DEAD CIVILIZATIONS by Chris Benton

A long overdue debut from Chris...


Dead Civilizations


It’s still dark out when I pick Paul Wayne up from his singlewide. He’s waiting on the porch smoking a cigarette and drinking Gatorade. He’s wearing a raggedy Dale Earnhardt shirt and hacked-off jeans and from a distance, you don’t know he is dying. He tosses his rod into my flatbed as I brake to a stop beside Tori’s station wagon and slides into the cabin with a bewildered smile dancing under his jaundiced gaze.

“How’s Kate?” he asks, slamming the door.

“She’s hanging in there.”

“Well, Tori finally left me,” he declares with a strange enthusiasm.

“What’s her car still doing here then?”

“The transmission went out on it. Besides, it’s my car anyway, I bought the damn thing.”

“She take a cab or something?”

“Does it really fucking matter how she left Carlton?”

“No, I reckon not” I say, pulling out of his yard.

We pass pale fields fathering the bones of barns and homes and after a few minutes Paul Wayne finally says, “You would have never known that she’d have that kind of final coldness hidden inside her.”

“I imagine not.” I should be brooding upon the recent escape of my own wife. Instead I remember the night about a year back when I picked Tori up from a gas station, her nose candied with dried blood. I drove her around town for hours, and discovered she was also a fan of National Geographic. We found ourselves at Dunkin Doughnuts during the early morning hours talking about dead civilizations, all the ruins we wanted to explore. In the parking lot we kissed and lied to each other for a few minutes before I brought her home.

“Women are mysteries, and once you solve them, it’s too damn late,” Paul Wayne says lighting a cigarette.

***

Dryer Lane is a narrow, cratered dirt road that crawls for a hundred yards before ending at the lip of a small root -choked slope surrendering to the Neuse. We get out and grab our rods, making our way to the shore’s feeble finger under a gaunt congress of long leaf pines. As we’re weighing and baiting our lines Paul Wayne asks me, “How long ago did Kate leave?”

“The fuck you talking about?”

“No bullshit today Carlton, please, for me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, well hell, that’s nice, you’re the only person on this planet I can share my shit-stink with and here you are taking the fifth like that fucking pervert senator all over the papers.”

I shake a Winston out and light it. After a few of drags I tell him, “A couple of weeks ago.”

“Why did you lie all this time?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m still in denial or something.”

Paul Wayne gives me an infected grin and lights a joint.

The sun is climbing the trees after our third cast and there are no birds to praise it. The Neuse fades from black to bronze and we stand there for a while smoking and playing our lines.

“You remember the time I caught that forty pound flathead?” Paul Wayne says, his eyes never leaving the water. “Boy she was a beauty. That was some fry we had that night wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, until Ronnie Blair grabbed Kate’s ass.”

“That was pretty damn funny; you almost killed that sorry sack of shit.”

“I should have killed him; at least I would have finally proved to Kate how much I loved her.”

“Shit Carlton, a waste of seed like that doesn’t deserve the privilege of murder.”

“The privilege of murder,” I echo. I think about these words, turning them around and around like small, ancient artifacts. After a couple of minutes I ask, “Who deserves the privilege of murder?”

“A person who can leave a permanent hurt,” Paul Wayne tells me, “the person you dearly love.”

“You mean Tori?”

He doesn’t answer me and I remember what my headlights briefly caught inside Tori’s car parked out front earlier. The back seat stuffed with bags of clothing. My mouth is dry as well as my mind and a cold beer right now would be a blessing. But I brought no beer, because I’m sure a few of them would probably kill my friend.

Paul Wayne’s rod suddenly bends and he’s pumping his reel, bringing the bite home, wearing a rictus of delight. I forget about Tori’s car, joining into his profane chant of triumph and for a bright, scalding moment the boys buried within us are alive and screaming. A couple of minutes pass and Paul Wayne hisses something I can’t make out and hands me his rod. He wades several careful feet into the shallows and bends over hauling out a pissing bundle of bone and rusted chain.

“What the fuck is that”? Paul Wayne doesn’t’ say anything. He walks back to shore and tosses the pile at my feet. I back away a few steps and my shoulders are throbbing with something deeper than rage. “The fuck is your problem man?” I shout at him, already done with his mood.

“That is the sorriest sight I’ve ever seen in my life,” he whispers. He drops to his knees, inspecting his catch. “Pit bull,” he says holding the skull under his palms. There isn’t much else left to it; just the ribs, spine, and a hind leg all webbed with malign quarter inch links. He traces the chain and finds the lock inside the ribcage. “Combination,” he declares. He turns to me and asks, “You got any WD40 in your truck?”

