Ye Olde Editors Speak

A little while ago we promised we'd be back, and we will be as of 1st July 2010. We also promised there'd be a few surprises along the way.

Well, if you care to take a quick tap over at the Ye Olde Editors tab you might get your first surprise (or maybe not). Matt - Thriller Dude - knows his stuff about the thriller genre, and Col - Crime Dude - knows his about the crime and noir genres, but what was missing was someone with a real understanding and passion for the horror genre. Horror Dude needs no introduction to TKnC regulars, and I'm sure you'll all welcome him to the TKnC head shed. Matt and Col are very pleased to have him on-board. Please keep your eyes peeled for an up-coming interview with Horror Dude soon.

Having three editors on board means that not only is the workload easier for each of us, but it also means we can concentrate on what we know best - our own specific genres. Hence the new submission process.

From here on in, when you submit using the specific header in the title, your story will go through to that specific editor, so you now know that you are getting the best chance possible of having your work featured here. But here's the 'glitch': your work has got to be good to get by each of the guys, cause they'll be looking at it with their expert eyes. Take faith in this new rule, though, because you'll know that your work has made it on its merit and will be valued so much more. We're gonna be tougher, we're not gonna accept under par stuff, but we believe that you're all up to the challenge, and then some.

Let the thrilling, killing and chilling commence. (Well, in a few days time that is).

Something Wicked This Way Comes...

Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers will re-open to submissions from July 1st.

Please ensure that you check the submissions process as there has been a change to the manner in which we'll be accepting your stories.

Please keep an eye out for further announcements in the next few days.

cheers
The Editors

AT THE NORMAL CAFE - part 6 - WITNESSES by Chris Allinotte

While we gear up for the relaunch of TKnC, here's the latest chapter in Chris' on-going masterpiece...


At the Normal Café – Part 6 – Witnesses


Krista stared into her empty cup; her hair flopped down in front of her face, and she left it there to veil her expression from Michael. Poor Michael – he was trying so hard to cheer her up. This whole night had been his idea, but “getting totally messed up and going dancing” hadn’t helped at all. If anything, she felt worse -- most of the buzz was gone, and a mild headache was setting in.

Michael, who had easily outpaced his girlfriend at the bar, got unsteadily to his feet and moved to her side of the booth. He put his arm around her shoulders and said softly, “Kris, you’ve got to let it go, just for a little while. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”

She raised her face, and looked at him, “I don’t know how to let it go Mike. He’s got the school on his side, tenure, and who am I to go against him? Nobody.”

Michael took a deep breath, “I know how you feel Kris. That douchebag has all the cards right now, but we'll find a way to make it right. I promise.”

He sipped his coffee, “But hey,” he leaned back so he could look her in the eyes, “I took you out to get your mind off this. We can think about it tomorrow. In the meantime, I don’t know ... just be glad you’re not that guy.” He gestured at the derelict seated at the counter. “Now him, he’s obviously got some problems. I mean just look at that coat for one.”

Krista smiled, but it didn’t last. “I can’t just stop thinking about it Mike.” Her tone was defeated, almost pleading. “I’m so mad I don’t know what to do with myself”.

Mike took a deep breath, and pulled a face. Krista recognized it as his “funny guy” expression, and prepared for him to do something completely off the wall, ostensibly to distract her. However, this thought was proven wrong when he bolted from the table saying, “Oh god Kris. I’m gonna throw up.”

He ran to the men’s room, leaving Krista alone. A moment later, the scene in Dr. Valentin’s office came back yet again.

***

“Sir? May I talk to you about my final paper?” asked Krista. She had been first in line at the start of office hours. Now, she held the stapled manuscript in front of her like an offering.

“Yes, Miss Grenier?” said Dr. Valentin, laying down a magazine he’d been reading, “What seems to be the problem?” The professor raised an eyebrow in a manner he doubtless thought was charming. For Krista, who knew, without an excess of ego, that she was pretty, it just looked lecherous.

“It isn’t mine, sir.” Krista replied. She sat down on one of the green tweed-backed chairs in front of his desk. “The T.A.’s handed the papers back yesterday, and I tried to tell them this one wasn’t mine, but they just said it must be, as it had my name on it.”

Without looking at the paper, Valentin said, “Of course it’s your paper. Whose would it be otherwise?”

Krista didn’t have an immediate reply; this wasn’t going at all as she’d anticipated. Taking a moment to think, she looked down at the desk where her eyes found the magazine he’d been reading. It was turned to an article by the professor himself, entitled...

