PENNIES FOR ADAM By Sean Michael Smith

PENNIES FOR ADAM



I arrived at the funeral parlor as the mourners were beginning to shuffle out. I kept my head low, hidden behind black sunglasses. I snuck through the crowd to the back of the room where the funeral director’s young assistant stood with his hands solemnly crossed.

“There are a lot of people here tonight,” I said.

“Yes, there were quite a few testimonies. Are you a relative?”

“I’m her adopted son.”

He looked over to Ryan. “Your brother will want to know…”

“Please don’t tell him I’m here,” I asked. “I haven’t seen my family in years. I don’t want to make a scene.”

He glanced at me curiously. “Mr. Connor never mentioned any siblings.”

“Like I said, we haven’t been close in recent years.” I retrieved a flask brimming with Jim Beam from my coat pocket and took a swig.

“Your brother doesn’t seem the type to approve of your drinking.”

“My brother doesn’t approve of a lot of things. Kind of a pain in the ass, isn’t he?”

He grinned despite himself.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I really shouldn’t. Somebody might see.”

I slipped him the flask. “Just keep it cupped in your hand and drink quickly. Everyone is too busy saying their goodbyes to pay attention to a couple of guys in the back of the room. Besides, I’m sure it’s been a long night for you.”

He gulped it down like a teenager sneaking a drink at the prom. His cheeks flushed immediately.

“I guess my brother will have some time alone with her before the casket is closed?”

“Yes, we always allow the immediate family fifteen minutes alone to say goodbye.”

He took another furtive gulp.

“Can you keep your boss from barging in on us long enough for my brother and me to hash some things out? For our mom’s sake, ya know? All we need is an extra ten minutes or so.”

He handed me back the half-empty flask. “Sure, the director usually retires to the office to do paperwork and leaves the wrap up to me anyway.”

#

I hid in the men’s room until my accomplice knocked on the door, and then crept into the main room. Ryan flinched. He was kneeling in front of the casket with his back towards me. I could tell by the way his posture stiffened he knew it was I. “Shouldn’t you be in New Orleans? Or did you move again?” he said.

“Glad to see you too, little brother.”

He stood up straight and smoothed out the wrinkles in his black suit. “Who told you?”

“I have friends,” I said. “My friends have friends. You should have called me.”

He whipped around.

“Fuck you Adam! Fuck you for not having the decency to mourn the woman who took you in off the streets, fuck you for always running, and fuck you for everything else you never did for her.”

“I’m not here to fight with you.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Then why are you here?”

I held out my flask to him. “You might want a drink first.”

“I’ll pass.”

I emptied the flask as he watched. His still-boyish cheeks flushed with anger as he glared at me with wide brown eyes. He looked just as petulant as when we were kids. I hoped he wasn’t still as stubborn too.

“Well?” he said.

“I’ve learned a lot of things while I’ve been away,” I said. “Things you can’t even imagine…”

“First you were Atheist, then a Buddhist, now what? Voodoo?”

I took off my glasses and met his glare. “Something like that.”

“Get out of here,” he said. “You’re just as fucked up now as ever. All these years you’ve been off finding yourself, I was the one who watched mom cry when months and months went by between your late night phone calls”

“I know. That’s why it’s so important that I get to talk to her now.”

“She’s dead you asshole.”

I fished two copper pennies with precisely inscribed Voodoo symbols out of my pocket and held them up for him to see. “I had these blessed by an old Voodoo woman. The real kind, not one of those tourist trappers. These vévés have power Ryan. They’re connected to the Voodoo gods – the loa. They’ll let me make contact with her.”

He slapped the pennies out of my hand. “I told you to leave. I don’t want you here.” Tears flowed down his cheeks. Suddenly, I realized what he must think of me; how far removed from their lives I had really become.

“Please,” I said fighting back tears of my own. “Don’t you think I know I’m a shit? I’m not so heartless I forgot everything she did for me. The only home I ever had was with you two. I never got the chance to tell her that. I owe her an apology.”

Silence. My heart thumped in my chest.

Ryan walked across the room and picked the pennies up off the floor. He placed them in my hand, holding it for a second. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you apologize for anything you’ve done wrong.”

“Before she took me in, I never counted on anyone but myself. Maybe I’m a selfish prick, but I couldn’t handle the attachment.”

He dropped his gaze, staring at the inscriptions on the pennies. “Remember that winter you talked me into following you across Gordy Pond and I fell in? This is a much dumber idea.”

“Probably,” I said flashing my best grin. “But I’ve got to try.”

“You always do,” he said.

Ryan looked back at me as he opened the door. “Hopefully I’ll see you back at the house later?”

“I’m not leaving any time soon.”

As soon as he was gone, I got to work.

#

“Damballah,” I whispered as I stood in front of the coffin. “Please help me.”

I laid the pennies over her eyes and kissed her powdered cheek. Then I knelt in front of the coffin while I clutched her frail, icy hand. All the memories I buried over the years came flooding back to me. They hit me like a kaleidoscope of impressions …the flowery smell of her perfume, the three nights a week spaghetti dinners when money was lean, our weekend camping trips, and her tears of joy the day my adoption was finalized. I remembered everything, good and bad. The laughter, the tears, the arguments and the overpowering feeling of loss we both felt the day I left.

Suddenly, I heard her voice whispering in my head, “Adam…Adam…where are you?”

My back hit the floor. A cacophony of shrill voices. Wailing. Crying. They were overlapping hers; my mother’s voice was getting lost in the din, fading further and further into the background.

“Adammmmm?”

God, the smell! It was like meat left on the counter for days, piles and piles of decomposing meat. Everyone was screaming; thousands of overlapping hands tugging me in all directions. I couldn’t fight them. I covered my ears with my hands to block out the shrill wailing. Blood poured out of my nose. I couldn’t concentrate. There were too many voices. I couldn’t hear her anymore.

Trembling, I remembered the old voodoo woman’s harsh whisper as she handed me the pennies. “Your connection must be strong. Very strong. There are too many angry dead folk out there. If your bond in life was irrevocably shattered, it may not be powerful enough to draw her spirit to you for protection.”

I was too late. All the years I wasted had created too wide a gulf between us.

A thousand hands tore through me at once; ripping my clothes, my veins…peeling layers of flesh off my body like onionskin. One hand splintered my chest, another yanked out my heart. I could just barely hear its thump-thump-thumping fade away over the cackle of angry spirits. I fell backwards in a pool of my own blood screaming, “Mom I’m sorry!”

Then, there was only darkness.

#

I woke up some place softer. Satin pressed against my skin. My body was completely rigid. I couldn’t open my eyes. I had no idea how much time had passed.

Ryan’s tears fell on my cheek.

“You never listened to anyone but yourself. You always tried everything at least once.”

Cool metal pressed against my eyelids.

“I never understood you,” he said. “But I always wanted to.”

I wanted to scream. No! Please Ryan, let me go. Don’t try to follow me now…



BIO:

Sean Michael Smith has published stories online with Flashes in the Dark, Dark Fire Fiction, Tales from the Moonlit Path and Microhorror. He’s too lazy to set up a web page, but you can email him at smswrites@gmail.com.

IN SUMMATION By Holly Day

TKnC extends the warm hand of welcome to Holly with...

In Summation



Across the table from you is a man holding a pile of office supplies. “Just in time,” says this man, whose name is “Frank.” “Kids start school next week, and now I don’t have to worry about shopping for school supplies.” He holds up a ball-point pen with an eraser attached to one end and shakes it. “Neat.”