***

It’s going on two hours and Paul Wayne is still playing with the lock. He’s sitting cross-legged in the mud with the carcass on his lap, searching for the right sequence. Nothing is biting today and nothing ever will. I’m thinking about Tori’s car again as I finish reeling in my ninth cast and I tell him, “Alright man, I’m leaving.” He doesn’t respond and I say, “Well, I’m going to Last Loop for a couple of beers you can stay here all day fondling them bones if you want.” I pick up my tackle box and begin to make my way up the slope, never looking back. I put my rod and box in the flatbed and slide behind the wheel.

As the truck roars alive, Paul Wayne walks past me cradling the chained remains in his arms like a child. He carefully sets them in the back and gets in. He’s left his rod behind. “A cold one does sound good,” he says softly.

There are no words on the way to the bar, only the rattle of chain and bone. I pull onto a grave of crushed bottle caps and kill the engine. I hand him two twenties from my wallet. “Get us a couple of beers, and some shots, I’ll be in shortly.”

“Where you going?”

“Calling Kate’s sister, just want to make sure Kate’s ok.”

“Well, don’t’ drool for forgiveness too long, the side-effects may include puking and depression,” he tells me. His eyes are wet with death and something worse. He turns and shakes his head all the way to the black mouth of the bar’s entrance.

I call Paul Wayne’s trailer and listen to his phone ring for over a minute. The Pepsi thermometer outside reads ninety but I’m shivering. I walk back to my truck and drag the carcass out of my flatbed. I sling it into the middle of the parking lot and slide behind my wheel. As I’m pulling out of Last Loop I see Paul Wayne in my rearview standing in the entrance. He’s smiling like a fried skull and raising a bottle to me. I bury him in a cloud of dust.

I pull up beside Tori’s car again. The shades are drawn on all the windows. I try thinking about my wife but she seems strange and distant to me now, like a pleasant dream you give up trying to preserve. I think of my friend, hoping that forty bucks is enough to put him out of his misery. And I think of Tori, of the morning we held each other in the dying dark of the Dunkin Doughnuts parking lot, of the frail promises we left to rot inside each other’s ear, of the dead cities asleep all over the world we planned to wake together hand in hand. I sit there, listening to the mournful purr of my truck’s engine, waiting the rest of my life for the front door of the trailer to open.

BIO:
Chris Benton was born and raised in Wilmington, North Carolina where he still resides. He can be found on Facebook.

HER LAST DIARY ENTRY by Jim Harrington

Her Last Diary Entry

I wasn't aware of him until he sat next to me. He was the unshaven, fingerless glove type I'd expect to find at a bus station or sitting on the sidewalk with a paper cup at his feet--not someone I'd encounter at the motor vehicle office. I tightened the grip on my purse and looked around for another seat. There wasn't one.

The man coughed into his sleeve and asked if the author of the book I was reading was any good. I ignored him and wondered why he cared. He didn't look like the reading type. Was he hitting on me? He coughed and asked again.

"I like her," I replied, without taking my eyes from the page.

He coughed and said, "Good."

I guess he didn't get to talk much, because even though I only grunted in response to most of his forays into conversational topics, he kept on coughing and yakking. Our "discussion" remained like that until he brought up the mother who killed her children because they wouldn't stop crying. I glanced from side to side. No one was paying attention to him that I could tell. I let out a slow breath and turned an unread page, hoping the man would stop.

"How can a mother do that?" he said, looking at me for the first time.

Leave me alone.

He didn't.

I only half listened as he prattled on, until he mentioned a similar case from my hometown. That's when I heard him say my former name. My body tensed. I dropped the book. I leaned down to pick it up, my hand shaking, and tried to act like I hadn't heard him.

"That case remains unsolved," he said. "The woman's car was found at the bottom of a cliff along the Pacific Coast Highway, but the police never located a body." He leaned closer and spoke in a near whisper. "Some think she's dead, like her kids. Others are sure she's alive and remarried with new children, children who are in danger. Me? I don't have an opinion. Well, except if she is alive, she should turn herself in."

I remained quiet, staring at my book without seeing the words. Five minutes later, too frightened to listen any more, I left without taking the eye test. I sensed him following me out the door, but when I turned around, he was gone.

***

Back home, I take a sip of scotch, and stare at the distant tree tops. The gun I keep around, just in case, rests on the kitchen table. I'm tired of waiting for someone to recognize me after all these years, like the man at the DMV maybe. That's why I called the police and told them what I did. They're outside, threatening to ram the door in if I don't open it.

On the way home, I decided to turn myself in, but now I realize I fear going to jail more than I dread committing suicide. Good things can't happen to a woman in prison convicted of shooting her own children. The man at the motor vehicle office had that right. He was wrong about me remarrying and having more children.