“This is my essay,” Krista gasped. “You published my essay.”

Valentin looked at her calmly, “No, Ms Grenier, you’re mistaken. This article was written by me; see the by-line?” He tapped it with one patronizing finger, “Your essay is the mediocre document that you’ve brought with you.”

Krista picked up the magazine. There was no mistake; every paragraph she’d laboured over was here. He hadn’t bothered to change a thing. It was her words and his name.

“Professor,” she began, “This is the essay I turned in to you. I can prove it.”

Valentin took the magazine from her, still smiling, but his eyes were devoid of emotion, “I think I understand the real reason you’re here. The mark I’ve given you may have been a little harsh. Tell you what … I’m willing to bump you up to a ‘B’, if you’ll drop this ridiculous line of conversation right now.”

Her cheeks burned, “But I didn’t write this, I wrote that piece.” She jabbed her finger at the magazine, “And you’ve stolen it!”

Valentin’s smile vanished, and he said, “Ms Grenier, I’m going to ask you to leave now. You’ve come to discuss your mark, and we’ve discussed it. I am giving you a grade which will neither help nor impede your overall average.” He pushed back from the desk and stood up. “As to your accusation, I’m afraid it will be my word against yours – and my word carries a lot more weight. In future, I’d also suggest that you invest more into your work. This one,” he picked up her paper, “isn’t worth the fifty-dollars you paid for it online.”

Krista’s hands were shaking, and her mouth had gone dry. All she could think of to say was, “You can’t do this, Professor.”

Valentin stood, and walked to the door; with a hand on the knob he said, “I already have, Ms. Grenier. If you pursue this further, or speak to anyone about it, you'll receive a zero in my class, and, of course, the issue of your own plagiarism will be brought to light." He shoved the purchased essay at her.

She stood, still shaking, and started to leave, but he didn’t move out of the way. Looking her over once more, he said, in a soft, vile tone, “There might be one way for you to still get an ‘A’, Ms Grenier, which we haven’t discussed yet.”

It was too much. She shoved him back and was out the door before he could recover. As soon as she started down the hall though, she could hear Valentin in his office, laughing.

***

“I’ve got the answer, Kris,” said Michael, coming back from the washroom. The visit had done him good. He already seemed sharper, and certainly less green.

“Are you okay?” asked Krista.

“Oh, yeah – lots better, and then when I was cleaning up,” he said, sitting down across from her. “I started thinking, ‘Why would he do the bait and switch with the essays?’”

Before she could guess, he answered his own question, “He wanted to get you in his office, Kris, before you had time to think. He wanted to get you into a corner before you could act. Well, now we’ve had time to think, and you know what? Screw the University, and screw Valentin.”

He pulled a USB stick from his pocket and threw it on the table. “All your files are here. Research notes, drafts, all saved and dated. We’ll send this to that magazine and see what happens.”

Krista grabbed his hands and leaned forward to kiss him, “Mike, you're a genius” she said. "I can't believe we didn't think of it before."

Michael smiled and said, "Feeling better?"

“Definitely.”

She leaned over and kissed him again. When she sat back, she said, “Let's go home."

The tone of this last made Michael sit bolt upright and make a completely obnoxious show of snapping his fingers for the cheque. Krista couldn’t help but grin.

The waitress saw him and frowned, but headed to the register to print their bill. The heavy trucker-looking guy got up and started past them to the restroom. He smelled even more boozed-up as Krista felt, and the thoughts of home and bed seemed better still.

It was right then that everything went to hell.

From his perch at the counter, the crazy guy in the army coat swung around, holding a gun. Without a word of warning, he fired at the trucker, who went down with a heavy cry of alarm, landing in the booth across from Krista and Michael. They ducked down in the bench seat, not knowing what else to do.

A yellow and black cell phone clattered to a stop on the worn out linoleum tiles at Krista's feet. It had fallen out of the trucker's pocket. Looking over at the man, he'd rolled onto the ground, leaving a slick red patch of blood on the booth behind him. Without thinking, Krista kicked the handset back over to him, then immediately regretted it. She should have picked it up and called the cops. Who knew if the guy was even conscious, let alone able to make a call?