All around you are men and women doing exactly the same thing as “Frank.” Pin-striped suits and pastel-colored blouses, strings of fake pearls and shiny Pleather shoes. They, too, coo like pigeons over the vast treasure of office supplies filling the low wooden table. Hands reach out for extra staples, monogrammed coffee mugs, tiny flashlight keychains with the name of the company you work for etched on one side. You look down at your hands and suddenly it’s all spelled out for you, in plain, simple language: this is your life, this is the summation of your life’s work. This handful of erasers, experimental cleaning supplies, rolls of transparent tape—this is what all those years of college and, even before that, the tithe of childhood dreams, this is what your life equals. This is it.

In one of the cubicles in the other room is your desk, and in your desk is the gun that you have kept hidden in there ever since that crazy high school massacre, just in case one of those misfortunate psychotics from the school had a spiritual twin that had not mowed down his classmates as a teenager, but had instead grown up to become an ad executive, or a secretary, something disgruntled. You have found great comfort in this piece of metal, this amazing contraption of rotating cylinders and reflexive technology, the way the solvent still smells faintly sweet when you hold the barrel up to your nostrils, and down to your mouth. Sometimes, when you reach inside your desk for a pen or a piece of paper, your fingertips brush the molded rubber handle of the gun instead, and your mind goes blank, the sought-after object forgotten, the feel of the darkness in your hand the entire world.

Back to the shareholders’ meeting, where boxes of transparent tape and toilet brushes and mechanical pencils are dispensed among the employees that own part of the company, gag gifts dispensed with great pomp and aplomb as though this is what you actually had bought into when you were buying stock, and not some tightly-held dream of retirement someday, and dare you even say it? Comfort. “Hey, did you get one of these?” asks “Ann,” shoving a red ballpoint pen with an eraser under your nose and waggling it. ”I thought they only had the black ones this year, but there’s a box of red ones in the corner, too. Pass it on.” And she’s gone, delivering her gospel of red ballpoint pens with erasers to the rest of the assembled. Red.

Every day before this one, you have been sleepwalking, but now, standing here, gun smoking in your hand, a line of writhing bodies in your wake, you are finally awake. You don’t even know how the gun got from your desk in the other room into your hand, in this room, right here, right now, but it did. Perhaps someone asked you to get extra silverware from the office, and you went to your desk instead. Maybe you just wanted to touch the rubber handle of the beautiful little Luger for comfort, because if anyone here needed a brief fix of self-indulgent comfort, it was you. Or is this the dream? Your hand still tingles from the kick of the .35 caliber rounds, all six of them, and then the next volley, mechanical, you must have fed the second clip into the six chambers in your sleep, and the third, and God knows how many after that. Either you did fire the gun, and did it again and again, or there is something wrong with the nerves in your hand and all the way up to your elbow. Tingling like a heart attack. Either you did fire the gun, and did it again and again, or your coworkers are playing a trick on you, pretending to be dead.

The red ballpoint pen with the eraser has leaked a torrent of red through your clean white shirt pocket, and it looks like blood but it isn’t, it’s ink. All the way through to your skin, and it’s the type of ink that might erase fine from paper, but it does not easily wash out of fabric. The red spots on your shoes are blood, though, and that does come off, wipes off neatly with the handy one-cloth stain remover samples that were handed out at the beginning of the stockholders’ meeting. This is what your life amounts to.

This is what your life amounts to—running out the back door and down the service stairs, so completely and utterly panicked and sane, finally. How did this happen? Did someone say something? Are you even involved in all of this? Are those sirens? Or are your ears still ringing from the reverb of metal hitting metal, gunpowder igniting, someone screaming next to your head? There has to be some way to make this right, and going to jail is not going to make anything right. You long for wide open spaces free of concrete, skyscrapers, glass, and noise, and so you get in your shiny red car and drive.

You drive. You just get in the car and drive. You take off your shirt while you drive, and your pants, and your shoes, until you are just wearing your pinstriped boxer shorts and a pair of socks, your blood-and-ink-stained clothes random markers on a life disappearing far, far behind you. You grab your sunglasses off the dashboard and slip them on, and now you feel just plain silly. You’re driving a car in your underwear, wearing a pair of sunglasses. You take the sunglasses off and now you feel almost Biblical, some Biblical, apocalyptical figure leaving a wake of holy retribution behind you. Nah, not even God would have told you to kill your coworkers. This is all on you. So you’re just going to drive until all this is behind you. There are thousands of miles of concrete between here and the ocean, and even more if you drive north/south instead of east/west. That’s the great thing about where you live, you think, because you can drive in any direction for a really long time. By the time you hit the ocean, you will have this all figured out.

A DATE by Pixie J. King

Pixie's back...

A Date

He was sitting outside Tony’s tea and coffee shop watching the people and the traffic hurry by as he sipped on his coffee. It was cold. He pushed it away in disgust and glanced at his watch.

She was late.

He sighed, figured she wouldn’t come. After all, internet dating sites rarely worked, not in his experience anyway. He took off his black round spectacles and took out his hankie and cleaned the glass. He slipped them back on his chubby face and saw her sitting opposite him.

She arrived out of thin air, it seemed, bringing a cold presence with her.

He smiled. ‘I didn’t think you were coming Sheila.’

‘Sorry Charlie, the bus was late,’ she whispered. ‘I hope I didn’t worry you at all.’

He shook his head. ‘Not at all.’ He placed his hands on hers. Her hands were cold. ‘Can I get you anything?’

She withdrew her hands, looked away. ‘No Charlie, I’m fine. Thank you.’

He nodded, couldn’t help but stare at her; he was mesmerised by her snow white skin, her plump red lips and her long flaxen hair. She looked like an angel dropped from heaven. ‘I lov--’

She put her finger to his lips; her eyes were watery. ‘Charlie, stop.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t be with you. It will never work. That’s what I came here to tell you. I couldn’t tell you over the internet. I’m sorry for misleading you.’

He stared at her, nodded slowly. He felt his throat tighten, his heart sink. He stood slowly, shaking. ‘It’s okay. I knew it deep down.’ He swallowed deeply. ‘So I guess this is it then. Goodbye Sheila.’

He walked away from the coffee shop. He stepped into the road, his thoughts sloshing in his head, his heart broken, unaware of a speeding car hurtling towards him.

‘Look out!’ someone cried.

Charlie froze, heard the roar of an engine. He couldn’t move; the fear exerted from every cell in his body and kept him frozen to the floor.

‘Charlie, move!’ Sheila screamed.

Charlie slowly turned, saw Sheila’s panicked expression. He couldn’t move, immobilised by fear.

Sheila darted from the shop and pushed Charlie from the car’s path. He stumbled; crashed against the curb of the pavement.

Sheila turned back, faced the oncoming car. It was metres away now. She closed her eyes, and took the sheer force from the car as it crashed into her.

Charlie groaned, touching his head. Blood laced his fingers. He looked at the pavement where he had fallen, then the curb.

More blood.

He looked back, the car carried on speeding down the road. Sheila was nowhere to be seen. ‘Sheila?’

Passersby gave Charlie weird looks as he scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding head. He could have sworn Sheila pushed him out of the way.

He scanned the whole street, but she was gone.

She’d disappeared into thin air.


BIO:
Pixie is a student who is new to the writing world, and writes when she can, where she can. Her work is mainly flash fiction and poems with the occasional short story. She is now however embarking on the mammoth task of writing a novel, and is finding it very daunting.
Pixie’s work can be found at http://theworksofpixiejking.blogspot.com

THE COSTUME by Hal Kempka

Hal makes a welcome return...

The Costume

Marcy’s annual Halloween party was a week away, but she still had not found a costume. She had searched every costume shop in town, but the costumes hung either too loose or too snug on her gangly, small-breasted, frame. She found a cute clown costume that fit her perky upper body, but the elastic-lined bottoms ended mid-calf on her bony legs and choked off the circulation.