I know. I'm babbling. I'm afraid of what will happen if I stop writing. God, my hand is shaking so much I can hardly write.

I'm sorry, Katie and Sam. I do love you and know I won't be going where you are. I've missed you every day, even the days I tried to forget, but now it's time for all of us to rest.


Bio:
Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His recent stories have appeared in Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers, Flashshot, A Twist of Noir, The Short Humour Site, Dew on the Kudzu, and others. Jim's Six Questions For blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.”

SPANISH DAGGERS By LaVa Payne

Spanish Daggers

Once upon a time in a land far, far away—oh, scratch that shit!

In a ratty-tatty old shotgun house in a town about the size of a matchbox (700 or so) there in that place. I lived next door to an old bastard.

            Now I say he was an old bastard but then maybe I am being a little harsh. I know that from my conversations with him that he had a unique or odd way of situating himself. Conspiracy theories and left-sided political campaigns—but whatever right?

            Anyway…

It was a rundown house with planks missing out of the side boards, paint chipping where there was paint and huge gaps of space close to the foundation. The house was like the town, old and in need of repair. Not that this pothole in the road was much of a town, but it was a town nonetheless.

Anyhow, I entertained this old man from time to time and pretty much went about all of it together and untouched for the most part. Kind of handy he was, always slapping me on the ass until finally it became as natural to me as a handshake.

            Well, I was sitting on the rotting old porch, visiting of course, when the old bastard began to rattle off a random tale.               

            The old bastard coughed, “You know this town ain’t been right since those feds came in, ya know?”

            “I know,”   I remarked.

            “People these days and times think and believe just damn near everything, ya know?”

            “Yeah—I agree,” my head bobbing with a gesture not necessarily agreement.

            “Well,” I said noticing his distraction with the noise of the nearby buses passing on Bonita St.

            “How do you handle all the chaos, the noise and such running around on this corner?”                 

            The old bastard just grimaced. “Hell, I don’t tolerate much of that shit anymore,” he sighed and picked his nose, “you see them there yuccas?” The old bastard pointed to the edge of his yard. I watched his finger motion with its crooked, rheumatic bumps.

            “Why do you have all those Spanish Daggers edging your property?” I engaged the idea wanting to hear him spout off like a wound oozing puss.

            “You know as many times as I have told you this ya ought to remember.”                           “Humor me again.” I grinned thinking about his animated face and hand gestures, especially the finger—which always made me laugh the way he flipped people off like it was a Spanish Dagger  cutting out the  heart and leaving the soul  ashamed and bleeding.

            “Those damn kids,” he began, “used to run all over my yard—hell, now they ain’t. HA!” he coughed and spit a plug of mucus over the edge of the porch. “They might fall on one of my spiny friends out there ya see.”

            “I know,” I laughed until I cried, “bet they don’t even come near your property now do they?”   

            “Nope!” he coughed again into his hand and wiped it on his left sleeve.

            I was laughing. The buses and school children were running about noisily. Usually, I am not home to see and hear the entire racket. Today was a little different.

            “Say,” I began to ease into the question, “how many cars have you seen going in and out of that thicket over there?”

            The old bastard turned his attention towards me. “May have seen twenty or so of them there grey boogers going in and out I’d say all hours of the night and day too. Strange stuff is goin’ on over there. Do ya know anything about it, girlie?”

            I shrugged, “All I know is that they from some acronym in Washington showing papers to everyone that they are doing some sort of research on a tree fungus or something. What did they say to you?”

            “Hell, I don’t know. They came up here waving them papers and such and I told 'em I didn’t believe in eminent domain and such shit and wished that I supported owning a gun.”

            I put my hand over my mouth and tried to keep from laughing.

            An old scraggly cat hopped up on the edge of the porch.

“Ah must be dinner time.” The old bastard farted.

            “How long you had that cat?”

            “Ah, I say now, I have had that there cat for about two years now. Came up one day strutting around in front of that there window like he was that there romance model—ya know who I’m talking about?”

            “Yeah, I think I do. Blonde-headed romance model?”

            “Uh huh, that is him alright.” A disgusted grimace followed, “Biggest waste of hair I ever seen! Well that cat there walked ‘round here looking at his self in the window so much I wanted to call him Fabio but...” He shrugged his shoulder and coughed deep—no phlegm this time.

            “Well what do you call him then?” I nudged his arm.

            “I call that there tom, One Ball—because that’s the way he came. Can’t say how it happened though. Tragic I reckon. Guess it was just his lot to be born that way or somethin’.”

            “You call your cat One Ball?” I was holding tight to the edge of the seat trying my hardest not to fall off and get a grip on myself before I lost all composure. “Well do you think that you should go ahead and feed him now?” I said moving the conversation along.