The stranger fired again. With a sharp crack, the bullet went wild off the painted cinderblock wall. He was screaming out a string of nonsense, and with her ears ringing from the shots, Krista only caught one or two words -- "I KNOW" and "Okay... Okay ...” She looked back at the phone. The trucker was reaching for it. If he doesn't get it in one try, she thought, I'll grab it and call. Michael followed her gaze, and started patting his pockets, looking for his own phone; Krista's had started dying two hours ago, and luckily she'd turned it off. The last thing they needed was for the "Battery low" tone to ring out and draw the psycho's attention.

Another gunshot rang out, another crack off the concrete, and Michael's head snapped to the side. A black hole had appeared in his right cheek. Krista bit down on her hand now, trying to keep the screams at bay. Her eyes welled with tears. Michael, oh god, Michael. She had to get to him.

The gun went off again, and this time there was the sound of glass shattering, but Krista registered this only vaguely. Her every thought was for Michael.

Krista slid down in her seat until she was crouched under the table. Quickly, she moved across to the other bench where Michael laid, the back of her head scraping across a minefield of discarded gum.

"Michael?" she whispered. There was no answer. She grabbed his wrist to check for a pulse. It was there, but it was irregular, as if it could quit at any moment.

The gunfire had quit. From far away, it seemed, she heard the waitress talking to the guy and the gunman saying something back. He wasn't screaming anymore.

Krista put her mouth to her boyfriend’s ear. "Michael," she whispered. "Michael, stay with me, oh stay with me honey, we're going to get through this, just hang on ... hang on." She was rubbing his wrist and hand, as if she could bring him back to consciousness just by touch.

The relative silence was split wide open as the waitress screamed, "Dawnie ... NO!"

There was another explosion as the gun fired again. A woman cried out; probably the butchy-looking blonde who'd sat near the door. Krista grabbed Michael by his belt and his left arm, and dragged his limp body off the bench to join her under the table. His head flopped against her thigh, leaving bits of gore behind. She cradled him to her; not daring to speak, she just held on to him and listened. Hopefully the trucker had gotten hold of the police.

Suddenly, the madman yelled out in pain. The gun fired again and Krista heard something heavy hit the floor. Had someone attacked him? Who would take on a man with a gun? Moments passed. She waited. Silence descended. Nobody was talking. The gun didn't go off again.

Krista began to hope it might be safe to emerge, to grab the trucker's phone and call an ambulance for Michael when a woman's voice said, "Stop that. He's unconscious." The blonde was down, it seemed, so this was someone else.

A man asked her, "Are you from the Police?”

She replied, "No. My name is Judith; I'm a friend ... of his."

The need to know what was going on won out over the desire to hide. Krista lowered Michael to the floor and crawled out from under the table. Near the door, she saw the woman. "Judith" was tall, dressed in dark jeans and a brown leather coat. She stood as casually as if she’d just come in for coffee.

There was a groan, and Krista could hear the gunman, speaking from the ground behind the row of booths, “Who …”

“It’s me Tom,” Judith replied.

“Judith?”

“We need to talk Tom. Give me the gun.” It was a demand.

Krista put a hand on Michael’s ankle; she could feel his pulse there. She could do nothing else right now, so she waited, and listened.

And watched.

Copyright 2010, Chris Allinotte

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/

THUMP By Paul D. Brazill

THUMP

Thump.

There.

Thump.

There it is again.

Thump.

I told you. No, shh. Listen. . .

Thump.

Did you hear? Listen. No ....

Thump.Thump. Thump.

There! You must have heard that!

Thump.

See, I told you but you didn’t believe me, did you? She’s down there.

Of course I’m sure it’s her.

What do you mean?

Eh?

It stand to reason doesn’t it? When was the last time you saw her, eh?

Thump. Thump.

See, what I reckon is ... Shhh! Toby’s coming back. Neck that and let’s get a couple more pints in while he’s here.

Hows the match, Toby? Aye... Aye. Well there’s still time ,eh? Game of two halves and all that.

Yeah a couple more pints of Nelson please Toby ... Ta.

Many in the other room? Oh, aye, him. Well he’s attached to the place like it’s an umbilical cord,eh? Tight as a gnats twat, though,eh?

Ta much.

Good CD this. Love a bit of Simple Minds, me. Could you turn it up a bit before you go back, Toby. Ta.

Aye, pain in the arse having to go outside for a cig but what can we do eh? The law’s the law.

Oh, ey Toby. Keith here was asking after your Lisa. Said he hasn’t seen her for a bit. I said a bit of what? Ha, ha ...

