Baton change by co-editors...

Hi all,
Just to let you all know having returned from my brother's stunning Greek wedding (more on my blog), Matt has gone to the States for Thrillerfest so please send any submissions my way till his return on July 14th. Just off to read the three I've missed and to post those in the pipeline - starting with the one below.
Col

TWO MASKED MEN - by Stephen D. Rogers

Stephen's impressive BIO expands on his TKnC debut...

TWO MASKED MEN

The clerk's head exploded in a spray of blood and brain. So much for hoping he did actually know how to open the safe.

"He was reaching for a gun!" Joey danced on his toes, pumped, still not realizing the import of what he'd done. "I saw his fucking hand move."

"What didn't you understand? You're supposed to stay back and watch. That's the sum total of your involvement."

"I was just trying to help." Even though I couldn't see his features through the mask, I knew I'd hurt his feelings. Joey had killed a man, screwed up a simple convenience store job, but I'd hurt his feelings.

"Let's go." I started for the exit.

"What? We can't go yet. We didn't get the fucking money!"

I held the door open for him, moths swarming in towards the overhead lights. "When a job goes bad, you cut your losses and run."

Joey pawed through a rack of chips until he found what he wanted. "I'm not leaving empty handed."

"Great." At least he still wore the gloves so he wouldn't leave fingerprints. "Your mother will be so proud."

Joey stopped in front of me. "Listen, old man. Just because you lost your fucking nerve, don't take it out on me."

"I'm not the one who opened fire on an unarmed man."

He blinked. And then left.

I let the door swing closed behind me, close with a "hush" as if in deference to the dead man inside.

Joey was too busy stomping to the car to notice, slamming his door, tossing his gun up onto the dashboard with so much anger that I half expected the weapon to go off.

His lack of self-control was an issue. He wouldn't be able to learn anything until he learned that.

Once in the car, I stared off into the darkness as Joey tried to start the car, cursing as he twisted the key again and again. Nothing.

"Damn piece of shit. Now what?"

"We hoof it." I opened my door. "Head west through those trees until we reach the highway."

"Fuck that." Despite his ambivalence regarding my plan, Joey joined me outside. "I didn't come with you to wander around the woods in the middle of the fucking night. You're supposed to be teaching me the business."

"You just learned something about stealing a getaway vehicle. Make sure it's capable of living up to its name."

Joey laughed. "You blaming me because the woman I jacked didn't give me a copy of her maintenance records? Fuck you. Enjoy your nature walk."

"What's your plan of action, Joey? Wait here for a tow?" I waved at the convenience store. "I picked a target set down in the middle of nowhere but someone is going to come along. They couldn't stay in business otherwise."

The car doors clicked locked.

Joey pounded the roof hard enough to leave a dent. "Fucking keys are inside."

"We don't need them." I took a few steps towards the woods to prove my point.

"But my chips are in there. And the gun."

I turned to face him. "Did you wipe it down before I picked you up like I said?"

"Yes."

"You ever touch it when you weren't wearing gloves?"

"No. I'm not stupid."

"Then the gun is fine where it is." I continued walking. "We were going to dump the piece anyway, now that it's a murder weapon."

"We can't--"

Headlights.

"Hold that thought until we're no longer in the open."

Swearing under his breath for once, Joey followed me into the woods, stepping out of the light as the approaching vehicle slowed and pulled into the parking lot.

I split my attention, wondering which was the most dangerous threat. "So, what were you saying?"

The driver stood next to the car and smoked while the female passenger went into the store.

Joey grinned. "That gun isn't exactly untraceable. Mom gave me your old piece. Said it would be perfect, you taking me on my first job, showing me the ropes. She likes to exaggerate your role in my life."

No fingerprints but a ballistic match, a burglar I'd killed in self-defense, walking with a suspended sentence, the weight of what I'd done hanging over me all these years. I never should have let her keep the gun when I split but the neighbourhood had started to slide and she didn't like being alone, just her and baby Joey.

The woman screamed. Came running out of the convenience store before the driver had a chance to rush in and save her. The two of them pouncing on their cell phones.

"Joey, go now." I pushed him. "You were never here."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Just go. Take off into the woods and disappear." I knew better than to suggest he try not to leave a trail, but then it didn't really matter since the cops would know I had a partner once they viewed the surveillance tapes.

"Are you crazy?" Joey tugged on my arm, yanking me deeper into the woods. "We have to get out of here."

I stood my ground. "You have to get out of here. That gun, it places me at the scene.

"So what?"

"Give me your gloves. There was only a single camera inside. Low end. I'll say I pulled the trigger. Stonewall on the driver."

"But--"

"Your gloves, now. Lose your mask in the woods. Accept a lift from the first vehicle not topped by flashing lights."

"I don't--"

"Once you reach someplace crowded, ditch your clothes before you grab another ride. How much money are you carrying?"

"Maybe twenty bucks but I got plastic."

"Here's another hundred. Pay cash."

Sirens, closing. "I'm sorry."

I patted Joey on the back. "Don't worry. I won't give you up."

Not again, anyway. I stepped out of the darkness, my hands in the air.


BIO:
Over five hundred of Stephen's stories and poems have appeared in more than two hundred publications. His website,www.stephendrogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

GRETA AT THE TRACK By Christopher Grant

The return of the dangerous lady...