            “Yeah,” the old bastard disappeared into the darkness behind the screen door and came back with a can of cat food. He was completely ignoring me at this point. 

            “This damn old porch should’uv fell in by now.” The old bastard said and laughed to his self as he kicked an empty can of cat food off the edge of rotten boards.

Clink!

The old bastard began to ramble on. The pile of cat food cans were growing-up like the scraggly weeds--a bastard robot child from the Star Wars sequel.

He hated that sci-fi shit. Who gave a damn whether or not we landed on the fucking moon— ain’t any gold up there. Hell, in his mind it was another scam.

The government pulled all kinds of shit. Them som’bitches had to explain all those embezzled tax dollars to an illiterate nation, somehow.

Most folks would believe anything back then and even now. He laughed about that crazed woman who had made a bundle of money selling tumbleweeds. Yeah, people would just about buy anything.

            “Well now…where was we?” the old bastard cracked his persimmon smile exposing yellowed fragments and gaping holes. Old One Ball, hopped up on the rotting wooden side beam, flicking his tail back and forth. The old bastard leaned over to scrub the cat’s head. Cat food sat in the tin can attracting an entire fly mafia with all its’ connections.

“It’s a conspiracy I tell ya. All those damn scientists goin’ in and out of there like they own the damn place. Immanent Domain my ass! They ain’t takin’ anything that I know of.” His suspicious eyes watched another flint grey booger pull off the road and disappear into the thicket.

I laughed. “Yeah, a real conspiracy is going for sure.”

“You reckon all those hippy researchers been looking for some exotic mushroom to get all there little buddies high on back in Washington or some such shit?” he screwed his nose and mouth up revealing his yellow, broken shards. “Hell, they were disturbing the peace of the land almost as much as the nearby school yard that keep a ringing noise going on year round with a basketball game here and buses coming and going all day long—when is a man going to get any peace and quiet. Those yapping brats! I hate ‘em. Hope they like my yuccas.” He laughed heartily. “Damn little snot-noses, let ‘em run and play in my yard. Con found it.” The old bastard waved his fist in the air with defiance.

All I could do was bow my head and laugh hard. I finally had to get up and walk towards the cat eating from the fly infested tin can. I glanced into his house past the darkness through the screen door. Piles of newspapers stacked up like bachelor tables ready for a pizza box, were scattered amongst the sparse furnishings of the living room. One odd chair from the seventies sat against a far wall covered in peeling wallpaper as the main attraction. An old box set TV with “rabbit ears” on top was the centerpiece. “You still got one of those old TV’s I see.” I looked over my shoulder to see his face change to amusement.

“Hell why couldn’t them ears be attached to them fine bunnies at the Hefner Mansion in Los Angeles?” But an aching gut took away the thought. The old bastard pushed me out of the way and went into the darkness again and emerged with his own can.

“Most of that interest has past me now,” he snorted as he chomped on a sardine sandwiched between saltines.

“Uh, huh, I hear you.” I raised my eyebrow at him and thought to myself what a disillusioned old bastard. “So,” I said, “You know, I wonder if the rumors are true about those government guys?”

“Tell it girlie, what have ya heard?” he gulped down another sardine almost whole. I wondered if he ever chewed.

“Well, I heard that they are researching fungus that grows as a possible cure for cancer.”

“Nahhhhhh,” he opened his mouth sardine meat hanging on jagged edges like Jaws emerging and flesh dangling between deathly spikes.

I turned my head and rolled my eyes. Some damn people should use a toothbrush though in his case none would suffice. “That’s what I heard.”

Then one of those grey boogers parked in the driveway. We had not noticed this car coming down the road. We had been busy shooting the shit. A man in casual khakis and a starched white shirt moved toward us.

“Maam, sir,” agent man addressed us coldly.

“Yes”

“Yup”

“We are evacuating everyone, please come with me now.” Flat tone hit us both with the edge of a steel blade on the throat—cold unyielding.

“But…” I was stammering.

“Hey we ain’t…” The old bastard started.

They took us.

#

Together in the backseat, we sat silent waiting. I watched the town disappear behind us in the rearview. I felt sternly awake and the agent’s faces appeared only stolid to me. We were locked down in a makeshift detainment area outside of town.

Weeks later, we all found out. Those funguses that the feds had been investigating were actually contaminating the soil via the trees and natural composting process of our region. No one we talked to in the government agency could tell anyone how long the contamination had been going on in our area. Apparently, our town was one of the first ones to get treatment. No one died luckily. But everyone in our town went through weeks or/and months of detoxification as the government called it.

