly lunged at her breasts and slapped her rump twice.

The assistant manager handed them each an envelope at closing time-his obviously fatter than hers.

“So Santa, what do you say we grab a drink and then have a little fun?”

He fixed his pig eyes on her and grinned wickedly.

“Ho Ho Ho, let’s go!” he replied.

They stood at the bar at O’ Malley’s and the cheap bastard didn’t even buy her a drink. Instead, he kept trying to reach under her skirt. She wasn’t sure if she could go through with her plan. But it would mean a tree and the Nintendo game little Jake wanted and the Barbie Ferrari for Julie underneath it.

The lecherous sot was downing shots like water. She sipped a beer. After a while he said,

“Let’s go to my place.”

He got a pint of Black Bush to go.

His room was just a block or two away and looked like something out of a 40’s movie; single, un-shaded light bulb, a stained mattress with a couple of dirty old blankets and a hot plate. A yellowed blind was pulled down over the window, trash strewn around and a stink like meat gone bad.

As soon as he closed the door, he forcefully threw her on the bed and started groping. Her purse flew across the room. Put his mouth close to hers and tried to kiss her. His breath was like reindeer poop.

“Wait, wait Santa!” she pleaded, “I gotta pee and put my diaphragm in.”

With a grunt, he rolled off of her. Started peeling off his Santa costume. He had started to sweat and the stink was overpowering. She thought she would be sick.

She retrieved her purse and as Santa was tugging his black boots off she pulled a .38 revolver from her purse and shot him twice in the side of the head.

Grabbing the envelope with his pay and the unopened bottle of whiskey, she fled the apartment.

She stopped at Wal Mart and brought presents for her kids and two boxes of cheap ornaments and a string of lights and some wrapping paper. After taking them home, she went back out and at a lot three blocks away bought the cheapest tree they had. When she returned she poured a stiff drink from Santa’s bottle, wrapped the presents and decorated the tree. The look on the kids face the next morning made it almost worthwhile. She found it ironic that she had killed Santa Claus to provide Christmas for her children. But, a girl had to do what a girl has to do sometimes. After a while, she was okay with what had happened.

No one was too surprised when Santa didn’t show up for work the next day. When the cops found him they discovered he was an ex- felon who among other things had done time for rape. They wouldn’t spend much time on this case. They figured someone had done them a favor.

He was replaced by a kindly old gent who called her “dear” and always seemed to have a seasonally appropriate twinkle in his eye.

On Christmas night, after the kids had gone to bed exhausted and happy, she sat at the kitchen table, looking at the sparsely decorated tree. She poured the last of the dead man’s whiskey and smiled to herself. In the end, old St. Nick had come through, just as she had promised her kids he would.

Bill Baber’s fiction and poetry have appeared in “The Source,” “Literary Harvest,” “The Flash Fiction Offensive,” “Slow Trains” and the online edition of “The High Desert Journal.”His stories have also appeared on “Powder Burn Flash” and “Darkest before the Dawn.” A book of his poetry “Where the Wind Comes to Play” was published by Berberis Press this spring. He lives in Bend, Or. with his wife Robin and a very spoiled dog.

Interlude.....Festive Self-Promotion.

2011-12-29T12:33:00.003Z

I've been running this magazine for almost 12 months now and someone has been kind enough to nominate me in the Magazine/e-zine Editor over at Critters Writers Workshop.

I've actually been nominated twice, but if you want to vote for me I think the best one would be the one with just my name. All your votes would be very much appreciated.

As always, thank you so much for your continued support.

You can vote here.

The magazine itself has also been nominated. Yee-haa!

You can vote for TFFO as the best online mag here.

Thank you!

Best,
David - Editor.

Christmas Grit - A Christmas Story by Kurt Newton.

2011-12-28T20:14:00.000Z

Snow.

Yup, there has to be snow. Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without it.

What else?

Music.

Yes, music. Jingle jangle. Happy music. Soft, snow falling music. Crooning, caroling, sleigh ride music. Yesiree. Gotta have it.

What else?

Food.

You got that right. Eats. Ginger this and ginger that. Hot apple cider. Cookies, pies, candy canes. Yummy yum yum.

Okay, what else?

Presents.

Uh, huh. Nice shiny presents. Big colorful presents. Ribbons and bows and stacks upon stacks of credit card charge after credit card charge, and overcharge, and can't pay this month's oil bill charge...or the light bill...or the car payment...or the you name it! But there are presents. Boy, are there presents. "For the last time" presents. And "Didn't I tell you not to spend all our fucking money" presents. And, "Since when is it okay to mouth off to me when all you do is sit around and complain about how I never take you anywhere or buy you anything when you know damn well I work all day and we still don't have a pot to piss in you ungrateful bitch", presents.

Okay, what else?

Blood.

Now we're talking. Bloodshot eyes. Bloody lip. Bloody knuckles. The blood splatter on the window curtains from the double-barrel shotgun blasts. Not to mention the blood trail leading from the Christmas tree out the back door, through the snow, to the backyard shed, red as cranberry sauce on a bed of mashed potatoes.

Okay, what else?

Santa Claus.

Of course. The old fat bastard himself. Ho ho ho work one day a year lazy-assed heart attack waiting to happen, filling everyone's heads with presents, nice shiny presents, big colorful blood-soaked presents. Fucking Santa.

And since when does Fucking Santa come knocking on the front door demanding to be let in?

And since when does Fucking Santa drive a sleigh with red and blue flashing lights?
I mean, c'mon. Really? Fuck me.

Fucking Santa needs to learn a thing or two about patience. Fucking Santa needs to learn to keep his fucking nose out of other people's fucking business. Guess I'm going to have to teach that fat fucker a lesson!

Here I come you fucking overgrown elf. Hope you like both barrels between those rosy fucking cheeks of yours...

Kurt's latest novella, THE BRAINPAN CONCERTO, is now available from Sideshow Press (http://sideshowpressonline.com/?page_id=4&category=1&product_id=73).

Christmas Grit - Home for the Holidays by Wayne Scheer.

2011-12-27T20:00:00.000Z

The ring of the doorbell pierced the silence of the house like a surgeon's scalpel opening a chest.

"Mom, someone's at the door," Pam shouted from her bedroom where she lay across her bed reading a romance novel.

"Will you see who it is, please? I'm not dressed." Her mother's words sounded slurred.

Sighing theatrically, Pam made her way to the front door, slapping bare feet on cold wood floors. Her mother, still in her bathrobe, sat at the kitchen table holding a glass half-filled with ice and a clear liquid.

Barely ten in the morning, Pam thought, and she's already into her vodka hangover cure. Must have been celebrating the holidays early.

A Christmas tree, undecorated, leaned on the living room wall. Opened boxes of ornaments lay beside the tree.

The doorbell rang again.

"See who it is first."

Pam opened the door without checking.

"Hello, Pamela." A middle-aged man in a dark suit that bagged in the shoulders stood in the doorway. He held what was obviously a bottle wrapped in red and green.

"Mom's busy."

"Can I come in? It's been a long time."

"Mom doesn't like strangers in the house."

She closed the door.

Pam watched her mother down what was left in her glass. "Who was that?"

"No one important," Pam said. "By the way, when's Clayton get out this time?"

"I don't know. They should release him around Christmas time."

The doorbell sounded again.

"Your Christmas present is here," Pam said, returning to her room and locking her door.

--Originally published in a different version in Apollo's Lyre, December 2007.

Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, available at http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net.

Christmas Grit - Fucking Santa by Dana C. Kabel.

2011-12-25T20:09:00.000Z

Metzler sat on the shrink’s couch and tried to shut the Christmas music out of his head.

“Something troubling you?” Dr. Burns asked.

“Can’t get this damned song out of my head.”

“What song do you hear?”

“Feliz Navidad,”

“Hmmm,” the doctor stuck his head outside the door.

“Debbie, could you turn off the music in the reception area?”

Metzler sat up.

“That was coming from out there?”

“I’m sorry it bothered you. I honestly didn’t even hear it in here until you said something.”

Metzler stared at the doctor.

“Please…it’s gone now. Let’s move on.”

Metzler settled back into his chair.

“I fucking hate Christmas,” he said.

“You really opened up when you told me about the Santa Claus incident in our last session. Let’s explore that further.”

Metzler kept that skeleton in his closet for a long time.

When he was nine years old he had discovered himself sexually and became a chronic masturbator after finding a wrinkled skin mag under his older brother’s bed.

After a while he grew bored with his hand and had the strong desire to pleasure himself hands free. Metzler experimented with rubbing against different household objects; the washing machine while it was operating, the corner of his bed, the living room sofa…but nothing seemed to be the right size or shape.

Then one day he was exploring the attic and found the life-sized Santa Claus that his parents put in the foyer every year. Most of Santa’s body was made of hard plastic. But his belly was stuffed with soft rags.

Metzler cut a hole in the belly and laid his wrinkled Penthouse over Santa’s head. He pulled his pants down and proceeded to have his way with the effigy. Just as he was getting ready to come down the chimney he had carved in Santa’s belly, a floor board creaked and he turned his head to see his brother and a friend standing there with a video camera.

The torture and humiliation were unending. His brother, Josh held the tape for blackmail. But Josh’s friend made the incident public knowledge at school.

Then Josh started showing the tape at parties for amusement at Metzler’s expense. The boy found himself relentlessly tortured with ridicule. Especially around Christmas.

After three years of hell, he was begging his parents to ship him off to military school to escape his reputation for buggering Santa’s belly.

As the years passed, he was able to put the incident behind. He grew up and apart from his family and never went back to the old hometown.