GRETA AT THE TRACK

Teddy knew the track like it was the back of his hand. He knew when the races started without even looking at the Racing Form. He knew which horses would race better in various conditions just by looking at them. And he knew the quickest way to the window to avoid the crowd and place his bet.

What he didn't know how to do was win. Frequently, he found himself where he was right now: on the phone with a loanshark.

"Charlie," he said into the receiver, "you know I'm good for it. Come on. Yeah, yeah, well, fuck you, too!" He slammed the receiver down and put his hands in his pockets as he walked away from the pay phone. He still had a hundred and eighty or so, enough to place one last bet.

The six in the next race looked good and he let all of it ride on this one horse.

Returning to his seat, he was startled when a tall blonde slid into the chair next to his. She was wearing a white halter dress with a hem that came to rest just above her knees; one was wrapped in an Ace bandage. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail with a white ribbon. She crossed her legs, looked over at Teddy and smiled.

Maybe my luck is changing, Teddy thought.

The bell rang and the horses were out of the gate, with the number six leading the pack. Teddy jumped to his feet and screamed his lungs out. Around the first turn, the six was still leading the pack. Down the backstretch, Six was pulling away from the field, three lengths then five and then seven around the third turn.

"Go, you son of a bitch!" Teddy yelled.

The hundred-eighty that Teddy had put down would pay three-to-one. He'd be back on his feet, just in time for tomorrow's big one. Fuck Charlie and his fucking cash, Teddy would make it on his own.

Coming down the stretch, Six was ahead by ten lengths, then twelve, then sixteen. It was no contest. At the wire, it was a twenty length win for the six. And for Teddy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Teddy turned around, beamed at the blonde, who had never left her feet and appeared bored out of her skull.

"Did you see that?" he asked her. "Twenty goddamn lengths and I rake in at three-to-one."

"Really?" the blonde asked.

"Yep," Teddy said and then excused himself as he rushed off to the pay window.

Ten minutes later, counting his cash, the blonde approached him again.

"Thank you," she said, taking the money from his hands.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" This was insane. Who did this bitch think she was, stealing his hard won earnings?

"Charlie says hello," she said, as she grabbed his right index finger and bent it backward.

"Ow, Christ!" Teddy screamed and bent foward, cradling his hand against his gut. He drew the attention of more than a few in line to place a bet.

"Sshhh," the blonde said, her voice calm and soothing. She took the ribbon from her hair and tied it around Teddy's dislocated finger. "This is a reminder of what you still owe. I'd get that looked at as soon as possible." She patted his shoulder and started to walk away.

"Tell my brother, uh, shit," Teddy said, playing around with his finger, trying to put it back in its socket. "Tell Charlie he'll get it all back."

"Yeah," the blonde said. "That's what they all say."

***

BIO: Christopher Grant is the owner and editor of A Twist Of Noir. His fiction has appeared on the now-defunct DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash, as well as Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive and here at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.

GIRL ABOUT TOWN By Lee Hughes

A new shocker from Lee...

Girl About Town


The night had arrived. The darkness swarmed. Choking and blanketing everything.
If the battery in her MP3 player hadn't died then Jessica would never have heard the footfalls behind her. Not that knowing they were there made any difference. She still ended up dead. All she achieved was to give some sport to the sicko, in the form of a chase. Her friends, they had called her a girl-about-town. The following morning she literally was one. They still hadn't found her head.

A copper looked at the lane they'd been sent to cordon off. Another one stood at his side, "Think it's another rented and dented?"

"No. Don't think so. I think he's just stepped up from offing whores," was the reply.

The man had wanted to get his jollies. Now he was ducking into the back of his chauffer-driven car. At speed, the car dragged itself away into the rain-swept night.

Tobin looked up. The rain pummelled him. Tonight, there was no moon to keep vigil. Just as well. Its silver reach would have hidden the show and smothered its ethereal splendour. To Tobin, the show wasn't a splendorous thing. It was a sickening thing. He only did it for the money.

Tobin looked down from the heavens and to the lane. The blood was gone. It hadn't been washed away by the rain, but by the age of a week. The man had been the first punter that he'd taken to the lane. The window for opportunity was small. Sooner or later the murderer would be caught and the hotspots would cool, soon becoming nothing but normal.

Tobin sat in the chair and drank his way towards the morning. The light that seeped in through the ill-fitting curtains awoke him. The shards of light jabbed at his eyeballs. He turned his head to the side and felt sorry for himself some more.

That lasted for no more than a thrifty minute before there was a thumping at the door. The kind of heavy-handed knock that meant either debt-collectors or the police. He hoped it was the debt-collectors as he had the money for them. Something inside told him it was the latter.

He wasn't wrong. Tobin had a knack for bringing back the moments of someone's murder for the entertainment of others. So being a little precognitive didn't bowl him over with wonder. The pair on his doorstep weren't in blues and twos. These two men were the supposed brains. The taller one asked, "Mr Stanley Tobin?"

"Yeah," admitted Tobin. Though he hated when his name was said like that. That's why he'd reversed it all those years ago. Tobin Stanley sounded a much better name. Stan sounded like a pot-bellied, dart-playing dustman. The shorter of the two asked, "Can we come in?"

"Yeah," said Tobin as he backtracked and nodded with his head.

They both had a sniff of the air, real hound-dogs with warrant cards. Tobin leant up against the wall and asked them, "What're you sniffing for? Drugs, explosives, bits of dead women?"

