May Guest Writer - Matthew C. Funk.

This months Guest Writer needs very little introduction.  His work has appeared in almost every crime/pulp e-zine on the net.  If you've never come across his stories before then you really must be surfing the e-zine circuit with your eyes closed.

He's a fine writer with great stories to tell.  Without further ado.....

Not Like Other People by Matthew C. Funk.

It didn’t take her corpse to prove it. They always knew they weren’t like other people.

Ken knew it from the moment he spotted Sherry. He spotted her, hair a blond fire atop her head, giggling with her glancing girlfriends at Carraba’s. He sidled over in his off-the-rack suit and set eyes on her that shone with want.

She looked back like she had been waiting to be looked at like that her whole life. That told him all he needed to know.

It was the other things too, shared over round upon round of appletinis. The way her eyes kept diving down as if seeking a table to hide under. The upturn of her head, inviting his hand to her neck. The dare in her smile and the white piping of scars on her arms.

Sherry wasn’t like anyone Ken had met.

#

Sherry spent the following work week playing Ken over in her mind like she had memorized her multiplication tables: The majestic set of his shoulders. Those butterfly-jar eyes. The lips that would bend just a little, enough to promise a joke that could laugh away the world’s troubles.

Ken made it easy to remember him. Sherry kept the tulips he sent to her ash-gray cubicle until they had browned to the stems. She snuck off to take his calls somewhere she could whisper back the naughty things he told her to say.

When he called on her for a date, it was in person and with symphony tickets in hand.

Sherry went to the Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Fame in a poodle skirt and rhinestone-tipped sunglasses Ken bought her special. When the director of IT passed Sherry over for a promotion, Ken took her clubbing and they washed away the day in a three-day binge of mimosas, Ecstasy and rave dancing.

Every day, he made his love for her loud enough for all to hear. The real special occasions, he snuck up on her with.

Their first anniversary, her crème brulee was served with his house key on the side.

Of course she moved in right away. Ken wasn’t like other people

#

Ken used loose knots the first time he tied Sherry to their cherry-wood bed. He was only rough enough to leave welcome bruises. He slapped her places that tingled nicely after.

Sherry started taking a long time cleaning the house, getting everything gleaming just right. She lingered, wiping off Windex, looking at the people passing on the other side of the glass—the mothers and kids, the gangs of boys, the old men. It was like looking onto another planet, a bleak and clumsy place, far away from her world with Ken where she woke to mornings with rose petals on the bed, spent days keeping surfaces immaculate, ended her nights marked with his fingertips and flesh.

When Ken sat her on his lap with his hand dug into hers, scanning through pictures of naked women, Sherry’s eyes looked just like his.

She looked on the porn models like they were a different species.

Day after day, they’d look as he touched her and whispered things. Ken watched her stare sometimes stray to the sanctuary of their shag carpet. The blush never left her cheek and her hand only held his neck tighter.

#

Sherry got so tired of answering the phone after her holidays with Ken that she would smile every time after watching it ring to voicemail. It was always the same call no matter who was on the line.

Her parents, shuffling through boring details of their lives until getting to the bottom line—that maybe she was spending too much time with Ken. Her friends or co-workers, asking her out to half-price potato skins or concerts where people yelled loud to convince themselves they were excited.

It was just like Ken said: Those people didn’t know what time well spent was. They’d never been truly excited in their lives. They were just other people.

Late nights driving Kingsbury Run in Ken’s leased Lexus—their Glamour Runs—now that was exciting. He would point out the shivering teens in their layer-cake makeup. Hand inside her thigh, he’d tear those girls up with whispers about too-skinny tits, bony asses, bulldog faces.

It made Sherry feel superior and sick, sad and special, set-apart by wickedness and by the diamond sparkle of the Lexus’ glass.

Sherry started whispering back on the Glamour Runs. It made Ken’s grin wider. It made his eyes stick to her, all bright gravity. It made him do things to her that had never been done before, even there on the leather of the passenger seat.

Sometimes, she’d feel bad. Not for the girls on Kingsbury. Never for them. They stole seconds of Ken’s attention; they deserved any misery they got.

Sherry would feel bad that she was delighting in their misery just to be closer to his delight. Ken could always tell, though. He would answer with a hand around her neck, a fresh-cut rose on her bathroom counter, and words whispered in her ear after a climax left her melted.

They weren’t like other people, Ken would tell her.

They were rock stars. They were gods. They got what life was about.

Who was she to argue?

#

Ken knew Sherry wouldn’t argue when he brought the redhead home from Kingsbury. She didn’t smile at the sniffling girl in her fur-trimmed plastic jacket. Her eyes were only on him.

Sure, Sherry grimaced when Ken cuffed the girl to their bed with the same metal that belonged on her wrists. She hugged herself when he took out the knife and cut the girl’s underwear away. She was glaring every time he looked back at her with his hands on the hooker’s skin.

