The Sex Machine

by Sean Patrick Reardon

A grand, in cash, is the going rate for an hour of Kevin’s time. Not bad for a junior at Boston College. He’s a business major, with a Libertine studies minor. Two framed movie posters hang in his dorm room: Saturday Night Fever and American Gigolo. He’s often wondered if he presented his escort business plan on Shark Tank, would Cuban or Mr. Wonderful buy in for, say, 250K at ten percent. Shit, it’d be a no-brainer, guaranteed full ROI in one year.

He’s just left another satisfied client’s place and “Staying Alive” is playing in his ears as he struts down Marlboro Street wearing those oh-so-cool wrap around shades and working the Thin Lizzy tee and Lucky Brand jeans for all they’re worth.

The Bee Gees tune is a tradition after every client visit, a sign of respect to Johnny T. Travolta is his spirit guide. He’s carrying a soft leather briefcase, not a can of paint. You can improve on perfection.

The empty spot where his Mustang should be parked is making it really difficult for Kevin to determine who the person connected to the large hand that is clenching his arm is. A couple thoughts do get processed as the ear-buds get yanked out (courtesy of the other large hand).

The man is huge.

He is wearing a very expensive suit.

He does not look like he is going to ask for directions.

And when he wraps a muscled-bound arm around Kevin’s shoulder, whispers “don’t even think of it” and guides him into the back seat of a waiting Escalade, Kevin gets the feeling that he’s not going to be making it to his next client’s appointment.

The driver, a dapper looking, white haired guy punches the gas, turns around and says, “Kevin Green…The sex ma…chine.”

That’s all Kevin hears as the pinky-ringed fist of Expensive Suit connects with his temple and knocks him out.

***

When he rejoins the world, Kevin’s fuzzy, lethargic, out of it (a healthy dose of liquid morphine can do that to a dude), and wondering why he’s naked and bound to a chair in a dingy basement.

Dapper Dan and Expensive Suit are standing in front of him. Double D lights a smoke, says, “Do You know who I am lad?”

“No…should I?” Kevin asks, with just enough smart-ass to warrant a hard slap across the face from Expensive Suit.

“I’m Gerry McGowan and my friend here is Davey. Now, tell me this if you would…what do you know about that lady you were with, before we invited you to our little get together?”

“I don’t know man, from my vantage point, looked like she needed her roots touched up.”

Another bitch slap courtesy of Davey.

Gerry takes a drag, drops the cig, and crushes it under his shoe. “She happens to be my wife.”

Davey starts shaking his head, says, “You really fucked up, sex machine. This isn’t good.”

Kevin takes a deep breath, swallows hard, looks at Gerry with his best aw-shucks face. “Oh man, Gerry, I’m sorry dude. How was I supposed to know?”

“That’s not any of my concern.” Gerry nods to Davey. “What’s done is done, lad. May I ask how, or why, you got into such a profession?”

Kevin takes a couple seconds, thinks about his answer, only thing that comes out is, “I don’t know…yolo…I guess.”

Davey and Gerry look at each other, perplexed. Davey says, “yo lo? What the fuck is that?”

Gerry shugs his shoulders, says, “How do I know? These damn kids and their code words, the texting, butchering the English language. Tell us Kevin, what is a yolo?”

“It’s a way of life, you know, yolo. You…only…live…once.”

Gerry mulls it over, smiles, like he gets it. “Ah, so it’s like Carpe Diem.”

“Huh?” Kevin says.

Davey puts up a hand, smirking, letting Gerry know he wants to field this inquiry. “Seize the fucking day, sex machine. Basically means the same thing as your yolo.”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” Kevin says, thinking both Gerry and Davey are smiling and there’s some genuine generational bonding happening. The situation might not be as bad as he thought.

Gerry has a big smile on his face when he tells Kevin, “You know, I think I have another one for you Kevin?”

“Cool,” Kevin says, with an attentive, interested look on his face, like Gerry is some all-knowing sensei.

“Yodo,” Gerry says as he pulls a gun from the back of his waistband and hands it to Davey.

Davey points the gun at Kevin’s chest. “You…(BANG)…only…(BANG)…die… (BANG)…once…(BANG).”

The Edge of The Road

by Kevin Michaels

On a two lane county road near Williamsport, the skies that had been dark and threatening for hours finally erupted in a violent explosion of lightning and thunder cracks. The road turned slick, the wind kicked up unexpectedly, and it was nearly impossible to see anything through the rain. Even harder handling the power of the big block Chevy Bel Air. It was the kind of car that wasn’t so easy to drive, but Archer was starting to feel comfortable behind the wheel. By the time he got back to New Jersey he would know everything about that car.

He kept his eyes on the road while he fiddled with the radio. In between bursts of static, Eddie Cochran sang about “the summertime blues” while the wipers slapped the rain off the windshield.

Archer liked that steady, rhythmic beat – the sound helped drown out the noise in his head.

He thought again about the nice young couple he met at the rest stop near the Pennsylvania State line. They were from some small town in Western Kentucky, Illinois, or Ohio – just another name and a dot on the map to him. No idea where it was or how far they had to travel until their paths crossed, and it wasn’t like he could ask them about it now. Archer couldn’t remember exactly what they told him – he hadn’t paid that much attention to what they had to say. Just enough to keep the conversation going and pass the time.

For a little while.

You need a distraction, he thought. Something that breaks the monotony of the road.

Doug had been the quiet one. Right from the start he hadn’t said much and barely made a sound the whole time. But Kate was another story – she kept going on and on long after Archer had lost interest in either one of them. She just wouldn’t shut up. Her voice had a way of crawling under your skin and getting inside your head, and it was miles before the sound finally faded from memory.

The storm showed no sign of letting up and the drive became difficult. Archer finally pulled into a small bar tucked beneath a highway overpass to shake off the rain and kill some time.

There were only a handful of people inside – locals leaning into the bar, working shots and beers, while others huddled around a pool table playing eight ball. Nobody paid attention to him as he slid onto a bar stool and ordered a Jack Daniels. The bartender – somebody called him Sean – slid the glass across the mahogany and walked to the end of the bar without a word. Elvis blasted from a corner jukebox while the redhead at the bar dipped a shoulder and swayed to the song. Something about the way she ran a finger slowly along the rim of her glass before carefully bringing it to her lips and sucking away the salt held Archer’s attention. Quietly sipping his whiskey, he chanced a smile when she glanced his way, but she simply flipped the hair off her face and turned away from his stare.

She downed what was left of her drink and gathered her things, smiling to the bartender and the people around her. By the time she started saying her good-byes, Archer had already pictured the feel of his hands against her skin, the smell of her breath on his face, and the way her voice would sound when he held her close.

He tossed a twenty on the bar, slipped his fingers around the switchblade in his coat pocket, and headed outside to wait. Maybe this one wouldn’t scream so loud when he carved her up, he thought. Not like that couple from the Midwest. Killing them had been hard, especially since he had never done two at the same time. Once he gutted Doug it took forever to muffle Kate’s screams while he ripped the blade across her throat again and again.