"What?" asked the Detective named Porter momentarily stunned. As was his colleague Detective Keyes who added a, "Huh?"

Tobin shunted himself off the wall with his shoulders and walked across the room, "I don't drive so it can't be speeding tickets."

"Strange you should jump straight to that conclusion though, Mr Tobin. Perhaps we're just doing a door-to-door," said Porter.

"Nah. I'd have heard next door's Alsatian barking. Goes mental when someone knocks at the door."

"Maybe dogs like us," said Keyes. Tobin shrugged, "Suppose someone has to." That made both detectives’ eyes harden. Tobin could see they were done with playing games. Tobin scratched at his neck, "Look. I'm tired and hung-over. Let's just get on with this and get it done with. Do you want to sit?"

"You can. But, I think we'll stand," said Porter. Tobin shrugged and sat down in the chair he usually slept in.

"Where were you last night?"

"Down Saddle Lane," admitted Tobin.

"On your own?" asked Keyes.

"No. I was giving a tour," said Tobin, no point in lying. Someone that knew him must have spotted him and the client hanging about the place and grassed. Porter made a couple of notes. He looked up, "And who was this man?"

"No idea. He paid me cash."

"So. Let me get this straight then. You gave someone a tour of the place where the murder of that young woman happened and this man paid you for it?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't he just go down to Saddle Lane on his lonesome and save himself some cash? How much did he pay by the way?"

"He'd not have seen anything if he'd just been on his 'lonesome' and he paid me a grand," said Tobin. No point in holding anything back. In for a penny, in for a pound and all of that nonsense. The amount grabbed at their attention more than anything. They instantly looked as though they were in the wrong business. Then the shock passed, well it did for Porter, "Sounds like you’re running one of those charlatan clairvoyance things. Conning people out of their cash."

"It's the real deal," said Tobin as he kept complete eye-contact. Keyes took a turn, "The real deal? You trying to say that you can see the murder? Actually show it to pervs?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," replied Tobin.

"That's sick and twisted!" said Keyes. Porter decided it was his turn, "I have severe doubts about its legitimacy. But at the moment that's neither here, nor there. You see. We trawled Saddle Lane the morning after parts of the murdered woman were discovered. We found a footprint. Everything was recorded and removed. Then we get reports of you and 'Mr A. Nother' poncing about the lane. So, we go back this morning and we notice a rather familiar and very distinctive footprint. Now looking at the size of you. You're a tad bit short for them to be yours. So we think it might just belong to your client. We'd like to know who he his."

"I really don't know," said Tobin.

Keyes said, "I think you're lying, I mean how do people just stumble upon your services?" Tobin shook his head, "Same way if a guy wants to get off watching a nun blow a chimpanzee. There's ways and means."

"So. How'd he make contact?" asked Porter.

"There's a load of people that know about my talents. Anyone of them could have given him my number. He phoned up and said what he wanted. He asked me how much and I told him. Met him there. He paid in cash. I can show you the wedge if you want?"

"So you saw him then?"

"No. He wore a mask."

"I think you're lying."

"I'm not. I've been completely honest with you so far. But, the only way I think I can prove it is to take you there, tonight." Porter looked to Keyes and shrugged, "Think we can spare a few hours?"

Tobin watched the night come in from inside the unmarked car. Seeing as it had barely been mid-morning when he had gave them such an odd offer they had stayed with him to make sure that he didn't get up to any mischief. Tobin hadn't been chuffed with how he had been forced to spend his day. He knew that it was the only way to get the police off his back. Tonight's moon was just the tiniest of slices, its presence, hoped Tobin wouldn't mar what the detectives had waited all day long to see. Porter looked at his watch. The coroner had estimated the time of death at being somewhere about eleven o'clock. Tobin had informed them that it was seven-minutes past to be precise. Keyes yawned and said, "Can't believe we're doing this. I mean, it's like a story from one of those old Pan horror books I used to read as a kid." A smile grew on Porter's face, "I remember those. A friend of mine once half-inched one from Woolworths."

"If you want to watch this we need to get out of the car now," said Tobin, breaking up the reverie. All three of them got out and immediately felt the pinch of the cold night air.

Tobin led them to near the maw of the lane.

"You'll get to see all that you need from here," said Tobin as he waited to feel the wind of events begin. It always began the same. He could feel the undiluted fear. His heart reluctantly taking on the panicked beat of the victim. He could even taste their screams in his mouth. It was at that point that he projected them, made them visual. As the ethereal vision began to mix with the living, breathing plane of existence. He looked at the detectives. He wanted to see the look of realisation upon their faces. The look that showed him that they now knew he was telling the truth. That he was very much innocent. Tobin, he didn't get to see those looks. He saw hungry faces. Keyes grinned, "I couldn't see properly last night from the car."

"I told you it was real and that it was a threat to us," replied Porter.

Keyes withdrew a knife from inside his jacket. Porter did the same.

Tobin backed into the lane, "What the fuck!" were his last words as Porter and Keyes fell about the task of cutting him up and cutting him down. All the while right up until the moment he died Tobin projected the violent murder of Jessica Wilson into the lane. Misery, they say, loves company.

Bio:

Lee Hughes' short fiction has appeared in or is due to appear in the anthology Cern Zoo Nemonymous 9, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, MicroHorror.com, The Daily Tourniquet and Powder Flash Burn. To find out more visit, www.LeeHughesWrites.BlogSpot.Com.