After the girl’s screams were gagged and Ken’s hands were back on his fiancée, Sherry softened. She watched him with eyes that wanted to be looked at. As ever, he knew just what to whisper:

He wanted to watch her do things to the girl.

He did. Sherry put on a show for him, as precise about displaying her cruelty and her glee and her lust as she was about keeping the countertops shining. She made herself a mirror for his desire, and he knew it, and he showed his delight.

Ken wasn’t so delighted when he came back from his shower to find Sherry had strangled the girl with her silk scarf.

When he was done with Sherry, she set her bruised cheek to his thigh and her knees tucked tighter about his feet. His anger exhausted, Ken put his hand about her head. Sherry smiled up with blood between her teeth and told him just what he needed to hear.

They wouldn’t get caught. They could do a dozen more girls and it wouldn’t change anything. They had each other forever now.

They weren’t like other people.

Bio:  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.

Guest Writer Spot - Benoit Lelievre.

This months Guest Writer is friend of mine who I've known for 12 months or so.  In that time I've watched his writing improve and appear in various e-zines, e-books and print mags.  He writes it tight and to the point.  He's also got a lot of patience.....thanks, dude!!

Without further ado.....

Undead.

The lost souls are always the quieter ones. The wolves are howling so loud within, they can’t hear what’s going on around them. Reality fades out and all you’re left with is a pack of hungry wolves that want you dead. You can spot them after three A.M, when the bouncers flick the switch open and the pub is drowned in that hideous neon light. They are the ones who don’t leave. They barely seem to notice what’s going on. They stay hunched over their drink like shipwreck survivors holding a floating plank.

There was also Raymond. Raymond Kuntar.

He materialized out of thin air one night and challenged everyone in the bar to play Russian roulette with him.
He had kept this old snubnose .38 with a wooden grip tucked in his jeans and walked up to people and raised his shirt. “You up for it? You game? I got nothing to lose, man. I’m a fuckin’ psycho. I don’t give a shit.”

No one would give him the time of day. The only reason anybody knew his name is that he was carded on his first night because he looked like a sixteen years old brat. Turned out he was twenty-two. The staff tolerated him, as long as he didn’t get physical with the actual paying customers. Poor Raymond, he kept playing and playing and he drew the wrong number.

“All right, I’ll play with you.”

Nobody had ever seen that guy in the bar before. Tall, strong and rather good looking if not for the dirty hair and the beard, a strange middle grounds in between a five o’clock shadow and a neglected mess. The guy looked like he spent the last week in the bars, doing blow, fucking sluts and not going to bed.

They sat at an empty table and Raymond placed the gun in between them. “You start, tough guy,” he said.
The remaining customers started to close down on them and Raymond smiled. He loved being the center of attention. Dying in the middle of a captivated crowd was better for him than living secluded in a small apartment, working at a dead end job and being too tired to go out and party at night. Ballers lived fast and died hard.

The stranger offered his hand. “I’m Lowell, by the way. May the best man win.”

“You scared?” said Raymond. “Don’t flake out on me, man. You said you’d do this, we do this”.

Lowell took the gun from the table and opened up the barrel to check inside. He smiled and swung it for a spin. He slammed it shut and put is against his temple. “You’re ready?” he said. Raymond nodded.

Click.

“Your turn.”

Raymond looked at the gun in front of him like he had never seen it before. He put a hand on it. His arm was heavy, filled with lead. He looked in Lowell’s eyes, didn’t blink. Not once. His eyes were like tea saucers, his breath hard and loud.

Click.

Gradually, emotion and bravado flowed back to his face, along with the appropriate color. His face twisted in a grimace of pride and relief as he put the gun back on the table. “Hah. Your turn, man. Try not dying on me. I’m just gettin’ warmed up.”

“You forgot to spin the barrel again,” said Lowell.

Silence for a second. The crowed moved in even closer. Many anonymous clients thought of stepping in, but truth was this was a very quiet neighbourhood bar. Nobody had had to deal with firearms before. Nobody knew what to do or what to say, so they just watched.

“Fuck that spinning shit. We play the real thing here. Russian roulette for men, ya dig?”

“All right.”

Lowell picked up the gun again. He slid back on his chair and spread out his legs to get comfortable.

“I want you to look at this, understand?” he said. He looked at Raymond, raising his eyebrows and waiting for a nod. “I want you to watch me die.”

He put the .38 in his mouth and looked at Raymond. The kid hadn’t blinked in about two minutes.

Click.

“Seems like the stakes just got higher. Your turn.”

Lowell slid the gun across the table. Raymond looked at it, but both of his arms were pinned to his side. “You now have fifty percent chances to die tonight. C’mon,”

Raymond’s shoulder moved, but his hand never made it to the table. “I…I can’t, man.”

“I thought you were a tough guy. What happened to the Russian Roulette for men, thing?”