Even longer for the light to go out of her eyes.

The two of them were still under a blood-soaked blanket in the back of the car, but Archer figured the Chevy’s trunk would be big enough to hold another body when he got done with the redhead.

At least until he got back to New Jersey.

Foul Play

by Absolutely* Kate

Jenny swatted troubles like the Bambino hit fly balls. Outta da park. Trouble was, the troubles all started in Clifford park. Night games. Under bright lights. Big diamond. Bases loaded.

Bases not covered though. These Troubles, they came from outta town. Then they came at Jenny. They came like bats outta hell. Dastardly dudes. Uniforms not included. Jenny didn't have a fighting chance to crack a full swing. They mauled her and they balled her, the Troubles did. Yep, Jed Trouble and his stinky brother Fred. They left poor Jenny under the bleachers for dead. Those Louisville muggers yanked the big diamond from the dainty chain wrapped tight 'round her sultry neck. Honest to gumption, ripped it right smack dab off her head. Just left Jenny bleedin' and coagulatin' there dead. Right there, near right field. Some say it ain't so Joe, but Me? Well hell, don't take no more'n rookie to call that steal, foul play.

Pitchin' woo ain't all it's cracked up to be, I guess. Even with the spin. Home team advantage may bring an easy score, but when a close game was a close game, Jenny always cried out for more. She knew her fan base, Jenny did. She keened who was on first, what was on second and had no never mind for those who slid in their "I don't knows." Jenny was no benchwarmer. She rallied. She played the field.

But no sirree Bob, even if your name ain't even Bob, but Stanley or Kevin, there are days that turn night into night games. Wreak cold havoc hell from hot streak heaven. Dark nights when all hell is split seams and nuttin' but nuttin' is as it really seems. That's the way it was with Jenny. She was some cracker jack and prize all rolled into one. The team players? They all knew Jenny's number. "Tight squeeze in a hot box" was what they dubbed her. Megaphones not included. They jes whispered raspy, up close and personal. Jenny took it all in like peanuts and beer and hot dogs. She had some appetite Jenny did.

But purty Jenny had winning ways about her. Her stats were chock full o' sass and that gal never struck out. That's how she got that flashy diamond in the first place. Coach's favourite. The one who made it to more than first base. Offered her a whole new ball game. Promised to keep her safe at home and backstop her fears with a white picket fence just this side o' Easy Street. Sunday double-headers topped off with a stroll to the corner ice cream store. Peachy keen, who could ask for anything more?

Jenny could. I thought that diamond was forever but she dug out a few rubies, a sparkling sapphire and an emerald or two too. All on a coach's meager take at the gate.

Well, that was 'bout all Coach Ted Casey could take.

Mebbe could be why Ted called up the farm team -- cousins Jed and Fred.

It's a dismal town now, down near the playin' fields.

There's no joy in Meadville since mighty Casey's revenge struck out.

Over apple pie though, Ma fingers her stunning brooch and smiles truth at Aunt Ruth with the dangly earbobs . . . she calls it a triple play.

A CIRCUS STORY & SOMEWHERE IN A TRAILER PARK IN TULSA, OKLAHOMA, 9:04 AM

by Joe Clifford

A CIRCUS STORY
For Charlie Starkweather


           Buried between the lanes and the miles, where love gets abandoned in roadside motels just beyond King’s Cross, Ohio, a late night call-in show clings to its last taste of frequency.  It is a stretch of road remembered only by the yellowed newspaper clippings and rebroadcast Christian theatrics about fathers with gambling problems and penchant for hitting the sauce a little too hard, a teenage killing spree victim, circa 1957. 

           Now, decades later, the sewage from draining fuselage and deserted Buicks in cornfields festers beneath the diesel weeds and magpie bones. Kept cool by a light rain, this prairie yields no secrets.  It is a circus story, this nomad’s land of gutted factories and splayed-open houses, wilted prom date corsages cropping up with the late season harvest, where adrift in the high wheat plains, restless young men still cruise for kicks.

           The driver caps his Mad Dog 20/20, pulls on his menthol cigarette, savors the soft pack carton bargain he pilfered off the pimply Injun kid back at that reservation with the fake tan tepees. The balled up, lace top sits in his lap.  He twines fingers around thin straps, breathes her scent in hard. Perfume trapped in the upholstery; religion found in a moving car. He adds up the odometer, does the math in his head. He’s rolling in the direction
of Wyoming, or at least he was last time he checked in Arkansas.  It’s hard to tell apart one of these backwater towns from the next anymore.

           He’s a good boy, the fishmongers used to say, still keeps the last letter he received from his mother, the tenth anniversary of the first time he went away. But when that black ink bleeds into the parched wood fiber, it makes it very hard to read under the dim dashboard lights of a 10th grade education.

           The girl hasn’t made a sound since placed in the back seat eight hours ago and covered with the wool blanket. Last time he checked, she seemed asleep. There is no mud on the tires; any trace of wrongdoing has long been wiped clean, washed away by the steady fall of rainwater and gasoline that breaks down time
into hushed rose and gray droplets, casting them back to where they are wanted.


*


SOMEWHERE IN A TRAILER PARK IN TULSA, OKLAHOMA, 9:04 AM

When he struck the infant’s head
its twisted little body
            folded
                        and
                                    rolled
                                                across the counter
                                                                              to the half a pot
                                  of bitter coffee
                           somebody thought
they were doing a favor making for him every morning.
The baby
stopped crying         stopped moving         stopped breathing.

Oh, people would offer excuses:
“If only he’d been afforded the luxuries others had been.”
“If only his own father had paid more attention to him.”
“If only he’d won some sort of prize in the third grade science fair.”
But there could be no excuse;
this was his life.
He grabbed his can
                   of now warm
                   beer.
He sat
    back
  down
in his
Favorite
Chair.
He flipped through the stations.
He had no cable television.
And syndication can be such a bitch.

Heartbeat

by Tifanny White

It was the control. A formality which she would never guess would kill her someday. Control swung in every direction. You can’t wear this, you can’t eat that, lose that weight, don’t talk to him, we make love every Thursday and Saturday three times a day, never on Monday. Her husband had become fat with power and she succumbed like a wilted flower to pouring rain. There wasn’t any support. She went to the YWCA. He found her. He fought for her. She returned home. A lie of a home where both their faces graced the walls with wide smiles and yellow teeth. She wanted her freedom, he wanted to see if her heart still beat for him. So he found out with a knife sharp as her stupidity, gutted her, left her heart on the table next to her car keys. He knew it was improper. He did not care. That night he danced with his denial, full of tequila, hypnotized by the red and blue lights flickering outside his bedroom window.