I got home about three weeks later after the incident to find my small pothole in the road an old place with a different feel. People that were usually gregarious had changed. No one talked about the treatments. We all just had been through it. A community rape--a dirty government conspiracy.

Even the old bastard was different. I asked him one day, “Why did you cut down your yuccas?”

The old bastard simply replied, “They spiked us all do we need anymore?”

And the old bastard was right. No one and everyone would ever be the same and chaos and noise had ceased. We all had died. The government had indeed spiked us all to death with Spanish Daggers of their own accord.

The End

9 new tales to wet your fancy

Just a quick heads-up that nine new stories from a mix of both new and old authors (to the site that is) have been posted. Please do take a look back through the list, read and leave your encouragement in the comments boxes. Thanks folks
Ye Olde(st) Editor

THE THERAPIST By Kendra Richards

THE THERAPIST 

“You‘re the most beautiful woman I‘ve ever looked at,” Colby who happens to be Jess‘ therapist said as he snuggled closer to her in his warm, vanilla scented bed. It was big enough for a couple of grizzly bears. That’s what Jess loved the most, being snuggled up with a man who she can actually trust, one who already knows of her rape and fears and still thinks she’s amazing.

 Jess smiled so big you could see her tonsils. She’d always heard that if the man’s eyes are closed while kissing, that means he’s into you. How Cosmo of me, Jess thought. It wasn’t like her to get wrapped up in a guy. Not after being raped. She just couldn’t let down her  guard and trust again. She peeked open her eyes, just enough to see if his were closed.

 He began to take things further, holding her even tighter when the most intense feeling of anxiety overwhelmed her. It felt as if a knife went right into her lungs when she realized that Colby was not only her therapist, but he was also her rapist!

She tried to remain calm, hoping that Colby wouldn’t realize that she had figured out who he really was.

“I-I have to go… now!” She said already out of breath, her face displaying a look of disgust.

 “Jess I don’t want you to go,” He said firmly as if to say she had no choice. “Just let me explain some things to you. I promise you’ll understand,” he said sincerely.

 “I promise I won’t. Colby, I trusted you. Do you have any idea--?”

Colby reached out and pulled her away from the wall, holding her freckled hands gently and said “I won’t hurt you, promise.”

 Jess resisted, turned for the stairs and headed straight for the door.

On the drive to her brother’s house a sensation of boulders seemed to form in her stomach.

“My therapist, he’s my rapist!” Jess said, sobbing.

Her brother stood silently on the steps of his porch, the sun beating down so hard that he could feel it deep into his muscles.

“Oh Jess!” He sighed and wrapped her in his arms.

“How blind could I have been? I knew better than to ever trust a man again. I knew better! I knew better!”  She yelled while pacing in circles, with her hands in the air.

“It’s not your fault. You were vulnerable you thought he was a good guy. He led you to believe he could make all of your fears go away.  Colby is the kind of person who sees your vulnerability as a window to take advantage of you. He’s manipulative, he turns on the good-guy charm to throw you off.”

“How could I not have realized that he was the same man who raped me?” Jess yelled angrily as her brand new metallic pink I pod went barreling off the porch.

“Why’d you do that for, sis?” Jamie yelled looking as confused as someone trying their luck at a 9000 piece jigsaw puzzle.

 “It was a gift from Colby. I never want to see that stupid I pod for as long as I live!”

She sat down in the blue hand-me-down-rocking chair from grandma Ruby when she saw a white SUV creeping down the long  dirt driveway.

“Oh sugar! That is Colby coming down the driveway.”

“Stay calm, I’ll handle this. We’ll see what he’s doing here and I’ll send him on his way, just say the word,” he said, the sweat sparkling on his forehead in the sunlight.

  “Let me explain to you! Jess, if you will let me explain, it could change your life forever, if you only knew the truth,” Colby said, slowly approaching her.

Her rush toward the house slowed as she turned to see him standing at the bottom of the porch steps, tears welling up in his eyes.

“She grew silent waiting to hear his excuses. “Stop it right there! Don’t come any closer to me, don’t you do it!” She yelled, holding her hand up at him.

He stopped in his tracks and said “To you I’m just a rapist with no heart and no respect for women. Jess, I know that because I was hurt too. I-I was raped too.”

 “So you get revenge by raping an innocent girl, Colby? Oh, now I understand, why didn’t you just say so,” She spouted sarcastically.

“No. Jess, I was raped for years. I was raped sometimes more than once a day one day it just wasn’t enough anymore. The man who was raping me wanted more. He’s a nasty man, Jess and I hate myself every day for what I’ve done to you. If I didn’t agree to do that to you, he threatened to kill me. Now that I’ve gotten the chance to love you, I wish I would’ve just let him kill me. You didn’t deserve it. I didn‘t think I deserved it either until I did the same thing to you.”

