DEADBEAT DINER by Lee Hughes

Deadbeat Diner

Arthur trundled down the alley towards the backdoor of his favourite eatery, ‘Rob’s Ribs’. All the best food waste wound up in the big dumpsters there. Joe the manager didn’t mind Arthur beating the dustmen to the trash as long as he didn’t make the alleyway any shittier than it already was.

Arthur’s toothless mouth was salivating at the thought of his morning ribs. He lifted the lid and nearly fainted. There were ribs inside, just a tiny problem. They were still attached to a hobo like himself.

The immediate shock dissipated as Arthur looked closely and noticed that the dead tramp’s rags were superior to his own. Arthur looked up and down the alley to make sure that it was just himself that was frequenting the dirty slip of pathway between the backsides of the buildings.

He climbed on up and dropped inside amongst the trash from the previous night. Standing astride the dead-tramp he began to wonder which would be the best way to disrobe it without actually having to touch any parts of the dead flesh. It wasn’t a new thing to come across one of his own ilk dumped and dead but he figured it was going to be a while, a day or two at least before he’d be willing to eat from this particular dumpster.

Arthur had pretty much relieved the hobo of his raggedy coat when he heard two voices from down the alley. Panic slapped him. He knew what folk would think. They’d jump straight to the conclusion that he’d killed the other tramp for his possessions. He looked down to the coat he had just ‘borrowed’ and paled a little more. Without thinking he lowered the lid to hide with his new pal.

Arthur could smell the sauce-soused ribs, but for once they didn’t make him hungry. All he could think about was the two voices approaching and keeping himself silent until they had gone past and were busily on their way. The voices stopped outside his hidey-hole. Arthur listened whilst wishing that they’d just piss off.

“You’re paranoid Marty.”

“Careful’s the word Jimmy.”

“We even dressed Paulie the Peddler up in hobo clothes, no one's gonna think anything more of it Marty, just another dead down-and-out with a reserved spot up at Potter’s Field.”

“Just wanna make sure. You choked him. Making sure he wasn’t just unconscious, heard about it happening.” He looked about, lifted the lid on the dumpster. He looked inside and saw the rags they had clothed him in to look like a deadbeat. Marty pulled out his knife and stabbed the rags a dozen times.

There were muffled grunts and moans coming from within the dumpster.

Marty stabbed some more,“See Jimmy, he wasn’t so dead after all, you gotta learn to listen to me.”

A BIT ON THE SIDE - by Anna Harris

A big welcome to Talkbacker, Island Girl, all the way from Oz...

A BIT ON THE SIDE

Marjorie Bradley indignantly eyed the men digging over garden beds across her vast expanse of lawn through the full length conservatory windows.

“I am feeling a trifle overwhelmed today with these workers here,” she continued stoically, “but nevertheless we shall forge ahead with...excuse me for a moment, would you, dear?” Raising her walking stick, she rapped on the glass. “You there, yes you, man with the blue shirt; mind that plant, it’s extremely rare and very expensive.”

Erica presumed the polished mahogany stick was for show rather than balance because during the course of the afternoon, her elderly aunt had only used it to draw attention to areas of specific interest in her garden or to shake indignantly at workmen.

“Silly man,” she said, turning back to her niece, “wouldn’t know a Cypripedium reginae from a Narcissus pseudonarcissus. One can find an answer to almost anything by reading, and of course, there is simply so much enjoyment to be found in literature. That chap has most likely never picked up a book in his life.”

Erica’s father, Marjorie’s brother, was an editor and had instilled the same love of the written word in her. She only hoped she didn’t appear as pompous as her aunt.

Gary Pfeiffer, Erica’s junior colleague plumped a cushion with his fist, knocking his small tape recorder onto the floor in the process and the old woman cast a menacing look in his direction. Erica knew that look well, her father often employed it to intimidate cocky apprentice journalists into toeing the line.

Marjorie disappeared into the body of the building to fetch afternoon tea, glancing back only to let Gary see and acknowledge her resentful scowl.

“You reckon I should go with her?” he asked, stuffing the tape recorder into a pocket.

“I don’t think that was what the looks are for, Gary. She’ll be fine on her own, I’m sure.”

The cosy glassed-in room offered an unimpeded view of the acres of sculptured topiary and well-manicured gardens, now in varying forms of disarray at the rear of the sizeable estate but Gary was not as comfortable in the stately surroundings as his colleague.

“This old place creeps me out,” he said, looking from his watch to the open heavy wooden door behind him and back again. “And she creeps me out. It’s the way she looks at me.”

“Don’t stress, it’s all cool.” Erica wasn’t about to lecture about the courtesy her aunt was used to, and expected, from visitors.