“Please man, you have to let me spin the barrel again. I’ll let you spin it too. Please, please, please.”

Lowell chuckled and shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not possible. I didn’t spin the fucking barrel, you don’t spin it either. That’s how it works. I started, so I call the shots. You need to finish this turn.”

Raymond’s arms were paralysed. He could still feel them, but they wouldn’t answer to his call. Lowell picked up the gun and aimed: “I’ll help you if you need, but we’re gonna finish this game.”

Raymond’s mouth turned into an O shape and the crowd pulled back in anticipation. “Don’t soil your pants, man. Just don’t. If this is your last moment, face it proudly. You wanted this, remember? You wanted to play Russian Roulette like a fucking man?”

“Uh…Uh…yeah. Yeah I mean, no. I mean-”

Click. Raymond moaned and covered his head with his arms. He was hyperventilating.

“Well. I really liked math in high school,” said Lowell. “But math never liked me. Fractions and percentages. They’ve been my downfall since eighth grade.”

Lowell had removed his trench coat and was now walking back and forth. He never looked so alive the whole night. Raymond risked a look at him. He still had the gun in his hand.

“Are you ready to see me die?” Is that what you wanted all along? A corpse?”

“No. NoNoNoNo. It’s not that, man. Lowell. It’s not that. You can call off the game if you want. This went long enough, I don’t care.”

“Why did you do it, then? Why did you start something if you didn’t have the balls to finish?”

You could have heard a fly. Even worse, you could have heard a fly have an heart attack and drop dead. The air was thick and echoed everything.

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know. I wanted somebody to stop me, I guess. This guy in China threatened to throw himself off a bridge once and this girl came up to him. She showed her the cutting scars on her wrists. She kissed him and gave him her phone number-”

“Wait, you did all that to get poon?

“No, it’s not that, but it was always in the back of my mind-”

“Do I look like a social worker to you? Am I your fucking go-to guy for a hug?”.

Lowell laughed. He would have been that guy, six months ago. Life changes fast and the older you get, the faster it goes. “Goodbye, kid” He placed the gun under his chin and pressed the trigger.

Click.

Lowell chuckled again and it grew into a loud and boisterous laughter. He hadn’t laugh like that since college.

“Who would have thought? Did the guy who put that bullet in the ammo box somewhere in Kansas ever dreamed of your ugly mug? Have you ever thought when you put that bullet in your gun, that it would end your own life? Have you?”

“You were supposed to fucking die, motherfucker,” barked Raymond. His pasty white face was now red as a beet. “I put the bullet in the first chamber, so whoever would play with me would have his face blow-off. I wanted to see you die, you fucking piece of shit.”

“Do you think you’re the first guy to ever play Russian Roulette? Cemeteries are full of stupid kids like you. The Grim Reaper’s not only after old people. Motherfucker’s in shape.”

“FUCK YOU.”

Lowell laughed again. Raymond made a move for the gun, but Lowell slapped him back in place .

“All that time. That bullet was meant, for you. Are you gonna be man enough to accept it?”
Raymond shook his head, frantically. “Can I, can I have one last line, before the trip?”

“No. Fuck this. Will I really have to do this myself?”

“No. I will. I will do it, don’t worry, man.”

Lowell handed the gun to Raymond, who took it and immediately aimed it back at Lowell’s chest. “You predictable little shit. SHOOT. Don’t you get that it’s what I want? I’m laughing because I can’t seem to die. Not because you don’t want to. You’re pitiful. You’re a waste of my time.”

“Shut up. Shut up or I bust a-”

“Do it!” He opened the lapels of his trench coat, making a big, inviting target for Raymond. There was another heavy silence. An eternal one, before Raymond decided to turn heel and run in the other direction. He disappeared into dawn without any trace. The reek of urine invaded the senses of everybody present in the bar. The most sensible noses were covered by hands in seconds.

Lowell turned around and said: “He didn’t even have the courtesy to leave his piece here.” He laughed again. All alone, still. His humor had never been a big hit. The thought of an avoided train wreck was in everybody’s mind, but in Lowell’s the train was still at the horizons and his feet were stuck, welded to the tracks.

In two hours he would have to go to work again. He walked out of the bar and looked around for Raymond Kuntar. Nothing. Nobody ever saw him again after that night. He walked up the street without a destination in mind. He soaked in his thoughts, like he had been doing for the past week or so. What had just happened there? He stopped in front of a women boutique’s display window. As he turned, his trench coat flopped and, for an instant, it looked like a tentacle to him. He laughed to himself and thought those excesses might just do the job afterwards. Under the lamppost’s orange glow, he looked like absolute shit. Dressed in black like an undertaker and yet, pasty-white. His eyes were so bagged, you could see veins under them.

“I look like the grim reaper” he whispered.