Initiation by Hammer

by Craig Douglas

Sam licked the end of candle and waited by the door. A vacuum of light and we were in the abyss. My chest thumped, a beat threatening to burst
+++++“It takes an amateur 30 minutes to kill a man with a hammer where it would only take a professional under a minute,” this he explained to me in the Charity Shop after we picked her out.
+++++The hammer shook in my hand. The weight of it magnified the gravity of the situation. My damnation and salvation.
+++++The steady beat of feet spurned my heart into uncontrollable fits.
+++++She was behind the door.
+++++It was time to turn the boiler on. Sam is breathing like a rapist. I could hear her sighing and choosing a key.
+++++A key slid into the lock.
+++++I gripped the hammer.
+++++The lock turned and the door opened.
+++++I stood, hammer ready.
+++++Forgive me.

*

“No. No. Stop! Stop!” Sam grabbed my hand and pried the hammer from my grip. Patiently and calmly, he lifted a finger in the air and I watched as it descended. “Here,” his finger rested at the point between where Mrs Pickering’s eyes should have been.
I nodded.
+++++“One good, hard….” he held onto Mrs Pickering, “Hold her!”
+++++She was fighting, or trying to. Somewhere between the now and unconsciousness she held on. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the wooden floor, fingernails breaking.
+++++Sam handed the hammer to me. Flecks of frothy blood began to spout from the gash where her mouth had been. I brought the hammer up, then down. The contact was sharp and quick, like hammering a nail into a wall. I remember putting my wedding photographs on the wall yesterday and this image seemed to help. It eased me out of the situation for a bit.
+++++“Good.” I could hear Sam. He sounded pleased.
+++++He gripped my hand as Mrs Pickering lay, perfectly, mannequin still. He shook and I could feel my knuckles crack.
+++++“Welcome.”
+++++I heaved.
+++++I convulsed.
+++++I buckled.
+++++My stomach ached, but nothing came out.
+++++“I told you not to eat anything before your first, didn’t I?” Sam said and I sensed he was smiling. I held out both hands, their bloody images shook through my tears.

*

We burnt the store. I mean we razed it to the ground. I tried to tell Sam about the apartments, but he just grinned. Smoke ran out from the cellar where we lay her out, dowsed in lighter fluid. The smoke ran quicker then orange flames followed their companions up the walls and the interior.
+++++It was an old building so the occupants, didn’t have smoke alarms fitted.
+++++“Wait a while,” Sam said, half singing to a tune in his head.
+++++“The people – there are people up there.”
+++++“Wait for the cries,” he said. “It’s music.”
+++++Very soon, one cry erupted and this infected the others. The hive of occupants were calling out and screaming.
+++++“Only one exit. That’s a breach of Health & Safety.” Sam said.
+++++The night became a heaving ball of heat, its core the building. It pulsed and spat with the fat of its occupants that roasted like cockroaches in their homes.
+++++We walked away from the inferno amid the guttural howls choked with smoke and pain.
+++++“Remember to give your wife and children a kiss goodnight. Tomorrow you go solo.” Sam left me as the blue splashes of light came to play on the horizon.
+++++The night whirled as I ran home. Stars that judged me, the moon chastised as they brought an uncanny fulgent light to my world.

Lose lose.

by Pete Sortwell

Waiting outside the court there’s been nothing on my mind more than letting the scumbag get the comeuppance he deserves. If the great British justice system can’t serve justice, I will.

I’d been inside, of course. A two year suspended sentence he’d been given. That basically means he doesn’t go to prison at all for what he did. A day in court, a couple of hours in the cells, and he’s deemed to have paid his debt to society. Well, he hasn’t paid his debt to my dead wife and baby yet.

This country does nothing for the victims of crime. He chose to get behind the wheel of his motor after six pints, he chose to drive it down the high street at sixty miles an hour. No one, least of all my loved ones, chose to have a red Fiesta drive over them causing horrific injuries.

Getting the call was one of the worse moments of my life. I can’t remember putting the phone down or leaving the office. I remember getting to the scene to find the emergency services lifting the car off of my wife. There was blood everywhere. My daughter was found in someone’s garden, she died from head injuries. My wife was in such a bad state, almost cut in half. It would have been a painful death. That’s what this cunt will be getting, too. Peter Andrews, a Lawyer, no less. No wonder they let him off. The Judge said he’d have to suffer for the rest of his life, I don’t suppose he knew how short that would be.

I’d had the conversations with my parents, of course, they’d begged me not to do it and waste another life. I, of course, agreed not to, but in the back of our minds I think we all knew I was lying. Killing this guy is the only way I will die anything close to happy.

He comes out, all smiles and relief. His family in tow. This just makes me all the more angry. How dare he? I wasn’t going to do it in front of his kids, but I couldn’t help it. I ran over from the bench I’d been waiting on. I still remember the look on his face as the broken bottle I was holding came towards his face. It was a look of shock. The impact isn’t what I expected, it’s firmer; I expect the bottle to break up more, but it doesn’t, it just goes deep into his face. The plan had been to pull it out, but it seems like it’ll hurt more if I leave it in. I pull the knife out my belt and go to work on the vital organ areas with that. There’s screaming and at one point a woman jumped on my back, but she was light enough to throw off.

The police came, of course. I knew they would. Cells, court, his kids and wife looking at me, prison, Mum crying, and then numb. Killing him was easy.

It’s living with it that’s hard.

Neon Lights

by Julie Morrigan

I don’t have a guardian angel. I know they’re fashionable right now, but I just don’t have one. Not that I lack guidance. I have clear, direct and divine guidance. It tells me what to do in every situation. It comes in the form of a neon sign.

I remember the first time I saw it. I’d just shared a joint with Bullshit Billy when I looked at him and I saw the sign flicker into life, just behind his right shoulder.

‘What the fuck …?’ I said.

‘What?’ Billy asked.

‘Do you see that? Behind you, that sign?’

Billy turned and looked for a long time. ‘Nothing there, man,’ he said.

That’s when I knew it was just for me. There was no way you could miss it flaring and sparking, shining bright in hot-pink gassy glory. If Billy couldn’t see it, he was either blind or unworthy. I figured it was the latter.

Here’s what the sign said: Billy has an eighth of dope in his inside pocket.

‘Have you got any blow?’ I asked him, since we’d just smoked the last of mine.

Billy shook his head slowly. ‘Clean out,’ he said. The sign flared.

‘You sure?’ I said, and he nodded.

I jumped him and got my hand in his inside jacket pocket. ‘Liar,’ I said, then I lamped him and took his stash. Turned out he had a half a dozen Valium as well as the dope, so I scored big time. And next time I saw the sign, I didn’t question it.

That happened just over a week later. I was on my way to sign on, skint and bored, fed up with the crap system in this country that keeps those of us who don’t work on the breadline. Not only that, a system that tries to take jobs away from people who badly want them and force them on others who don’t. The way I see it, I’m doing people a favour by staying on the dole. Jobs are hard to come by, so I made a conscious, unselfish decision to leave mine for someone who’d appreciate it.

They should pay me double for that.