“But it’s not, is it? You know what old people are like; they treat everyone like idiots. And their houses smell.”

“Oh, that’s just lovely, that is. What a classy bloke you are.”

“Class my arse, Erica, just because you’re related to the old biddy, don’t go getting all uppity. You normally would’ve got the story by now and we’d be back at work getting on with the job, not hanging around humouring the old duck and eating scones with fucking jam.”

“I don’t actually like scones and I don’t much care for your language, either,” said Marjorie quietly from the doorway, making Gary jump. “My my, Mr Pfeiffer are you always this nervy? I believe that one should remain composed at all times and have always considered it a sign of weakness to act otherwise.”

She placed a wide tray laden with a pot of tea, three cups and a large plate of lemon slice on the low table between the sofas and set about serving out the sugar cubes with small silver tongs.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Would you care for homemade lemon slice, Mr Pfeiffer?” she said, ignoring his feeble apology. “I know that Erica will most likely forgo the treat. We women like to watch our weight, don’t we dear?”

Erica resisted the food, partly because she wasn’t hungry, but mostly because her lean aunt had always had a way of putting her in her place while she was growing up. She was pleased she’d lost the puppy fat from all those years ago but knew the comment was an underhanded reminder.

“Now then, where were we? Ah yes, I was telling you about my friends. I suppose I should fill in a few gaps for you. That would help with your little story, wouldn’t it?”

“The bit about how you came to meet Stanley would be good,” Erica prompted.

“Oh yes, Mr Thomas, very uncouth man, that one. Just thinking about him makes me positively ill. And besides, I feel I should be supervising those workers; they’ll make such a mess of my lovely garden if I’m not outside to show them where to work. Forgive me, please; today is not one of my better days.”

“No, no you’re fine. But you were about to tell me about Stanley Thomas?”

“Horrid, crass man,” Marjorie shuddered. Erica noted she was looking at Gary, who was contentedly stuffing a second large helping of lemon slice into his mouth, but wasn’t quite certain who she meant.

“Mr Thomas was a common denominator in all our lives,” she continued. “A friend had mentioned his name in passing as a chap who operated a little handyman-type venture; one of those no-questions-asked, cash-in-hand sorts of enterprises. Well, he was on the pension, you see, so any little bit on the side was always welcome.

“Do have another lemon slice, Mr Pfeiffer.” She offered Gary the plate, passing it sideways without making eye contact. “In fact, he would often say so without pretension. ‘I never says no to a bit on the side; a bit on the side never goes astray’ he would laugh. Just like that.”

Erica dared not look at Gary who, she knew, would pick up on the innuendo. “And Stanley Thomas, he did some work for you on the side, Auntie?”

“As you can appreciate, Erica, there are always things to be done on a property this large. For instance, how many times did I hear that old water pump down yonder splutter and cough, only to see your dear uncle when he was alive, God rest his soul, marching resolutely down there with nothing more than a spanner in hand and a determined look upon his face. “

“So Stanley came out here to fix the pump,then?”

“Originally, yes, then as time went by I gave him more about the place to do. He lacked your uncle’s fine manners, of course, but I found Mr Thomas to be quite an able handyman. And he so enjoyed my lemon slice.”

Suddenly turning her attention to the only other person in the room, she asked, “What do you make of it, Mr Pfeiffer?”

Gary looked up, unprepared, spluttering his mouthful. He mumbled something unintelligible, which the women both took to mean he approved but before he could swallow enough to speak clearly, Marjorie had already moved on. “The success is in the filling, you know. The recipe calls for condensed milk, egg yolks and lemon juice but I’ve found the best cooks add a few extra ingredients to a recipe and it’s that which often gives a dish added zest. It’s those little deviations that make all the difference to my cooking. Mr Thomas thought so. He would always ask me for lemon slice whenever he worked for me.”

“He spent quite a bit of time here, Aunt Marjorie?”

“I’m not mechanically minded so I trusted him to see to any necessary maintenance. I did wonder at times if my house was going to fall down around my ears; all those repairs. If you’re asking if he took advantage of my purse, I’d have to say, most likely.”

“You began to think all the things he found to do may have been excuses?”

“Erica, my dear, not even the NASA space program has that much trouble with their equipment.”

“Not that it was ever really about the money, mind. He was not the sort of man to waste time ripping off little old ladies for a pittance in pocket money. He had bigger fish to fry, as they say. It was when he propositioned me that I knew he was a bad egg.”

“He asked you to marry him?” Gary looked up, suddenly interested.

“The last time I looked at a dictionary, Mr Pfeiffer, propositions and proposals were two entirely different things.”

“So what was he after?” said Gary, wiping an errant crumb from his chin.