Metzler retired from the military and took an engineering job and married a nice Jewish girl who barely celebrated Chanukah let alone Christmas. Unfortunately, she could only put in four and a half years with Metzler and he recently found himself alone at the holidays with no family and not a clue what to do with himself.

Then he started noticing Santa for the first time in years. Of course he had been aware of Santa’s presence whenever he saw him ringing a bell over a red kettle, or in a department store inviting children on his lap to tell him what they wanted for Christmas.

But those Santas had always seemed to blend into the background. Now he noticed them everywhere he turned; and he was having awful, violent thoughts about them.

The shrink’s idea for therapy was direct.

“I know a guy who plays Santa at the mall. He gets done at nine tonight. Go talk to him. There’s a sports bar next door to the mall where he goes to unwind afterwards. Have a few drinks together. Talk football. Once you put a human face on Santa, I think it might dispel some of this hostility you are feeling.”

Metzler was apprehensive, but he took the doctor’s advice and met the mall Santa named Gary. They sat at the bar and talked over burgers and beer.

Gary was a carpenter by day playing Santa to earn a few extra bucks. He was a pretty decent guy and Metzler began to enjoy his company.

Then the conversation turned to Metzler’s background. When he mentioned where he came from, Gary said he grew up in the same town.

“You would have only been a couple of years ahead of me in school,” Gary said. “Strange I don’t remember you.”

“I went off to military school.”

Gary chuckled. “That’s funny…I just remembered this story I heard about a kid that went off to military school…”

Metzler dropped his beer and the bottle shattered. He stood up from his bar stool and dropped a twenty on the bar.

“Excuse me. I have to go now.”

The shrink was at home with his trophy wife. She was wearing her sexy Mrs. Claus outfit with red garters and he was enjoying the view every time she bent over to pick up another ornament to place on the tree.

He sipped his brandy and jingled the little bell in his Santa hat.

“Come on, Nora. Sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what you want.”

Nora giggled and cupped her hands under the breasts that he had bought her last Christmas.

“You are so naughty, Richard. I think you might get some coal in your stocking.”

“I know what I’m going to shove into your stockings,” he said.

The doorbell rang.

“Expecting someone?” Nora pouted.

“No. It’s probably those Harrison kids again, trying to sell those shitty chocolates for their school. They came last night and I hid in my study until they went away.”

“Ugh! Well, both of our cars are outside now. You get rid of them and I’ll be upstairs waiting.”

The shrink went to the door and was appalled to see his patient there.

“Mr. Metzler, it is highly unorthodox and invasive for you to…”

Metzler pushed the shrink inside with such force that he toppled backward and landed on his ass and the Santa hat fell off his head with a tinkle.

“Pick the hat up,” Metzler said.

The shrink started to protest, but Metzler kicked him in the balls.

“Put it on!” He ordered.

Gasping, the shrink picked the hat up and put it back on his head.

Metzler flicked open a folding knife and the lights from the Christmas tree gleamed off its blade.

“I think I know a better way to get over my problems.”

The shrink tried to crab crawl away, but the madman pounced on him. A sharp pain burned in his stomach as the blade entered. Metzler covered his mouth to muffle the screams.

“Merry Christmas, Santa.” He used one hand to pry open the bloody hole in the shrink’s stomach while he unzipped his pants with the other.

Dana C. Kabel’s stories have appeared in A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Muzzleflash, Mysterical-E, Out of the Gutter, Powder Flash Burn, and Yellow Mama. Dana blogs at www.thenonstopbullet.blogspot.com where you can catch up on THE THUG OF THE DAY.

Christmas Grit - Dad of the Year by Andrew Dawson.

2011-12-24T21:00:00.001Z

See that flower patch over in my garden? Funny story about that. I was deep in a dream about locusts as big as buses taking over the world, eating everything, my friends, family, wife, kids and car, their mandibles clicking like axes tearing into trees. It was a good dream. A noise made me snap out of it, groggy and grumpy and full of hell. The noise sounded again, a scratching from downstairs. I turned to Maureen, but she was laid out like a bearskin rug, pumped full of Valium. In the darkness I made my way through our bedroom and over the landing.

My baseball bat was in my hands, the grip already slippery from my fear-sweaty hands. It’s tough being a dad – ask anyone. You’re not only expected to take care of yourself, but to look after your brood. And if it came to a struggle, a real life-and-death fight, do you think they’d do the same for you? No, it doesn’t work like that. You’re the provider and the protector. The traffic flows only one way, dad, and you’re in the driving seat.

The stairs creaked too loudly for my liking as I made my way down them. Reaching the lounge, I flipped on the light and boomed, ‘What do you want?’

A fat guy I didn’t recognise – in retrospect it’s obvious who it was, but you try making a decision at three in the morning – spread his arms and said, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’

I swung at him, thinking he was coming for me, and connected with his head.

He went down immediately, rocking the house as he landed.

Blood began to pool around him, matching his shirt and hat, seeping into his beard and cuffs and turning them pink.

A man could let a situation like this get the better of him, but not me. He was on my property, an intruder, and I wasn’t about to start crying over a mistake he had made in messing with the wrong homeowner.

He did look forlorn, I had to admit, as I dragged him by his polished boots out to the back. But I managed to harden my heart again as I thought of all the years growing up that he had passed by my house without calling in.

After clearing up the problem on the roof with a hacksaw, I began to dig. He made a noise that might have been an ‘Oomph’ as I rolled him in. In any case, the fall would have finished him off. The hole I filled with churned-up soil, a helping of compost and a sprinkling of seeds. My next job involved a mop, bucket, rubber gloves and bleach.

By the time everyone got up, I was exhausted, lying aching in my armchair with my legs stretched out before me and a cool beer in my hand. It was worth it though, just to see the looks on their little faces.

‘Kids,’ I said, ‘we’ve got reindeer steak for breakfast and all the presents you’ve ever wished for – even some you haven’t.’

Originally from South Africa, Andrew Dawson lives in North East England. He has a novel available on Kindle called MiG-23 Broke my Heart. Links to the book and to more of his writing can be found at http://www.akdawson.co.uk

Christmas Grit - Nick St by Stephen D. Rodgers.

2011-12-23T21:00:00.001Z

My old man liked to drink his eggnog out of a plastic cup shaped like Santa Claus's head, and no amount of nutmeg could hide the smell of bourbon.

My old man, he could stretch a quart of eggnog from Thanksgiving to New Year's, and that's what he did, year after year, and especially after she died from the lung cancer.

He hated the season. He hated the music and the decorations and the holiday cheer, the idea that he might have something to celebrate.

Even though she was no longer there to make him, he still bought a tree. He dragged it up two flights of stairs, yanked it into the living room, and flung it against a wall. It lay where it fell, and there it stayed until the needles turned brown and brittle.

Just as my old man turned brown and brittle. Smelling of bourbon. Humming that fucking song.

Stephen D. Rogers is the author SHOT TO DEATH and more than 700 shorter works. His website, www.StephenDRogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

Christmas Grit - Fruitcakes, Wood Chippers and Mincemeat Pie by Jaie D. Maclane

2011-12-22T16:00:00.002Z

Eddie Souza hated Christmas. I mean he fuckin’ hated it. Everywhere he went, signs boasted about giving. Bells rang. Hands were cupped. Lights flickered in nauseous, upbeat colors. He saw it all as one big sham, a consumerist’s wet dream. It was a time when little brats poked around in toy stores, trophy wives got new convertibles, and CEO’s gave themselves a raise. People forked shit over to charity to repent for a year’s worth of debauchery. Everyone rejoiced and collectively called the madness “Christmas”.

But Eddie wasn’t celebrating. He was standing beneath a plaque nailed to a wall in a house, which read “Joy to the World”, while busting a guy's fuckin' brains in.

“The rock?!"

Eddie fired off a punch that landed hard and split the guy's jaw.

The guy Eddie was flailing on just laughed, chops dangling. That pissed Eddie off even more.

"Where is it, you psychotic piece of shit!”

Marbles was a loon. You could smack him around all night and get nowhere. Our troubles arose because he had quick fingers. Marbles had snatched a package meant for Eddie and me—a diamond christened, of all things, “The Star of Bethlehem”. No one knew where it was. We just knew Marbles had it. We searched him, threatened him, beat him, but all the fucker did was laugh. Eventually Marbles got to puking blood. I thought he’d spat up a tooth, but maybe it was just a chunk of tongue.

Eddie slapped him.

“Don’t you fucking play me!” Eddie turned to me. “Bobby. Get our ride. We’re gonna take this fuck on a field trip.”

I left the house, strolled to the car parked some blocks away and drove back, reversing it into the garage. Eddie was waiting. He already had the guy cuffed and gagged so he tossed him onto the backseat floor and clambered in.

“Where to?” I asked.

“The old Francis Tree Farm. You remember that place?”

“You mean the body farm?”

“Tree farm.” Eddie eyed me sarcastically. “Go there.”

I rolled the car out of the garage. Eddie had the remote in hand. He hit the button.

“We’ll clean up later,” he said.

“So what you gonna do?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“This guy’s batshit. I’m gonna try and scare him. See if he fucking talks.”

“Ah.” I nodded and gassed the car toward the countryside.

___________

There was fresh snow on the ground and it was colder than a witch’s tit when we got to the farm. Long rows of pine stretched for acres over a hilltop. We pulled off a dirt road. A lone barn came into view as we took a two-track into a clearing. A warm light shone bright from within.

“That’s the spot. Pull ’er in.”

I drove the car into the barn and killed the engine. Me and Eddie jumped out.

“The farm’s closed!” a man’s voice yelled.

“It’s Eddie,” Eddie said.

“Eddie?” An old man rounded out from behind a tractor. “I’ll be damned! Didn’t know you was in town.”