BLEEDING OUT By Eric Beetner

Welcome to Eric Beetner who asks the question about...

BLEEDING OUT

Will knew that somewhere back in the eighth grade his science teacher had told the class how much blood was in the human body but he couldn’t remember the answer right then. He couldn’t recall her name either, just that she had a crazy amount of arm fat that swung violently when she wrote on the chalkboard. Must have been that swinging sack of fat that distracted him from learning how many quarts of blood a body held.

He didn’t have anything to measure it with anyway. Sure was a lot though. More every second. Harlan didn’t look good.

Kris was weaving the car in and out of traffic with much more expertise than he had a right to after only two years of having his license but necessity is the mother of good driving. Will kept both hands on the wound that pumped blood out of Harlan’s chest and onto the tan cloth seats in the back of Kris’ ’92 Escort. Not exactly the car of choice for hardened thieves but as criminals these three were about as hard as oatmeal.

Here, in high-speed retreat from their first job, Will couldn’t believe it could all fall apart so completely so quickly. It made him rethink his entire position on his second amendment rights. That whole argument that he used to buy into that guns don’t kill people, people kill people he knew now was bullshit with a capital B. If they hadn’t gone into that liquor store with a gun, the guy behind the counter wouldn’t have felt as threatened and he wouldn’t have pulled his gun.

Kris had insisted that bringing the gun was an effective tool to get anyone to do what they wanted. It wasn’t loaded and Kris said that made Will’s point moot when he protested that it wasn’t safe. It doesn’t really work, though, when the person you’re pointing the gun at doesn’t know it isn’t loaded. And if you tell them, then the effectiveness of the gun is really lost. The logic of it had eluded them at the time of the planning.

That guy, the one who shot Harlan, was scared shitless. Will could see it the second Kris pulled the piece. Skinny, Indian or Bangladeshi or something, his eyes got wide and watery. He thought for sure he was dead. No way would he have gone that ballistic trying to save two hundred bucks in the till. He moved fast and kind of jittery like watching an old silent movie only the blood that erupted from Harlan’s chest was in technicolor. He must have popped off ten shots in about three seconds. Will and Kris ducked and dove for cover behind a towering display of bargain tequila. Bottles shattered, glass and liquor showered on them. Harlan was hit twice in the chest.

Kris made it through a red light with a nanosecond to spare. Can’t afford a traffic stop now.

“We’re going to the hospital, right? Right?”

It was a continuation of an argument that Will had started with Kris while they were still in the store. After the clerk emptied his gun he ducked down behind the counter to wait for his inevitable death. Kris was trying to wipe tequila from his burning eyes when he began shouting like a marine on the beach at Normandy, “GO! Go! Move it!”

Will was already at Harlan’s side doing triage which wasn’t easy because Harlan was tossing his body across the slick floor like a shark out of water. He kept jumping and leaping as if he could somehow still dodge the bullets now lodged in his chest.When Will first applied pressure to the hole just above Harlan’s left nipple line he brought with it the alcohol burn of the tequila and some shards of broken bottle. It made Harlan arch his back and yelp. Kris was already out the door leaving the two of them behind.

Outside, Kris had been able to open his eyes enough to notice that he was alone. He crouched and made it back to the doorway but stayed outside.

“Come on! Leave him!”

Will was outraged.

“What? Fuck you. Come help me!”

Kris wiped at his eyes again and changed his mind sixteen times in a single second before giving in and going inside to help. The echo of the gun shots had faded and the only sounds were glass crunching under Kris’ feet as he ran to meet them, Harlan’s moans, which were hollow since he couldn’t catch his breath with two bullets in his lungs, and the continued drip of tequila from the busted tower of bottles.From behind the counter came the unmistakable sound of reloading.Will snatched up Harlan’s legs, Kris grabbed him under the armpits and they carried him out slipping on blood and booze as they went.

That was all of ten minutes ago but never in Will’s life had so much been crammed in to so little time.

“The hospital, Kris. Come on.”

“We can’t. They have to report bullet wounds to the cops.”

“He’s dying, man!”

“Let’s just think it through.”

Will gave up on trying to use direct pressure and drilled a finger into each hole in Harlan’s chest. His right index finger plugged the hole just under his left armpit and his left index finger pushed all the way up the the knuckle in the hole on his right side. It seemed to work. It couldn’t have been a good sign that Harlan barely even flinched when he did it. It had to hurt like hell. He looked groggy the way he had so many times before he passed out drunk in high school. The last time was at the graduation party in Harlan’s own basement just three months ago. It was just another excuse to get drunk, not like any of them were going to college. Only a week after they graduated Harlan had noticed that during high school they wanted nothing more than to hook up with older girls from the community college and how instantly after graduation the real thrill was in trying to score with high school chicks. Funny how that works.

So much damn blood. Will’s socks were soggy with it. Kris gnawed on his finger nails as he drove, trying to figure out some other alternative to delivering Harlan right to the steps of the authorities.

“Please man. He’s really dying here.” Kris tried to shut out Will’s pathetic whining. They had all undertaken this together. The possibility of a cluster fuck had always been present. They hadn’t discussed it much but Kris never felt they had to. They were all grown men. They could handle a little hitch in the plan.

“Please, Kris. Take him to a hospital. Please.”