While perusing the weekly paper, Marcy spotted a recently opened thrift store ad announcing the new arrival of clothes and costumes. She drove to the store and dug through the racks of costumes.

As had happened before, they either fit too snug or hung too loose. She found a great looking French maid costume, but after removing it from its hanger realized, she would resemble an anorexic penguin more than a sexy French maid.

A cockroach scurried out from beneath the collar, and over Marcy’s hand. She jumped back, and flicked it off her hand. As she did, Marcie bumped into a table and knocked a cardboard box to the floor, scattering its contents.

Marcy got on her hands and knees and retrieved the rubber spiders, silk cobwebs, and other small decorations. While placing them back in the box, she found a nifty purple and green spider costume neatly folded in the bottom.

She removed the bulbous, neon green spider top with its tubular legs and black spandex tights and top, and tried it on. It fit perfectly and the tights appeared to stretch enough to fit, and maybe even feel comfortable. After stuffing the costume into the box with the decorations, Marcie carried it to the counter.

“How much for this box of decorations and costume?” she asked.

The clerk eyed the box. “You gonna take the whole thing?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe ten dollars if you take it all.”

“Really?” Marcy asked. “Great.”

The clerk then pointed to a sign behind the counter. “But, we don’t take returns! So if anything’s broken, torn, or doesn’t fit, it’s your problem.”

After hurrying home, Marcie emptied the box on the table. A small recipe book fell out.

She thumbed through the sugar-charged recipes for such party treats as bat’s eyes punch, cat brains cookies, and nutty fudge fingers

“This is so gross!” She said giggling. “My guests will love them.”

On the day of the party, she decorated the walls and ceiling with the spiders and cobwebs, and filled plastic pumpkins with candy eyeballs and Gummy fingers.

A large, furry tarantula found in the box fit perfectly on one of the candy dishes. A sensor in its eyes activated whenever someone reached for a piece of candy, and it rose and fell on its legs, clicking its fangs.

At the party that evening, Marcy chatted with her friends, and kept busy refilling the iced tubs with beer and wine, and resupplying the snack tables.

She walked by the tarantula candy dish and reached for a gummy finger. She figured she might have bumped the plastic tarantula as it fell onto her hand. However, something stuck her.

“Ouch!” she yelled and pulled her hand back.

Marcy’s hand bled from a quickly swelling puncture wound. She covered it with a napkin and hurried to the kitchen.

“What happened to your hand? Carol asked. “It is swelling up and you’re bleeding,”

Marcy smiled sheepishly. “I was refilling a candy dish, and that damn spider fell over and cut my hand.”

“Well, it looks pretty deep.” Marcy let out a nervous laugh. “I guess that is what I get for grabbing at the candy.”

Carol shook her head and squeezed an antibiotic ointment on the wound. “Yeah, but Marcy, it looks like it is already infected.”

At the end of the evening, after the last guests said good-bye, Marcy poured a glass of wine. She wriggled out of her costume and curled up on the couch in her bra and panties. Midway through her wine, she began to feel dizzy and claustrophobic.

Her hand throbbed and her insides began to twist and churn. Marcy tried to stand but vomited sticky, yellowish mucous. She fell back onto the couch weakened by a jolt of excruciating pain that stabbed her abdomen.

Through blurry, tear-filled eyes, Marcy saw a large shadowy figure jerk across the floor from behind an easy chair. She rubbed her eyes and then let out a terrified scream. The candy dish tarantula had grown to twice her size and was skittering across the room, carrying a large, silken sack on its abdomen.

Marcy and tried to scramble off the couch, but the tarantula crawled onto her and punctured her with its fangs. She lay helpless as it began sucking out her liquefying organs.

The squirming sack attached to its belly tore open and hundreds of knuckle-sized spiderlings skittered onto Marcy’s convulsing body. They crawled into her mouth and nose, suffocating her and muffling her weakened screams. Then, they delved deep inside her to feed.


BIO:
Hal Kempka is a former Marine and Vietnam veteran who lives in Highland, California with his wife and son. Hal's been published in magazines and ezines such as TKnC, Flashshot, Apollo’s Lyre, Fiction Flyer, Flashes in the Dark, House of Horror (UK), The New Flesh, Dark and Dreary, Twisted Dreams, Microhorror, Long Story Short, Shine Journal and Black Petals. Hal has stories either published or forthcoming in Black Lantern, Black Petals, House of Horror, Night to Dawn, Blood Moon Rising and 52 Stitches.

A DEADLY SILENCE By Jim Harrington

This story first appeared in Mysterical-E in 2008,

but has kindly been reproduced by Jim for your pleasure...

A Deadly Silence

The townsfolk knew the Russell sisters as kind, amiable spinsters. They attended church every Sunday and offered a genial hello to everyone who walked into their used bookstore. Shock spread through the town like the Asian flu the day Thelma killed her sister, Ruth. Thelma told me it was just like every other day until the phone rang.

***

“I’ll get it,” Ruth said.

Thelma continued shelving the books Elwood Pratt had exchanged for credit that morning. She assumed she’d finish the task alone. Ruth, who always answered the phone, could talk the paint off a barn. Thelma looked over just as Ruth hung up, surprised to see tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Ruth replied. “A voice said my name, and then there was silence. The next thing I know, I’m bawling my eyes out.” Ruth removed her glasses and used the sleeve of her rose-patterned dress to wipe first her right eye and then the left.

“Damn that Robert Johnson,” Thelma said.

“Robert? Isn’t he that nice gentleman who took you to dinner a couple of times?”

“Yes.” Thelma hesitated, but decided it was time to tell Ruth what had happened. “He seemed nice enough until he unzipped my dress. Good Lord, we were on the front porch. What was he thinking?” Thelma’s face reddened as she remembered her excitement at the touch of his fingers creeping down her bare skin until they reached the hooks on her bra. “I slapped his face and stormed into the house.”

“I remember that night. I came out of the kitchen to ask how dinner was, but you were already upstairs. When you snapped at me the next morning, I knew it hadn’t gone well.”

“Well, now you know.” Thelma turned her back to Ruth until she felt her face return to normal.

“He’s crazy, you know.”

“He is?” Ruth perked up. She loved good gossip, not that she’d ever tell anyone what she heard. The store was her confessional, and she reserved the same right of confidentiality for her customers’ comments that a priest did for his congregation.

“He’s working on some kind of mind control something-or-other he read about on the Internet,” Thelma said with a wave as she bent to retrieve the next book from the box. “He tried to explain how you can transfer brain waves from one person to another, but you know how much I detest anything to do with science.”

“Thelma, you need to get over throwing up all over that poor frog in biology lab.” Ruth couldn’t keep the snort from exiting her lips.

“It’s not funny, Ruth.”

“I’ll get it.” Ruth said when the phone rang.

Of course, Thelma thought. She purged the vomit-covered frog and Robert from her mind and started reading the back cover of a David Baldacci thriller when she heard Ruth laugh uncontrollably.

“That must’ve been a good one,” Thelma said without looking at Ruth.

“It was like the last call,” Ruth said through a series of giggles. “I heard my name and then silence. Next thing I know I’m laughing so hard tears are cascading down my face.” She used the opposite sleeve to dry off this time.

“I’ll get it,” Ruth said when the phone rang once more.

“No, it’s time to put an end to this nonsense.”

Thelma grabbed the phone from its cradle and stopped mid-rant. After a few seconds, she hung up and stiffly walked toward Ruth with a look in her eyes never seen by her sister before. Thelma reached out and placed both hands on her sister’s throat. Unable to control herself, Thelma felt the pressure of her grip increase until Ruth’s body wilted like a week-old rose.