“Francis, I need a favor.” Eddie reached for the old man’s hand and slapped a wad of green into it.

“Anything.” Francis eyed the cash.

“Wood-chipper. You got one?”

The old man’s eyes lit up. “This way,” Francis waved.

Eddie began to follow then turned to me. “Bring Marbles.”

I nodded, went back to the car and popped the trunk. Marbles was still chuckling to himself.

“Alright, fruitcake. Let’s go.”

I propped him on his feet. He dropped his deadweight so I dragged him the rest of the way. A god-awful noise ripped to life as we made for the back of the barn. Past a colossal tractor the wood chipper stood like a dangerous animal. It screamed in hunger as we edged closer to it. Eddie pointed to Marbles then to the chipper. Francis strolled away.

Me and Eddie grabbed Marbles. His feet left the earth. Eddie ripped the duct-tape off Marbles’ mouth.

“Where is it, motherfucker!”

Marbles just kept laughing.

“Alright, fine!”

Eddie tipped Marbles ‘til the chipper's blades tore at his hair.

I held on steady.

Eddie yanked Marbles back out.

“Where?”

Marbles just cackled, a one-man riot of mirth and merriment.

“We ain’t getting shit out of him!” I yelled. “This ain’t gonna fuckin’ work! He thinks you ain’t gonna do shit!”

Eddie’s face was boiling.

“Try me!” he said.

He gripped the side of Marbles’ head and bashed it into the mouth of the chipper. He fed Marbles down the grinding metal shaft. The chipper convulsed. It gobbled him up and shit him out the other end. Bits of meat and bone went flying. A hard knock sounded inside the chipper. Eddie killed the metal beast.

“The fuck was that?” I asked, as what was left of Marbles sloshed like vomit to the ground.

Me and Eddie rounded the chipper. Glinting up at us through the body muck was a diamond the size of a toddler’s fist.

“The hell?” I said. “We searched him. Sick fuck must’ve ate it!”

Eddie’s lip curled. “Who’s to say he ate it?”

"Hey, give me your glove." I said.

"These are Italian leather. I ain't giving you my fuckin' glove."

"Fine."

I searched my pockets and pulled out a Kleenex, wrapped the stone in it, then threw it at Eddie.

“Merry fucking Christmas.” I said.

Eddie clamped his hands around the rock.

He eyed me. "Jackass”.

Old man Francis came out from behind the tractor. He looked between the two of us and what was left of Marbles. Then, as if the ground beef on the barn floor sparked the thought, Francis looked up and said, “You boys want some mincemeat pie? Think I still got some left in the house up front.”

Me and Eddie exchanged looks, shook our heads.

Eddie flipped out his wallet. “An extra G for the mess, Pops?”

“Anytime, boys,” Francis said.

We strolled back to the car, six-million-dollars-worth of glistening ice in tow.

You can reach Jaie Maclane at her new blog, Tales of the Gun

Christmas Grit - Santa Noir by David Harry Moss.

2011-12-19T20:51:00.000Z

Under a shabby, red Santa’s suit, thirty-six year old, ex-con William “Willie” Norris packed an extra twenty pounds of beer gut. A fake white beard and fake white hair, yellowed from age, partially covered his ruddy face. A sign written with a red marking pen saying, “Santa is broke. Reindeers need fed”, draped Willie’s neck. He had a silver bell in one bare, white hand and a big Styrofoam cup in the other.

On the busy street corner, Willie shivered from the cold and watched a white, middle-aged man in a dark overcoat approach him in the falling snow. The man greeted Willie with a tough sneer.

“Nice to see you’re gainfully employed,” the man named Keating, Willie’s parole officer, said.

“I try.”

“Don’t forget to come in tomorrow for your urine test.”

“Yeah, sure.” Willie blew some warmth on his numbed hands. “ You got something to put in this fucking cup?”

Keating reached into a pocket, pulled out a wrinkled fin, and stuffed it into Willie’s cup. “I’m not here to remind you to come in an piss for me. The police want me to contact my people in hopes of getting a line of the scumbag that snatched that little kid yesterday.”

Willie shouted, “Ho Ho Ho”, and tinkled his bell as a pair of women rushed by. One of the women paused, laughed and coughed up a dollar bill. “Santa loves you,” Willie said in his guttural voice. “And so do his fucking, I mean friggin’, reindeers.”

Keating shuffled his feet and patted his gloved hands together. “No one knows the mean streets better than you. Got any ideas?”

“I’m not thinking about ideas until Nadine gets out of jail.”

“What’s she in for?”

“She lifted a bottle of perfume from Macy’s.”

Keating scowled. “It’s a little four year old kid we’re talking about.”

Willie blinked his eyes and sniffled. “I read about it. But Nadine comes first.”

“She’s a fucking druggie and a worthless whore.”

“I’m done talking. See you tomorrow for that piss test.”

Keating shrugged. “I’m not sure I can get Nadine out.”

“Fuck you, then. When I see Nadine next to me in her elf’s outfit, I’ll try to find that kid for you.”

Keating left, and Willie trudged along in the piling snow. It was dark, but the city glowed with holiday decorations. He had made up his mind to stay out until the streets emptied. He guessed he had panhandled over $100, and Christmas was still a few days away.

Willie went into a bustling outdoor plaza adorned with a tall glittering Christmas tree and a big skating rink and took in another fifty bucks. The little girl that got kidnapped occupied his mind. How the fuck could the mother let her wander off like that? The mother was busy trying on coats and when she looked around her little girl was gone. Somewhere in the city, a Christmas present arrived early for some fucking perv. Willie’s eyes got wet, from the snow probably. NO, from thinking about that little girl, scared and helpless, in what might be some pedophiles lair.

Another hour passed, and Willie had drifted to another street corner. A glowing clock in a store window told him it was after ten. He’d give himself another hour and then go home and cook some canned beef stew. His toes and fingers screamed from the cold. Images of a frightened little girl haunted his mind. He muttered, “fuck it” and reached a decision.

In his Santa clothes, Willie made the rounds, interviewing every street hustler and vagrant he knew. He went into bars and flophouses and under bridges where homeless outcasts slept on cardboard and huddled around the flickering fires burning in big tin drums. Willie had two hundred dollars in his pocket, and he offered it all for a lead. At three A.M., feeling exhausted, he dragged himself over the bridge that would take him home. Snow kept falling and crunched under his frozen feet. Below, in the river, he viewed splatters of red and yellow city light reflected on slabs of ice floating in the black water. He heard footsteps from behind and wheeled around.

A stocky white man in a worn, army surplus store jacket faced him. Rather than a scarf, the man had a ragged, brown bath towel wrapped around his neck. From across the bridge a lone figure watched.

“Is the two hundred for real?”

“As real as you and me.”

A long bladed knife flashed in the man’s hand. “Hand it over, mother fucker.”

Willie lunged forward and slugged the man hard in the jaw. He felt bones breaking in the man’s face from the punch. The man went down. Willie backed up and hurried away. At the end of the bridge the lone figure that had been watching, a thin black man in a tattered gray hoodie, joined Willie.

“You’re bleeding.”

“That prick cut my hand.” Willie bit into his lower lip, scooped up snow, and caked the iced snow over the wound. “You try a stunt like that and I’ll kill you.”

The black man held his hands up as a gesture of peace. “For 200, I send you to an empty warehouse not far from here where a crazy looking white dude is keeping a little girl.”

“Why didn’t you go to the cops?”

“I’m on the lam for assault with intent to kill. I caught my woman with another man and used a baseball bat on them.”

A moment before Willie found the warehouse, his cell phone rang.

“They let me out, honey,” Nadine said. “Can you believe that? A cop came a minute ago and said they dropped the shoplifting charges. It’s a miracle.”

Willie’s breath caught. “You get your ass home and wait for me, understand?”

“Sure sweetheart. Will you be there?”

“I’ll be there, but I got something to do first.”

Willie made a silent entrance into the warehouse. Dull light shined from a corner. For heat, oily rags burned in a squat metal barrel. He picked up a rusty lead pipe and approached. He saw the little girl, clothed and trembling in a wooden crate. Peering through the slats he saw that the little girl’s eyes were red and swollen from crying. A big white man, hugging a half empty whiskey bottle and wearing a surprisingly new blue parka, lay on an old mattress, either asleep or passed out. The new parka explained how he could maneuver, unnoticed, in a busy department store.

Willie unlatched the crate and the little girl crawled out. She uttered, “SANTA,” and leaped into his arms.

David Harry Moss writes ficton and acts in movies. Currently he lives in Pittsburgh but he has also lived in Phoenix and Minneapolis. His story, "Angels With Guns", was published on The Flash Fiction Offensive earlier this year and is set in New York City. Has he been there? Many times, including having run and finished two marathons.

The Holidays by Lis Anna.

2011-12-17T20:00:00.001Z

Christmas blocks the view. It’s hard to see around it. When my sister Pam is in the middle of singing Jingle Bells I begin to think that all of this togetherness is just an excuse for unoriginal people to have something to do. I am watching three drunk cousins careening through outer space sideways to the bleak edge of the Universe and no one is willing to give up their grip on the J & B bottle. I am singing off key. Bleak and crappy. Like the flat cinnamon cake on the buffet. Cold. Flat. Compressed.