“Oh, young man, don’t be so naive. He was after my body.” Gary spluttered and coughed on his food.

“Would you like a glass of water, Mr Pfeiffer?” When he continued to gape, Marjorie ignored his deer-in-the-headlights expression and went on, “Yes, you did hear me correctly. Sexual gratification; surely you modern young people are aware of such things?”

Erica came to her colleague’s rescue as he madly fumbled in his pocket for his tape recorder. “I don’t think Gary was expecting you to be so…candid.”

“He wants to get out more then.”

“If it wasn’t the money…I would’ve thought…I mean…” Erica grasped for a tactful way to phrase the question.

“Have you not been listening to a thing I’ve been telling you?” Marjorie snapped, her composure floundering. “He was trying to get me into bed. I’m beginning to see why you’ve never had a long term relationship, Erica.”

Erica was clearly struggling to get on top of things with her feisty relative. Apart from experience and seniority, both she and Gary knew Erica had been handed this particular task because of her connection with Marjorie, and ‘til now she’d been tip-toeing around the woman’s sensibilities. It was time for someone less personally involved to take up the reins.

“So Stanley wanted to get his rocks off and you wouldn’t be in it,” Gary blurted. Erica cringed.

“I grew up in an age where respect and morality were held in high regard, and you, young man, are an abomination to well-bred society. That means, Mr Pfeiffer, that you are very rude.”

“Actually, it’s Constable Pfeiffer, Mrs Bradley, and I think we’re over the butter-wouldn’t-melt routine. We know you killed Stanley Thomas, that’s why all the uniforms are out there digging up your grounds. We just need to know where the body is and how you did it.”

Stunned, Erica turned to face him with an incredulous look. He was either going to get an immediate confession after four hours of side stepped issues or her Aunt Marjorie would take exception to his brusque manner and they’d fail to get the evidence they needed to tie up the case.

“That crass excuse for a human is indeed interred in my garden, Constable. I chose to ignore the indecent suggestions Mr Thomas frequently made. Although I knew he was serious in his intent, I said nothing in return that he could possibly misconstrue. I don’t let other’s vulgarity disorient me.”

She stared distastefully at Gary. “It would have been quite convenient to have had our working relationship continue in the same manner - until the discovery that he had physically accosted one of my friends. It simply would not do to have the objectionable creature on the loose anymore.

“I’d read that many herbicides and weed killers are relatively tasteless when combined with strongly flavoured ingredients, and they don’t come too much stronger than lemon, do they?” she said, indicating the remaining slice.

Erica watched her colleague’s mouth gape as realisation dawned on them both, and knew her own face must be registering the shock.

“Oh don’t worry, Constable Pfeiffer, this batch only has half the quantity of poison as the ones I fed Mr Thomas. Poison is wonderful thing – so quick. If you call the emergency line now, you might just be able to save yourself.

“Now Erica dear, if you’ll allow me to walk back out to the garden where those wretched people of yours are digging up my beds, I’ll show you where I buried the other ghastly cretin.”

She held the glass door open and stepped outside. “Isn’t it amusing how silly rude men will scoff their just desserts? Mr Thomas loved my lemon slice, too, so I gave him exactly what he wanted - what he was always after - some lemon slice. Oh, and a little bit of poison – just a little bit on the side.”

LEGGY by Dorothy Davies

Leggy

Legless Johnny we called him. As a kid he was always falling down, tripping over matchsticks. It wasn’t really a joke, if you saw his scarred knees. Because he kept on falling, the name got twisted into a nickname. He wound up Leggy, never Johnny. Leggy Merrick sort of rolls off the tongue, too.

He always hung around with Doug Jameson. Same age, give or take a couple of days, same height, same background. One blond, one dark, the two heads always together, mischief making.

Doug was good at sports. To see the long length of him flying over the high jump bar, throwing himself across the goal mouth, it was a sight anyone would be pleased to see. Leggy stood on the sidelines and cheered him on. As far as we knew, he never envied his friend’s ability to stay upright on two strong legs that hardly saw a graze or a plaster throughout their growing years.

Teenagers together, they roamed the local streets, Leggy falling into the gutter sometimes, as the kerb seemed to get between him and his next step. Doug would laugh as he helped him up, dusting down his clothes, nursing the bruises.

When they were old enough to drink, Leggy’s nickname became the butt of many a bar joke. Not that we ever saw Leggy drunk. He just kept on falling down. And laughing about it.

He was lost when Doug was picked by the trainers for serious training. Doug’s was a talent too good to be passed over; what with running and jumping, he was an all round athlete. Training kept him busy for hours and Leggy couldn’t keep up with him. He tried pacing Doug on a bike but fell off so many times it was a disaster. So he stayed home, watching from the sidelines again, cheering from the safety of a settee in front of the TV set. Never so much as a look or word said he might be jealous.