 Jess stood silently in shock, mostly because in some strange way she felt sorry for him. She didn’t see him as the monster who raped her. She saw him as a person no different from herself, someone who shared the same pain she did, if not more.

“I am so sorry,” she said crying as she stumbled off of the steps to Colby. She wrapped her arms around his stout body and everything went silent.

GREEN EYED MONSTER By Claire Rowland

WARNING: Not for the faint-hearted...

Green-Eyed Monster

He checked his watch again and squinted along the dusty Spanish road, the heat shimmering above its concrete surface, cicadas filling his head with their irritating chirping. Where the hell was she? He should have gone with her, should have endured a day of trudging around cathedrals or castles or whatever old shit she’d insisted on going to traipse around. It was all a rouse he was sure of it, she was probably meeting some Spanish waiter, some Raul or Julio or whatever, she’d probably had him on the go for ages, which was probably why she had suggested a weekend in Majorca so soon into their relationship.

Against the azure blue of the Spanish sky a coach began to trundle out of the midday heat toward him. He physically relaxed and sighed with relief, he knew it was okay, he had known she would be back; she was a good girl really.

The coach pulled up with a sigh of brakes and she appeared at the top of the narrow stairs, beaming and sweating from her excursion. He lifted her down gleefully and held her, a moment too long, a little too tightly.

She looked slightly confused and removed herself from his embrace. ‘I was only gone for the day Babes, you okay?’

She could be such a cold bitch. ‘What? I can’t miss you?’ He asked amiably, kissing her cheek.

She relented to his charm. ‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘I’m flattered. I missed you too, I wished you’d come, God it was so great. This place is so full of beautiful history. It was hot though, baking hot. I made a friend on the coach –‘

‘You did?’ he tried to keep the panic which bubbled to life within him out of his voice.

‘Yeh, yeh, such a nice guy, we buddied up for picture taking else I would have had no photos of those fabulous places.’

She was still talking but his ears were ringing, a cold sensation throbbing in the pit of his stomach, the bitter stab of jealousy. So this was his adversary, the latest man planning to take her from him, there was always someone lurking at the periphery of his vision, just awaiting their chance. Fuck sake, why did she have to be so flirtatious, all the time, with anyone? God knows, he’d seen her with his mates, laughing at their jokes and touching their arms as she threw her head back, shaking her golden hair provocatively. All part of her act, everything she did was, every move, the way she walked, all part of this package intended to entice and lure.

He bet this guy wasn’t even into that old history shit, just got on the coach when he saw her get on, sidling up to her with this whole camera photo buddy bollocks. He knew his game alright, pretending to listen when she spoke about all these crumbling old buildings no one gives a toss about. Bastard, he worked his way in and now he would probably be lurking somewhere planning his next move, how to accidentally on purpose be where she was, talking about old shit again. How could he compete with that? He hated old shit and she was so fucking pretty that it was ridiculous, women shouldn’t be that pretty, it made them a liability and made all the men around go squiffy.

‘You want to go back to the room?’ He heard himself ask her. ‘I can show you just how much I missed you today?’

Her eyes sparkled and she grinned, leaning against him suggestively. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, really.’

‘Let’s do it.’ She took his hand and, waving over her shoulder at her new friend, she led him to their room, past the sparkling turquoise pool. He followed her, watching the sun dance on her golden hair, her shoulders a honey brown blushed with pink from walking around in the sun today. He glanced behind him at the friend she had waved goodbye to, so casually, as if they weren’t already lovers, laughing behind his back.

She closed the door to their room, the cool shocking after the searing heat of the afternoon, her flip flops slapping against the cold floors. She blew out air as she smiled at him contentedly. She reached up and kissed him, releasing a small groan of pleasure as she did so. She was so fucking sexual all the time, everything about her reeked of sex, she was such a whore he couldn’t stand it.

‘Let me take a quick shower and you can go ahead and show me just how much you missed me.’ She turned to leave and he felt cold shivers run all over his flesh. She was washing the other guy off her, cleaning herself out, getting rid of the evidence. He couldn’t bear it, how could she do this to him? Cuckold him like this; make him look such a fool?

‘You’re not going anywhere!’

She blanched as if physically struck. ‘What? Why?’ She gazed at him in disbelief.

He quickly softened his tone, determined to get her pants off and find out if she was wet, if she’d been with the other guy, any other guy, he had to know. ‘I want you now, I can’t wait.’

‘But I’m sweaty and stinky.’

‘Don’t care.’

‘But –‘

‘Now baby!’

He grabbed her before he could stop himself and threw her back on the bed. She was too shocked to struggle and he was on top of her, pulling eagerly at her shorts, a look of utter determination in his eyes.