The patrolman’s attention was on a pair of teen boys harassing a young girl and wouldn’t have noticed what was going on inside the sisters’ store if he hadn’t heard Thelma yell, "Damn you, Robert,” as Ruth fell to her knees.

***

This being my first murder case, I did my best to explain to the jury that Robert, not my client, should be charged with Ruth’s murder as he was the one who implanted the idea into Thelma’s brain; and that Thelma never would have done such a heinous thing without Robert’s voodooistic trickery. Besides, wasn’t it obvious that my client was the intended victim? Her sister was the one who always answered the phone.

I hoped I’d done enough to plant a reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury. Thelma was a nice person and no more harmful to society than a firefly. I began to pray, not a regular happening in my life, as Thelma and I stood to hear the foreperson read the verdict.

BIO:

Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two cats. In addition to Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers, his stories have appeared in Apollo's Lyre, Boston Literary Magazine, Camroc Press Review, Every Day Fiction, The Houston Literary Review, Long Story Short, MicroHorror, Flashshot and others. He currently serves as flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre. You can read more of his stories at http://www.jimharringtononline.net/

ALL IN THE DETAIL By Sue Harding

Sue's back to prove it's...

All In The Detail

She knows.

I'm certain of it.

There's that subtle twist in her tone. And the delayed glances.

And now I have an interesting dilemma. Do I deal with her now, or wait until later?

Well, it has to be later, of course – right now I'm knee-deep in blood, guts and a particularly nasty case of vomited vindaloo. The things you see on this job! Still, with forensics it’s always somewhat of a challenge. But, it keeps life interesting and I’m always learning something new – comes in useful in my ‘other’ line of work!

Now, going back to what I was saying before, what I mean is, do I wait and see what she does next or do I........damn! Dropped the bloody tweezers. Paul Hollis, call yourself a professional! Yuk! They're all slimy and wet now. I'll have to open a new pack.

Right. Where was I? Oh yeah. Dealing with little Miss Sarah. She’s been on the team nearly a year now but just lately I've noticed her watching me. She's a good actress. If I catch her staring she doesn't look away guiltily. At least she doesn't draw the attention of the others. That's good. So, when it happens no one will guess there was something going on between us.

That's a laugh - 'something going on'! Nah, she's not my type! And way too young. No, I mean no-one will realise that she was showing just a little too much interest in my extra-curricular activities.

Have to act now, really. She pretty nearly pulled me up on a case a couple of months ago. Myra Vale, that stabbing jobbie? I made a silly mistake. Used a brand new knife block. Little Miss Clever-clogs noticed none of the other knives had ever been used.

Full marks to her for spotting it, I have to say. Pity. She’s showing promise. Not too many of the newbies are so observant. Managed to bluff my way out of it, though. Good job I’d kept that receipt. Wasn’t too difficult to suggest Myra had probably only just bought it.

Hang about, this is interesting - what have we here in this pocket? Hmmm. Screwed up ATM receipt. Right, in the bag you go, deal with you later.

You see, that’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. To Joe Public, an old receipt like that might be meaningless, but as part of the evidence in a crime it could make or break the case. People have been known to swing for less. Well, they don’t ‘swing’ any more. We don’t have capital punishment nowadays, but you get my drift, right? It’s all in the detail.

So - back to my problem with Sarah.

I think I’ll have to nip it in the bud. I’m on a nice little earner at the moment. People pay me rather well for 'services' rendered, regardless of whether it's just 'altering' the evidence afterwards or doing the 'job' properly so there is no evidence in the first place! I can’t afford to have her poking her delicate little nose into my affairs. So, it’s just a question of how and when.

Forensics work gives me so many options, but time is running out and I really need to make a decision. Next Thursday, I think. That’ll be good. I’ve already looked at the duty roster. She’s off for three days so there’ll be plenty of time to set the scene. Then, when she doesn’t turn up for the next two shifts, we’ll check up, see if everything’s OK. That's when we'll find her. Naturally we’ll all be shocked.

I’ll be senior on duty. Of course, as she’s on my team, no-one will stand in my way of taking charge - we look after our own in this business. And I’ll certainly make sure she get’s looked after! Before. And after.

Actually, thinking about it – that screwed up receipt might be an idea. It could be a prescription. A few choice drugs, filled out in her handwriting. I can alter the toxicology reports, make it seem like there was a history of abuse.

Hmmm.

Yup - the Hollis mind is on the case! Add a retrospective testimony on my part, put my thespian tendencies to work, beat myself up about not having aired my private concerns about her behaviour. What a waste of a young life.....such a shame.....

OK. Done here. Just pack up the gear and get back to the lab.

“Sarah? Do you want to come in and do a ‘last look’? See if you can catch me out this time?”

I like letting the junior team members have a final look round at a crime scene. It’s always a good teaching point – when you’ve done everything, have a fresh pair of eyes try to spot anything you might have missed. It’s easy to become so engrossed and miss something fundamental.

I don’t think I’ve made the ‘deliberate mistake’ too obvious.

Might as well let her have a moment of glory.

It’ll be her last.

It’s all in the detail, you see.


BIO:


Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here:
http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/
 

A WILD STAB IN THE DARK By Paul Grzegorzek

A wild stab in the dark




When I was young, my mum always told me not to play with knives. On days like this, I wish I’d listened to her advice. Then maybe I wouldn’t be sitting in this damn room listening to my boss telling me how he wanted his next mark to die.

I sat in the chair, swinging idly from side to side while Derek Murphy gave the briefing. Looking out of the window of his seventh floor office at the rain hurling itself at the ground outside, I idly wondered if the other two in the room were as good as their rep. I knew I was, but these two were out of town muscle, a double act known as Brady and Finch. I chuckled to myself as I realised that they sounded like a clothing brand, drawing a look from Murphy that would have made a lesser man shake in his boots.

Murphy was the kind of guy that your mum warns you about. He’d started off in LA as hired muscle for one of the small-time crime lords, working his way up the ladder with startling speed thanks to a combination of smarts, luck and reflexes that would put a cat to shame.

A few years ago he’d moved out to New York, set up his own empire thanks to the contacts he’d made back home, and then systematically gone about destroying everyone else in the same game. That game, of course, being just about anything that could be considered illegal, and a few things that weren’t but should be.

“Hey, Frank, you listening to a word I’m saying?” Murphy’s coarse voice cut into my thoughts, and just for a moment I imagined what it would be like to thrust one of my trademark knives into his stomach, forcing it up under his ribcage until the point tickled his heart into giving up.

Shaking my head, I focused on the object of my sudden desire and nodded lazily at him.

“Yeah boss, go into the restaurant, order some food. Watch for Tony Calotti and ring tweedle dum and tweedle dee here when he arrives. They walk in, start acting all sus, then when it goes bent I walk past Tony’s table and gut him like a fish in the middle of his lobster thermidor. Child’s play”.

I knew I was being arrogant, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Murphy’s eyes narrowed as Brady and Finch squirmed in their seats, clearly uncomfortable with my goading of the most powerful man in the City.

I took the moment to study them, letting my eyes linger on Finch for longer than was polite. Much, much longer.

She was a good looking woman in her early forties, blonde hair tied back in a professional, no-nonsense manner that accentuated her Slavic cheekbones, and a pair of wire rimmed glasses on the end of her nose that made her look like a porn-star turned secretary. The image was heightened by her charcoal grey trouser suit, the jacket undone to display a cream blouse beneath with a few buttons missing above the cleavage.

Feeling my loins stir, I switched my gaze to Brady instead. He was all ex-marine, square shoulders and a back that had a steel rod in it. From his expression, that rod had been rammed up his ass first thing this morning and he still wasn’t happy about it. His face was criss-crossed with a web of fine lines, and rumour had it that he’d picked them up in his early days as a knife-fighter in some backwater city before he’d joined the army. I didn’t know if it was true, but he looked the sort, and his black Armani suit did nothing to hide the clean lines and sculpted muscle of an expert fighter.