The world stopped around him. He held his breath as a long buried memory crawled back. He was thirteen years old and sitting on a church bench with mom, dad and the girls. They had just moved to Atlanta and they didn’t have a church, so they stumbled upon that weird, gospel place that cured people. This old cripple got wheeled in to the front of the church where believers were dancing and spasming altogether. The old gizzard must’ve been eighty, maybe ninety years old? He got up from his chair, started running around the church like a sprinter and yelling in a booming voice: “I AM CURED, PRAISE THE LORD. HALLELUJAH JESUS.”

No proverbial lightning from above, no magical glitter or clouds of dust, like in the movies. It just happened. Like a reminder from God to humanity that he was still there, that they were right to be hopeful. A few weeks later, the old man’s photo was in the local newspaper. He had died while saving his great-granddaughter from house fire.

Lowell nodded at his reflection in the window.

“Grim reaper. Maybe that’s it.”

Benoît Lelièvre is a twenty-nine years old pulp writer from Montreal, Canada. He loves everything dark, from psychological horror to black humor, so his stories reflects that a lot. He's been published in anthologies such as Beat To A Pulp: Hardboiled, Off The Record and The Lost Children and also in magazines such as Needle, Shotgun Honey and The Nautilus Engine. He's working on longer projects now, but he always has time for a short story here and there. Aside from fiction, he has a growing readership on his blog Dead End Follies, where he reviews books, movies and discusses writing and pop culture. He's also on Twitter, so feel free to drop by and say hi.

Guest Writer Spot - Stuart Ayris.

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

Guest Writer Spot - Sean Patrick Reardon.

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

By

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/

Halloween Special Guest Writer - Chris Allinotte.

I've known Chris for around 2 years now and have loved his writing from day one.  He has a knack of turning a normal situation into a good old horror story.  His writing is tight and flows from the first word to the last.

I've always loved reading the late Richard Layman and I personally would liken Chris's writing to that of Layman's.  It flows, it's easy reading and it thrills.

I'll tell you what though, you make up your own mind.  Without further ado...


Sex and Beer by Chris Allinotte.

The brewery had been closed so long, it no longer smelled of sour beer. Joey liked the organic, slightly yeasty odour that remained.  Sam clung to his waist, huddling against the chill that found its way through scores of broken windows.  Their footfalls echoed among the bare girders and abandoned vats.

"Over here, let’s go," said Sam, pulling away and tugging him by the hand.  She lead Joey down a narrow corridor.  He liked her aggressiveness, it was one of the things that had convinced him to leave the bar with her. The aggressive chicks were usually animals in bed.

"I worked here one summer, about five years ago," she said.  Joey hadn’t asked, but if she wanted to talk, it was no skin off his ass.  Speaking of asses, he was relishing the view as she lead the way. He wondered if she was drunk enough for that. A thrill ran up his spine and he shuddered a little. This was shaping up to be an epic night.

"This was my boss' office," she continued, as they passed an otherwise ordinary looking door. Sam’s tone had cooled, and carried an edge that hadn't been there before. Joey didn't push. Something had obviously happened, she didn't want to talk about it. Fine. The last thing he wanted to do was spoil the mood. The large pane of dusty glass had a spider web of cracks around  a large jagged hole in the centre. On the ground were shards of glass and the remains of a broken bottle. Someone got bad news, he thought, and chuckled a little.

"What did you say?" she asked.

Joey hadn’t said a word. Before he could answer, she continued, "Nothing. Never mind. Later."

She wasn't talking to him.

Alright, he thought, that's a little crazy.

Sam took off her jean jacket, exposing her naked back. The skin was creamy-smooth and perfect below the thin black neck of her halter top. Joey smiled. What did it matter if she was a little “off?” Look at her, he thought. She had no idea of the things he wanted to do to her; the things he was going to do to her. He tried to remember if he’d brought a rubber. He was supposed to wear one now. Every time, the doctors said. If not though, he wasn’t going to worry about it.  He got along fine. She’d be fine too.

It was uncomfortably dry in the office, and the smell of long dead yeast and hops was making Joey want a beer in the worst way, though he'd had several at the bar already.  His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth. After he thought. Yeah. After we fuck. Thinking the word excited him. They were going to break into the shitty, dusty little office of this old brewery, and fuck.  He tugged at the leg of his jeans, which were getting tighter.

Joey tried to calm down, it wasn't cool to look too eager. He thought of the beer again. That would be the best damned beer of his life. Sam was easily the hottest girl he'd ever seen – there was no way she was getting away.

"What's in here?" he asked, moving to a plain grey metal door set in the back wall. 

"This is what I wanted to show you," said Sam. He saw that her smile had returned. She was meeting his gaze with her own large black eyes.  In the darkness, they were so wide the whites were almost gone. The naked hunger he saw there was more than enough to rekindle his excitement.  She turned the knob and revealed a room not much bigger than a closet. There was a small cot in the corner with a yellowing, tattered sheet stretched across it. He checked his pockets again. No dome. It was no big deal. He’d pull it out and pop on that perfect back of hers, or something. Another shiver rippled through him. What’s with me? he thought. You’d think this was my first time, or something.