Will was crying now. He didn’t feel like a grown man. He’d never felt like a criminal. He wanted to be back in science class, paying attention, writing it all down. Studying for tests, getting scholarships. He was scared straight. A little too late.The car slowed. They were nowhere near the hospital. Kris had driven them out beyond the town limits onto the road that used to lead to the drive-in before that closed back in 1974. Weeds grew up from either side of the road so high that you couldn’t even see the lights from the semis on the highway.

Will kept his head down, fingers thrust down into his best friend’s chest, weeping for all the bad choices he had made.

Kris gripped the wheel. He had no idea how he was going to explain the blood on the back seat when he brought the car back home. Fuck it, run the car off the road. Torch it. That was Kris’ way.

When they were all twelve they stole a stack of Penthouse magazines from Will’s Dad and spent the afternoon in the woods marveling at the world of sex that awaited them in adulthood. When they returned, Will’s father’s car was in the driveway and the boys panicked.

“Burn them!” Kris said.

Will and Harlan didn’t have any other plan so they let Kris use his zippo that he carried (in his front pocket next to his folding knife, neither of which he had a legitimate use for) and lit the stack on fire. Five minutes later when Will’s Dad came running into the woods to investigate the plume of smoke coming from his back yard the boys were in trouble on multiple counts.

Six years later Harlan and Will were still following Kris into some bad ideas. Will was barely aware that the car had stopped. When Kris slammed the front door it jerked Will out of his crying jag. The door behind Will opened and he nearly tumbled out backwards. Both of his fingers popped out of Harlan’s chest making a sound like a party favor. Blood began to flow unabated.

Kris pushed Will to the floor and reached in to grab Harlan by the ankles. He yanked once and Harlan slid on a wet trail of plasma toward the open door.

“What are you doing?” Will asked.

Kris yanked again and Harlan was out of the car, whacking his head on the door frame on his way to the ground.Will struggled against his slick hands and feet to get footing before he was able to vault himself out of the car onto the cool pavement. The headlights cast bright beams forward, as if there was still something to see ahead of them, leaving everything behind them in darkness like a secret. Like an erased memory.

Kris reset his grip on Harlan’s legs and dragged his body across the road leaving a streak of red that looked black in the night. Harlan groaned but did not protest, he moved but barely in a way you could call alive.

Will was weak. He didn’t rush across the road to stop Kris, didn’t scream at him to halt. He let his shoulders sag and resumed his crying. “Kris, come on. It’s Harlan, man. He’s one of us.”

Kris dragged the body into the high weeds and let him go. He wasn’t particularly well hidden. Where Kris and the body had broken through the weeds was a huge divot in the line of tall grass like a missing tooth. For a road that no one traveled on, it was good enough.

Kris didn’t look back as he returned to the car. Will crossed the road and sank into the weeds next to Harlan. The matted grass held his body up off the ground. The long stalks under Harlan had started to absorb the last few ounces of blood, turning the stalks from light to dark as if the ground was drinking him from a straw.

Will heard the door slam as Kris got back inside. The engine idled.

Unseen, the steady stream of 18-wheelers rushed by on the highway like the tide going out.

Will heard the muffled scream of Kris letting out his anger and his fear in a primal scream. The confines of the car trapped most of the sound but what escaped cut through Will. The engine revved into the red but the car did not move. Kris took his foot off the gas and the car returned to idle.The window rolled down.

“Let’s go, man.”

“I’m staying.”

The left headlight flickered and died. A single beam cut into the dark and lit the road ahead showing the curve of the pavement leading to the unknown.Will put his hands on Harlan’s chest. Not to stop the bleeding but just to know when he breathed his last. The Escort’s engine dropped into gear and Kris spat up gravel from the shoulder as he drove away.

Six quarts, Will remembered. The body holds six quarts. Not enough.
______________________

Bio: Eric Beetner's fiction has appeared in A Twist of Noir, Pulp Pusher, Thuglit, Crooked, Darkest Before Dawn and Powder Burn Flash as well as in podcast form on crimewav.com Eric's debut novel 'One Too Many Blows To The Head' (co-written with JB Kohl) will be out later this year. For more info check out ericbeetner.blogspot.com

DEVIL GONE MISSING by John Wiswell

Flash fiction is always welcome, and so are new contributors. TKnC welcomes John Wiswell to the fold...

Devil Gone Missing

Pat shot out of his chair when Conner finally came home. The boy’s clothes were crusted in brown grime and he was breathing with heavy excitement.

“Where you been, boy? Gone for four days without a word!” Pat said, pulling him inside. Conner followed his old man’s lead to the kitchen with such a smile that Pat could barely bear it.

“You look devastated. Like you found Jesus.”

“Is he missing, too?” The boy sucked in air in little bursts, like reverse laughter. “I just spent days finding the devil. You’d have been so proud, Pat.”

He reversed-laughed some more and bent towards the sink. When the water ran over his hands the brown turned a little red and circled the drain. Pat’s eyes widened at the change of color.

“You did what, boy?”

Conner beamed at him from over his shoulder, scrubbing his hands with lava soap. “Finally cornered him at the dump. His tail stuck in an old box spring, and he’d dropped his pitchfork.”

“Boy?” Pat moved nearer to the door. “Boy, what did you do?”

Smoke began to rise from the sink.

***

Bio: John will write anything once. His blog, www.johnwiswell.blogspot.com, features monologues, vignettes, character sketches, list fiction, straight dialogue and other forms of brief prose spanning humor, Horror, History, science, Fantasy, and all corners of the absurd.