When I go out to the dining room I pass on the punch. Please do not pass the holiday cheer. Tinsel smiles. Plastic trays of polite. It is dollar store cheer. It goes on for hours. The fakest people have the most to say about the most trivial subjects. Take Aunt Ida for instance. God help her. She still talks about the Civil War. When I was fourteen years old my cousins and I taped a photograph of her in the dictionary next to the word wicked and drew a line to her face. No one has ever publicly admitted to this travesty even though we are all adults now. Uncle Martin calls her Ida B. Tight Ass. By his own admission he has a drinking problem. On his fifth martini he shoves his hand into the big barrel of caramel popcorn and falls over. My Mother rushes in to make sure he didn’t break the crystal. Family heirloom. “I hope he doesn’t pee in the potted plants again,” I overhear Daisy say. Daisy is a cousin. So are Rose and Iris. They look like weeds. Ida is a horticulturist. Tight ass plant people. Obviously Ida and Marvin are no longer married. They divorced ten years ago. He attends every family function to watch her face pinch up in that horrible way.

The kitchen is Switzerland. A neutral territory in an otherwise Holiday war zone. We come and go. Cranberry Chutney, baskets of cheese biscuits, sausage balls. The evil eye is not allowed in the Kitchen. A pack of Lucky Strikes is hidden in the back of the junk drawer behind the insurance papers. If you’re lucky enough to know where they are you may steal one. The living room is more like Nazi Germany. Everyone is trying to cross the Alps to get back to Neutral territory. More battles have been fought in our living room than in all of ancient Greece. My sister Pam thinks the problem can be reduced to bad Feng Shui. Last year while everyone was loading their Christmas loot into their cars Ida hit Marvin with her new floor pillow so hard it knocked his highball of scotch through the living room window where it almost killed Pedro the cat.

My father is a friendly warrior. He rubs his temples or clamps down on the bridge of his nose. He hands out his Origami gifts made with the patience of a saint. He practically lives in the kitchen. My Mother always runs for the back patio which Daisy calls The New Wilderness. Last Christmas Uncle Ted showed up with a stripper. It was her part time job. Still, it wasn’t the profession that bothered everyone. It was the sheer volume of alcohol she consumed. Pints of bourbon went into her mouth and came out the same way on the back lawn. This year Tom is having a mental breakdown. The Crack up. I sit in the kitchen with him for hours as he crams mini cheesecakes in his mouth and sobs. He sobs for the animals, sobs for the injustice, sobs for the panic attacks in the shower every morning. When my Mother comes in to get more vodka for the plum punch, she eavesdrops for only a second, then blurts out, “For crissakes Tom, quit your job.” Angels drop down out of the sky. The Ghost of Christmas Present appears in his eyes. Clearly Tom has never thought of this before.

Back in the living room, Rose and Iris have not lived up to their potential. They smoke cigarettes and have sex with boys and hang out with punk rockers at the Doughnut Shoppe up in the front booths by the window where everyone driving by can see them. This announcement is made by my Aunt Ida. In the soft, glittering glow of the shimmering icicle lights she says, rather loudly, “Seems my girls are not living up to the potential of their very expensive education.” Uncle Buck snorts, “They attended Joeleen Community College. I think potential is relative.” Every year the tree and the wonderful village that winds beneath its branches is forced to endure the totalitarian regime that is known as my family. Elves dangling from the tree contemplate suicide. The Christmas Knomes become frightfully pale. Golden tinsel shimmers in the candlelight. We shall prevail. It only comes once a year.

Lis Anna’s short fiction, films, screenplays, and novels have all been nominated and won awards. She is a five time WorldFest winner, a Wurlitzer Grant recipient, a New Century Writers winner, Second Place Winner of the Thomas Wolfe Fiction Award, First Place winner of the 11th Annual Poet Hunt Award, a four time Accolade Film Competition winner, and a finalist in the Nicholl Fellowships, the Doris Betts Fiction Award, Chesterfield Film Project, and the William Faulkner Competition. She is the 2011 Readers Choice Award recipient from Fiction Fix and the Second Place 2011 Winner of the Hint Fiction Contest. Her fiction has been published in Word Riot, The Blotter, Petigru Review, Hot Metal Press, The Smoking Poet, Eclectic Flash, Paper Skin Glass Bones, 491 Magazine, Fiction Fix, The Monarch Review, 5x5 Literary Magazine, Red Booth Review, Hint Fiction Anthology, Prick of the Spindle Literary Journal, Chamber Four Literary Magazine, Literary Laundry, Emyrs Journal, Flashquake Literary Journal and The MacGuffin Literary Review. www.lisannafilms.com or www.lisanna.net

Hobo Harmonica by Glenn Dysarz

2011-12-15T21:00:00.009Z

Some kids walking along the railroad tracks found the body down by the creek where the trestle bridge crosses over.

Sheriff Joe thought the old hobo got caught out on the trestle the night before. A train must have come along and that was it for him, knocked him clean off. We rolled the body over and it was a god awful mess.

James from the coroner's office was going through the hobo's pockets, looking for personal effects, when he exclaimed to me, "Hey, Deputy Roy check this out." There in his outstretched hand was a gleaming chrome harmonica. It was in perfect condition.

Engraved on the top side in fancy lettering script was the name ‘Charlie’.

James held the harmonica to his lips and blew. There was a long, low raspy wail sound, and as he slid the piece along his lips the sound changed to a high pitched squeal.

"Boys, this here is a keeper, pure quality," he smiled. "I used to play you know. I call dibs if nobody claims her."

"Bag it up, Jim," called Sheriff Joe solemnly and James complied, slipping the harmonica into a plastic evidence bag.

We got the deceased bundled up and James and I carried him up from the creek and back into town.

A week went by and nobody came for the old hobo, so he was given a John Doe burial out at the town cemetery.

James laid claim to the harmonica and sometimes, late in the evening, he could be heard blowing out tunes while he worked alone in the coroner's office down the hall.

Glenn is new to this game. This is his first publication of fiction and he is noticeably stoked. His goal is to write stories that people would read and then later say 'what a ride'. Now a yankee transplant, he misses the Italian bakeries of the Detroit area.

Interlude...

2011-12-14T21:34:00.000Z

I have decided to close submissions for a few weeks over the festive period and New Year. I have been inundated with stories again and I have a lot that I still haven't managed to read due to family and work commitments. This time of year is always busy and when you're self-employed and want some time off over Christmas, you have to work hard to cover your days off. I hope you all understand.

Stories received after today's date will be returned unread and you can submit them again when submissions re-open.

All stories in the in-box will still be considered for publication and I will be in contact over the next few days.

All stories that have been accepted will be published as and when. I'll send a brief email with dates.

Thanks for your understanding and continued support.

Best,
David - Editor.

Christmas Grit - In Hopes That St. Nicholas…by Dana C. Kabel.

2011-12-12T21:00:00.012Z

It was the night before Christmas and Simon couldn’t sleep. Unlike all the other nights he laid awake, the boy wasn’t afraid because he knew that Santa was coming. When the floor creaked downstairs, he knew that Santa was keeping the promise that he made in the department store where Simon sat on his lap.

Simon pictured shiny black boots carefully stepping across the living room floor past the decorated tree. He was so excited that he wanted to leap from his bed and run down the stairs, but Santa had made him promise to stay in his room…

Lloyd was alone in the employee locker room at Baxter’s Department Store a day earlier putting on the red suit. He buttoned the pants, a difficult task with his badly shaking hands, and looked both ways before pulling the bottle out of his locker and chugging it down. The cheap vodka burned and made him shudder, like it always did first thing in the morning.

He clapped his hand over his mouth and held it in. The booze rose up his esophagus, but he clenched with all of his might and swallowed it back down. The sacred gods of Russian potatoes smiled upon him and Lloyd caught the wave of serenity they blessed him with.

“I’m Santa, bitch!” He said, putting the bottle back and closing the locker door.

His boss, Ted appeared at just that moment.

“You…piece of shit,” Ted said.

Lloyd frowned and resumed dressing himself with his booze calmed hands.

“Fuck you very much, Ted.”

“Drinking…at eight fifteen in the morning? I should fire your ass right now.”

“Go ahead. It’s the day before Christmas Eve. You gonna do this yourself?” Lloyd held out the red hat and beard.

Ted stared bullets.

“If I hear one…” he pointed a stiff finger in the air, “one complaint…I’ll call the cops and have you thrown in jail.”

Lloyd contemplated head butting the asshole and throwing him into an empty locker. Instead, he put the hat and beard on and walked past him to the adoring children that were eagerly awaiting his arrival.

By eleven thirty, Santa Lloyd was fidgeting and checking his watch. He needed to recharge the booze battery and he didn’t think he could make it to the break.

“Stall the next kid. I gotta hit the bathroom,” he told Brenda, the college girl elf in shapely green stockings.

“I know. I want a cigarette so bad I could kill one of these little brats. But we only have a half hour till lunch.”

“Don’t worry, Ted won’t fire us two days before Christmas. The customers would file out of here in a heartbeat with no Santa.”

Brenda shook her head and walked over to the velvet rope to cordon off the North Pole Trail. But a kid bolted under her arm and climbed up on Lloyd’s lap before anybody could stop him.

“Santa’s going on break, kid. You have to wait,” Brenda scolded.

Lloyd shifted in his seat and heard the crinkle of the piece of paper that was in his pocket. The words on the paper flashed in his head…Doctor’s Report…Liver Cancer…End Stage…Treatment Options: Comfort Care…

“It’s all right,” he told Brenda.

The boy was small and skinny with black circles under his eyes. But he wore decent clothes and didn’t smell, so Lloyd knew that he wasn’t homeless.

“Well little boy, what would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?”

The boy trembled and tears welled. He bit down on his lip and the tears spilled down his face.

“I…want Daddy to stop hurting me,” he said, burying his head in Lloyd’s shoulder and weeping.

Lloyd felt a pain deep inside that was worse than the cancer and that could not be numbed by booze.

“You…should tell your mommy,” he said.

“I did. She called me a liar. But you know the truth, Santa. You know everything.”

Simon pulled the covers up under his chin. Santa made him promise to stay in his room no matter what he heard, until the police came and opened his bedroom door.