"Shall we?" asked Sam.

"Yeah," Joey agreed. He stepped forward to push her into the room and was surprised when she grabbed him instead.

"Wonderful," she said, and threw him roughly to the bed.  Her manic energy was what had set her apart from the other bar rats and trailer trash. Now, that same energy was getting him so worked up, he began to worry about not being able to last.  Sam spread her legs and dropped heavily onto his bulging jeans.  Her coal coloured hair draped in front of her face. Without brushing it aside, she leaned in and began kissing his neck.

Joey moaned. Sam ran her hands under his shirt and scoured his chest and stomach with her nails.  She yanked down on his pants, and then she was riding him. Her body was a taut, dancing live wire. His hips bucked.  He was way too close; but couldn't think of what to say, or what to do.  She was all over him; so absorbed in the moment that she'd given up all pretence of delicacy.  Her lips smacked as she kissed him harder and longer. 

"Not yet," she moaned.

"Alright... alright," he grunted in return, willing himself to keep control.

"Soon," said Sam. Her voice was distant again, and he had that same feeling, that she wasn't talking to him. It was weird, alright. At the same time, the distraction was helping fight off the point of no return. He took the game to her and scoured her back with his nails. She threw her head back and laughed. Joey threw his back and moaned.

Suddenly, Sam pulled back, and sat on his thighs. She was staring him in the eye.  If her attention had ever wandered, it was all the way back now. Her black eyes gleamed behind the obsidian curtain of her hair.  The sudden withdrawal of her attention made Joey's body cry out. Everything was tingling and throbbing.

"Are you having a good time, Joey?"

He tried to speak, but could only gasp for air.  He nodded.

"That's good, Joey," she moaned. "My turn now, 'kay?"

He nodded again. 

Sam leaned in again, and this time, instead of kissing, she opened her mouth impossibly wide and bit deeply into his neck at the shoulder.  Joey tried to scream. She clamped a hand like a hydraulic press across his windpipe, and only a gurgling wheeze came out.  The other hand, that had been exploring and teasing the hairs on his stomach grew hard, and dug deeply into the flesh there.  There was an awful feeling of being entered.  The world started to swim in front of his eyes and he welcomed the coming blackness.  He remained aware long enough though, to see four triple-jointed legs erupt from the back of his would-be lover.  The hairy black appendages stretched and flexed in the air. Her skin peeled away in thick bloody strips to reveal a bulging black abdomen with the clear bloody imprint of an hourglass in the centre.

The Samantha-thing lowered thick black mandibles to his gushing shoulder.  An all-too-human tongue ran out between them and lapped at the blood. Underneath the monstrous castanet clicking of the spider, Joey could still hear the girl he'd met a million years ago at the bar. Incredibly, she sounded pissed off.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid! How are we going to get anywhere if you won't let us mate first?"  The mandibles seemed to click in reply, holding up their end of this obscene conversation.

"Yes, I suppose," said Sam's distant voice, "Better luck next time, then."

Mercifully, he didn’t see what happened next. Spots bloomed in front of his eyes. As he slipped away, he thought he heard screaming. The swirling colours widened briefly to a grey test pattern, and finally everything went black.

***

Joey woke up. That in itself was a surprise. His shoulder, which had been spouting a generous helping of his blood, had become a churned, purple clot beside his neck. He couldn’t feel it; he couldn’t feel anything in his extremities. On the other hand, his insides felt like they were burning up. His stomach was roiling, and he felt vicious cramps throughout his chest and bowels.

Also, he seemed to be dangling.

Long ropy strands of white web radiated out from him in every direction. The same stuff bound him in a loose cocoon. He followed one sticky cable to the curved edge of the wall. The sick-sour tang of beer, absent in the building, was overpowering in here.

From the darkness somewhere below, he heard Samantha’s voice.

“What did you do to us?” The spider’s clicking was gone, and only the voice of a sincerely pissed off woman remained.

At the limit of his vision, two obsidian legs appeared from the shadows. As the shape climbed higher, Joey began to scream. Samantha had partially re-emerged from the body of the spider. The torso and head were the same woman he’d been drinking with just hours ago, but her arms and legs were those of the spider. She scaled the wall until she was level with Joey, then turned to face him.

She was naked, and despite the multiple horrors of the situation, he still had a faint thrill at the sight of her. Something was wrong with her though. An ugly deep yellow stain was spreading across her chest.

“What did you do?” she repeated. Her voice was almost a scream, and her lips were pulled back from teeth that now tapered to gleaming points.