As I walked up to the counter, I saw a sign, lime green this time, behind the lad’s head: He doesn’t need the iPod, it said. Which was cool, because I reckoned I could use one.

It was half past three, so I went for a pint then stood at the bus stop opposite and had a smoke while I waited for him to finish. Sure enough, just after five, out he trots, fiddling with the iPod, sticking the buds in his ears. I fell in behind him and followed him round the block to his bus stop, getting on the bus behind him, then sitting a couple of seats back. When he stood up to get off, I waited until the last minute then walked fast down the aisle and got off as well. That still kept me behind him, unnoticed.

I didn’t have long to get him. I wasn’t sure how far from his front door he was, but I wanted him down before we got there. Then he did me a massive favour: he took a shortcut along a narrow passageway. It ran between two houses with high fences, so once you got a way in it was sheltered and dark. That’s where I jumped him. He still had the earbuds in, the volume turned up, so it wasn’t hard to catch him off guard. I kicked him in the back of the knee then pushed him forward. He was flat out, face down, confused, and I grabbed his hair and bashed his forehead off the pavement. That sorted him out and I nabbed the iPod then went through his pockets. I got about twenty-five quid in cash, a bank card and a credit card.

I did really well out of chummy from the Job Centre, spent his money and got a good price for his stuff.

I didn’t see the sign again for weeks and when I did, I was in the middle of a rare good deed.

I was walking back into town from my folks’ house when I saw this old dear struggling with her shopping bags. I decided to do my bit, so I went to help her. She rattled on about having a bad wrist while I picked up her bags for her. They weighed nothing, she must have been in a right state. Anyway, I carried them to her front door and she asked me if I’d take them inside for her and put them in the kitchen. While I was waiting for her to get the key in the latch, I saw the sign again. Turquoise this time. She keeps her money in the airing cupboard, it said.

‘Where’s your airing cupboard?’ I asked her as I put her bags down on the kitchen benches.

‘Why do you want to know that?’ she asked me.

‘I just want to take a look at it. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do mind.’ The smile had vanished and her voice had gone wobbly. ‘I want you to leave.’

‘That’s not much of a thank you, is it? I thought the older generation were always polite.’

She scrabbled in her bag and got her purse. Her hands were shaking so much that she dropped it. She let it lie on the floor and took a step back. ‘Take it,’ she said. ‘Just take it and go.’ Her face had gone a funny colour.

I kicked the purse away from her before I bent down to pick it up. Didn’t want her banging me on the bonce with a frying pan. ‘Thanks,’ I said as I pocketed the cash it held then put the purse back in her bag, ‘I will. But I’m still going in the airing cupboard. I think you’ve got something there that I want.’ I headed back towards the front door and went up the stairs. Sure enough, there’s the airing cupboard on the landing. I rummaged around and found what I was looking for: bundles of notes tucked in amongst the folded towels and sheets.

When I went back downstairs I saw the old dear was lying on the kitchen floor. I went closer. She was clutching at her chest. ‘Help me,’ she wheezed. ‘Call an ambulance.’

I stared at her.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Help me.’

But I didn’t. I just walked out of there with my pockets full of her money and took it home and hid it. And she croaked.

Turned out the old bird was Bullshit Billy’s granny. I’d been seen taking her bags in for her, but that meant nothing; I was just doing a good turn. People might have had their suspicions, but they had no proof, and there wasn’t a mark on the old dear. I might have got away with it if her money hadn’t burned a hole in my pocket. I was minted. I’d never had that much cash in my life. I went on a spending spree. I might as well have had a neon sign above my head that said: Guilty. Billy being a mate, he saw my new stuff. And while he wasn’t a problem, his dad was.

Billy’s dad is as hard as fucking nails, that’s one of the reasons his boy was such a soft shite, he’d been a punchbag all his life. And I’d just killed his mam.

When Billy’s dad came for me, I was bricking it. He pushed his way into the flat and decked me with a single punch. I looked up at him and he was wrapping a chain round his fist. And a big, bold, bright red neon sign above his head said: You’re fucked.

Skating On Thin Ice

by Darren Sant

The puck skittered past Kelvin and he flew from his feet and went clattering into the sidings for about the tenth time that afternoon. The body check from the opposing defender had sent him sprawling. Marchant sneered at him and mouthed “wanker” to Kelvin as he climbed painfully back to his feet. Defenders like Marchant always left you black and blue after a game. Kelvin had scored no goals but had managed two assists so far during the game. The rivalry between the Kelvin’s team the Dynamos and Marchant’s the Eagles was strong and violence was both expected and inevitable.

Kelvin skated back into play for the second period and soon found he was once more in possession. He flipped the ball to Jones in an excellent breaking pass. Marchant slid alongside him and butt-ended him with his hockey stick. He managed to remain totally unseen by the referee and Kelvin crumpled to the ice like a rag doll that had been savaged by a Rottweiler. He lay on the ice coughing and spluttering. Marchant winked down at Kelvin who ground his teeth in suppressed rage.

The action was hotting up and the Dynamos were looking tasty as they gained the majority of the possession. Kelvin accelerated down the centre of the rink dodging players left and right. He approached the goal and was suddenly floored by an elbow. He landed with a bone crunching painful thud comically on his arse. Marchant who was clearly playing the role of enforcer skated away to try and avoid a penalty from the referee. Again he managed to get away Scott free.

In the final period Kelvin was involved in a scramble for the puck. In the melee Kelvin slashed a shot and the puck flew into the net. A sharp pain to his calf and he went down again with Marchant standing over him smiling a look of comical innocence on his face. Again his contact went unpunished. The final buzzer went and it was game over. Kelvin’s goal did little to soothe the pain of a humiliating defeat for the Dynamos. Marchant patted Kelvin on the back. “Try to stay on your feet next time Bambi.” he sneered. Kelvin gave Marchant a strange little smile and wandered off to the dressing room without uttering a word.

* * *

“We awake today to some shocking news of a huge pile up on the motorway. Dozens injured and the air ambulance has attended the scene. At least five are feared dead at this time. In other news Ice Hockey player Stephen Marchant has been found brutally murdered on waste ground near his home. A dog walker found his body in the early hours of this morning. Police have released a statement saying that the body has been formally identified and they confirm that they are treating it as murder. Marchant is believed to have multiple lacerations on his skull from some kind of sharp blade. Unconfirmed reports state that he had a hockey puck wedged inside his mouth. Police are appealing for anyone with information to come forward. They advise that it will be treated in the strictest confidence. Marchant’s team the Eagles beat local team last night in a humiliating defeat.”

Kelvin changed the station and went back to the sink where he continued scrubbing the blades of his skates. He whistled cheerfully as they came up shiny and good as new. He poured the crimson water down the plughole, dried his hands, and went off to cook breakfast.

This Has Been Done Before

by Chris Rhatigan

His classmates would go on to The Wharton School or Tisch School of the Arts. Do what was expected of them. Marry early, have kids, acquire wealth or behave well enough to inherit it.