Ey, ey, ey!

Ey, only joking mate. Sorry! No offence. Just making conversation, like.

Aye.

She still in Jockland then?

Aye, well as long as she’s alight then. Yeah. Yeah.

Aye.

Aye.

Aye, we’ll give you a shout if anyone comes in.

Right.

Shh. . . Wait . . .

Right.

Thump.

See. Told you. It’s her, Keith.

It is.

Think about it. She was always hanging around here in them jeans so tight you could read her lips. You could see Toby’s face when anyone tried chatting her up.

Aye, only natural. But you know, the little green - eyed idol and that ...

What? But she hasn’t been in for ...

... Yeah, I know. I know he said she’s off with her aunt in Scotland but it’s not what I heard. I heard she was banging that Gypsy bloke that was sniffing around her and .. .

Yeah, I know. Only sixteen, but old enough to bleed old enough to breed,eh?

THUMP. THUMP.

Now you must have heard that?

See, that Gypsy bloke, you remember him, all gold, tattoos and hairy arms? Aye. Pentagon medallion dangling round his neck.

That’s the lad....

Shhh ... Ahh, Don’t You Forget About Me... this is the stuff... Simple Minds biggest hit, you know? Broke them in the US of A ...

Yeah, well Toby was ever so protective, eh? That lad must have been forty if he was a day...

May to December relationships,eh? Call it what you want Keith, I doubt Toby was too impressed. They reckon he covered Lisa’s neck with some nasty love bites ... Yeah, she was smitten and that. Walking around like she was hypnotised. Spaced out, like...

Nah, doubt she touches the wacky backy, all fitness and health and safety, her.

Anyway,I reckon that he’s got her down there like that Fritz bloke in Austria. Remember him? Had his young un locked up in the basement for donkeys years?

Probably banging her himself. Can’t say I blame him, mind you ...ey, ey, no need for you to get all touchy as well ... only a bit of a ...

What? Go where? The filth? Grass him up?

Not on your nelly, Keith. I’m many things but I am not a grass. Anyway, I think they’re still looking for me for that B&E at the gas works. Nah, you see, I’ve got a ...

Hold on ... Wait for the next song to start. . .

Thump.

See?

Thump.

See?

Ahh, Promised You A Miracle. Love this one. Classic.

Naw, my plan is to get down there after he closes up the pub and see if she’s there, just to be certain, like .... yeah, I’m sure she is ... and then phone the press...

The papers!

You know, The Mirror, The Sun, News Of The Screws and that ... and get them down here when we set her free. I reckon we could make a fortune selling the story.Telly. Book deal. Films. The lot, Keith. The lot.

What? The lock? Do you know who you’re talking to, Keith?

Piece of piss. Easy peasey, Japanesey. We get in through those double cellar doors at the back of the pub. The ones that the brewery use to deliver the booze.

Yes!

He’s only got a daft padlock on there, I can pick that in no time, you know that.

Yeah, we’ll do it tomorrow might after he closes up.

***

You tosser. I can’t ...

Of course we need a friggin torch.I left me night vision goggles at home ... nah, that was a joke, Keith. Honestly some people ...

Well, at least we’ve got that full moon dangling there. Should give us a bit of light ...

A what? A gibbons moon? If you like, Keith, if you like...

Right, now slowly, slowly ... shh, don’t wannna frighten ... Jeesus, you reek. How many slices of that garlic bread did you tuck into?

Nah, can’t stand the stuff. Don’t like foriegn food, do I?

Right here we go. Steady on the ladders. Soon as we see her we phone Col at The Gazette.

Thump.

What was that?

Thump.

Ehh? Sounded like a bird flapping around?

Thump.

... yeah ... maybe a scream ... sure of ... Yeah, I can see it.

Thump.

Hold on, it’s landed in the corner... who the ...?

Nahh, it’s her. It’s Lisa... well of course it’s her.

Alright, Lisa love, only me and Keith ... eh up!

Lisa, love, don’t you think you should get some clobber on? Eh, Lisa? Bit nippy down here for ...

Ey, you’re eyes don’t half look red ... What the fu... Lisa, no offence, normally I’d love a snog but ...

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Ey, Keith, where the fuck are you scarpering to? Get your neck back here ...

Aw jeez, Lisa! No ...

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Aaaaaaah ...

Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump.


The end.

BIO:

Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland.