I grinned at him, slanting my head to one side insolently in a challenge that he couldn’t miss. I saw his eyes widen in response, even as his hand drifted unconsciously towards his right kidney. Hah, I thought, now I know where you keep your leveller.

I’d known from the moment I’d first met him that Brady didn’t like me, it was clear as day when he took my proffered hand like it was made from dogshit.

I know I’ve got a bit of a rep, hell, I even spread some of it about myself, but his dislike of me went further than that. Brady and Finch were supposed to be flying out in a few hours, as soon as the job was done, but I knew beyond doubt that before that plane left the tarmac, he and I would be having a reckoning. I wondered idly if it would be words or blades, hoping for the latter but still, barely, constrained by Murphy’s orders.

The boss clicked his fingers in front of my face, bringing me back to the room with a jolt.

“You back with us now Frank?” He asked, leaning back against his desk and lighting a black sobranie with a match.

“Yeah boss, sorry, just wondering why we need out of town muscle for this job. I’ve done bigger shit all by myself”.

He blew out a plume of smoke, the thick blue whorls floating up towards the ceiling as he spoke.

“We don’t need outside muscle, but their boss has a beef with Calotti. As a sign of respect, I’ve invited them along for the ride. Show of faith and all that. You done questioning my orders now?”

I nodded, keen to be getting on with the killing.

“Yup. Let’s do this”.

Murphy held up a hand in my direction and looked at the others.

“Do either of you have any questions before we start?” He asked, receiving two shakes and a good number of not so subtle glances in my direction.

Picking up on it, Murphy stood and crossed his arms over his massive chest.

“I know Frank can be somewhat... disrespectful at times, but he’s the best knifeman in the business. That’s the only reason why I keep his punk ass around. Now I know that traditionally you guys don’t play well with others, but I want you all”, he paused and included me with a glare, “to try and get along for the next few hours. If you really need to work out your testosterone on each other, do it when I’m not paying the bill”.

He crossed to the door and opened it, waiting for us to file out into the lobby before closing it firmly behind us.

I walked along behind Finch, saying nothing but enjoying the rise and fall of her magnificent ass as it stalked its way towards the elevator.

Brady pressed the button and the doors slid open, but before they could enter I slipped between them and went right to the back, turning back to grin at them as they edged in and stood in front of me, unwilling to turn their backs to me but equally unwilling to show it.

Down in the parking lot I strode past them as if I hadn’t noticed their discomfort and pulled the car keys from my pocket. Leading them to my plain looking station wagon, I got in the front and left them to decide who was going to sit up front with me and who was going to sit behind. After a lot of eyebrow waggling, Finch got in next to me, leaving Brady to sit behind my seat with his hands out of sight.

I wasn’t worried, there was plate steel a quarter of an inch thick between my back and his knife, and besides, Murphy had told us to be nice.

We drove in silence, covering the fourteen blocks to the restaurant in a little under half an hour. Brady and Finch seemed to have developed some secret language that was made up of eyebrow waggling and pouting, and I was on the verge of asking them to translate for me when I saw the car park I was looking for and took the exit, parking neatly and collecting a ticket.

It didn’t do to have your getaway vehicle noticed for something as foolish as a parking violation.

Turning to my guests, I put on my best professional smile.

“Right, the restaurant is less than half a block from here. When I ring, give me five minutes and then come in and do your thing. If it all goes wrong, you know what Calotti looks like, right?”

They both nodded and I locked the car up, leaving them standing next to it as I walked out into the gathering darkness, wrapping my coat around me to put up at least a token resistance to the heavy rain.

The restaurant itself was a nice place, a cozy Italian diner where I’d eaten a few times before. Taking off my trademark Trilby, I hung it just inside the door and covered it with my coat before being led to a table by a man who was probably called Luigi. He looked like he should have been, anyway.

“Thanks Luigi, I’ll have an order of garlic bread and some kind of chicken”, I said, ignoring his dark look as I used my made up name for him. Guess I was wrong then.

I didn’t really care, and as he bustled away I sat and slid my right hand down my calf to caress the hilt of the knife that nestled there, snug and safe in its oiled leather sheath.

This one was called Maisy, after my mother, and tonight she’d be having Italian as well. Maisy had been made by a specialist metal worker, an old Japanese guy who normally spent his time making knock-off samurai swords for tourists, but pay him enough dollar and he’d come up with something special. Like Maisy.

She was nine inches of folded carbon steel blade with a double edge and a blood groove running down the middle. Her handle was another four inches, with a small spike on the pommel for hammering into someone in an emergency. Not that an emergency had ever arisen yet, but it might one day and I’d always been taught to be prepared.

Her tip was razor sharp, prefect for slicing skin or pricking other, softer parts, and many was the man who had told me he’d never break, only to succumb to Maisy’s tender charms and spill his life story. So much so that she often got bored and had to shut them up with a quick swipe across the throat.

Not-Luigi came back with a plate of garlic bread and a face like thunder, making me give Maisy one final pat before leaving her alone. For a while, at least.

I stared back at the waiter, my favourite smile playing about my lips as I waited for him to get scared.

It only took him a few seconds. Somehow, everyone gets scared if they look at me for long enough, even Murphy. I don’t know why and I don’t care, the only person I need in my life is Maisy, and someone like Murphy to pay the bills.

The door opened and Calotti came in, his two goons sweeping the room with eyes that missed nothing. Putting on my best ‘I’m nothing’ look, I munched my way through the delicious garlic bread and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if contemplating what a marvel the food was.

It must have worked as they walked past me without another glance, hustling their boss into a private booth at the back of the room. Dropping my hand into my pocket, I pulled out my cell and dialled the number I’d been given, letting it ring five or six times before hanging up.

Then, enjoying the thought of them coming in too late, I stood and made my way over to Calotti’s table, Maisy tucked up my right sleeve while my palm caressed her hilt.

His goons saw me coming from halfway across the room and stood, their barrel-chests forming a wall of flesh that prevented me from seeing my target.

Ignoring them, I walked to within a few feet before calling over their shoulders.

“Mr Calotti, my name’s Frank. I’ve got a message from Derek Murphy”.

My boss’s name was barely out of my mouth before the goons reacted, one reaching out to grab me while the other shot a hand inside his jacket.

The one reaching for me screamed suddenly as Maisy leapt into my hand, whistling through the air of her own accord to slice off his grasping fingers.

She turned then, a reversing sweep that opened his throat with no resistance at all, her blade greedily drinking his blood and spilling the excess in a display of wanton extravagance. Oh, she was such a girl, my Maisy!

The second goon was fast, his meaty hand coming out of his jacket with a Colt .45 clenched tightly, his finger already seeking the trigger.

Maisy stabbed upwards, once, twice, and he dropped the gun and screamed as his eyes burst and trickled down his face.

Laughing now, I pushed him out of the way and advanced on Calotti, Maisy tucked against my forearm as if she was hugging me.

Filled with love for her, I let her have her head and the portly crime boss cowered as he saw his death in her glinting steel blade.

Leaning over, I let Maisy taste his fear, rubbing her blade against his throat before letting her slide through the soft flesh and into the gristle beneath.

She drank her fill, both of us exulting in the look of desperate fear that crossed her victim’s features as he frantically gasped for the air we were denying him.

Finally sated, we turned, only to see a fist flashing in towards my face. Maisy tried to stop it, but she wasn’t fast enough and the knuckles struck my chin, sending me sprawling backwards over the screaming goon that lay at my feet.

Brady reached down, grabbing Maisy, caressing her with his hand as I screamed in rage. She was mine!