Ten feet down the hall, Lloyd paused in front of an open door. He pulled the Santa beard down far enough to take a drink from his flask. Then he tucked the bottle away and gripped the double edged axe in both hands.

Simon heard the first of many screams and pulled the covers up over his head.

Dana C. Kabel’s stories have appeared in A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Muzzleflash, Mysterical-E, Out of the Gutter, Powder Flash Burn, and Yellow Mama. Dana blogs at www.thenonstopbullet.blogspot.com.

Wine Into Water by Benjamin Sobieck.

2011-12-10T21:00:00.002Z

20 Years Ago.

It was shouting "faggot" on the school bus. Bolting off with me at my stop. Stalking me home. Twisting my bones on the sidewalk. Kicking me black. Saying, "This is a test." Smelling of cigarettes and cologne. Locking hands over my mouth.

It was my welcome. My lesson. My seed.

Not now.

15 Years Ago.

It was spitting on me in the hallway. Stealing my lunch. Crafting lies. Pointing fingers. Leaving threats. Obsessing with what it would do to me.

It was my catalyst. My soil. My water.

Not now.

10 Years Ago.

It was holding her down. Laughing when I told that I saw. Consuming innocence. Ruining as it'd been ruined. Blaming the victim. Pounding its chest. Bragging about the whore it’d just made.

It was my reason. My testament. My sprout.

Not now.

5 Years Ago.

It was already breeding. Evolving its wickedness. Ignoring three kids. Skipping graduation. Getting drunk. Driving fast. Adding to its kills. Walking away. Committing to forgetting. Demanding we forgive.

It was my hate. My shoots. My roots.

Today.

It was squatting. Drinking under a bridge. Harassing. Raping. Stealing. Beating. Wondering why I showed up that night. Asking me when I became a cop. Telling me he was unarmed. Begging me to “put the gun down.”

It was my moment. My fruit. My harvest.

Now.

I make wine of my fruit. Blood-red wine. It runs into the river under the bridge. Wine into water. Not water into wine. Nothing holy here. No miracles.

Good-bye, you piece of shit.

Benjamin Sobieck is the author of the crime novel, "Cleansing Eden." His website is www.CrimeFictionBook.com.

Christmas Grit - You'd Better Watch Out by Gerald So.

2011-12-08T21:00:00.004Z

On my way home from court-mandated Santa-Clausing, I came up on Hidden Grove like always, but instead of driving past, I pulled in on a whim.

I parked between two spread-out houses and began trying back doors. I figured at least one family would leave a storm door unlocked. And why set their alarm when just the wind could trigger it?

On my third try, I hit pay dirt. Didn't need to pick the locks or break the glass on the inner door, either. The key was under the mat, as if they left it for me.

Also lucky, no one was up late baking cookies or making tea. A Frosty nightlight helped me through the kitchen to a TV room.

Skipping the sixty-inch flat panel, I stuffed a laptop and iPhone into my furry coat.

The tree was in the next room, glowing over a fort of presents. Again, I avoided the big stuff and took a box that might have held a ring or cuff links. I had just picked an envelope "From Santa" off the tree, when I heard the creeping of little feet.

The girl peered around the corner as I turned to look. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes lit up.

Thinking fast, I put the envelope on the tree and put a gloved finger to my pasted-on beard.

The girl nodded and ran away, and I got the hell out of there, locking the back door behind me, leaving the key under the mat. Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night.

GERALD SO currently edits The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly at http://poemsoncrime.blogspot.com.

Dead Giveaway by Angel Zapata.

2011-12-06T19:00:00.002Z

I spent twenty-five years in prison for murder. I’m not back on the street more than six hours before I have to put another guy in the ground. Some Latin cat named, Eggie. Jesus. What kind of name is that?

Most of the hardnosed bastards I ran with were long dead and the neighborhood had changed. The mayor decided to eliminate strip clubs and pool halls and replace them with chain restaurants and Disney souvenir shops. Took me two hours to find a bar. I didn’t stay long. I missed seeing titties while I drank.

Outside, the city was dark.

The motel I used to stay at was gone. They built a Wal-Mart over it.

I took a deep breath and rubbed the scars on my knuckles. I needed cigarettes. Figured I’d case the joint. Three feet through the door, some old lady asked if I wanted a shopping cart.

“Does it come with a built-in ashtray?”

She didn’t think I was funny.

I wandered around. Never found the aisle for smokes. Everything had changed. TV’s were flatter, VHS tapes were extinct, and computers folded up like wallets. They were selling baby diapers right next to hatchets.

It wasn’t my world no more.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a young, dark-skinned punk shoplifting. The kid was talented, shoving packages of steak and ground beef into the lining of his coat. Too bad he kept flicking nervous fingers through his hair. Tell-tale sign. Two overweight security guards tore through the swinging doors like a couple of gorillas.

The kid became wind.

He was laughing and kicking over potato chip racks as he ran for the exit.

I was curious. I broke into a light jog behind the trio. I’ll admit I was rooting for the young buck.

Out front, officers Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum were elbows over knees, breathing hard on the asphalt. They had lost the skinny bastard. Gotta think like a thief to catch one. I strolled around the east side of the building and walked straight back.

There he was, loading his score into the trunk of his beat-up Chevy Nova.

We met eyes and he smiled defiantly. I shot him a half-hearted salute and offered a grin. Kid had balls.

Next thing I know, this shit-brown van pulled up beside him and opened fire.

Pop-pop-pop.

People were shouting, diving for cover.

The kid was bleeding moonlight through his chest.

Tires spun and burned black smoke.

Poof!

Trigger man was gone.

In that moment, I felt something strange. I guess it was sympathy.

The punk was choking on his own blood. I sprinted over and knelt down beside him. His dark eyes were cloudy.

“Eggie,” he coughed. “He’ll kill Linda too. Please.”

He handed me a slip of paper. I unfolded it. There was an address scrawled in pencil. “What’s your name?” I asked quietly.

“Erwin,” he wheezed.

“I’m Anthony.”

“Tell Linda that, that…” He trembled and died with a look of complete horror on his blood-spattered face.

“Don’t worry,” I promised. “I will.”

A crowd began to form around us.

I rifled through his pockets and found nothing significant. Some gum and a pack of cigarettes. I kept both.

“Hey buddy!” Some dude was walking up on me. “What you think you’re doing, bro?”

“Mind your fucking business,” I warned.

I jumped up, searched the trunk. Found a tire iron and red meat from four different supermarkets. He’d been busy.

Mr. Nosy tapped me on the shoulder. Bad move. The tire iron had a good weight in my hand.

Thump.

Good night.

Place was getting hot. Linda lived six blocks away. Got there in two minutes.

All those years locked up, I never could make restitution for my sins. This was my first real chance.

Someone had broken the light bulb in the foyer of Linda’s building. There was glass all over the tile floor. I slipped in silently and rang the doorbell with the tip of my tire iron.

“Hello?” There was a woman’s voice on the intercom.

“I’m looking for Linda,” I said urgently.

“Who’s this?”

“Erwin sent me.”

A pause.

“You a friend of his?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“Is he okay?”

“No.”

The intercom buzzer screamed. I pushed the door open. Linda was waiting for me on the third floor steps. She was a little thing with green eyes, short black hair and light skin.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“Anthony. Anthony Barici,” I said, slightly out of breath.

“Where’s Erwin?”

“I hate to tell you, but he was shot.”

“Is he dead?” She bowed her head.

“Yeah.”

She turned around and walked back into her apartment.

“He told me it was a guy named, Eggie,” I called after her. “You might be next.”

“That bastard,” I heard her say. Then she broke down crying.

“Mind if I come in?” I asked, peeking inside.

She nodded.

The place was clean and decorated nicely. She was hunched over on the couch.

“Who’s Eggie?” I eased around her and drew the living room curtains back. There was a perfect view of the alley behind her building and a familiar brown van.

Oh shit.

“I’m her husband,” Eggie said behind me. “I told the bitch I’d kill him if she saw him again.”

I ducked and barely avoided the bullet aimed at my head. The window exploded. I threw the tire iron and caught him at the knees. He crumpled, dropped his automatic. I picked it up.

Linda was hysterical.

“Shut up,” I commanded.

At that very moment, I realized there was no rehabilitation for guys like me.

I pressed the gun to Eggie’s temple and thought about all that meat rotting in the trunk of Erwin’s car.

I pulled the trigger.

Then I smoked one on Erwin’s cigarettes and waited for the cops to show.

And as no good deed goes unpunished, the jury found me guilty.

They’re giving me the lethal injection.

The inmates call it a dead giveaway.

Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta, Georgia. Some of his fiction and poetry has appeared in the Toe Tags Anthology, Mausoleum Memoirs, Long Live the New Flesh: Year One and Year Two, The Best of Every Day Fiction: Volume 2, Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal, Branded Words, The Best of Every Day Poets: Volume 2, and the zombie anthology: Putrid Poetry and Sickening Sketches. He is also author of the Trestle Press short story horror series, The Man of Shadows. http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/

New Writer Spot - Claudia Sensi Contugi.

2011-12-03T17:00:00.002Z

A while ago, fine scribe and on-line friend, Christopher Pimental, approached me with a question. Would I allow his writing students to submit a story to the magazine? Of course, but we'll take it further, was my answer. I then had the idea that I would run a New Writer slot for Christopher's students. We batted a few emails to each other, and here it is.

We all need a first chance to get a story published and we've all been there. This series will be the students first steps into the writing world and I'm very honoured to be part of it.

Here are a few words from Christopher about his class.....