His stories are currently available in print in NEEDLE MAGAZINE (The Sharpest Tools In The Box), Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal (The Stamp Of A Vamp) and RADGEPACKET 4 (The Nightwatchman).

His story The Tut was nominated for a 2010 Spinetingler award.

His serial WARSAW MOON appears online at DISENTHRALLED.

His column "I didn't say that, did I?" is a regular sore spot at Pulp Metal Magazine.

His blog is here: http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/

As promised...

As promised when we took this short break, I mentioned posting some shorts that we've been holding in back-log. Submissions are temporarily closed, but there's still some greats waiting to thrill and chill you.

So without further ado...watch out for a newie from top writer Paul D. Brazill winging your way in a very short time.

Not Long Now....

We are still on a short break and not accepting submissions at this time, but rest assured TKnC will be back very shortly, with a few new surprises along the way.

Thanks for sticking around and still visiting the pages while we're on a short hiatus, and I'm sure that you'll enjoy the back catalogue of stories that are on the site.

OK, I've been playing around with the format of the site, with a new header and font colours. What do you think. Yeah or nay will do in the comments.

Thanks and see you all soon

Matt co-editor

INTERLUDE - We're taking a short break

It is with great pride that I say that in the past year or so Thrillers, Killers ‘N’ Chillers has grown from a small acorn into a huge oak tree. There have been more than 300 brand new stories posted from some of the best up and coming – as well as established - authors in the crime, noir, horror and thriller genres.


I set out with TKnC to offer a platform for authors of genre fiction, and my small idea has out-grown anything I could have imagined. TKnC is now on a lot of people’s must-read list and has led some of our submitting authors onto bigger and better things. However, as with some cute babies, they often grow into uncontrollable beasts.

I’m a full-time author with deadlines and a full publicity schedule (lucky me), but it also means that the spare time I can commit to TKnC has lessened drastically. Basically, the numbers of submissions are taking both Col Bury and I away from our day jobs, and due to the necessity for us to concentrate on our own respective lives/careers we have taken the decision to take a short break.

In brief:

WE ARE CLOSING THE DOOR TO SUBMISSIONS UNTIL 
FURTHER NOTICE.

Some of you may be saddened by the news, but don’t fret. TKnC will be back, bigger and better in a very short time, and we will again send out a call for submissions. We are looking at revamping the site, and making it more user-friendly. Stories already held in the queue will also be added, so please do keep looking back.

Don’t forget, in the archives are over 300 excellent stories. You can easily find your preferred genre, or author, by simply adding a key word or name to the search bar at the top left corner. There are many gems that you might have missed, or that deserve a second or third reading.

In the meantime, thank you from both Col and I, your support has been fantastic and very much appreciated, and we have thoroughly enjoyed reading everything sent through to us.

And don’t forget....we’ll be back again very soon.

Matt and Col

Co-editors

The Wrong Old Man by Christopher Grant

We're thrilled to welcome back respected American crime writer 'n' owner of top webzine, A Twist Of Noir, Christopher, with this crackin' slice of noir...

The Wrong Old Man

Leonard Wright and his friends had been causing me migraine headaches due to their antics. I’d told them to move on the down the road no less than a dozen times, to take their business away from my bar.

They’d park in the lot around the side of the building and open their trunk, selling their wares in plain view of anyone passing by, including the authorities. Their business was drugs and guns, both of which had raised the profile of Cheshire’s, my bar, with the cops.

Every Monday for the past month, search warrant in hand, detectives and their minions came into the bar and swept the premises, causing me to shut down, losing cash and customers in the process, and comply until they were satisfied that I had none of Leonard’s paraphernalia in my bar. As if I was an accomplice of those assholes.

“We know all about you, Deuce,” one of the dicks said to me during the second visit.

“What you know?” I asked him.

He just smiled, like he was the only one in on the joke, grabbed a handful of beer nuts and walked off.

A couple of days ago, Leonard, sure as shit, rolled into the lot and popped the trunk. He had his fucking hat turned sideways, his pants hanging down almost to his ankles, as per usual. And, as per usual, he was backed up by a couple of his deadbeat friends, who were already flagging down cars, asking if they were ‘up’ or if they needed some firepower.

I grabbed my baseball bat and pushed through the front door.

“I thought I told you motherfuckers to step the fuck off my property,” I said, my right hand white-knuckling the bat’s handle.