Unbelieving, I watched as she let him take her, snuggled into his hand like some five dollar whore.

Maisy reached down, looking at me for a moment before sliding into my chest, parting muscle and bone as if it were paper, piercing my heart and spilling her lover’s blood as if we’d never shared the intimacy that was all that kept me sane.

Looking down in disbelief, I saw her standing proud from the gaping wound in my chest, and I fancied for a moment that regret was what made her cling to me in a lover’s final embrace.

I realised then what the looks had been about in the car, Finch and Brady’s secret code. Murphy had had enough of me, I’d pushed him too far, and he’d hired these bastards to finish me off once I’d done for Calotti.

Laughing to myself softly as I died, I realised that none of that mattered now. None of it mattered, because my love, my Maisy, had found another man and my heart was broken.

BIO:
Paul is a crime and thriller author and blogs at http://diariesofamodernmadman.blogspot.com/

AT THE NORMAL CAFE - part 5 - PAYING WHAT IS OWED By Chris Allinotte

Here's the latest in Chris' multi-viewpoint take on a shocking event...

At the Normal Café Part 5 – Paying What is Owed

Lenny checked the window; there was still nothing there. The taste of maple syrup clung to his mouth, turning to acid as he tongued it. Still, picking at the waffle gave him something else to do, so he prepared another mouthful and looked away from the parking lot for a moment. Nothing he could do would erase the bet. He could just try to forget for a little while, regain his composure, and come up with a plan.

The TV was bleating about some useless piece of junk for sale, but was preferable to watching the Sports News, which was good for nothing but heartache now.

He watched the bouncing girl in tights for a moment. Yes, this was much better than being reminded that both the Cubs’ Pennant hopes and his own life might end on the same night. God-damn that guy! To have had the game in the bag, and then have it fall completely to shit over the actions of a fan too stupid to leave the ball alone. The police had escorted the guy out of the stadium. It was no surprise. Right now the entire city wanted the guy taken out and beaten.

Lenny ran sticky fingers through his hair and checked the window again. The diner was reflected in ghostly outline. Behind him, he could just make out Dwayne’s yellow cap. The reek of whiskey had been unmistakeable when they’d exchanged hellos earlier. Tonight though, his friend would have to deal with his troubles alone. Lenny sipped his coffee. The Bensons hadn’t found him yet, but it wouldn’t be long. He attempted another forkful of waffle.

Breakfast at midnight soothed him. He’d been coming here so long that Bev would have the waffles in the toaster just as he reached his table; they were his favourite. Good old Bev. He managed another bite but the taste was still disappointingly flat. He sipped his coffee and wondered again how his dreams had come to depend on the fate of a single ballgame.

***

There was no “first bet” in his memory. Of course there wasn’t. Gambling begins in childhood; and the kid who learns the fastest gets the most marbles. But the kid that learns to work the rules, like Lenny, he sends the skilled kid home crying every time. It was a talent his Uncle Tyler had nurtured.

While it wasn’t the best upbringing for a kid, he’d been happy, and while his parents had spent their weekends decorating and selling other people’s houses, he’d sat in the breeze of a rusty table fan and watched sports with his uncle.

“See kid, the trick is knowing the variables. All these damn teams are more or less the same. There’s the top five, obviously, that win most of their games. Stay away from them.”

Lenny had just nodded, taking it all in. Tyler sat back, flipped to another game to check the score, then continued his sermon, “Unless of course, you get word that it’s worth your while to get some money on it.”

“Like you know they’re going to lose?”, the boy had asked.

Tyler’s expression had been hard to read. Before answering, he’d gotten up and limped to the fridge for another beer. As long as he could remember, Uncle Tyler had trouble walking. That had been the reason he’d started watching Lenny in the first place. “Long as the kid doesn’t want to go anywhere,” Tyler had said, “he can hang out with me.” Lenny, already a pasty-white TV junkie, had supported that idea whole heartedly.

“You can’t ever know that Lenny,” said Tyler, coming back from the kitchen. “But the smart man keeps his ears open. Say you find out the morning of the game that the star centerfielder has pneumonia for example, you might lay a couple bucks against them winning that particular game. People that don’t listen, that just play the stats – you’ll come out ahead more often than not.”

When he turned thirteen, Tyler started placing bets for Lenny, using his allowance. Sometimes he won, and turned the windfall into video games, CDs or other fleeting pleasures. When he lost – and he did lose – Tyler had taught him to suck it up. “When you’re going to bet, Lenny, you’re better off if you just put the money aside, like it’s already gone. That way if you need to pay, it’s all done.” A strange look had come over his face then, and he’d gone silent.

The last day he’d ever spent with Uncle Tyler was a losing day. Lenny went over, and paid up as soon as he got in the door. He got a warm can of pop from the kitchen and took up his customary spot on the ratty striped armchair near the TV. Tyler had lost too, and sat glowering at the screen. Thinking to cheer him up, Lenny said, “No way we could’ve seen that one, huh Uncle? Guy breaks a finger and then hits for the cycle. Lucky jerk.”

Tyler didn’t respond for a long moment. He stared hard at Lenny, really giving him a good look up and down. Just as Lenny was starting to get uncomfortable, Tyler asked him, “What do you want to be when you grow up Lenny?”

“That’s easy. I want to be rich,” he replied with a smile.

“Yeah? That’s good,” said Tyler, but the way the stubbly corners of his mouth were pulled down spoke differently. “What are you going to do to get rich? What are you good at? What do you like to do?”

Lenny shifted in his seat. It was hard to look away from those cold, red-ringed eyes. Uncle Ty had never asked him this stuff before, had never said anything serious to him that wasn’t about betting.

He swallowed, then said the first thing that popped into his head, “I don’t know, really. I figured I’d take business courses.”

Tyler nodded, “Business courses. Yeah. That’s good. You’re good with numbers, right?”

Lenny flushed a little, “Not really. I know money, but Calculus? No way.”

Tyler waved a hand in dismissal, “That’s what I meant. What else?”

Lenny gestured with the remote, “There’s always the games. I figured I’d work some desk job, and make the real bucks being smart.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Tyler exhaled in a hiss. “That’s what you think.” He buried his face in his hands suddenly, then ran the fingers back through his greasy grey hair. “Jesus kid. I’ve fucked you up. Your dad too. Your mother too.” He was getting louder. “They shouldn’t have left you here so much.” He turned and walked toward the kitchen, talking to himself now, “What the fuck do I know about raising a kid?”

Lenny stood up. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he didn’t want to be sitting anymore. Just to say something, he tried, “I like spending time with you Uncle Ty. I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing.”

Tyler turned back around and limped as quickly as he could to Lenny. It was still pretty fast, and Lenny actually flinched, thinking crazily that his Uncle was about to deck him.

“Lenny, you like spending time with me? You wanna be like me? Take a look, kid. Take a good look at me.” He stood there in his dirty Cubs sweater, arms spread.

“You’re the coolest person I know.” said Lenny, almost whispering.

“Lenny, I’m not cool. I’m fucked. You want to know why I limp? Huh? You asked enough times. I never told you. Well, here goes. Here’s what you get ‘being smart.’” He sat down hard on the chair and put his leg up on the coffee table. As he started pulling up the leg of his track pants, he said, “I was so smart, I bet five grand I didn’t have on the Cubs, and they lost.”

The nylon cuff slid up over Tyler’s knee and Lenny sucked in a deep breath. His uncle’s joint was a tragedy – all lumps and white scar tissue. Tyler looked up at his nephew. “I think you should go home now Lenny and I don’t want you coming over anymore.”