Joey was breathing hard. The pain in his guts and his brain’s attempts to reject what he was seeing had kept him from answering immediately. He took a good look at her. The spider’s second and third legs were starting to curl in towards Sam’s body. They were twitching. While he watched, the deep yellow patch on her ribs deepened, and spread. Something clicked for him. He knew what was going on.

She started to shout at him again, but he didn’t listen.

He was laughing. It felt awful, like he was about to shit out his insides. Still, there was nothing for it. She’d done something to him already; he was going to die. But the thing that made her so powerful, made her overly vulnerable to his own special problem. He was glad that he hadn’t worn a rubber now. That made him laugh harder, and now he tasted blood.

“Stop laughing!” she screamed. “You, your blood...”

“It’s... it’s just the Hep, babe,” said Joey. Knowing she was dying too had driven the terror from him. “Hep B, to be exact.” He laughed again. “Ah. Shit. That hurts. You... you should go see a doctor. He’ll clear you right up.”

With a primal shriek, Sam lunged forward on her remaining legs, and drove her topmost legs through his chest. It hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before, and the sensation of the legs as alive within him was somehow even worse.

Samantha’s face was now right in front of his own. Surprisingly, her tone had dropped to normal, but the spider’s clicks were very noticeable behind her words.

“You bastard,” she said. “You were going to have sex with me and leave me infected?”

He looked her squarely in the eyes. “Pretty much, yeah.” He smiled. “It’s not actually that bad for me. But I understand if you don’t do anything about it, it can get pretty serious.”

The spider-woman grit her teeth together, and drew back. In a single fluid motion, she ripped his body wide open as the legs jerked free.  The cocoon fell free from the web, and Joey tumbled to the floor of the vat. There, he found himself atop a pile of similar spun shells, dozens of desiccated corpses, and the stinking reek of sour beer.

As his consciousness retreated for the last time, and high above, he watched the spider-woman twitch in her own death throes, he wished once more for a final brew. He was just so damned thirsty.

Sex and Beer had no real clear origin, other than one or two rather disturbing dreams Chris had after finishing Starcraft in early 2000. Many of Chris' stories tend to involve terrible things happening to perfectly mundane people, and finds that his "monster" tales are the literary equivalent of playing with LEGO and ketchup.

He is also the editor and co-author of "Eight Days of Madness", a short anthology about horrors of the mind, available as a free download at Smashwords, featuring seven other completely demented authors. 

Chris lives in Toronto with his wife and children. He blogs about his writing at The Leaky Pencil.

Guest Writer Spot - Lily Childs'.

Next up at the Guest Writer Spot is Lily Childs'.

I've known Lily as long as she's known me.  Sorry, I went all Two Blokes then.  What I meant to say was, we pretty much started blogging at the same time.

Since we "met", we've been in constant contact, be it commenting on each others work, the odd email or taking part in her weekly Friday Prediction.

As I've got to know her over the past 2 years, I've realised what a beautiful person she is and that she is also a truly talented writer.  For me, Lily is going places.  You guys can make up your own mind after you read .....

God's Gift.

The motorway lay beyond us in the near distance, cutting deep into the hills and trailing black into the night. Even without traffic you could tell it was there; the air had a different reverberation, expectant even in the silence, volumes of molecules waiting to be filled with the roar of engines.

Halfway down the lane, I struck.

I didn’t know how much it would take to knock him out so I plunged the syringe into his neck regardless. He screamed and grabbed at his throat, hands leaving the steering wheel just long enough to careen the car into a ditch. I’d planned to smack him over the head for good measure – I didn’t have to. His skinny frame shot forward so fast, when his face connected with the windscreen it knocked him out cold.

I dragged the body – not quite a corpse, thankfully – from the driver’s seat, pocketing the keys with my gloved hands. My instinct was to stamp on his skull, to grind my boot into his ugly mug but where was the satisfaction in that if he wasn’t conscious? I kicked him over onto his front instead and stripped the bastard until he lay, pock-marked and scar-ridden on the gravel verge. I set about the business of binding his wrists; the same with his knees and his ankles, making sure the plastic cable ties cut deep as I pulled them tight. I wanted him to feel the pain when he awoke, needed his skin to tear as he tried to escape. I stood back to admire my handiwork. All good so far; I’d keep the bag for the bridge.

I’m strong. He was a lightweight - I could have carried him around the bend in the road to get to the motorway crossover but I didn’t want his flesh touching mine. With no time in my carefully planned schedule to worry about it I bent down and picked the scrote up by the shackles. He was heavier than I thought. Staggering as far down the lane as I could, I dropped him to the ground as the bridge came into view. He murmured something under his breath. I couldn’t catch it but it didn’t matter; the drugs were already wearing off.

I squatted down next to him and waited. Gradually his eyes flickered open, pinpoints even in the darkness. He looked around, groggy, struggling to work out where he was. The panic that jolted him out of his stupor was a joy to behold. The vomit that spewed forth from his vile mouth, less so.