“Shit, old man,” Leonard said, smirking, “you gonna have a heart attack, yo. Calm the fuck down.” He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a gangsta roll and peeled off five crisp one hundred dollar bills. He leaned forward and tried to stuff them into my shirt pocket.

I slapped his hand away, causing the bills to flutter out of his grip and catch the wind. They floated down the street and Leonard had to be quick to keep them from leaving his possession.

“Motherfucker!” he screamed as he gave chase. His boys snickered. I doubt they would have laughed if Leonard had been looking at them.

After he’d gathered the money and stuffed it back in his pocket, he pulled his nine from his waistband and swung at me, cold-cocking me, splitting my lip and loosening a couple teeth. I hit the pavement like a brick, cracked my head on the sidewalk. I saw stars.

“You gonna fuckin’ tell me what to do now, motherfucker?” He pointed the nine at my head and cocked the hammer. If he had wanted to, he could have blown holes in me and probably walked away without anyone making a fuss.

I felt like pissing my pants, felt like getting back to my feet and busting his head open, felt rage and shame reddening my face and the bat still tight in my right hand all in the span of ten seconds.

I shook my head from side to side and Leonard released the hammer, put his gun back on safety and stuffed it back into his waistband.

“Donnell, Marcus, help this gentleman back to his feet,” he said and then walked into Cheshire’s.

***

I indulged them for a couple of hours, allowed them to order whatever the fuck they wanted on the house. They took advantage of my disadvantage, ordered burgers and fries and beer and more beer and still more beer.

After the sun had sunk below the horizon, they got off their stools and swayed toward the door. Leonard let loose a mighty belch and cackled with his court jesters.

I gave them the evil eye until they left my sight.

***

When the cops found him, his face looked like ground hamburger.

It better have.

Six shots through the driver’s side window, one to shatter the glass, the other five to smash the shit out of his face. If it hadn’t been for the driver’s license in his pocket, he never would have been ID’d.

If he’d just bothered to find out a little bit more about me and my history, Leonard Wright might have found himself a different corner. He might have set up shop a couple blocks south, down where I used to sell the same shit that he used to.

Sometimes you fuck with the wrong old man.


BIO:
Christopher Grant is a crime writer, with stories in NEEDLE Magazine and at Thrillers, Killers ’N Chillers, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Powder Burn Flash, Not From Here Are You? and at A Twist Of Noir. He’s the editor and publisher at A Twist Of Noir.

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT By Michael S. Collins

Practice Makes Perfect

ACTION!


And then the scene changed. The audience turned silent, in expectation, and started to shimmer out of mind’s existence, replaced by trees on either side. The sound of thunder played throughout the Hall, not from the rinky CD player in the janitors’ closet, but from the air itself. The extra to my side was no schoolchild grumbling over his one line only part and waving to his parents, but an actual servant, real dust came up from his brush. The walls were no longer painted cardboard but actual Cyclopean structure. The lighting came no longer from the lighting box, complete with strobe effects, but from the small cracks in the oak door in front of us. The smoke machine had transformed into a proper Scottish mist, choking and freezing. There was no stifling heating, with only rags to put over the normal clothes to keep warm.

And I was no child anymore. I was Brett Stamerton, and I was knocking on the door to the castle of Professor Death, for real!

KNOCK KNOCK.

The real oak door loudly echoed as the knocker hit it. The sound reverberated throughout the uneasy silence. I turned to my manservant, who muttered under his breath and shivered and held on to my suitcases.

Footsteps. Slowly. One at a time, as if walking down a large corridor. The door creaked open halfway, and I was face to face with a grotesque facsimile of a face, which appeared between the crack.

It belonged to the butler, I assumed.

“Good evening” he said, “You must be Mr Stamerton.”

“Indeed I am”, I said, “And you must be the Butler.”

“Indeed I am” he said, and shivered in the mist.

“May I come in?” I inquired.

He turned his almost decaying head inwards, as if looking for a cue, before opening the door wide, and motioned for me to come inside. I walked in. No electric central heating inside either, but at least they had a few thousand candles burning to compensate. The butler turned to my manservant.

“I’m awfully sorry, young man, but you are not to be invited in.”

The man began to close the door on the poor servant.

“Baws.” Said the Servant who continued to freeze. His one line. The door was barely closed when he screamed, and blood began to flow under the door.

“Got to be careful of the wolves in this part of Scotland, I’m afraid.” Said the Butler. “The Professor will give you compensation in the morning.”

And we walked off. The servant’s dying screams ignored. He was only an extra, after all.