Message from the co-editor...

Hi folks,

I'm off on my jollies to Rhodes for my brother's wedding so please send any submissions to Matt for the next week.

If any members of the criminal fraternity are reading this and have any bright ideas re' paying my house a visit while I'm away, then don't forget to feed my cousin's Rottweilers and say thanks to him for house-sitting (some of my stories are based on him so beware!).

Hope to read some more crackers on my return!

Col

GRETA - by Christopher Grant

A warm TKnC welcome to Chris Grant, the editor of top ezine, A Twist Of Noir...

GRETA

Her name was Greta, six feet, two inches tall, a blonde viking that looked more like a movie star than a marauding barbarian, with soft, pillowy breasts and an ass that looked great in either jeans or a miniskirt.

The thing about Greta was, she was a loanshark's muscle. And why wouldn't she be? Tits and ass and the possibility that you could charm the pants off her and get a little something in exchange for not paying up this time. It was something that her employer, Charlie, thought absolutely genius. He often patted himself on the back for thinking to hire her.

Greta wasn't like that, of course. She was complete and total business and Charlie's best earner. But there was no reason she had to discourage the myth.

Her latest job was a weasel of a man called Abe. All of five feet tall, he would have humped her leg if she'd given him the chance. Often, he tried to see up her skirt. Once, just once, he'd felt her breath on his skin. Of course, she'd had his arm wrenched up behind his back, but it had been almost orgasmic for Abe.

She'd let him slide that time, told him the vig was increasing before she'd left.

When she came back, a week later, Abe had tried to stall. Greta kicked him in the nuts. She waited, letting Abe catch his breath.

"Fifty-five, Abe," she said calmly. "It's up to fifty-five hundred now."

"Uh-uh," Abe said, still cradling his balls. "Three thousand."

"Nope," Greta said, perching herself on top of his desk, crossing her legs, flashing him a bit of what he'd never get. "Remember, I warned you about the vig. Fifty-five now."

Abe nodded, remembering their talk, and tried to get up, his gonads on fire. Finally succeeding, hand on his crotch, he shuffled to the floor safe and opened it after entering three numbers. He pulled a gun and trained it on her. He had a smile on his face.

"Strip, bitch," he said.

The speed with which the tables had been turned surprised Greta. But she wasn't afraid. Not of this stupid fucking midget that was threatening a number of things now.

"Okay," she said, deciding to play things Abe's way. She slid off the desk and removed her shirt, letting him get a good view of her chest in the black lace bra that she wore underneath. She watched Abe lick his lips and she knew how this was going to end.

Height was the deciding factor. Greta bent toward him, enticing Abe further, making him think that he was going to see her naked. Bringing her knee up as she straightened up, she broke his nose. The blow caused him to drop the gun. She picked the gun up off the floor.

Limping to the safe, a necessary result of smashing his nose, Greta trained the gun on Abe and took the fifty-five hundred dollars he owed Charlie then grabbed an extra thousand for herself.

BIO:
Christopher Grant is the owner and editor of A Twist Of Noir. His fiction appeared on the late, lamented DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash. The rest can be found at Powder Burn Flash.

A GOOD MAN by Lee Hughes

Here's another chiller from the productive pen of Lee...

A Good Man


Tess smiled as Gavin pulled out her chair. She'd never done anything spontaneous like this before. She wondered if it was a sign that she was getting desperate. Bumping into this man in the supermarket that afternoon and then accepting his offer of drinks. It had begun with an offer of meal. But drinks sounded safer.

"So, what will you have?" asked Gavin as he took off his jacket.

Tess looked past him to the bar. She didn't want anything that would get her pissed, "I'll have half a lager please."

"On its way," said Gavin.

He walked to the bar. She watched him move. He was trim. He gained points there. His face was tanned, naturally, not through cosmetics or tanning booths. Most of all he had just shown some class in her books by not asking her if she wanted a bag of crisps. That sort of thing stank like a night at the Dog & Duck. The usual crowd drinking their livers away. The women with pints, the men with rolled cigarettes and a bag of Big Eat on the table, torn down the side so that everyone could help themselves. She'd managed to separate herself from it over the last year. If ever she needed reminding as to why she had escaped from that life she pictured one of the sad, leathered old bints, complete with moustache and yellowed fingers. The only life they had was another gin and tonic and maybe a 'dare-shag' when a bunch of lads were on a pub crawl.

No, this was nice. She watched him stand politely at the bar. Not barging his way to the front. He even let a woman be served before him. This one had manners. She still had to find out what he did for a living. He'd been wearing a suit at the supermarket when they'd bumped trolleys in the produce aisle. Perhaps a manager, in a bank? Tess watched him return to the table. He walked with confidence, yet it was nowhere near being a strut. And instead of a pint, Gavin had opted for a more civilized bottle of beer.

"Thanks," said Tess.

Gavin sat and raised his drink and said, "Here's to taking the odd chance, now and again."

"I'll drink to that." Tess lifted her own glass.

They soon found themselves at the 'Why I'm single' topic of conversation. Gavin had worn a wry smile. Tess was glad that he had been honest with her. She put a lot of stock in honesty.

"My wife, she left me for another man. Things hadn't been great for a while. I was probably just as much to blame for it all falling apart the way that it did," Gavin finished it with another wry smile, "Your turn."