“What the fuck?” He tried to get up. He couldn’t.

“Hello Vince”.

Carter flinched. He hadn’t seen me. I flicked the cigarette lighter I’d taken off him earlier. The flame wavered between us; an inch from his face, an inch from mine. I whispered my daughter’s name. Vince Carter blew any chance of mercy when he grinned.

I dropped my hand to his balls, let the flame lick up between his legs and laughed at the stink of smouldering dick. Carter shrieked and flailed wildly, getting nowhere.

“Time to go, shitface,” I said, wrapping my fist in his long greasy hair. I yanked it, and pulled his twisting carcass through the pile of puke until he glistened with bile. Carter swore and spat, threatened and begged as we crossed onto Hammer Bridge.

The road below slept; an hour or so to go before early morning traffic would pester the tarmac. I looked down at it through steel railings, then checked my watch. I was ready.

***

Heaven protect us from the Vince Carters – or Billy Spires as the locals knew him. Or Joe Bishop, Leo Smith, Davey Loakes – all him. You might even have met him; perhaps you got off lightly. Perhaps he hurt you.

Heaven doesn’t have angels to stop the likes of Carter doing what he does. God doesn’t sit in a courtroom in a powdered wig metering out justice. God doesn’t exist. Heaven doesn’t exist. Sometimes you have to deal with the Carters yourself.

***

He was playing his own role last night. No point notching up a new personality in that shithole, everyone knew him for what he was. My guess is that everyone was scared of him too, even the hard fuckers he sat drinking with. Set in a clearing, five hundred yards up a dirt track in the woods – completely invisible from the road - the makeshift portacabin bar had a flavour of its own. Me, I didn’t come across it by chance. I’d followed Vince Carter there.

I’d been tracking him for nearly a year. Ever since it happened, when he destroyed everything I’ve ever loved, ever believed in. The day they arrested Carter then let him go for lack of evidence was the day I gave up on God.

He came and went over the months, always returning to base. How his mother let him into her house was beyond me. She must have known; must have.

My car is inconspicuous. Small. Navy blue. Not old; not new. He never saw it; I always hung four or more vehicles behind his and drove past where he turned off into the woods. Last month I started parking in a sheltered lay-by, waiting for him to come back from his binge session. Last week I walked up the dirt track, scared shitless at what I might find. Last night I got there before him.

For all of the trees, the space between them was too open. I couldn’t take the risk of headlights zoning in so I squatted behind a matted bramble, thick with spikes and foliage. I’d already discovered the spot a few nights earlier; they couldn’t see me but I could hear every sickening gloat and boast. Minutes after taking up position my target turned up, screeched to an unsteady halt and stumbled – already tanked – into the bar. I let Carter settle in then whilst he drank whisky with his buddies I approached the car he’d arrived in on my hands and knees. It wasn’t his; it belonged to mummy-dearest. Inevitably it was unlocked – anyone try to steal from you out here, you’d be dead in minutes. I crawled in and lay down on the back seat, covering myself with a filthy coat that reeked of piss and weed. Laughter and grunts spilled from the bar; Carter’s shrill giggles disturbed the air as he joined in with the tales of theft and executions that rang around the table.

The car door slammed. I must have fallen asleep. I almost gagged at the stench as Carter threw himself into the driver’s seat, revved up the engine and wheel-span down the track until we were out onto the open road. Never doubting the route he would take I waited until we reached Hammer Lane – his regular shortcut – and shot him the dope.

***

He didn’t like the mallet I held to his skull. He wasn’t too happy when I showed him the photos of his mother either, as she cried over a newspaper declaring ‘Serial rape charges dropped’, her son’s toothless grin sullying the front page. Carter couldn’t tell me how he felt because I’d gagged him with his own belt, not that I had time to listen. He could listen though. I bent down and whispered in his ear everything he’d done to his long list of helpless victims, naming them all. I’d heard it from the horse’s mouth – and so would everyone else when the cops discovered the voice-recorder I’d left in Vince’s coat pocket on the side of the lane, full to brimming with him and his cronies’ revelations.

Below us a motorbike roared east along the empty road. I’d have to get moving. I slipped the canvas bag from my jacket and rammed it over Carter’s shaking head. His muffled moans quietened as I pulled the drawstring around his throat; the toggle caught on his prominent Adam’s Apple and he choked into the bag. A bonus - I jerked it tight. My waist burned with the fibre rope I’d wrapped around myself before leaving home; I unwound it and breathed out. Clips and clasps in place I walked up to the human caterpillar that writhed blindly along the strip of road in a desperate attempt to get away. Carter’s soles bled from his exertions, and from the cable ties that bit into his ankles. I looped the rope around them and quickly fastened it.

I pulled my daughter’s killer to his feet.

“Ready to jump, Humpty?”

He heard me.