We walked up a long, steep, uncomfortable flight of stairs. My character had a hereditary weak ankle; I had seen it in the explanatory notes, so it made sense to me that I now had a limp to go along with my walk, even if I had no such weaknesses beforehand. This is show business, I guess.

The butler walked down an even longer corridor, opening a smaller door at the end of it. I followed him as fast as a man can on a newly acquired limp.

The new room was vast. On every side of the room stood portraits of great men and statues of every former Prime Minister, and all of them life sized and fitting in the room. Not cardboard and paper mache, but life sized and made out of stone.

In the midst of the room stood a large dining table. Hundreds of seats lined around the table, at each seat, a sumptuous feast. Chicken pie. I never liked chicken before, but had read that the character had, so it didn’t surprise me that I suddenly had a longing for the poultry.

And at the head of the table, sat the Professor.

“Aha, Mr Stamerton, I have been expecting you” He said triumphantly.

“Scene Five” said the Butler, helpfully.

“Professor Death!” I exclaimed. “You can’t succeed!”

He smiled, and showed off his fangs. Not made up. Real fangs.

“You look most delicious, dear boy” he said. “And I can’t have you ruining my plans, so I’m afraid I’ll have to have supper now. Have you eaten?”

“No” I said.

“Good. Me neither.”

And he rose from the table and into the air. No hooks and cords. Just flying.

It suddenly came to my attention, that if this was no longer the school play, and I was really Brett Stamerton, then Professor Death was probably a real vampire.

“I shall rest at last” said the Professor, “Once I have drunk your blood!”

And he prepared to swoop.

“No!” I screamed.

And the curtain fell. At least, it would have, had we still been in the play.

The scene stayed still for a second or two.

“Uh, Professor”, I said.

“Yes, boy?”

“The scene ended there. I don’t have anything left to do.”

The vampire growled at the back of his throat.

“But this isn’t the school play anymore, you fool. This is reality.”

“The stage is the life and the life is a stage” I said.

“Something along those lines” he added. “You got into character so well, I am as alive as you and more so. “

“But the scene ended here! So did the play!” I said.

He sized me up.

“I don’t care” said the Professor. “That was only in the play. There are no cliff-hangers in real life!”

And he pounced, and presumably drunk my blood, as the Curtain rose, and the lights came up.

Everybody clapped. The audience, no longer trees, came to life with applause. The extras were on stage, smiling at their mums in the crowd. The director was on stage, taking as much pride and credit as possible.

I excused myself, to go to the bathroom. I washed my neck, and rubbed my hands around my aching ankle. Then, I checked my newly won fangs in the mirror.

Reality and performance, it’s a very thin line, I think you’ll find.

So, until tomorrow, I’m off to practice.

THE DATE By Liza Larregui

The Date

The champagne colored sedan drove up to my house as I ran down my front steps to meet it. I saw my reflection in the passenger window as I approached and was pleased at how well my hair appeared. I pulled on the door handle and was met with resistance. I knocked on the window and motioned for Jim to unlock the door. I waited for the click, and tried again.


“Hey, thanks for picking me up.” I said as I pecked his cheek with my lips.

“No problem. Say hi to Kevin.” He said as he pointed to the back seat.

“Kevin, hi. I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize you were there. Nice to meet you.” I pulled down the visor in front of me and slid open the mirror to see who I was speaking to.

“Hey, Danielle! It’s great to finally meet you, too. I’ve heard so much about you.” I wondered if he really did hear about me or if he was just saying it out of kindness. I didn’t have to wonder for too long before Jim interjected.

“Not really. I haven’t said much about you, to be honest. This is still new, you know? We’re just dating.” My face turned red, more from anger than embarrassment.

“Right.” I said, trying to hide my annoyance. With my right foot tapping loudly on the floor of the car, I began to wonder why I was even there. I had been with Jim for three months and only then was I meeting his best friend. Something was wrong.

We finally arrived to the bowling alley in what seemed like the longest, most awkward car ride in the history of car rides. Kevin jumped out of the back seat and opened my car door. Jim looked on with confusion, as if he didn’t understand why anyone would open a car door for another person.

“Hey, Dan, come here.” He asked, patting his hands on his thighs the way you would to an animal.

“You know I hate when you call me Dan.” I stood there, arms crossed, not ready to move.