Tess liked the honesty in Gavin and wished that she could be brave enough to be as honest as he had. But, she was too frightened of blurting it all out and then having to bear witness to Gavin finishing his drink, making his excuses and leaving, never to be seen again.

"I think I'm just too picky," said Tess.

Gavin nodded. "Libra?" he asked.

"Yes! How did you guess that?" Tess was stunned, in a good way. She always read her horoscope.

"My sister is picky too. And, she's a Libra," he took another drink from his bottle.

Tess changed the subject, wanting to keep it upbeat, like it was now. She was just worried that if they lingered on the subject some of her personal problems might bubble to the surface and then the night would crash. "Are you planning on going on holiday this year?" she asked.

"I was thinking about Crete. A bit of time to sit back, relax, catch some rays," he put the bottle to his lips but stopped before actually taking a sip. He had noticed her eyes wide open, "What?" he asked.

"Oh, my God. I've been thinking about going there!" Tess couldn't believe it. She had brochures and everything. She tried to become casual. Just in case Gavin didn't believe it wasn't all coincidence and that she was just agreeing with him on everything. That would appear needy, and she was no longer that woman. She was glad that he wasn't looking at her like some sort of freak. He smiled and it relaxed her somewhat.

Gavin said, "Well, you never know. I might get the chance to buy you a cocktail on the beach. But for now it'll have to be from this bar. Same again?"

"That would be great thanks." She watched his every move as he went back to the bar. She even took a sneaky photograph of him with her phone. It was only a side view. But it would be enough to show Carol at the office in the morning.

He stood at the bar patiently. Reaching for his wallet. Pulling out a twenty. She could see other notes in there. Was this the one? Were the deadbeats and low-life's all in her past. Tess was sure of one thing. She was going to be who she wanted to be, her old persona was behind her. The new Tess was worthy of being with Gavin. She chastised herself. She'd only been in his company for half an hour and she was already getting notions.

They had another couple of drinks. Gavin had gone onto Coke as he was driving. Tess lost complete track of the time. They'd been chatting non-stop. And they'd found out that they both had a lot in common. Then, alas, Gavin had looked at his watch. "Best get you home."

"Kinda don't want the evening to end," sighed Tess as she drained her glass.

Gavin stood up. "Well, accept my offer of taking you out to dinner on Friday and then there'll only be two nights until I get to bore you again."

"That's a date," she blushed and said fast, "and you don't bore me."

"Then that's all sorted. Let's get you home."


Tess half expected a kiss as they stood outside her home. Gavin didn't let her down. Although he was most gentlemanly about it and leaned in for a short but nice kiss on the cheek. Tess wanted to invite him in badly. It took all her strength not to. She wasn't that woman any more. She wanted to play this right, there was a chance of happiness with Gavin. She could feel it. She waved as he drove away.

She felt as though there was electricity running through her veins as she plopped herself down on the couch with half-a-glass of wine. She didn't want much more. She had work in the morning. A year ago, she wouldn't have bothered but she had fought long and hard to get her current job and there was no way she'd risk losing it. The lounge door opened. She nearly dropped her wine.

Her mouth though, that did drop. It was Gavin standing in the doorway. No longer in his suit. He was stood wearing a boiler-suit. He smiled, "I decided I didn't want tonight to end either."

"How did you get in here?" She didn't know how to react to this invasion.

Gavin shrugged. "The spare key in the little hidey-gnome in the garden."

Tess got up and backed towards the wall. "How?"

"How what? How did I know about that little secret? Nobody pays any attention to a postman walking around the back of people's houses, so long as they have a parcel."

Gavin came deeper into the room. Tess couldn't say anything. It was as though her head was filled with cotton wool and all her thoughts were being absorbed and hidden. Gavin pulled out a chisel and set it on the table by the phone. He yanked the wire from the wall-socket. From his pocket he pulled a length of twine, "You seem stuck for words Tess. Do you not want to be friends any more?"

"But!" The words were tumbling from her brain into her mouth in a jumbled, incoherent manner.

Gavin took a step closer. "But we got on so well? You being a Libra? It was your birthday three months ago. Six cards delivered. Not very popular are you? Crete, four different brochures delivered two weeks ago. I even know that the cheap blouse you're wearing came from the pages Moffit's catalogue. Are you paying it off at fifty-six pence a week? And what's with all that perfume and talc, eh? Got hooked on that now have you?" he took another step closer.

There was no more space for her to retreat. Practically no air between the wallpaper and the cold sweat on her back.

"Get out!" She started dragging in breath as if readying herself to scream.

Gavin growled, "How's the smack habit? Keeping on top of it? I opened the letters from the hospital because I wanted to make sure that you weren't ill. Found out instead that you are weak and diseased. I detest weakness. It's a disgusting trait. My wife had a weakness. It was for other men. She didn't leave me, I left her, where? I'm not telling. I've been watching you. I even fell in love with you. Until I found out that you're a crack-whore. All those months wasted. Silently courting you, getting to know you so that I could make you happy. You stole from me," he stopped to pull the twine tight in his hands so that it made a snapping sound, "now you're gonna give me back what you owe. You ever fuck for money? bet you did, a lot. I don't know yet what I'm going to do with you. Do I chop you into little pieces and post you off to a hundred different made up addresses so you just bounce about, forever. Or maybe, this caring postman, me. He comes by tomorrow with your letters and sees you all sprawled out on the floor through the window. He breaks in. Touches you as he tries to revive you. Where's the D.N.A gone then? All mixed up, Huh? They wouldn't suspect little old me. Never have before. And besides, who'd care about a dead crack-whore?" He snarled and moved closer.