Leggy joined the Army suddenly. No-one knew anything about it until he came home wearing uniform, looking tall and proud, every inch a man. Uniform suited him, gave him stature, confidence he hadn’t possessed before. We watched and wondered at the change clothes can make to a man. We waved goodbye when he left for training in the depths of Scotland and mailed clippings of Doug’s successes to him.

“Thanks,” he wrote back. “I’m keeping a scrap book so keep ‘em coming. Life here is pretty tough but I’m enjoying it. See you all soon.” It was signed Johnny Merrick. Someone said “Old Leggy’s gone back to his real name.” We started our letters “Dear Johnny” after that. It seemed strange, like writing to a stranger.

Sometimes, when he came home on leave, talking Army slang and reminiscing of places we could only guess at, he seemed like a stranger. But at heart he was good old Leggy, ready to stand another round and grin at the chestnut jokes.

Doug’s training or overseas competitions rarely coincided with Leggy’s leave, so they didn’t see each other much. They wrote and Leggy kept up the scrapbook, cheering his friend on long distance. When the Falklands war started – and we called it a war, no matter what the cocksure politicians said – old Leggy went. We caught a glimpse of him shouldering his pack up the gangplank onto one of the hastily converted ships, envying him his adventure, even if he was going into danger. Good old Leggy, off to do his bit for Queen and country while we stayed at home and worried.

Doug lost a race or two, said it was ‘nerves’ but we knew he was worrying as well. Despite that, the medals framed over his fireplace grew steadily, an impressive display.

Letters from the Falklands were few and far between and then there were none. We wondered, but didn’t ask. When the ships came home, escorted into harbour by tiny tugs and pleasure yachts, we searched our TV screens in a desperate attempt to find old Leggy’s face up there among the smiling sailors on deck. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t – was he? Not old Leggy…

Then we met him, propelling himself down the road in a wheelchair. Old Leggy, face drawn in lines no ordinary life could give, touches of grey where he’d been all darkness and the awfulness of a rug that covered yet revealed all.

Old Leggy was legless.

Not a word was said. We all called him Johnny and bought him a drink, remembering the jokes and saying nothing. It wasn’t the same and he knew it. After the second round he excused himself and we let him go. As the door shut after the wheelchair, someone said:“Let’s all be glad it wasn’t Doug.” And we all nodded into our drinks. Unthinkable. Doug, the brilliant athlete, training for the Olympics. After all, we said wisely, Leggy’s legs hadn’t been much use to him, had they?Leggy didn’t do much at home, just sat around. Sometimes he’d clean his Dad’s collection of antique pistols and look at his scrap book.

The story went round like wildfire, as these things do. Doug had come home with yet another medal and gone round to see old Leggy. As coincidence – or Fate – would have it, Leggy was cleaning the pistols. When Doug walked in and said “Hello. Leggy,” Leggy shot him.

There are those among us who said he should have gone for the heart. The rest of us said it was poetic justice.

No matter now what Leggy might or might not have intended – he shot Doug in the kneecap.

-- Dorothy
Amor Vincit Omnia

http://www.circle-of-light.co.uk/

http://www.oneinspecyal.com/

GRUB UP - by Lily Childs

Lily's back...!

GRUB UP

Vanessa was skeletal. I could barely get any meat off her bones so I just gnawed away at the stringy flesh. I sighed. I’d starve at this rate.

I sat back and surveyed the remains of my late cousin. Apparently she didn’t know I have certain tastes. And that I’ve been particularly hungry lately.

I was still ravenous, but I knew it was risky to go out hunting because I get careless going in for the kill. Yet thoughts of feeding made saliva drip in my mouth, washing my gums, plumping my tongue.

I hesitated. No. I couldn’t do it; it was too dangerous. I’d have to go without. Dejected I slumped down onto the threadbare sofa, then jumped as the phone rang. Snatching it off its cradle I answered.

‘Who is it?’

‘Is she there?’

‘What?’ I didn’t recognise the voice.

‘It’s Ben, Vanessa’s boyfriend. I’m outside your building. Is she there?’ My heart smiled and I spoke to the pining lover.

‘Yes Ben. She’s here. She’s sitting in the corner. Come on up – we’ll wait for you.’

I replaced the receiver and lingered by the window, watching. The juices were already stirring in my belly.

BIO:
Lily Childs is a budding writer in the mystery and chiller genre, and is thrilled to have her first short stories published on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.
After a seven-year spell in France, Lily now lives on the Sussex Coast with her artist husband and beautiful 5-year old daughter.