"Two and a half years ago, the top American University in Ecuador announced the creation of a creative writing minor. Four students signed up. Soon, the assigned Creative Writing teacher disappeared (pure happenstance, I promise) and the administrators approached me. Since then, the program has grown to a plump twenty (+) and includes students from the USA, Ecuador, Australia and France. What can I say. With venomous enthusiasm, the students have moved the administration to create more classes since the inception of Creative Writing Basics. The program now includes Script Writing, Creative Writing II, and so forth. We’ve been lucky enough to have guest speakers including Best Selling Author, Sandra Kring and one of my favorite writers, Chad Eagleton. Other notables who will be participating in January are Author and contributor Liam Sweeny and I am trying to lock in Author Brian Kaufman. We’ve also been lucky enough to receive advice and guidance from my sister, working screen writer and supervising producer for Showtime’s Shameless (USA)."
Christopher Pimental.

There you have it. This will be a regular feature which I'm sure you will all support. So, without further ado.....

The Climb by Claudia Sensi Contugi.

And then he was there.

Sounds came first. From a distance a low murmur, one that grew, and swelled, and droned in his ears to a low moan. It was the sound of agony. Of pain.

Moments later his eyes open to darkness. Then, smoke. Sulfur cuts into his lungs. Around him, the trudge of footsteps; limbs and heavy feet. Bodies pushing him forward. Sweating. Panting. Moaning.

They climb.

He stumbles, falls to his knees. Before him—behind him, around him—the bodies constrict, climbing on granite steps, jostling, pushing. No room to breathe. He struggles to his feet, squeezes back into the crowd. Pulls in air.

Somehow, he continues to climb.

Where am I?

His hands grip his head, fingers digging into his skull. Trying to recall an image, a reason, a moment… of how he got here. On the staircase, he stalls. Through the smoke, he squints at his watch. The second hand ticks but does not advance. Dead at 7:30.

Hands push him forward. He turns to a man on his right.

“Hey-”

“Don’t talk.”

“But-”

“Just keep climbing.” The man turns away.

To the woman on his left, “Do you know-”

“I know nothing.”

“I need-”

“It doesn’t matter what you need,” she says, her voice like ice. “Just keep climbing.”

She trudges forward, consumed by the crowd.

He looks ahead.

Time passes.

His navy blue suit is soaked, clinging to his skin, to the hairs on his neck. Sweat beads on his face, a burning in his bones. Hauls his legs up each granite stair. Feet swollen, blistered. Pain every step. The heat pressing him down. The weight of an anchor across his shoulders. His watch ticks. His body aches to lie down.

He keeps climbing.

“Where are we?” He grips an old man’s shoulder. “Please! What is this place? How do I get out of here?”

The old man wrenches free, strength borrowed from a younger soul. He looks up, his gaze empty. Dead.

“The only way out is up.” He lowers his gaze.

“What does that even—“

From behind, a hand clamps his mouth hard enough to smell the sweat, feel the calluses, trace the bones. A woman’s voice. “They’ll hear you!”

She lets go. He turns.

“Who are they?”

“Just climb and they’ll do you no harm.” She tries to shuffle past, but he catches her sleeve.

“Who? Why won’t you tell me?”

“Lower your voice. You’re going to get us in trouble.”

He conceals his tone, “Where are we?”

“What does it matter? We’re here.”

“How did we get here?”

She lowers her face. Her brow creases. “There is nothing before this place. Nothing that matters.”

He opens his mouth. The clap of metal on granite stops his voice. Behind him, the crowd quivers then expands. He turns.

The woman draws back, lowering her gaze, her eyes darting left to right. “I told you,” she says. “They’re coming!”

The guards.

Clad in armor, two guards bang through the crowd. From several steps below, they snatch an old man. The old man moans, tries to keep climbing—his look that of an animal seconds from slaughter.

From ahead, he watches the old man, then turns and lifts his foot to climb. And trips.

The crowd pulls wide, jostles past.

He pushes up to find himself standing before the one of the guards. The crowd slows, then stops. The air is still. Chills prickle his nerves. The guard moves closer, as if to smell his fear, his armor plated helmet opening to reveal…nothing.

The moment lingers before the guard turns and descends with a hiss. Joining his partner, he drags the old man down the stairs. They disappear into the smoke.

“You are lucky,” the woman says.

The crowd presses in. He stumbles forward. “What are those things?”

“The guards,” she says, her expression telling him she would reveal no further.

Pause.

“Why do they do that?”

“What does it matter?”

He pauses again, looks at her. Then peers up the endless rise of granite stairs, his lips a thin, cold line.

“What happens when you don’t have any more strength to climb?”

Her eyes search for the guards. Then, she turns to him. “You keep on climbing.”

Hours later, his navy suit jacket is wilting on his arm; shirt open, tie discarded hundreds of steps ago. A memory comes; blurry at first.

A man wearing his navy blue suit, face down at his desk, skin white as bone. His forehead is pressed against the contract he was forging, the ink still fresh. A thick, black pen has fallen from his hand.

To his right, a picture window looks out over the city night. A bullet hole has fractured the glass. Another has shattered his skull.

A clock ticks on the wall, its opulent face showing the time. 7:30

Claudia Sensi Contugi is a twenty year old Creative Writing Student from way down south. She has been writing since she was six, doodling submarine adventures. Recently, she met a Train Wreck who tore down everything she thought she knew about writing...and then stopped doodling. Claudia is a perfectionist, spending hours suffering over a sentence. She had self diagnosed OCD since age five, convulsing every time the nanny moved her dolls from their assigned spots. Most would agree that she can emasculate a man with a single look.This is Claudia’s first published story, and she is thrilled to be part of the Offensive!

Werehand by Danger Slater.

2011-11-30T20:59:00.002Z

You’re breathing heavy, like your lungs were two suitcases and this moment was a flight of stairs. The starfish imprint of your hand turning pink on my cheek. That battery acid taste of blood. I can feel it in my teeth.

So what happens now? The heartfelt apology? The tearful contrition? I’m so sorry baby. She meant nothing to me. Nothing at all. Some roses and chocolates and a maudlin promise that I’ve changed, I’ve changed. Or would you prefer if I dropped to my hands and knees and started kissing those perfectly pedicured toenails of yours like I was some kind of goddamn dog? Well pardon me, but fuck that, darling. I’m a man. Not your fucking pet. You were a fool for thinking you could domesticate me.

So I’m going to let you go now. I’m going to let you storm through the living room and slam the front door. I’m going to let you slip in the driveway and skin your knee and roll around in the front yard like a crazy person, ripping up handfuls of grass, and I’m going to let you get in the car and grind the transmission and I’m going to let you scream ‘fuck you’ as you speed down the street, as you take that right turn just a little too hard, as your car rolls over the side of the guardrail. I’m going to let you land in that ditch and I’m going to watch as the liquid leaks out of the fuel tank. You’re struggling. Screaming. You’re begging for help. I’m going to let the car catch on fire. I’m going to let you burn.

But I won’t say I’m sorry, because the truth is, I’m not.

* * *

The house is quieter than it’s ever been before. Midnight creeps by like a cat burglar, and yet, I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, there’s your face – your stupid fucking face – polluting my dreams like oil in a puddle. The bruise on my cheek throbs. Your handprint. Your epitaph, haunting me from beyond. You’re not actually dead. I can feel you right now. Your memory lives on in the spot where you slapped me.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so well. My adrenaline spikes and my blood runs hot. I’m feverish. I’m achy. I’m dizzy and nauseous and the room won’t stop spinning. I reach up and wipe the sweat from my brow and notice a small, slender finger growing out of the center of my forehead. My nose is dripping yellow snot and…

…wait a minute...

A SMALL, SLENDER FINGER GROWING OUT OF THE CENTER OF MY FOREHEAD!!!

I kick open the door to the bathroom and flick on the light. What the fuck? Is this some kind of joke? What the hell is happening to me?!?

The finger on my face wiggles, as if to say hello. With trepidation, I slowly wave back, and then, my body stops working. It’s completely seized up and I’ve collapsed on the floor. I’m shaking. Rabid foam forms at the corners of my mouth. My eyes turn pink as blood vessels burst. My skin bubbles, blisters, erupts like a volcano, and more fingers sprout out of me. They’re sprouting from everywhere. Each of my hands explode into a dozen different digits. Some are long, like octopus tentacles. Others are short, like baby corn. Hairy knuckles cover my face. I wear a beard of thumbs. My chest starts to squirm underneath my shirt. It claws through the fabric – my pectorals now palms, slapping each other high-five. Pinkies and pointers, indexes and middles. And just when I think I can’t take anymore, the convulsions gently tapper off. The pain subsides. I catch my breath. The fingers scrape their way up the sink, allowing me to stand. There I finally see myself in the mirror.

My entire body is made of hands.

* * *

I’m running through the woods. I skitter across the leafy terrain, all of my appendages working in unison like a million millipede legs. I move swiftly. Purposefully.

I am out on the hunt.

As I slap my way across the countryside, I can’t help but wonder just how many days I wasted masquerading as a man. A man who paid the bills and listened to you complain about the other girls at work; a man who took you out on Valentine’s Day and stood there complacently while you tried on shoes at the mall. How many days did I deny who I truly was? How much breath did I waste saying ‘I love you’?

If we ever meet again I might not look like a monster. I might tell you everything you want to hear. I might be Mr. Right. But know that deep inside me, a werehand lurks. A creature that cannot compromise. A creature you helped create. And I know you’re lonely. I know you need me too. I am but a heartbeat away, baby. All you have to do is shut your mouth, put your ear towards the woods and listen close. From the top of a mountain, you can hear me howling.

Under a cover of darkness, I applaud the moon.