‘Hey,’ she complained pulling at her pants defensively, but he couldn’t stop, he dragged at her clothes and they began to heave over her flesh, turning it white, digging into her skin. ‘Slow down.’ He couldn’t, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t help himself.

Finally her shorts were in his hands, her knickers still twisted inside them and her bare legs exposed and red from the rough dragging of material. Before she could complain about her treatment or cover her nakedness he thrust his hand inside her. She squealed with pain and started repeating ‘gentle’ over and over.

She was dry. He couldn’t believe it. How was that possible? She hadn’t as yet been with another? He imagined her planning it right now, a rendezvous tonight, laughing at him as some stranger pressed her against a wall and thrust inside her.

He realised his fingers were still inside her as images of her fucked every which way from Sunday assaulted his brain. Then he realised he had a huge erection, so fierce and hard. He pushed her back and thrust inside her, covering her mouth as she screamed in anguish, each thrust like knives stabbing inside her. But then the pain began to pass and she was moving with him, seeing this as just overly urgent, him too keen, a lesson to be learned was all this was. She moaned gently in his ear with pleasure, now wet and welcoming. Her acquiescing infuriated him and he thrust harder, determined to make her sorry, so fucking sorry, but she just moaned louder and dug her fingers into his shoulders. Despite himself he began to feel the stirrings, the taking over of himself and they came together, violent and urgent, and moaning with pleasure.

He lay on top of her, panting and hating himself, hating her, hating the other guy, all the other guys. Then he rolled off and lay back, staring up at the whirring fan above him, the cool on his sweat soaked skin making it prickle.

She leant on one elbow and sighed with something like gratification, her cheeks flushed. She dragged a hand through her damp hair. ‘Wow, you did miss me that was …’ she giggled girlishly and he felt fury bubble within him, she was laughing at him, she thought him a ludicrous lover. ‘I’m not sure I shall be walking right for a week!’

He couldn’t be close to her any longer and stood up, frustration pumping through every muscle in his body making them burn. Bitch, bitch, bitch, he screamed in his mind. She was so wanton, she was a slut, and she was jezebel, Delilah. She was Eve, filled with original sin, making him bad, making him wrong. He didn’t know it but he was mumbling, repeating the word ‘wrong’ over and over.

She sat up in bed feeling a trickle of alarm run down her spine.

He continued to pace, repeating in a hushed whisper that she was wrong, this was wrong. She would leave this room and run to him, the guy from the coach who pretended to like the old shit, the castles and cathedrals. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He couldn’t let her leave. She wouldn’t come back.

She was sliding off the bed, her eyes wide, and the whisper of panic turning into a screech inside her. She could see he was wrong and she would leave him, he just knew it.

He couldn’t let her. Fuck, why did she have to be such a whore? Why was she making him feel this way? He couldn’t let her leave, disrespect herself, laughing at him, at how he loved her and wanted her only for himself.

‘What’s wrong?’ she was asking. ‘What is it? Talk to me?’

He glared at her, she was playing him, she knew what was wrong, she was the one who had been fucking the coach guy all day, and the Spanish guy, the reason they were even here, why she’d wanted to come to this stupid country. She looked so innocent, so full of concern for him, her eyes watery and her brow furrowed. She was good, he’d give her that, but he saw what she was, she was filthy, she could not be trusted.

She was edging across the room away from him, her eyes wide in fear. ‘You’re scaring me,’ she said.

He sniggered and in one huge step was across the room and seizing her arms as if she were just a weightless doll. He thrust her onto the bed and she screamed in genuine alarm now, she was afraid of him, there was fear in her eyes. He would show her, he would give her the fucking of her life. She would never want anyone else after this; no other guy would do after he showed her what he was capable of, how he could give it to her. Not walk for a week; she’d never walk again once he was finished with her. He was blind with fury and determination to prove his virility and power to her. She’d spend the rest of their lives begging him to do her again, like he did all those years ago in Spain when he showed her what a real man could do. She’d never look at some other guy, not even one who liked that history bollocks, no one else would ever do after this. He loved her with all of him self, more passionately than he had ever thought possible and after this she would never leave, never leave.