Not him. He was destined for greater things.

Like Jenny Oglethorpe.

One evening he hid in the bushes along the trail where she ran every day, syringe of Seconal in his hand. He dragged her to his basement while his parents were away in Nantucket.

Jenny and him, they had a magical weekend together.

He was in complete control. He created with a virility he never knew before. Felt it in his bones and in her screams.

The next week, he told his father that instead of going to college, he wanted to study landscape painting. Father, of course, didn’t think much of his youngest son, who never took to athletics and seemed to be a bit of a sniffling loner.

So he bought his son a cottage out in the country. Plenty of land and no neighbors for miles.

There, with great patience and stunning talent, the artist honed his craft.

He had a type. He didn’t even notice at first. Blonde. Late teens. Jogger. Lean. Small breasts. Ambitious. Conscientious. These girls would have gone into environmental law or non-profit management if given the chance.

Like Jenny Oglethorpe.

Because he was a painter, he had an exquisite signature on every one of his works. He initialed each of his girls on the right pelvic bone with a curly-cue flourish at the end of the H. He kept photo albums of every one of his subjects, and the last photo was always a close up of his initials. This gave him immense satisfaction.

Of course, he out-foxed the stupid police, who hounded him every once in a while. He even liked to play little games with them. Hints imbued with Turner and Pissaro that they couldn’t possibly understand.

But one night, as he dined on Karen Mulberry’s delectable calf muscle and sipped Chianti, he came to a crippling realization.

He was a stereotype.

And an awful stereotype at that. One so formulaic it could have sprung from the Mac Book of the laziest Hollywood hack. A stereotype worthy of CSI or Criminal Minds.

The classic “type” he preferred. His signature. The cannibalism. Teasing the cops. Even who he was – the bored son of an absent, wealthy father – all of it was so mundane.

So on track.

He ran from his classmates, but he was just like them.

He scraped the rest of Karen off the plate into the trash. Drank straight from the bottle of Chianti.

What to do, what to do… He had followed the track TV and movies supplied him with for so long, how could he possibly break free from it?

He considered elaborate and absurd ways to satisfy his lust for violence. He could do a public service and rid the world of other serial killers!

No, wait, that’s Dexter.

He could make pies, fill them with the remains of his victims, sell them to the unsuspecting public!

No, wait, that’s Sweeney Todd.

He thought intensely about this for hours, until he discovered what he had to do. The one thing serial killers never did.

Commit suicide.

Not in a dramatic way or to escape a more severe punishment. Just suddenly and without reason, he would cede all control. Serial killers never did that. After all, he loved being in control.

Now how to go about it… Jump off a building? Take a bunch of pills? Put a shotgun in his mouth?

Ugh, what a bunch of clichés.

Well, he had all the time in the world to think about how he would do it.

In the meantime, he had noticed a girl at the general store the other day. Blonde. Late teens. Lean. Small breasts.

Bet she jogged, too.

Silk

by AJ Hayes

I like silk for the job though some say piano
wire works better. Makes the blood come faster.
I suppose they have a point if you're talking
mere employment and efficiency. The blind
squawks of accountants cawing like magpies.

Silk though, is elegant. Smoothly, silently,
sending the subtle vibrations of the last
gasp, the bleak knowledge that this is the instant
you have feared the most made terribly real.
Silk lets me feel those thoughts in my fingertips.

That's why I chose the silk for you my darling.
I let your lover taste the steel. That fat pig with
wealth slobbering down his jowls like grease
made only the weakest of whimpers when
I made his millions irrelevant.

Your heels have stopped their rattling dance.
Your lungs have filled with blood and burst
Your eyes see only the longitudes of infinity.
I do not know what eternity holds for those
who kill the soul nor do I care.

I'll bury you and your piggy boy and the photos
the small brown man I hired brought me, down
there with you both. I'll plant the tree I bought you too.
And in the spring, when the tree bears its multitudes of
silken fruit, I'll eat them all and taste your blood.

Bloodbath at the Perfume Factory

by Richard Godwin

Rosemary of the soft skin had been acquired by Ronald Noble as his latest accessory.

She had wild blue eyes that had been switched off by the drugs and she liked to cover her skin in the oils sent from the exclusive perfume makers of France.

She had accounts with them all and knew the combination still used from the originators from Grasse.

Now one Sunday, away from the sweaty advances of her husband, she dipped her body in the hot water of her bath and read about the US economy.

The book she held in her hand was called ‘Pissing It Up The Wall’ and she already loved the first paragraph.

She enjoyed the sensation of hot water lapping around her body as she digested the economic jargon and felt herself sliding into a tidal world of politics and manoeuvres.

Beneath the fiscal pomp she sensed a darker glory, a codification of need based on the control of dependence engendered by the economic relation between the pharmaceutical companies and the politicians.

And as she sipped her wine she sensed a way to crack her husband’s hollow skull.

She read about the waste incurred by the government, its statistical lies and obfuscations, its declaration of foreign support based on nothing more than reinvestment in its own economy and she began to feel hot.

Outside the window cleaner leaned on his ladder, a twisted allegory of pain.

He was the hanging man of her dreams, the one she could sup from.

And within that dark and bleeding moment she thought she was haemorrhaging on knowledge borne from the cup of sinful knowing.

That she had transgressed some hidden law and she felt the water had turned dark and she was bathing in blood.

The window cleaner leaned to watch the flesh on offer and his ladder slipped.

He reached out a hand and caught hold of an electrical cable plunging Rosemary into darkness.

He hung from the wire and managed to fall softly into a tree from which he made his escape with the cash he had earned.

Rosemary reached for her handbag, fumbling for her torch.

But there was no light in this economic blackness and she dropped a wad of cash into the bath.

The moon broke through some clouds and sent a distant ray of light into her steaming bathroom and as she stood and reached for the cash it seemed to her she was pulling the notes out of blood, each dollar dripping with blood and strangely erotic by the light of the moon.

And she realised as she stood there that the economy was nothing more than that and she knew all she needed to know.

Downstairs she found the trip switch and lit the house.

Then she poured some wine and returned to her bedroom to dress.

She went into the bathroom and watched the steam swirl in the air and it seemed to her like the vaporous economy she inhabited.

She pulled the plug and watched the red water disappear down the pink drain and she knew the menstruating economy was another shell.

She made a salad Nicoise and waited for her husband to return home.

As she handed him his plate she said ‘I’m thinking of starting up a bank.’

Cycle

by Joe Agnello

It had been years since I last seen Matthew. At least in person. I remember all the things he did to me, trying to 'educate' me into his ways. And it had worked, God help me, it worked. I try to tell myself these days that it wasn’t me. I wasn’t in control; that it was some kind of mix of Stockholm’s and mind control. But it was me. The bodies, the blood. All mine.