Lenny opened his mouth to object, but Tyler shook his head. “Don’t argue Leonard. Go home, call up some other kid, and go to the mall or something. Be a kid. Study your business books. Be something. Don’t be me.” He got to his feet again and picked up the beer bottle on the coffee table. Finding it empty, he walked into the kitchen again. Lenny was doing his best not to cry, but felt the tears coming regardless. His voice quaked as he said, “You’re all I’ve got.”

Tyler didn’t stop. Lenny heard the rattle of bottles as the fridge door swung open. His uncle’s voice drifted out to him one last time, “Jesus kid, I’m sorry.” When he didn’t return to the living room, Lenny left the apartment. He cried all the way back home.

***

Twenty years later, his hair was starting to turn grey, he worked for a strip-mall accounting firm, and he’d lost five grand he didn’t have on a game the Cubs weren’t supposed to lose. It’s not your fault, Uncle Tyler, he thought. You were the only father I had, and you did the best you could.

A sudden sweep of headlights across the parking lot turned his stomach to soup and his arm spasmed, knocking his plate off the table to explode on the floor. “Shit,” he muttered, and squatted down to start picking up the larger pieces. Bev arrived with her dustpan.

“Lenny, quit that. You’ll cut your hands all up,” she said.

“Nah, Bev, let me help,” he replied, hating how shaky his voice came out.

“C’mon Lenny, this is the most exciting thing I’ve had to do all night. Don’t worry about it,” Bev said with a little smile, then started to sweep up the mess.

Lenny slid back into his seat, and despite himself, checked the window yet again. The Benson brothers would find him eventually. The waiting was killing him.

Lenny watched Bev go over to the garbage can and her favorite spot behind the counter. He played with his fork. He’d only had two bites left, but he missed having them. This threatened to be the final thing that would make him break down completely. Across the diner, Big Dwayne got up from his booth. I should go talk to him when he gets back, thought Lenny, remembering the sullen, haunted look on the man’s face.

Sudden movement at the counter caught his eye. The stranger had spun around on his stool and now bolted to his feet. He had a gun in his hand. The crack of the shot was deafening. Dwayne staggered back and fell into the bench seat there. Lenny’s hand went white around his fork. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking, They’re here. The Bensons sent this guy to kill me. The door was two tables to his right. It might as well be across the room. Still, he couldn’t stay here. He kept his eyes on the stranger, who was starting to wave the gun around, and was moving his mouth, saying something. Slowly, he inched to the edge of his seat, and sank to the floor, where he’d be out of sight behind the big centre booth. Some of the guy’s words started coming clear, “… LAUGHING at Me! Quit..” The gun crashed again and the huge picture window behind Lenny exploded. Lenny started to scream and then bit down hard on his lip; bit hard enough he tasted blood. A rush of wind from outside raised gooseflesh under his sweaty shirt. I’ve gotta get out of here.

Whether it was the pain, the fear, or the fresh air, he found he could hear again. Bev was speaking, “…forgot your change sir …” She was talking to the shooter. Unbelieveable. He looked again at the door. He might still be able to make it. Lenny started to crawl, and had gotten just two feet down the aisle when the first tiny jag of glass found his palm. Shit. He bit his lip harder. This is stupid. I’ve got to walk. Bright yellow light flashed between the legs of the tables by the former window – headlights. The light stayed constant; the car wasn’t turning. Christ! The Bensons! He decided to make a sprint for the door.

Lenny tensed to spring. Balling his fists, he was surprised to find he was still holding the fork. Before he could move, Bev screamed, and it was almost as loud as the gunshots,“DAWNIE – NO!!”

The gun crashed again, and Bev cried out. Lenny’s heart was thumping painfully in his chest. His thoughts were a blur: that son of a bitch … oh God, I’m next … if the Bensons don’t get me first!

The desire to escape won out above all and he shifted to make his move. Glass scraped against the linoleum. The stranger came closer. Lenny felt his last bite of waffle in the back of his throat. There was a sudden thud; and the stranger yelled in pain. Around the corner of the center booth, the stranger came into view, falling to his knees clutching his head. In his mind, Lenny heard Bev scream again. Without thinking, he lunged forward with the only weapon he had, his fork. He jabbed the stranger again and again.

As noisy as the gun had been, the place had fallen nearly silent. Lenny could hear the neon “Open” sign squeaking as it swung freely out into the night, and back into the diner. He could hear the little shucking noise as the tines pulled free of the stranger’s shoulder, before he plunged again.

From beyond the broken window, a voice said, “Stop that. He’s unconscious.”

Lenny looked over his shoulder to see a woman standing at the broken window. He dropped the fork. She stood in silhouette in front of the headlights that were still shining in. He asked the only question worth asking, “Are you from the Police?”

“No, but they’re on their way. My name is Judith. I’m … a friend. Of his.”

BIO:

Chris Allinotte is a Toronto based writer. His work has been published on the web at such great sites as MicroHorror, Flashes in the Dark, the Oddville Press, and more. For more details about Chris' writing, check out his blog at: http://chrisallinotte.blogspot.com/

MENDED by Lee Hughes

Lees back...

Mended

Melvin stood before the display.

His stubby, sausage like fingers darted outwards, only to retreat as he changed his mind on which tape to buy.

“Melvin, you planning on getting under the feet of my customers all morning?” The owner asked.

Melvin looked down at his scuffed boots and did himself a little mumbling.

“What was that Melvin?”

Melvin kept his interest on the floor. “I’m a customer too, Mr. Handley.”

“Yes Melvin, yes you are. Come rain or shine, once a week you clomp on into my store and fill up my register to the tune of two rolls of sticky tape after an hour of manhandling each and every roll.”

Melvin reached and grabbed his favourite brand of sticking tape; any thoughts of trying a different kind were gone, it’d only been a fanciful idea anyhow. His cheeks were reddening just like they always did when he knew people were staring. He knew they’d be guffawing at him.

He planted a hand into the bib pocket of his dungarees, his fingers ignoring the touch of the ridged shell that at one time or another used to be the home of a snail. The snail had gone, Melvin had no idea where to, but he was holding on to the shell just in case he came across a snail that needed a roof over its head.

Melvin didn’t count the money, didn’t need to. All he had was enough shrapnel to buy the usual two rolls of tape.

***

The sunshine spread itself over his face, burning away his fretting over the bad folks inside Mr. Handley’s hardware store.

His purposeful strides soon had him away from Main Street. His smile widened the further from town he got. He always looked forward to seeing his tree, he had a feeling that the tree looked forward to his visits too.

Melvin sang a song he’d made up, when? He couldn’t quite remember, but that didn’t matter as the words were regularly substituted when he couldn’t remember them.

He saw his tree across the field and stopped. It was different from how he had left it the previous day. Someone had come along and hung a swing from one of the branches; he wondered if it was the same person that was playing on it. Melvin started to run to his tree. He didn’t mind sharing, not that many folks wanted to share things with him.

It was the tree, he was worried the rope from the swing and the weight from the girl was hurting and damaging it.

The girl stopped swinging when she saw him running.

Her eyes widened, startled. She looked about six-years old and on the verge of screaming. She stayed the scream when Melvin didn’t grab at her and just climbed up to look at where the ropes had been tied about the thick branch.

“What’re you doing?” She asked.

Melvin was biting his lip as he studied the branch for damage. The damage was minimal, a little rubbing of the bark, the girl didn’t weigh that much.

“It’s okay,” Melvin said. “It’s nothing that can’t be mended, you can keep swinging if you like.”

He climbed down.

With both feet on the ground he buried his hands in his pockets, stared at the dirt and kicked it a little with the toe of a boot.

“I’m Melvin.”

The girl drew shapes with the tips of her own shoes, delicate little inscriptions as her legs were dangling and barely made it to the ground. “I’m Abigail Miller and I'm six and a half.”

“Nice swing. You put it up?”

“My brother did.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tom.”