He looked down and that was when he realised: he had crushed her. That was curious, he thought as he looked down at her staring blood stained eyes, her death mask, he hadn’t really meant to do that.  He touched her cheek and rocked her head, mouth gaping, it dropped to the other side. Now she really would never leave him. She looked so beautiful, god she was perfect, she looked like an angel. He couldn’t help himself, he clutched his fingers around his cock and began to massage up and down, moaning involuntarily with pleasure. He became hard quickly as he looked down at her, frozen beneath him, his face the last thing she had seen in this life, the thought of their passionate lovemaking still hot in his head. Then he slipped his erection into her mouth. It felt so good, still so warm and welcoming. He thrust into her throat, groaning with pleasure, his cock battering her mouth mercilessly, his buttocks tensing and thrusting eagerly. He came quickly and it bubbled from her mouth, dribbling down her motionless chin. He sighed and shuddered with euphoria. This was so perfect; she would never leave him now. He lay down next to her; she was a good girl really, he’d always known it.

BIO:

Claire Rowland is the proud author of ‘Piroska’, a collection of fairy tales for adults, produced in association with ‘Naked Snake Press publishing house’ and currently available for download or in printed format. She has also been included within the ‘Shadows and Nightmares anthology’ produced by Nightfall publications due for release in the summer of 2011. Claire has recently had work included in the ‘Mirador Fantasmagoria’ collection which is currently available on download or printed format.

She is a fledgling author based in Bristol and currently working on her first novel. She has had several short stories published in various British publications including exciting new online magazine, ‘Paraphilia’.

 She has also worked on several exciting projects with the Bristol Evening Post newspaper. Claire has also won first place in the renowned ‘Meridian short fiction’ competition twice along with the ‘Sentinal’ Poetry prize and several other well known and prestigious contests. In 2009 Claire displayed work as part of the Tate modern’s apocalyptic display and has had featured on the ‘writing raw’ website.

She is trained in ancient history, marketing and sales, and is currently working at a Bristol sixth form college. Claire is also involved in a writing group working with Bristol University along with several other literary ventures. 

She is now actively seeking representation and publication.

HEAD GAMES By Jim Bronyaur

HEAD GAMES

Blake found it first but he felt maybe it would have been better if Connor did.  Connor was taller.  Stronger.  And one time he killed a squirrel with his bare hands.  And another time when he and Blake found a rotting deer carcass, Connor sat next to it not bothered by that horrible death smell.

At first Blake wasn’t sure if it was a real foot or some kind of Halloween prop.  What finally gave it away was the toenails.  This foot had faint lines on the nails and where they met with the toe, it looked scratched.

It was indeed a real foot.

A human foot.

Before Blake had a chance to think, he noticed something else.  A hand.  Then another hand.  Another foot.  A leg.  Cut off above the knee and at the ankle.  It looked like a forgotten slab of meat.

Blake threw up.  That part he never told Connor.  Blake wanted to be as strong and mysterious as Connor.  His dark eyes and long hair.  Man, he was freaking cool.

Blake covered up his puke with dry leaves and ran to get Connor.

X

“Human?”

“I swear Connor, human.  Will you come see?”

“I don’t believe it.  Why aren’t the cops involved?”

“Who cares?  Please Connor, come on.”

“Okay.  Show me.”

XX

“Damn,” Connor whispered.  He put the tip of his shoe under one of the hands and flipped it over.

Blake was in awe how Connor did it without flinching.  Blake wanted to throw up again. 
“I wonder what happened,” Blake said.

“Looks like someone was hacked to pieces,” Connor said and motioned for Blake to keep walking.

The woods grew thicker and the body parts kept appearing.  The bend of an elbow, even a shoulder.  The blood was heavy and had a strange odor.  Not bad but one that Blake knew he’d never forget.

“Hey, why don’t we report this… maybe we’ll get a reward.”

Connor didn’t reply.  He seemed to be in a trance.

“You okay Connor?”

“Fine.  This is… something.”

“I know.  I wonder where the head is.”

Connor turned and looked at Blake.  “You don’t know about a killer's signature?”
 
And there was that look from Blake.  That dumb, in awe look.


XXX

It was a fire.  Not an urge, but a fire.  Who knows when it begin and really, who cares?
Connor liked the fire.  How it felt.  How his body shivered.  And then how it all would go black and he’d wake up surrounded by blood.  It had always been animal blood up until last night…

XXXX

The scattered body parts were pieces of art.

So perfect, that for a moment, Connor didn’t believe he could have done it.

Then Blake mentioned there was no head.

Ah, the head.

It rested so gently in Connor’s bed.

The thought sparked the fire inside.

Connor stared at Blake and felt his body twitch.  His mind played scenes… scenes to come.  How convenient was it that Connor had grabbed his bag with his favorite knife?
Blake had no idea what was about to happen.

The fire now burned.

BIO:  

Jim lives in Pennsylvania where he sits in a corner and writes horror.  Published over forty times, he is the creator of the award winning story and series, Pulsate, and his fist book release titled In the Corner is due out April 2011.  His site is www.jimbronyaur.com and he's socially scares people at www.twitter.com/jimbronyaur.com