Sure I was cured now. The doctors are telling me that they are able to undo whatever sick methods Matthew had programmed into me. I guess so. I mean, I haven’t taken up the “tools of the trade,” as he used to call them, since he was put down. But I still go through the steps in my head every time I see a subject, no, wait, Victims. That’s what the doctors said. They were victims. It was Matthew who viewed them as objects. But I know they are people. They were people. Victims. All mine.

My head is hurting. Like it did back then. Matthew tried to explain that to me. He said it was part of the process. The ‘knowledge’ being imparted to me. But I know what it was. It was my own shame and disgust turning into pain. Some kind of subconscious penance on my part, I suppose. Even when he had fully indoctrinated me to the way, some part of me still knew that it was wrong. On the other hand, the doctors say that they are uncertain as to whether they can fully restore my humanity, that there may be part of my mind that wouldn’t accept that what I was doing was horrible. It feels exactly like it did back then. Kind of hot and bright. The penance of pain. All mine.

I have to sit down. I move a couple of thing off the chair and sit. Hmm a little wet still. I’ll have to clean up. Matthew. His methods, his tools. Completely wrong. He didn’t understand. Not like I do now. By removing himself from the process, he denied himself the true purpose. The doctors are right. These are not subjects. They are victims. Being able to extinguish the human life as I do now. That is the true power, the true knowledge. Yes, victims. All mine.

Arnold the Awful Roomate

by Matthew J. Swanson

I used to have this roommate, Arnold, and he was a bit of a fuck-face. In fact, he was obnoxious and screwed up to the point where he was intolerable. He intentionally did things to make those around him uncomfortable, he had a warped, just mean sense of humor, and, yeah, he pretty much was a fucker in every way – no nicer way to put it. There were only a few months left on the lease when this whole ordeal happened, and I was just counting down the days until I could cut this guy out of the script of my crap life. If only I had picked the other applicant on Craig’s List for a roomy. I mean, the guy had a thick Asian Indian accent, but I’m sure he was a nice enough guy and would have paid his rent on time and shit. Anyway, I picked this butthole because he seemed funny when I showed him around, and here I am.

So, one day I’m watching something on ESPN with this guy, and out of the clear blue sky he says to me:

“You know, it wouldn’t be that hard to get away with killing someone. Now, I don’t mean someone you know because then they’d bust you. I mean someone completely random, maybe in a location nowhere near your house, someone alone.”

This is type of shit he would say all the time, honestly. And he went on.

“These serial killers, they get carried away, killing over-and-over, but if any of them had stopped at one or two murders, I guarantee guys life Jeffrey Dahmer could be living next to you right now, maybe occasionally taking some body parts out of his fridge and heating them up for supper for old time’s sake.”

At first it seemed like one of his usual idiotic theories, but as he went on talking about it, I could see the wheels turning; He really seemed to be formulating a plan, the sick fucker.

“Also, these guys get all nutty with their killing, picking the same types of people, having calling-cards and trademarks because in reality, they want to get caught. If I didn’t want to get caught, which I don’t because jail seems downright shitty, I’d just bump off some totally random person, maybe by clubbing them to death with a wrench or something in the middle of the night with no one around, and then get rid of the wrench, leaving no fingerprints anywhere. Guns make too much noise, and plus those shell casings end up everywhere, and guys always seem to get busted that way on that reality show on cable where they track down the murderers.”

I think he probably could have continued like this for hours, as he loved to hear himself talk, but I told him what a psycho I always thought he was and excused myself. A couple nights later, on a Saturday, I came home blind drunk to find him sitting with his stupid slippers kicked up on the ottoman, watching the local news. We talked for a while, and I couldn’t tell you just what in the hell was said for the first half hour or so because I was completely schnockered, but I do remember him looking me dead in the face and saying:

“You see this girl they’re talking about who got beat to death in Bucktown? And remember how I said how easy it would be to get away with something like that? Well, what do you think?”

And he just sat there looking at me with that stupid wry smile of his. Now, I have this thing about violence against women; I just hate it. So, I kind of lost it on him.

“You’re serious right now aren’t you, Arnold? You sick motherfucker! You know this poor girl had a family and dreams and a job and stuff, and you just did this to her to prove a theory of yours? No, you’re going down for this!”

He just sat there smiling, which pissed me off even more, so I stood up and got in his face, standing over him.

“There is no way you’re getting away with this, asshole.”

Then I grabbed him, and pulled him down to the floor, and this is when things got really hazy. I remember at first it was just sort of a wrestling match, but then punches were exchanged, and I don’t remember who started with that, but I do remember smacking his head against our dirty hardwood floor many, many times, rolling over, and falling asleep. The next day when I woke up, we were both lying on the floor, I was pretty banged up, but he looked a lot worse. His head was resting in a pool of blood. His blood. He was fucking dead. Dead!

I would later learn that Chicago police detained and convicted the man who beat that poor girl to death. Arnold was just playing one of his sick jokes on me that night. Why didn’t he let up? He knows I have a thing about people hurting women, and he knows I was piss drunk. But you know, if I didn’t kill that prick, someone else would have. People like that kind of need to die. If it is God’s plan for me to spend the rest of my life in jail for killing someone, I’m glad it was that guy that I killed because he really was a jerk, a little evil, and an awful roommate. He really was.

Good Morning

by Brad Burjan

Eddie got dressed and loaded his gun at the foot of the bed, like he always on days like these. He wasn’t looking forward to this one. His head was pounding. It couldn’t of been the booze last night, he thought to himself. He only had a few drink with his boss and some of the guys. He knew what it was. He got these headaches on assignments like these, which were very few. He tried to remember the name who the last assignment was, that he liked. He couldn’t remember.

Hell, he liked his target that he was going to meet today. He went to highshool with him, and was even at the guys wedding. But a job’s a job.

As he was loading a few bullets to the chamber, Eddie thought about the time in high school, when his target slipped a hit of LSD in Mr. Shirley’s coffee. Eddie chuckled to himself.

Walking downstairs, Eddie could smell his wife at work. This certainly did not help his migraine. She’d been baking cookies since the time he woke up. He hated the smell of her cookies, day in and day out, especially around the holidays. And well, it was only six more days till Christmas. Cookies being baked for her customers, and cookies being baked for the family. Plus, like everyone else, she was always stressed this time of year. Eddie was even stressed about his job for the day.

For the past 20 years, the smell of his wife’s cookies made him nauseous. Not really one for sweets, yet, he’d oblige his wife’s wishes, and always taste one, when she offered him, every morning. This morning, Eddie just wouldn’t be able to eat one.

Eddie pulled a coffee mug from the kitchen cabinet, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Here Eddie, try one of these.” She slipped a peanut butter cookie into his hand, and went back to the mixing bowl.

“I’m not hungry.” Eddie mumbled.

“Ohh, come on Eddie. I want to know what you think. I varied the recipe just a bit.”

“No. I said I wasn’t hungry.” His voiced raised.

His wife stopped mixing for just a moment. Stared all the way through the batter, into the bottom of the bowel, then she continued.