“Where’s he gone?”

“He had to go help daddy. We just moved in.” She stopped and pointed over at a house at the far end of the field. “We just moved in there.”

Melvin knew it as the Masterson’s place. Though no one had been living there in... Melvin looked to the tree and worked it out by remembering the leaves and the turning of their colours. Three years was his reckoning.

Melvin sank down, his back up against the bark.

The girl watched him, not quite sure what to make of him. “Do you know why there’s lots of tape on the tree, Melvin?”

Melvin smiled at the ground, his face proud. “Because I mended it.”

Abigail kept on swinging. “You mended it?”

Melvin said a big, “Yup.”

"Why?" She asked, craning her neck to look at all the stuck on leaves that were long past dead and moving swiftly into decay.

"I don't like broken things, folks say I'm broken and it's not nice, so I keep my tree mended, and other things if I find them broke."

"What other things?"

Melvin pointed up to one of the branches. Abigail followed the direction of his finger-tip and saw what looked like a bird. She decided it was definitely a bird, though she had no idea what kind, it looked as if it was made up of half of a blackbird and the rest a raven, all taped together and fastened to the branch in the same manner.

"I mended that when it was broke." He pointed to a different branch. Abigail saw a squirrel cocooned in sticky tape. The more she looked the more mended things she saw.

"You sure have fixed a lot of things Melvin," Abigail said, starting to swing again.

"Yup, seems there's always something that needs to be mended." He got up and started to climb the tree.

"What'cha doing?" Abigail asked.

Melvin stopped climbing, looked down and smiled. "I keep the things that need fixing up here, but you're not to tell anyone, it's my secret, yours now too, that is, if you're my friend."

Abigail smiled. "Then we're friends."

"Friends," Melvin repeated as though he could taste the word in his mouth, it tasted nice, like chocolate ice-cream.

Abigail went back to swinging as Melvin reached his little hidey-hole.

He took the large shoebox from the plastic bag and opened it. He smiled at the medley of bones and such, all things waiting their turn to be mended.

"Melvin?"

"Yup?"

"How do you mend them?" Her curiosity had finally gotten the better of her.

"My poppa taught me how, but with automobiles. He had lots of broken automobiles, he'd take from one to fix another, then fix the other when more parts came along."

Abigail nodded as though it all made perfect sense and continued to swing.

Melvin delved through the bones. His fingers traipsing over the small skull and what he thought was maybe an arm bone. After finding the small skull in Merewether's back-yard he'd gone back and dug a bit deeper and struck gold in the shape of more bones. It was good to find things that needed mending. He'd only trespassed and done the excavation because Mr. Merewether had kept dogs and Melvin had hoped to get some dog parts as Mrs. Jackson's pooch had been hit by a car and had lost a hind-leg, he was sure the bits he'd found weren't dog-kind, but he'd kept them because they needed mending too.

"Melvin?"

Melvin looked down at the human pendulum.

He smiled. "Yup?"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Naw." Melvin blushed, from pale to beetroot in the space of a heartbeat.

"Tom has, he's real mad that he had to leave her when we moved. Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"Naw!" Melvin looked every which way but at little Abigail. "Nurse Betty once cupped my jangleys and asked me to cough, and nana Jenkins gave me a kiss on her deathbed, that count?"

"I guess," Abigail said, sorrow in her voice. She looked up, her eyes wide. "I've never had a boyfriend, you want to be it?"

Melvin's words came quick. "I'd make a good boyfriend, I'd bring you ribbons for your hair, and chocolates when I have money enough."

That made her smile.

Melvin went back to his calcium treasures.

"Watch me Melvin!" Abigail called as she worked to get the swing higher and higher.

Melvin looked from the box and grinned. "You go getting much higher and you'll be on the moon! It's made of cream cheese, did you know that?"

"No it's not!"

"Is too!"

"Is not!"

Melvin didn't like arguments and shouting so he just whispered to himself, "Is too." And went back to his box.

A scream made Melvin jump. He looked down. The old rope had rubbed past being frayed and had given up and broke. Abigail was thrown like she weighed nothing more than wishes off the plank-seat and tossed a good dozen yards.

Her scream stopped when she landed.

"You okay, Abigail?" Melvin asked, starting down the tree as fast as he could.

He got over to her, fell to his knees and rolled her over.

Her eyes were closed and blood ran from a deep gash in her brow, so deep he could see bone.

"Aww, naw...Abigail, you okay?" He gave her a gentle shake.

Abigail didn't stir.

"You broken Abigail, you need to be mended." He looked up at the tree, at the box, the box filled with the things that needed mending too. His poppa's voice echoed through the hallways of his head. He listened to the words, having heard them so often he reckoned he could recite them if the need arose.

"I'll mend you Abigail, I'm supposed to be fair and mend the things that have been waiting the longest, but you're my gal, so I'll get you mended up, cross my heart and hope to die, can't get much more of an oath than that." He stood up, a heavy sigh bled from his mouth as he returned to his tree and began to climb it to fetch the box and do some mending.

***

Marybeth Miller smiled as her husband and son came into the kitchen burdened with tools and such from the hardware store. The house was her perfect dream, but even perfect dreams still needed work, the kind that went hand in glove with wallpaper.

"I'll start fixing lunch in a little while," she said.

"Want me to go fetch Abigail, Mom?" Tom asked, setting down his armload of wallpaper.

Marybeth smiled. "I'll go get her, you give your dad a hand."

She headed out the door. She stood taking in the new surroundings. After so long in the city the quietness felt strange, like it was only borrowed, but she was sure she didn't want to give it back. She headed across the field towards the tree where Tom had said he'd made the swing.

Her eyes narrowed. She could see the swing arcing back and forth. Little Abigail in the seat. It was the man pushing it that caused her concern. In this day and age there was no telling what horrors could happen, even if just imagined. She hastened her stride.

The man was wearing dungarees like a yahoo and grinning as he pushed the swing.

Marybeth looked at Abigail, there was something different, something stiff like she wasn't riding the swing but fastened to it.

She was no more than thirty yards away when she could make out the blood on the Yahoo's clothes.

He wore an idiot grin as he said, "It's okay, I mended Abigail."

Marybeth screamed.


BIO:
Lee's fiction has appeared on numerous eZines such as A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, MicroHorror, FlashShots etc, and in such anthologies as Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9, Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal and upcoming in No One Can Hear You Scream, Don't Tread on Me, Flash, and Flash Fiction: 365 Days of Flash. You can find out more and read some of his work at www.leehughes.net

PAUL GRZEGORZEK TAKE A BOW

We have a winner!!

There were ten absolutely brilliant short stories entered into the competition to win a signed first edition hardback copy of the third Joe Hunter thriller - Slash and Burn - all of which you can still read over at http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/

All ten were superb and I'm glad that I put the voting out to the readers instead of having to choose one out of the bunch. Nevertheless, there could be only one.

Drumroll please..........

And the Winner is A LONG TIME COMING by Paul Grzegorzek.

Congratulations to Paul on a fast moving, thriller story that everyone agrees is absolutely brilliant.

There are of course no losers all the other entries are also top notch and I raise my glass to you all for some damn fine writing. I salute you all.

In no particular order:

GALLANCE by Col Bury
FIRESTORM by Alan Peden
TROUBLE ON A BUS by John Walker
PROMISES, PROMISES by Sue Harding
UNDERBELLY by Anna Harris
IN THE KINGDOM OF THE FUCKED UP, THE GUN-TOTING MAN IS KING by Lee Hughes
DARK HEART by AJ Humpage
DIAMONDS AND PEARLS by Alan Griffiths
THE SET UP by David Foster

Did you spot your favourite writer?

Thanks to everyone who entered, and to everyone who read, commented and voted on their fave.