I slotted the carabiner clip from the other end of the cord onto an upright metal railing. Carter heard that too and started to hyperventilate, his scrawny chest pulsating. Finally I had no choice but to touch him; taking him in a fireman’s lift and hauling him up to sit on the cold steel. I just managed to shift out of the way as he pissed into the air, his charred cock wasted and otherwise impotent.

I pushed.

The walk back to Vince’s car took forever yet no time at all. With the handbrake off I was easily able to manoeuvre it back onto Hammer Lane, then I drove it back the way we’d come, the route clear in my head. There was no way I could know if anyone was still propping up the bar so as soon as I turned into the dirt track I turned off the headlights and crept toward the clearing. I pulled over just in front, leaving the car sprawled sideways – as though abandoned by the driver’s need for alcohol. My eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and I could see well enough to run through the trees to my own vehicle. Again, I left the lights off and crawled along the empty dual-carriageway towards Hammer Lane, where I backed into an overgrown farm track.

***

I watched Carter’s body hanging from the bridge and wondered how long it had taken for him to become a slow pendulum. So mesmerised was I by the tremors shooting through his bound limbs, I almost forgot to call the police.

***

I had Carter’s own phone in my hand when the morning’s first vehicles started speeding down the motorway. The light was changing but still too dull for drivers to notice the rapist suspended above their heads.

“Help! Help me,” I shrieked into the phone. I left it on, not replying to the operator but hopefully giving the cops time to pick up the geo-co-ordinates. With an eye on the main road I walked over to the railings and dropped Carter’s Nokia onto the highway where it smashed into a thousand pieces. I was halfway back to my hiding spot when I heard the drone of an articulated lorry. I couldn’t help myself and hurried back to see how close he was to death. About a foot, as it happened. The lorry’s cab just missed Vince’s head but the close contact battered his body, whipping it back and forth. Carter didn’t die but he defecated all over the minivan that followed close behind the truck, causing it to skid into the hard shoulder.

The police arrived in ten minutes, already alerted by the 999 call. They pulled Carter to safety, trying to avoid the shit caked into his hair. An ambulance drew up and soon Carter was wrapped in a foil blanket, a hot drink clasped between his untethered hands. The moment the emergency services personnel took their eyes off him I stepped out from the trees, flicked Carter’s lighter open and stood close enough for him to see my face above the flame. By the time he dropped his cup and sped up the road I slipped back into the woods, unseen.

***

Vince Carter took his second jump off Hammer Bridge at 5:21 a.m.

They’ll be calling it suicide now, an escape from his drinking mates who took matters into their own hands when they caught Carter spying on them. Only his mother will care.

Either way, I’m running free.

Revenge is sweet after all. And I’ve got a taste for it.

It’s a gift.

My name is God.

Back in the olden days of 2009, Lily Childs dared to submit a vicious tale of catwalk murder to Thrillers Killers ‘n’ Chillers. Already someone who appreciated the darker things in life (and death); fiction and poetry had tormented Lily’s fingers for years. Seeing Fashion Victim published on TK’n’C gave her the confidence to send out more stories to e-zines and anthologies, and these days she likes to spread herself around, with several dozen stories published online and eight in current or upcoming print anthologies.

If it hadn’t been for TK’n’C, Lily wouldn’t have made the acquaintance of now good friends Col Bury, Matt Hilton, TFFO ed David Barber, Lee Hughes, Erin Cole, Jodi MacArthur and so many other gifted crime/noir/horror writers and editors. The e-zine has nurtured a great community that has encouraged so many to pick up a pen or stab at a keyboard to create fantastic fiction.

Lily is proud to be the current Guest Editor at TK’n’C where she hangs about a lot, hopefully making sound decisions and giving useful feedback.

Her story, Carpaccio, published on TK’n’C in March 2010, was nominated for the 2011 Spinetingler ‘Best Short Story on the Web’ award. She also won The New Flesh Magazine’s Inaugural Flash Fiction War contest with possibly her most favourite story to date, Dressing Up Box.  Think demons dressed in tutus of flesh...

Lily has more than one novel on the go that may one day see the light of day.

Lily is principally a writer of horror, dark fiction and verse. She is also the author of demon-fighting, trance-journeying Magenta Shaman, a terrifying urban fantasy series for Kindle.
The first episode is available to download from Amazon now. Episode two, Magenta Shaman Stones The Crow will be published soon.

Visit Lily’s blog, The Feardom, where she blathers on about art, literature and music, and posts links to where you can read her online work or buy her downloads and printed fiction. She runs a weekly flash fiction challenge The Prediction, as well as an annual showcase by female writers of dark fiction and poetry February Femmes Fatales.

Lily wrote God’s Gift especially for TFFO, following a dream her husband had. She added the particularly sick and twisted parts herself but would like to thank Mr Lily Childs for the outspilling of his imagination, and her good mate, David Barber, for the invitation to guest write.