Danger_Slater is the world's most flammable writer! He enjoys long walks on beached whales and candlelit babies! He writes with a lot of exclamation points! His short fiction can be found across both print and electronic mediums (that means in books and on the internet) and his debut novel is called LOVE ME, which is available through the Jersey Devil Press! For links to his work and all things dangerous, visit his website :www.dangerslater.blogspot.com

Guest Writer Spot - Sean Patrick Reardon.

2011-11-26T20:00:00.003Z

November's Guest writer is a friend of mine from Pepperell, Massachusetts. I got to know Sean earlier this year and instantly enjoyed his stories and writing style.

He's a very talented writer and I hope one day he gets the big break he deserves. He self-published his novel, Mindjacker, last year and it's available here.

One thing about Sean's stories is that you'll always find plenty of music references in them and the following one is no exception.

Without further ado.....

The Whole Bleedin’ Lot

Sean Patrick Reardon

In perfect synch, the Zeppelin tune ends and Foxy Roxy’s body goes limp, landing tits-to-pecs on top of Rory. He’s wondering how the little pink cowboy hat stayed on her head the whole time, and thinking Zep is the shit, but they never brought it on home like Roxy just did.

“So?” She rolls off him. “Am I hired?”

He slides a pair of purple tinted Elvis shades over his eyes, snatches the hat and puts it on. “This is a two part interview, love.”

Roxy says, “Cool, anyone ever tell you that you look like the singer from Oasis?”

Rory lowers the shades, looks over the top of them. “Liam Gallagher?”

“Yeah.”

“You think so?” He tosses the hat to her, smoothes down the sides of the brown shag with his hands. Images of Liam and Johnny Quid are flashing through his mind, just like they had everyday for the last year. “Never gave it a thought. Let’s talk about part two.”

An hour later, Roxy’s gone, digging the new name Rory gave her and headed to Newbury Street with a grand of his cash to buy clothes for her new gig. Rory’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, primping, posing, and liking how the black leather pants look like they’re painted onto his legs. He looks down at his crotch, smiles. Somewhere he read that Plant used to have some chick on the payroll whose only job was to blow dry, talc, and fluff his dick before he donned the leathers.

‘Set small, realistic and achievable goals,’ his shrink had said. Cool by Rory. Anyway, the mansions, cars, jets, drugs, girls, and money would come with time. He strutted over to the open wall safe, pulled out a black notebook, and crossed Girlfriend \ Personal Dick Assistant off the list.

They spend the next three months hitting all the night clubs that matter, creating a buzz, looking the part, acting like they’re the next Kurt and Courtney. Rory’s been laying out lots of green to buy the drinks, drugs, VIP seats. They don’t ever wait to get in, anywhere. The beautiful people are starting to talk, ask questions, spread rumors and speculate, because Rory and Roxy don’t tell them anything, except they are into something big. It’s top secret, big names, going to blow their minds.

“It’s all about making the scene, love,” Rory keeps telling her. “You know, mysterious like, keep them guessing, enquiring minds want to know and all that.”

He’s on top of the world. Roxy’s been a real find, compared to the other three chicks that answered his add in The Phoenix. If he wasn’t going to be a rock star, he’s thinking talent scout would have been a decent fallback plan.

Rory’s still in the leathers, shirtless, chiseled, Rasta colored Rosary beads hanging around his neck. He polishes off the Heineken, keeps staring at the 10x12 photo of him with his kid sister, mom and dad. It was taken two years ago, when they were still alive, and he was still Lance Sobeleski, the spoiled, overweight pimple on high society’s complexion. Back then, everyone’s giving him a hassle. Shit like, ‘get off your ass, start putting the Yale business degree to use,’ and ‘make something of yourself or the Golden Goose ain’t laying any more eggs’.

It’s been two years since the family jet crashed into the Atlantic on the way to their place in Bermuda. Was it pilot error or mechanical failure? No one was sure. Case closed. Rory’s not sweating it. Far as he knows, there’s no test for contract pilots with terminal brain cancer and shit insurance who are willing to take a dive for 250 G’s to leave behind for their loved ones.

‘You have to believe in the power of you, positive re-enforcement’. The shrink slash grief counselor’s words run through Rory’s mind as he pushes the remote, cranks the volume, grabs onto the mike stand. “Supersonic” overpowers the room. He’s singing along, got it down cold, but he ain’t just standing still like Liam does, he’s working the stand like Freddy Mercury.

Mid-performance, the handheld lets him know there’s an incoming. He lowers the music, takes the call. It’s another prospect, looking to join the entourage. Things go well. Rory tells him to call back tomorrow to get his answer, and oh yeah, if he gets the gig, he’s got to lose the name. Rory will lay the new one on him. Cheers.

The next day, Roxy and Rory are sharing a joint in the recording studio he’s had custom built in the Tudor style house he bought last year. She’s telling him there’s this dude, a guitar player, wants to meet up. Rory stares at the pictures Roxy’s spreading out on the control board and thinking this cat has the look he wants for the band. Kind of reminds him of a young Ronnie Wood. If this works out, just a drummer, bass, and rhythm left to go.

Roxy taps the head of the joint on the ashtray, exhales her hit. “I told him all about you, how you’d make a great front man, can sing, write, everything. He wants to meet you Rory…This could be it.”

“Definitely some potential there, but looking good’s only the half of it. He got to be able to play too.”

“He can, been listening to him.” She hands him a purple CD, no labels on it. “Check it out.”

Rory slides the disc into the laptop in front of him, clicks the play icon and turns it up. The guitar riffs playing over the assault on the drum kit have him out of the chair, pacing around the studio, thinking of lyrics and stage moves.

“Well, what do think?” Roxy yells over the music.

Rory looks at her, fading the music with the remote he was using for a mike.

“I think…you need to make sure he can be here tomorrow.”

When the doorbell rings, Rory’s so excited he can’t take it no more. He tells Roxy, “You got to answer it, a rock star don’t do such things. Got to set a precedent, let him know who’s the fucking boss. It’s like, you know, a monarchy.”

Roxy heads for the door. Rory double times it to the studio, wanting to make it look like he’s busy creating, doing important shit.

Rory sees Roxy and the dude through the glass wall of the studio before they enter, starts getting into character, practicing the accent he paid a voice coach twenty grand to master. Chump change, compared to what he shelled out to the plastic surgeon and personal trainer during his self-imposed year of seclusion.

“Rory, this is Robbie Carleton, the guitar player I was telling you about.”

They shake hands and Rory’s thinking he don’t want a Robbie in the band, decides if the dude gets the gig, he’s going to be Rip Robinson.

Robbie slides the gig bag off his shoulder. Rory’s trying to guess what he plays, hoping to see a Gibson, maybe a Rickenbacker. He sure as shit wasn’t expecting the shotgun Robbie pulls out and points at Rory’s head.

Rory’s looking over at Roxy, wondering when she’s going to say something and stop acting so blasé about what’s going down.

“What’s this all about, mate? Whatever you do, don’t hurt her.”

Roxy tells him, “Shut the fuck up…Lance. Robbie’s doing all the talking from now on, and please, lose the stupid fucking accent. And oh yeah, you call me Roxy one more time, I’m going to personally cut off that poor excuse for a cock you got.”

Robbie’s got the end of the shotgun under Rory’s chin, pushes up on it. “Let’s go shithead, on your feet, get this over with.”

“Rock ’N’ Roll Queen” starts playing from Rory’s handheld that’s on the table in the middle of the entertainment room. The caller ID voice starts interrupting the tune, telling everyone Franklin is calling. Rory’s staring at the framed Rock-n-Rolla poster on the wall. And Johnny Quid’s staring back, with double guns blazing in a Jesus Christ pose. Rory knows this is a sign, a moment of divine intervention.

He looks at Roxy, making prayer hands while pleading. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but you have to let me take this. It’s a big lead, a producer listened to my demo, wants to meet up. I don’t take it, I’m fucked, blow my big chance.”

“Oh, come on, let him take it,” Roxy says.

Robbie mulls it over, smirks. “What the fuck, go for it. You got fifteen seconds.”

She gives Rory the handheld. He answers.

“Yeah, Franklin baby, I’m kind of in the middle of something, but like we talked about yesterday, I think we can work together, yeah? Let’s get it moving. Time is money man, so let’s get it going, now. Cool, okay, lataz.”

Robbie points the shotgun at Johnny Quid, gives Roxy a nod. She walks over, takes the picture off the wall, looks at the wall safe.

“Okay Fucknuts. What’s the combo?” Robbie says.

Roxy’s spinning the tumbler while Rory’s telling her, “26 right…6 left…32 right.”

She pushes down on the handle, pulls the door open. The leads on the end of the Taser probe wire shoot out of the safe, bury themselves in her chest. Roxy starts doing the epileptic slide, then the worm. Robbie soils his Lucky’s and blasts a hole in the ceiling at the same time.

Rory makes a break for the door, knowing the bogus combo triggered an alarm call to the cops. Time is of the fucking essence. Robbie reloads and blows a hole in the door as it swings open, while Rory slams into a wall of six-four, three hundred pound black dude standing in the threshold.

Franklin doesn’t miss a beat, pushes Rory to the ground, and pulls out the big-ass gun he’s got tucked in the small of his back. Six bullets later, Roxy’s screaming and army crawling over to Robbie’s body as Franklin helps Rory to his feet.

Franklin’s thinking Rory’s in shock, asks if he’s okay. Rory’s too busy staring at Johnny Quid, who’s telling him the world is his for the taking, going to be a star. It’s his destiny. He snaps out of it, says, “The coppers will be here soon, keep an eye on her.”

Rory walks over to the safe, pulls out a stack of bills, about five grand in hundreds, and his black book. He tosses the cash to Franklin.