INVISIBLE GIRL - by AJ Humpage

A chiller from AJ...

INVISIBLE GIRL

Death always pricks the senses. Blood is the colour of fascination.

I’m not going to stop and think about it. I’m not one to dwell. Do it or don’t – don’t make a scene, that’s me, because I never make a scene. I know that if I think about it too much, I’ll talk myself out of it.

I look down at my body in the water. I’m the invisible girl. I’m in the background; a shadow in your eyes, I’m the passing sprite who lingers outside your office door. You look up, but you never see me.

No one sees me.

I’m the girl you walk past each day. I smile at you, but nothing comes back. I talk to you, but you don’t hear. No one does. Each day I watch you and your colleagues group together as though drawn by an electric charge; laughing and joking, and I’m not part of it. I tried to be, but you shut down, and you smirk with contempt. You deliberately shut me out.I feel like a butterfly with ripped wings.

When I look in the mirror, I see no one. I only see an outline of someone once knew, someone once so flush with life. Now I’m the girl that no one sees, the Plain Jane standing by the water cooler, the girl that makes your coffee. I’m the girl ignored by the rest, because I’m not favourite, I don’t belong to your clique.

You don’t care. You don’t realise that when you’re in the background long enough, you eventually become invisible. As time draws on you forget that girl, forget her name, and forget what she looked like. But how can you care when you never saw her?

Perhaps now you might pay attention. Maybe this is the only way I can get you to see me. Perhaps now you might think about me. Tomorrow, you will look up from your desk and you will see where I once sat. I will remind you every day of your life. You’ll be tormented by the girl now cocooned in this bathroom, looking up at the ceiling and reeling in the brightness.

The water in here is hot, plumping up my veins.

I can’t stop and think about it. The quicker I do it, the better.

The razor in my right hand glints in my eyes; it looks strangely alluring, drawing me in. It calls to me, whispers; urges me to place it against the pulsating vein beneath my skin. They’re ice cold blue, these veins, like frozen cotton threads.

The water embraces me. I know I should be afraid, but I’m not. I flex my hand and gaze at the lines of my life stretching across my palm. I place the razor edge between my thumb and index finger and thrust the blade into my skin as hard as I can.

Something at the back of mind pushes forward through the fog - something that feels like pain - but I ignore it and pull the blade hard through the skin and the muscle and with one decisive movement, it opens up into an inch wide gash to reveal an intricate bundle of nerves and veins beneath a gleaming, silky sheath.

My arm tingles - feels like something long legged is slowly crawling down it to feast greedily upon my open wound - and I reflex against the dull ache, my toes curling tightly in the water to absorb the shock. I look down at my belly. The bath water is turning rusty by my navel. No time to stop.

I lift the razor towards my forearm. It looks so pink from the heat of the bath. My fingers instinctively tighten around the blade as I work it into the flesh of my upper arm, keeping up the pressure, pursing my lips against the sting of the steel as I drag it down the centre of my arm. The seam peels open to expose sinew and fibres and fat. I watch, fascinated, as glistening lodes pulsate in tune to my heartbeat, drowning in a gurgling stream of blood.

I rest my head back, take in a deep breath. I can feel my arm throbbing. My head is pounding too; the veins behind my eyes are contracting, squeezing the blood into ever decreasing channels. My heart is beating against my ribs as though trying to escape my body. It knows. But it can’t escape. It will be the first organ to die.

Can you see me now? I’m the invisible girl.

The water is deep crimson around me. No time to stop. Just enough time to do the right hand. I can’t feel the pain now; I just feel calm as I slice across my palm and sever the nerves. Almost there. But the razor is harder to grip now; the blood is smearing the blade and making it slip from my fingers. Must concentrate. I don’t want this to be a jagged, messy cut; it needs to be clean and deep, otherwise I won’t bleed properly. Just need to hold it as tight as I can in my numb fingers - I can feel the strength seeping from my sliced forearm.

The sound of a dripping tap distracts me. I look up. I realise then that it’s not the tap. Dark globules of blood are dripping from my forearm into the water with a mesmeric, incessant beat. I must focus. I have to think of you while I do this. You drive me forward, you make me want to do this, and your face is in my mind as I dig the blade into the soft reddened skin on my arm. I’m thinking of you as I drag it down towards my wrist, skin and fibres tearing like cloth.

The blade slips from my grasp. I feel something trickling into my stomach, making it churn, but somehow I keep the flood from rising, because I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking now you will finally see me. I’ve loved you from the very first day, but you just haven’t noticed. Well, now I want you to notice, I want you to see me lying in here in my blood, I want you to feel as bad I as do.