“What’s wrong, Eddie.”

“Nothing.”

Eddie poured some milk in his coffee and took a careful sip. He watched his wife crush some peanuts, with the flat side a chef’s knife. He could tell she was stressed just by the way she was gripping her tool. He couldn’t finish his coffee, the chaos that his wife was making in the kitchen was just too much for him, not today.

“Try this Eddie, please.”

“NO.” he shouted. “Can’t you goddamn take the hint, I don’t want your cookies, I’ve never liked your cookies.” He couldn’t contain himself, not anymore. No going back now, he thought to himself.

“For the past 20 goddamn years, I’ve had more cookies, than fucking Santa Claus.” He let loose. “No more. Not now. Not ever.” His wife crushed the last peanut and turned to face him.

“You’ve been lying to me all these years?” She said calmly.

“YES.”

The next thing Eddies wife knew, was that Eddie was sprawled motionless on the white linoleum floor, with blood all over his face. She was amazed just how deep a chef’s knife could be pushed into her husbands eye. The oven timer went off.

Quantified Margins

by Aleathia Drehmer

“You are impossible,” Pablo shouted at her, “utterly impossible to work with!”

He stormed off to the other side of the studio, paint running down his arm, brush still wet and gripped in his palm. Pablo was so easily incensed by Kayla and her lack of commitment to his work. She never seemed to grasp the importance of composition, or how not holding a pose disrupted his flow and vision.

“Don’t be so uptight Pablo, can’t a woman breathe anymore?” Kayla questioned with eager grin spreading across her face, “if you don’t like working with me, why do you keep hiring me?”

Kayla thought this was a valid question, but she knew the answer without Pablo’s reply. She knew he liked the line of her collarbone and the way her breasts cast shadows on her stomach. He liked the shape of her lips and how they parted when she breathed, and how her near black eyes always appeared to be in a state of perpetual half-sleep. She waited for him to answer anyway.

Pablo stood by the large window watching the sun set fire to the hills and knew with each moment he was losing his favorite light. He wanted to paint her mouth shut and not have to listen to the thrill in her voice that signaled defeat, nor the knowing lilt that stated the quantified margins of their relationship. He understood his addiction to her body could not be overcome, that the paint flowed heavily and often in her presence.

“Woman, why must you incite me to answer what you already know? I will not grace you with the opportunity to feel superior!” Pablo said through his teeth as he touched the sun through the dusty pane of glass.

The studio faded. The room began shrinking as the corners were lost to shadow; the furniture and Kayla were swallowed and all that remained were faint outlines rimmed in burnt orange and decaying love. They faded until Pablo could hear nothing but her even breathing, the pounding of his own heart, and paint dripping onto the warped wooden floor. He knew this would be her last sitting.

Pablo shifted in his seat as the detective questioned him again about the young, naked woman lying lifeless in his studio. There was shock on his face as he stared at the canvas marred with blood and oils. He was lost in its beauty, and in the tranquility he felt that it was now over.

“Pablo Crane…hey….buddy, I am talking to you….”

Pablo turned his head from the masterpiece slowly, “Oh yes, where was I?

Delsano

by Lynn Alexander

She was a dead woman now, stripped of any potential for speech or communication, hearing nothing, saying nothing, silent-brained and still. Whatever was in her head was stuck in an eternal freeze-frame, or else looping, unless it had left her entirely, death’s second, the moment of flatline the subject of scientific speculation but remaining largely misunderstood, as far as he knew. Who knew where her thoughts went? Who knew where they went in ordinary moments, in moments unrelated to a death, who knew where anything went in the brain or when it left.
There was nothing to her muscles, she was crumpled along her slumped spine. Her sweaty face now dried, she looked canine, her large nose pointing outward like a sniffing snout.
It was pointing west, in the direction of Delsano, a town of approximately eleven hundred people, one of which was a lifeguard at the community pool and who regularly tested the water using a set of small tubes and a chemical kit. He kept it very chlorinated.
The last day that this woman had been in the water of the community pool, her skin smelled like chlorine for hours, and when she tasted her own wrist at a stop sign, a young Delsano boy saw her through the window of the car. He was scratching at some dirt with a stick.
He looked up and there she was, lapping away like a cat.
He was writing the letter “x” in the dirt, which marked the spot for imaginary treasure, which was forgotten when he saw the woman licking her wrist through the window, treasure, these new secrets- secrets, the strange things adults did, he wanted more of them. He wanted different things than what he wanted the day before.
That night the moon was obscured, clouds moved in, and a young boy in Delsano frightened his mother by licking her skin in the night, crawling along the floor next to her bed until he came to her wrist, taut then fallen at a dangle at the hand which was open, the fingers pointing down in the direction of a small village on the other side of the world where a man was writing a return address on an envelope.
In the envelope: a request for a catalog, the company sold products that had to do with cooking, products that were silicone and brightly colored –unnecessarily.
The man was very optimistic about the use of silicone, he once thought it could be used to make hair curlers, soft gel-filled silicone rods that would yield a nice wave with enough variation to look natural, unset.
The woman died in an industrial scene, having never been licked clean.
He left her there, by the hum of the machines, where unseen blowers sloughed heat from hidden parts, their smell of dead electric, the excretions of secret machinations, secret gears, hot and proprietary.
Her curls stayed in place, in her intended ways, springs contrived, sprayed, in the shapes she made them, spiral shapes forged by metal cylinders, not silicone.

Caught in the act

by Stephen Westbrook

John was flying down the dark, empty highway at a good twenty miles per hour over the speed limit. He was exhausted from the 300 mile drive, and his limbs, especially his right foot, were gaining weight by the minute. What kept him awake more than anything was the indicator light meant to let him know that his brights were on, but which was bright enough to distract him and keep him annoyed.

His phone rang, the ringtone resembling the sort of musical horn you hear from a Texas stretch limo sporting giant bull-horns on its hood. His wife did it. He fumbled for his phone under some notebooks on the passenger seat, checked the caller ID and took the call without pulling over.

"Hey Rick, how's it going?" He greeted.

"Eh, I'm alright. How does a company this big not spring for a plane ticket for you? Ready for this BS conference?" Rick answered, with an undertone of frustration.

"Its all good man. You sure you're alright? You sound pretty pissed." John questioned.

"Well, I'm fucking fantastic except for I'm pretty sure my wife is sleeping around on me." Rick fired off.

There was a moment of silence, then John responded, "Damn, I'm sorry man."

"I just wish I could catch them in the act." He said in a darkly flat way.

"Don't know what I would do in that situation." John said, rotating his wedding ring around his finger with his thumb. "I would probably kill the fucker."

Strange silence filled the phone until John decided to interject the awkwardness, "Well man, I'm coming up on the city limits. Hopefully, I can find a room on a late saturday night. We're going to have to get some drinks after the conference, and you're finally going to meet the man that keeps you working after hours with those AQL reports." He joked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah," Rick responded. "Take it easy." Before hanging up abruptly.