That was it. The breaking point for Tess. There was only so much she could take. She had made a promise to herself never again to go down that dark and damp road that led to oblivion. It had been the same when Jack had turned up, wanting to get her hooked again. Had wanted to dump her back into that grim life once more. To work the streets, to be foul. She'd fixed him. Just like she would have to fix this, this Gavin. If that was even his real name. She kept a knife down the back of the couch, just in case someone else turned up from her past like Jack had. Someone wanting to drag her back down to the gutter.

Tess dove for the couch. Gavin thought she was making a break for it. He hooted in glee and dove after her. Landing atop of her. He struggled to roll her over. He got her onto her back and pulled funny faces at her. He could feel it, cold and sharp inside his ribs, moving back and forth inside him like a nodding dog. He gasped, opened his mouth and dribbled crimson all over her stern face. Tess kept hold of the handle. The blade was in right to the hilt. She gave it another wiggle just to be sure. More blood spilled from his mouth. She didn't push him away, she'd rather get the blood on her face rather than on the carpet. Besides, you can't catch Aids twice.

It was hard work dragging him up the stairs. She was sweating as she opened up the walk-in wardrobe in the spare room. The sweat softened the dried blood on her face and carried some of it away to leave pink streaks. Tess pushed Gavin into the wardrobe. At least Jack would have some company. Jack was blanketed in perfumed talc. She doused them both with some more and closed the door so they could be alone with their bastard selves.

Bio:

Lee Hughes' short fiction has appeared, or is due to appear on Thriller's, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, MicroHorror.Com and in the anthology Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9. Find out more at www.LeeHughesWrites.Blogspot.Com.

ORANGE DOT - by Michael J. Solender

ORANGE DOT

Ours is a typical suburban housing development with mailboxes affixed to sturdy posts, standing solitary sentry at the end of our drive. As I retrieved the mail the other day, I noticed a reflective green dot, about the size of a quarter, had been placed on the post just below the mailbox. Puzzled, I wondered for just a moment what its purpose might be and then promptly thought nothing more of it.

The following morning at an hour that is only experienced awakened once daily by less industrious types than my wife and me, I noted on our walk around the neighborhood that the paper delivery guy was stopping at each box with a green dot and slipping the morning journal inside the protective sleeve below.

“Ha the green dot tells the paper guy where to deliver – ingenious.” I exclaimed to my wife who kept her rhythm and focus on outpacing me as we came to a nasty hill.

“What’s the orange dot for then?” she quizzed.

Sure enough, I saw that about every 5th post had an orange reflective dot. I wondered if it was for some national journal or weekend delivery only.

“We don’t have an orange dot, I’m not exactly sure.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than we were passed by a circular object resembling a large inner tube, racing past us only inches from the ground.

It was glowing bright orange and had a tiny periscope type proboscis extending from its front surface. A pulsing light fixed on the first post encountered with an orange dot on the mail post. The craft stopped for a moment and then within seconds, was hovering in front of the door of the house with the offending dot.

My wife and I were panicked beyond speechless and watched in abject terror as small, orange glowing snakes emerged from the craft by the dozen. They began silently burrowing into the door and under the window frames. The craft whisked on to the next home with an orange dot.

I had seen enough, I grabbed my wife’s elbow and we quickly walked in the other direction towards our house. For 5 minutes neither of us spoke.

“What should we do?” My wife was crying.

“What can we do, the police won’t believe it, and I saw it and I don’t believe it.”

“But what was it, what did we see?”

“Sweetie, I can’t explain it and don’t want to even try. Freaky things happen in this world. I say we forget it, don’t discuss with anyone and just go on about our business.” I was trying to be pragmatic.

I had enough drama in my life and didn’t need any more.

“Ok, that’s done then.” I said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

It was now 5:00 a.m. and we both needed a jolt of something.

“I’ll get the paper.” My wife volunteered.

I began grinding the beans and the aroma of my $30.00 per pound Geisha beans began to work their magic before I could even brew them. What the hell was taking her I thought, she’s been out there for five minutes.

I walked out onto the porch and saw my wife halfway down the drive. She was sobbing and her entire body was heaving convulsively. I raced up to her.

“What is it hon?”

She pointed at our mailbox and just below the green reflective dot I had noticed yesterday was another similarly shaped, but distinctly orange dot.

“Orange dot,” was all she could say.

BIO:
Michael J. Solender lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with his wife Harriet where they obsess over their garden. He hails originally from the sometimes frozen tundra of Minneapolis, MN. There he ignored (only once) his mother’s advice to pursue a career in medicine and became a Corporate Klingon. A recent Corporate Refugee, Solender is a freelance writer whose opinion and satire has been featured in The Richmond Times Dispatch, The Winston-Salem Journal, and Richmond Style Weekly. He writes a weekly Neighborhoods column for The Charlotte Observer and is a contributor to Charlotte ViewPoint. His micro-fiction has been featured online at Dogzplot, Full of Crow, Gloom Cupboard, A Twist of Noir, Thrillers Killers ‘N’ Chillers, 6 Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, and Flashshot.