I drop my arms into the water. I know the water is hot, but I don’t feel it. Ribbons of life ooze from my wounds and pollute the water. The heartbeat inside my head is slowing...slowing...

The light in this bathroom is bright.

I picture your face and smile. I wonder what it will look like when you find my bloodied, naked body in your bathtub.

Ignorance hurts. So does love. I hope my butchery wipes that derisive smirk from your face. I will no longer be invisible, because I will be imprinted on your mind forever.

BIO:
AJ Humpage works full-time for a local authority, but in her spare time she write articles for local business magazines, short stories and poetry, and she has just completed her first novel.

FASHION VICTIM - by Lily Childs

A shocking debut from LilyC...not for the faint-hearted!

FASHION VICTIM

I used to say fashion would tear me apart. The clothes I designed were meant for me, but instead I sent size-zero girls down the catwalk to parade in my finery whilst spineless rich women leeched my personal style by buying, performing and presenting themselves in my creations. They drove me completely mad. Yes they did.

***

I was right. Fashion did tear me apart in the end. In a carefully staged show I arranged for my guts to spill as I took my final step on the catwalk, models towering above my slight frame, praising and applauding me, all glittering in the darkness of my exquisite designs.

I tottered towards the audience - my paying customers, in thigh-length, heeled boots studded with silver charms not unlike those dripping from my wrists, and I threw my arms wide in true Cabaret style. My girls fawned around me as if on heat, and celebrities threw themselves at the stage desperate to touch the models’ feet, their shoes, their stockings, the fabric of the divine creations I had made, which hung off their skin and bones.

I moved forward, the applause was overwhelming. The wry smile on my porcelain white face, a pretty twist at the corner of my mouth belied the fact that I was about to give them the best entertainment of their lives. I’d watched Kill Bill and studied a few hee he haw Chinese martial arts films, with women flying around at impossible speeds, severing heads with bejewelled swords. It wasn’t so difficult rigging up a cape-like, tattered black leather affair to cover my arms – it looked quite the biz, quite the biker-goth style of the season, thank you very much. The built-in contraption which projected stiletto daggers into my waiting hands was rather ingenious, if I didn’t say so myself. Indeed I didn’t say so, but held my hands aloft with the thin blades lying patiently against my palms, breathing in the adoring fans and shaking my head in mock protest at the praise being cast upon me.

I smiled my best ever; my lips crimson and matt, against all the make-up artists’ advice.

‘Don’t do red, darling, it makes you too pale’.

‘Definitely glossy, not matt baby, or the rest of your face disappears and you look just too theatrical’.

Well fuck ‘em. I like red. I like theatrical. My painted mouth is part of the mask I have lived behind all these years.

I threw my head back, the wide locks of my short, curled black hair tickling the nape of my neck. Then I brought myself slowly back to face them once more, my smile erupting into a grin, the stiletto blades hot in my hands as I moved ever closer to the crowd. I stage-stepped towards them and they roared with approval. Vogue, Harpers, skanky paparazzi – their cameras flashed blindingly as I moved amongst the models, reaching up and grabbing the heads of each of my best, my most loyal girls. I kissed every one of them full on the mouth - Kristina, Belle, Alice, Karatori, Anna – all of them. The crowd went wild as my tongue entered the beautiful mouths - at the very same moment that my blades invisibly pierced the jugulars of those regal necks. The gushes of blood seeped unseen into huge, majestic, black-padded ruffs adorning the girls’ throats, designed especially for the purpose and for the wiping of knives.

Clever girls, I loved them – I was so proud of them - they all fell so beautifully, I couldn’t have choreographed it better myself. The audience was convinced it was all part of the show and they begged for more.

Then I saw her; celebrated, no-talent, viper critic, sneering in contempt. This useless wretch was a waste of space but somehow had the ear of every editor across the fashion world, and every commission-paying client. Ella Beatson came right to the front of the floor, and in her own condescending way began to clap very, very slowly. My heart didn’t miss a beat. Instead of gritting my teeth and seething I ran towards her and laughed out loud. Her painted eyebrows lifted as I grabbed her arms and pulled her onto the stage. With the spotlight now on her instead of me, my clothes and my creatures, Ella’s face lit up with a sense of amazement and she began to shimmy about as though she were the star of the show. I giggled. I’d make her the star, if that was what she wanted. I danced over to her as she swayed to the beat, and stretched up my hands to sink leather-bound fingers into her platinum-blond, bobbed hair. I pulled her head down towards me, as I had with my girls and kissed her full and deep on the mouth. When I let her go she drew back and took a shuddering breath.