John tossed the phone back to the passenger seat and said to himself in aggravation, "I hope he's in a better mood Monday."

Finally reaching Huntston, he was stopped by a red light, and guessed that it was probably the only stop-light in town. He knew the light stopped him just for the fun of it, because there was no other traffic. Looking down the way ahead, he could make out a neon sign that read "Caddilac Motel" with "NO VACANCY" in glowing red underneath. He sighed. The stop-light turned green, and simultaneously, the "NO" flickered off in the sign ahead.

"Convenient." He muttered in an irritated relief, and headed to the motel. As he approached, a small blue car peeled out of the parking lot and sped off.

Check-in went normal, with the exception of the manager telling him three times, "NO refunds, even if you don't stay the whole night."

John got to his room, kicked off his shoes, set the alarm and laid down, still seeing the ghosts of yellow dashed lines behind his closed eyes.

Five hours later, the alarm went off with a horrible buzzing, and John awoke in a groggy state. After remembering where he was and why he was there, he got out of bed, turned on the hot water in the shower and started some complimentary coffee while he waited. When he came back to the bathroom, he was amused by a note the steam revealed on the mirror.

"Lick ya in the morning." He read to himself with a smile. He was thinking about that thought as he took off his shirt when he heard a knock on the door. He froze for a moment, looking at the message. "Nah.. Maid probably." He explained, and headed to the door.

He opened it to find a quite attractive looking woman looking very confused at him. He could tell a smile just fell off her face. She looked at the room number on the door then back at John. "Is Mason here?" She asked.

"I don't know who that is, sorry." He responded.

She looked rejected and replied, "No, I'm sorry." She turned around and left without saying another word.

John went back to the bathroom and while getting undressed, thought about the fun someone decided to miss out on this morning. He had just rinsed the shampoo out of his hair when he heard someone banging on the room door.

"What the hell." He complained as he got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself. "The hot water better last."

There was more banging and he hurried to the door, dripping wet. He opened it and was met immediately by a small, black pistol being shoved in his face by an obviously very angry man.

"Oh shit.." John shouted as the man shoved him back with his free hand and slammed the door shut. John lost his balance while trying to keep his towel up and fell back on the bed.

"Where the fuck is she?!" The man screamed. He looked around the room and noticed the running shower. "I hope it was worth it." Tears began to well up under his eyes.

"Wait! Who? No-ones here. I don't know what you're talking about!" John pleaded as the man cocked the gun and tensed his arm.

The man hesitated. John could tell he didn't believe him, but he still hesitated. He didn't want to shoot him, but he was torn by a jealous rage.

"Just relax man, you don't want to do this." John said, trying to calm him. The man just stared him down. Feeling desperate and confused, the man closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

"Thank God," John thought to himself as the man dialed a number into the phone "he's calling someone to get talked out of it." He could barely hear himself think over the sound of his heart pounding.

The man dialed a number with his violently shaking hand and put the phone to his ear. A quivering silence filled the room for a moment, drowning out the sound of the shower. Suddenly, John's phone burst to life with that crazy, practical joke of a ring tone, and Rick's eyes widened with anger.

Rick released the bullet.

Flat Tire

by Madrea Marie


After the fact, they spun out of the cul de sac, their nostrils filling with the smell of burnt rubber.
"Why the fuck did you do that?" Asked the guy riding shotgun. "Now they'll be marks."
"Simple to fix," Said the wild eyed driver. "You worry too much."
They rode in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.

Mary was late leaving for work. She was exhausted from working overtime yet again. She just wanted to get home to her nice warm bed and her mystery novel. She was traveling down the desolate country rode, wishing she didn't have to drive an hour each way to and from work. It made her long for her bed even more. Suddenly there was a BANG! and tires began to wobble. She pulled off to the side of the road and got out. She walked around the front of the car and sure enough, she had a flat tire. Flat as could be.
"That's strange," She thought. "I just had my front tires replaced. Guess they don't make them like they used to."
She pulled her cell phone out of her purse to call a friend, a tow truck, a cab, whatever, but it had no signal.
"Dammit!" She said out loud. "Of course I had to get a flat in the middle of nowhere where my stupid cell gets no signal! These things are no good when I need them!".
She locked the doors, slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped away from her car. She had hardly taken three steps when a small car, similar in make and model to hers, pulled up beside her.
"Need a ride?" Asked a man with killer blue eyes. Another man sat beside him, with his head lowered, out of her sight. Mary was very nervous. She normally would never accept rides from
strange men, but she was stuck with a flat tire in the middle of nowhere, with no lights anywhere in site. She sighed, crossed her fingers along her spine, and got into the back of the car.
"Where you headed?" The driver asked, his startling blue eyes flashing
in the rear view mirror.
"J-Just the closet convenience store would be fine." She replied softly.
Amazingly enough, she arrived at the next store, unharmed and alive. She thanked the men for giving her a ride and went inside the safety of the little store, where she was able to receive a signal on her cell phone.

The next day Mary and a friend returned to her car with the flat tire. When they pulled up beside the car, Mary immediately felt a sense of wrongness. She hopped out and ran to her car, unlocking the doors and making she her radio and other belongings were intact. They were.
"I thought you said you had a flat tire?" Smirked her friend as she leaned over the left side of the car. Mary walked over beside her. Sure enough, the tire was no longer flat. She bent down closer. Someone had replaced her tire! Very weird. She noticed it wasn't a very new tire, not quite the same as the one she had gotten the flat in, and a bit more worn down. She walked to the right side to compare it with her other tire. It had been replaced as well, with another worn tire, just like the one replacing her flat!
"Both my front tires have been replaced..." She said softly, fearfully.
"Oh, don't sound so freaked out! You just had a good Samaritan come to your rescue, that's all. Come on, hop in and let me follow you back to the main road."
Mary did as her friend suggested, but the feeling of wrongness never left her.

Errands

by Jeffrey S. Callico

Martin walked out of the store and thought of going home but he
didn't. Martin didn't go home, he went somewhere else first.

When he got there people were talking. They weren't talking about him,
they didn't know him, none of them had ever seen him, they didn't know
who he was.

Martin ordered a drink. The drink tasted good so he finished it and
ordered another one. The second drink came and he drank it.

Someone tapped Martin on the shoulder. He turned around. It was a
woman but he didn't know her.

They left the place and went to Martin's house.

When they got there they had drinks but the conversation lagged so they had sex.

The sex was good so they had more sex. Martin and the woman had sex all night.

When the morning came the woman left. Martin thought that would happen
so he fell asleep until he woke up again.

Martin never saw the woman again but that didn't stop him from going
out for drinks and having sex so he went out again.

No one tapped him on the shoulder after his second drink. He got a
third and then a fourth. He drove himself home without incident then
fell asleep.

When he woke up again he went to the store but then as he was leaving
decided he wouldn't go home quite yet.

He went somewhere else.