“Listen mate…I know when we first talked, I said it was on an as needed basis. But I been thinking it over, and this is going to be a full-time gig. You interested?”

“How much we talking about?”

“For starters, thousand a week, and you live here. And the name…Franklin’s cool by me.”

“Done.” Franklin reaches out a fist, gives Rory a bump.

Rory opens the black book, crosses bodyguard off the list.

Franklin, hearing the sirens in the distance says, “You know man, you are one crazy motherfucker. No ones gonna’ buy into all this shit. But hey, if you’re payin’, I’m playin’.”

“Don’t you worry mate. They can all carry our shoes when we’re walking down the hall of fame…together.”

Sean Patrick Reardon pays the bills working for a large investment company and resides in Massachusetts with his wife and two kids. He loves lacrosse, cricket, and spending time with family and friends. He's the author of the crime thriller, Mindjacker, and his short stories have been featured at Thrillers, Killers -n- Chillers, A Twist of Noir, and Do Some Damage.
You can follow Sean’s progress at his blog, http://seanpatrickreardon.blogspot.com/

Rookies by AJ Hayes.

2011-11-19T11:43:00.000Z

Rookies. Every single time it all goes shitfaced, there's a fucking rookie involved. Should have been easy, like falling off a sprung-spine hooker onto a feather bed when you got your cowboy boots on. Least that's what I thought, until the stupid kid the bossman told me to teach the trade to all of a sudden decided to go all bad ass chic on me and shoot the mark down through the top of his head instead of straight through the back. I mean holding the gat sideways was bad enough -- but through the top of his skull? C'mon. That’s plain stupid. He must have thought it was gonna be a trademark thing. Set him apart from everybody else in the game. It set him apart from me that’s for sure.

See, when you shoot a guy through the top of his head you’d better make sure you’re shooting straight down; otherwise a low velocity slug like a forty-five can ricochet off a bone and go most anywhere it wants to -- especially when you’re holding your damn gun sideways, fer chri'sake. In a nutshell, that’s what happened. The slug went through the top of the mark’s skull, bounced off his right jawbone, blew sideways through his left one and punched a hole in my pants as big as a tennis ball.

I woke up staring at overhead hospital lights and green masked faces looking down at me. It’s okay, one of them said. The operation was a success. From his point of view, it was. From mine, not so much.

And that’s why I'm tending bar in this shithole town and telling you this story. It don’t make no difference anyhow. It’s been forty years ago last Sunday. All the people involved with that hit back then are dead now. The kid caught the last ride on Old Sparky up at Leavenworth. The rest of them ended up dying in jail thanks to my testimony. Yeah, my testimony. The way it was, the way I’d finished up back then, the only thing I could do, was take the federals up on their witness protection deal.

Might have worked out different. I might have wound up rich and retired over in Europe. Might have done a lot of things. Except, laying there in that damn bed, I knew I’d never make another hit.

I knew, thanks to that fucking rookie, I just didn’t have the balls for the game anymore.

AJ Hayes lives in a small town near San Diego, California, where there is no mafia . . . now. He misses stuff like "Old Vegas" and guys with Fedoras, cigars and bad attitudes. You can find his stuff at places like Shotgun Honey, A Twist Of Noir, Yellow Mama, The Hardnosed Sleuth, Muck and Muse, Title Fights and Flashshot. One of his stories will can be found in Pulp Ink, an anthology edited by Chris Rhatagin and Nigel Bird. He was interviewed on Chinwag At The Slaughterouse by Richard Godwin and interviewed himself at Nigel bird's Sea Minor website.

Black and White and Red All Over by Patricia Abbott.

2011-11-13T20:00:00.004Z

Both of them hated the kitchen in the new house. It was dead black: the tile, the counter, the appliances, the cabinets—all black. The only relief came from the thin line of white grout around the black tiles on the floor, from the stainless steel sink, and the dingy white walls. And it wasn’t a glossy, contemporary black. It was a flat, matte black, reflecting no light. Heavy and cold. It would’ve been more suitable in a Detroit waterfront loft than in a 1920s townhouse in Indian Village.

For the first month or two, they made jokes— telling each other that Dracula had designed it. Laughingly suggesting the house had once been a 1920s funeral home, or a Goth hangout. Cooking in it, cleaning up, even walking through it, made both of them anxious. But remodeling would have to come after a new furnace, a new roof, various plumbing jobs.

“I can live with it,” she said genially, and he nodded. She did most of the cooking after all, most of the cleaning up. If she could live with it, so could he.

Except he couldn’t. Something in that matte black was entering his head, making his head hurt, his sinuses ache.

“Look,” she told him, seeing his discomfort. “Let’s paint the walls. Paint is cheap. Right?”

And it was—except they couldn’t agree on a color. He favored a pale gray or a bird’s egg blue.

“How about red?” she said. “Tomato red.”

He shook his head—got a headache even thinking about tomato red. But she persevered and following her suggestion, he took the color sample and hung it over his desk at work to see if he could grow into it. His buddies came in and weighed in on it too. Nobody liked the brassy red. Even Helen, the accountant, pinched her nose and fled. He told his wife this, thinking that might be the end of it. They’d settle on beige or a soft yellow.

But despite his disapproval and the opinions of his friends and Helen, the accountant, he came home one day to find the walls painted tomato red. Two red potholders hung from the refrigerator door and red Fiesta ware sat on the shelves. She had hung café curtains with a red and black check in the window.

“So what do you think?” she said. “Isn’t it better?”

Better than what, he wanted to ask. He went out to the yard, picked up the weed whacker, and didn’t come inside until dark.

“Now you’re being a baby.” She was on her knees, scrubbing white grout around the black tiles at half-past nine. “You can’t tell me this isn’t an improvement. Look how hard I’m working.”

The dense cold black now coupled with the shiny red made his head hurt even more and he climbed the stairs. Things were getting worse every day. Every day since they’d bought this house.

“She should’ve asked me first,” he told his buddies at work. “I deserved to be consulted.”

They agreed. There must be an effective way to tell his wife this—a way to point out her error.

“You could paint your kitchen gray while she’s asleep,” one said.

“Or stay out all night and scare her,” another suggested.

He thought about it. Did he want to replicate her callousness by painting the room gray? Did he want to sleep on the sofa at a buddy’s house to make his point? His head hurt worse than ever.

“I can’t believe you bought me this wonderful food processor,” she told him the next day. “This is the high-end model. You can do anything with this baby. It’ll cut through pipe. And I didn’t even know they made it in tomato red.”

He told her about how he had seen it in the kitchenware’s department at Target when he was looking for a new showerhead. “I couldn’t resist it. Knowing how much you like tomato red. I couldn’t wait to see the look on your face.”

She was making his favorite cookies when he pushed her hand under the blade used especially for thick dough. Her blood was darker than tomatoes it turned out. Quite a bit darker.

Patricia Abbott has published more than 75 stories in various venues. Her ebook of stories MONKEY JUSTICE: STORIES (Snubnose Press) is available now. Amazon UK and Amazon USA. She is the co-editor (with Steve Weddle) of DISCOUNT NOIR. Recent stories appeared in D*CKED, PULP INK, CRIME FACTORY: FIRST SHIFT, and DEADLY TREATS. She won a Derringer in 2009 for her story “My Hero.” She lives and works in Detroit.

Submission Are Open.

2011-11-07T20:00:00.004Z

They've been closed for far too long, so...............

SUBMISSIONS ARE OPEN.

Please remember to read the submission guidelines before sending in your work.

Also remember that I'm looking for some gritty Christmas stories. Bad Santa's, naughty elf's, you get the drift. All stories in all genres considered.

Bring it on folks!

Best,

David.

Broken Man by Lee Kelly.

2011-11-05T20:00:00.001Z

He watched as his shadow swayed across the bed, its shape distorted by the topography of the figure beneath the sheets. He stood in silent vigil, resting heavily against the door frame and swirled the bottle held loosely at his side, feeling it's balance shift as the whisky eddied within. The sleeper moved, sending his shadow dancing across the crisp cotton; A soft sigh, thick with sleep, then silence once more.

This was the woman he had given it all up for. This was the woman that had cost him his wife, his home, and everything he had ever owned. He had fought quite literally tooth and nail for her from the very start. ‘Us against the world’ they had said and it had been proven to be more than just words. They had battled from the start and she had ensured that he’d never been able to draw breath since. ‘She’s a head-f**k’, ‘she’s poison’… he’d been warned by so many, but he’d listened to no-one. Now he had no-one to listen to, save her.

A tear formed in his eye and he gripped the neck of the bottle with renewed purpose. He raised it to his lips and let the whisky flood his mouth, holding it until the alcohol burn became overwhelming and he was forced to swallow the fire. Wiping away the tear with the back of his hand, he lowered the bottle back to his side and shuddered with a repressed sob.

The form on the bed shifted again. “Babe? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me…” His voice soft, choked on tears and bitter whisky.

“It’s late. You should be in bed.” She raised the bed sheet, beckoning him in. The gesture stirred the still air, filling the room with the gentle fragrance of fabric softener and the warm cinder-toffee scent of her skin. “I miss you when you’re not here.”

“I’m always here. Where else would I be?”

The sob broke and his tears spilled. He took another hit from the bottle before resting it on the dresser, then moved slowly towards the bed. He had lost everything, but he knew right now that he would do it all again in a heartbeat if he had to. He was a broken man, but he was her man. He could be nothing else.

Lee Kelly is still a newcomer to the writing game but he's been fortunate enough to have both of his previous submissions see the light of day: 'Master of The Estate' appeared in Byker Books' 'Radgepacket: Tales of The Inner Cities - Volume 5' and his stab at horror, 'Dig', appeared in Wild Wolf Publishing's 'Holiday of The Dead' anthology.