‘I never knew’ she said, looking at me with desire. The people in front of us screamed at our indulgence and clapped for more cheap thrills. This time Ella bent towards me and she licked my cherry lips before seeking out my tongue with her own. She disgusted me but I took her head in my hands and returned the embrace anyway. The sharp blades flicked easily from their clasps, and I swiftly sliced both sides of her throat without letting go. She began to convulse and my throat immediately filled with her hot blood. The audience suddenly grasped what was going on and there was a tiny moment of silence before someone screamed.

‘Oh my God. It’s real. They’re dead, they’re really dead’.

Then they all started. Mindless, talentless bimbos squealing away like little piglets. I let Ella drop to the floor and watched the carnage as other models, wives, mistresses, girlfriends, would-be designers and celebrity has-beens fought each other to get to the doors. The music – Insomnia by Faithless – came to an abrupt halt, and I called out.

‘Look at me!’

Some of them stopped in their tracks; others poured over themselves to reach the auditorium.

‘Look at me!’ I cried again. This time everyone slowly turned to face me, complete and absolute horror on their faces.

‘You are nothing’ I smiled serenely. ‘You are worthless’.

I was near the edge of the stage, bleeding women around my feet, not a living person within close proximity. But still my audience stood, wide-eyed, stunned, stupid.

‘This is for every one of you’ I said.

‘You are an insult to design. You are an insult to style. You are an insult to creativity, and to my intelligence.’

Tears fell about the place and women wailed in the aisles. I took a single step forward.

‘You are an insult to the female race’.

I grinned, my teeth bloody as several of them collapsed against each other, their silly satins, silks, taffetas and leathers now as out of place and stupid as they all were.

Finally and quietly I said, ‘Look at me. I’m doing this for you’.

I raised my hands once more and the glare of the spotlight, still rotating above us, must have hit the slim steel blades in my palms because everyone recoiled, as one.

I looked down at myself and used the thin knives to tear open the sparkling, silver-thread bodice wrapped tight around my torso, by slicing through the leather ribbon which laced it together. It slipped from my body and I stood there with my breasts on display, my nipples pink and high, perfect and firm – no surgery for me. The little rose-pink organza tutu draped with leather tatters, which hung from my hips, fluttered prettily and I glanced down at my round tummy - it only slightly protruded over the top. I didn’t care – I was proud of it.

I couldn’t walk any further forward on the stage without tumbling off, so I stood where I was, looking around one last time to take in their faces, to enjoy the horror they were feeling. Even as they vomited and wept, they were helpless, edging back towards me like junkies, desperate.

The stiletto blades were still in my hands. Quickly, without further ado I plunged them deep into my solar plexus, then dragged them out to either side, below my ribs. It hurt very badly and I fell to my knees. The screams around the theatre nearly overwhelmed me, nearly stopped me from finishing, but from somewhere came the strength to drive the knives back into my belly and slit all the way down, through the tutu, down to my knickers.

My guts spilled out everywhere, and I was pleasantly satisfied by the heat of them on my hands, before I finally fell into the crowd.

BIO: Lily Childs is a budding writer in the mystery and chiller genre, and is thrilled to have her first short story published on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers.
'Fashion Victim' is Lily's subtle response to being thrown off a clothing design course for being 'too nice!' After a seven-year spell in France, Lily now lives on the Sussex Coast with her artist husband and beautiful 5-year old daughter.

HUMBLE PIE by Vallon Jackson

This is the fourth in the on-going series following the anonymous Wile. E. Coyote killer and his hopeless attempts at murdering his nemesis, Robert. For previous episodes, put PIE in the search blog bar.

Humble Pie

I’m not really the physical type, so the idea of a weekend spent building rafts and scaling gorges while wet through and thoroughly miserable isn’t my idea of a good time. Add the discomfort of sleeping in a tent pitched on rocky ground to the fact that I had to share the damn thing with the red-headed lothario, Robert, and you’ll get a good idea of how peed off I was.

Bad enough that Robert is a gobshite who loves the sound of his own bragging, and he stinks like a donkey’s armpit after a couple pints of stout, but the git was also responsible for knocking off my wife, Roxy, for months.

I put a stop to that.

I skulled Roxy and drove her and her car in front of a train.

Since then it’s been a mission of mine to send Robert to a similarly gruesome fate.

The problem is, three times now I’ve failed to kill the self-proclaimed God’s gift to womankind.

My only saving grace was that Robert had pulled with Becki – a temp who thought she’d extend her contract if she sucked up to one of the bosses. So I had the tent to myself for most of Friday and Saturday night. Free from Robert’s farts and the homicidal thoughts I had every time he lifted his leg and let rattle. (I wondered what the police would find most unusual: the tent peg rammed through his skull, or the carabiners clamping his butt cheeks together?)