“I was going to ask if you like Dan or Danielle, too. Ha.” Kevin said. His brown curly hair barely moved in the ever so slight breeze that circulated the parking area. My feelings for Kevin, though new and most likely unfounded, started to grow at a rate I was unfamiliar with. It normally took me weeks to feel comfortable with someone and for some unknown reason, I was falling hard for him, fast.

“I hate Dan. Thanks for wanting to know, though. Your friend here never even asked me. Even after the thirtieth time I told him, he still calls me Dan.” I sighed loudly enough to make my point, though I wasn’t sure I cared anymore what Jim thought.

“Let’s go. The lanes will all be booked by the time you guys decide to start walking.” Jim said with a jealous tone. I enjoyed it.

After waiting an hour for a lane to open, we settled into our spots and changed into our bowling shoes.

“Hey, Danielle, would you like a soda?” Kevin offered. Shouldn’t Jim be asking, I thought.

“I’m good. Thanks. Jim?” Without even looking my way, Jim just shook his head no. Kevin walked over to the snack bar and waited on line.

“Do you like him?” Jim asked. His voice was strained.

“He’s great. I haven’t really talked to him that much yet, but he seems very cool.”

“No!” Jim yelled. “Do you like him like you like me? Do you even like me anymore?”

“Where did that come from?” I finished tying my shoes and looked up, puzzled.

“Just asking. You guys seem to be hitting it off.” Jim’s face was redder than a rose, but not quite as delicate. He pulled the laces on his shoes tighter as he continued. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you liked him. It’s happened before. Why do you think it took me so long to introduce you two? I knew you would prefer him and I see it already.”

“You’re acting crazy. I’m with you, remember? We’re in a relationship--”

“Woah, hang on there. We are not in a relationship. We’re just dating. Let’s get that straight now.”

I felt my blood boil as I tried understanding his logic. “If we are not in a committed relationship, then why do you care so much about me and Kevin? Not that there is a me and Kevin, but even so. I don’t understand.”

Jim looked at me with blank, soulless eyes. “We’ll talk later. Kevin’s on his way back.”

I sulked in the hardback chair attached to our lane. I felt heat radiating off my face so I grabbed the score card to fan myself.

“Hey guys! I know you said you didn’t want any soda but I got a pitcher and three cups. Just in case.” Kevin smiled as I began to relax and grabbed a cup to pour myself some soda. “Who’s going first?”

“I am.” Jim declared as he grabbed a yellow ball and threw it venomously down the lane. As it veered toward the gutter, my heart sank as I knew this night would only get worse. “DAMNIT!” Jim’s voice echoed throughout the place as a ZERO blinked on the screen above us.

“You still have another shot, and it’s only the first round. Relax.” I said as he waited for the pins to reset. Kevin watched with no comments.

Jim twisted his body to release the ball exactly in the center of the lane and managed to knock down two pins in the right corner.

“Great first round. This is just warm up anyway.” I cheered Jim on and raised my hand for an unmet high-five.

It was my turn and as I approached the lane, a hard smack landed on my ass. I turned around to see Jim smiling obscenely. “Really uncalled for and unnecessary. I’m going to ask that you don’t do that again. Thanks!” I said as I dropped the ball, not caring where it landed. The only thing I could think about was the comfort of my bed, away from Jim and away from the world.

“What? You wanted to be in a relationship, right? Well, if I’m your boyfriend, I could do that stuff.”

“No, actually, that’s not how it works. What’s going on? What’s wrong?” I asked as the sting from the smack began to numb.

“Nothing is wrong. You want to be in a relationship with me. Well, that’s how I roll.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the ball waiting for me.

“Stop it! You’re hurting me.” I screeched.

“Danielle said to stop. I think you should stop.” Kevin chimed in at the perfect time.

“What are you going to do about it? It’s not like you haven’t stolen my girlfriends in the past? Why would I think this time would be any different?”

Kevin stepped back from where he was standing and straightened his spine. Within seconds, he was no longer Kevin. His body was now consumed with grey hair that lined his entire frame. His mouth contorted into a twisted shape as his teeth grew to an disproportionate size. If the other bowlers had not noticed the transformation, they were made well aware when Kevin opened his mouth to release a frightening growl.

Jim, completely thrown off by his friend, fell over the ball return trying to make his escape. I sat back, completely in awe of what I was seeing. The screams from the other bowlers were being drowned out by Jim’s cries.

My face glittered with happiness as I realized I was not the lone wolf in this town anymore. I had finally met my match.