Sunday night was going to be different though. Becki had a christening to attend, and it was unlikely she’d come back to our moorland base for the final night. Unless Robert found another pie to dabble his fingers in, I was going to have to spend about the worst night imaginable. The only other female with us was Big Jan, and I doubted that Robert’s charms would win her over. Not when her partner Fifi was waiting for her at home. Robert wasn’t one for crew cuts, baggy football tops and jeans strung with chains, but he’d even bragged once that – if he so desired – he could turn even Jan.

I thought about telling Jan his plan. Let her snap his neck for me.

But I hadn’t. I didn’t want Jan to get in trouble for killing the son of a bitch.

No, Robert was my problem to deal with. I owed him big time.

We were out on the moor, orienteering.

While Jan and Craig, and Billy and James, went off following a map and compass, hunting for the coordinates our ‘team leaders’ had marked out, me and Robert went the other.

To hell with that for a lark, Robert announced after about two minutes. I’m off down the village for a pint.

We’re not going to pass the course if we go AWOL, I told him.

Like I care? There’s a hot bit of crumpet serving behind the bar. Gonna try my luck. Are you coming or not?

I looked fondly at the desolate hillside that led all the way down to Bilgefoot. It was sufficiently craggy, full of loose rocks with sudden drop offs. It would be a great shame if poor Robert just happened to slip, fall of the cliff and splatter on the rocks below. No way could I allow him to attempt the treacherous path alone.

Of course I’m coming. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

See, Robert said as he smoothed down his copper wire hair, I told the others that you had hidden depths. For such a wimp you've a real sense of adventure.

Robert shoved me in the shoulder. Good pals us.

I get the bird, you get the collie dog, he laughed. That’s the only other hot bitch in Bilgefoot.

Ha-frickin-ha!

We set off, rucksacks lightened by dumping all the unnecessary gear.

We’d come so far in Land Rovers, hiked in the remainder. Bilgefoot was a good three miles off and it was a long time since either of us had walked that far on level ground, let alone over hills.

We’d barely made it a mile when the rain came down in torrents. The rocks underfoot grew very slick, but Robert went over them like he was born to the mountains. I huffed and puffed to keep up, swearing I was going to take up my gym membership again.

Cold pint, hot fire, even hotter barmaid, Robert cajoled me along. And if you’re up for it, you can stroke the hot dog. Bet you’re good at that seeing as you’ve abstained from women since Roxy died.

Very funny you sick heartless pig!

We were on a narrow path over a hundred foot drop off.

What a tragedy if Robert slipped now. There would be nothing I could do for him. He’d fall all the way down, and if he didn’t smash himself to pieces on the rocks, the exposure would kill him while I spent the afternoon in the bar. Stroking the dog.

I was just about to shove him in the small of his back. Send him into space.

But the guardian angel that looks after Robert was working overtime. How it managed to jam that slick stone under my own boot had to be divine intervention.

Aaargh, I yelled, slipping.

My arms wind-milled, grabbing at air but found nothing. Off the cliff I went, with a tuck and a roll, then I was doing a swan dive through the sky.

As I flipped Robert grabbed me by my jacket collar. I dangled there with my heels over space, but then Robert yanked me up and set me back on the trail.

Excitement getting to you, me old mate?

Good God Almighty, I stammered, you just saved my life Robert.

Aah, it was nothing. You’d do the same for me.

God damn it if I didn’t have to eat humble pie.

For now...

REFLECTIONS by Lee Hughes

REFLECTIONS

Nobody knows them. Nobody can even hear them and they certainly can't even begin to fathom them, they are my secrets...

The man in the chair with his yellow pad and well-stroked beard. He's spying me with eyes which he is attempting to use as keys to unlock the security on my brain.

Pandora's box brought only woes, my secrets if known would end the world and I have seven Reflections with which to keep them safe...

I've already used up three of the Reflections. The remaining four need to count. This walking talking beard and his pilfering wants will have to be halted with Reflection number four.

He thinks I'm just up for a stroll. A nosy over to the window to steal stuff from the sky with my eyes, just like he does.

I don't, I divert myself over towards his braggart wall.

All of his borrowed knowledge imprisoned behind glass. Diploma in Secret Theft, B.A in Thought Pilfering and a PhD in Applied Robbery of the Mind. Their surfaces perfect for Reflection number four's birth.

The reflection reaches out, my hands mimicking the Reflection and trade an empty grip for a choking full one.

Three more Reflections and the world ends.

BLACK MALE by Michael J. Solender

Black Male


Erin tugged at her skirt. Not down, to cover her legs and what was between them, but up to enhance the view from the diagonal of the boardroom where she arrived early to get a very strategic position directly kitty-corner from United Re’s first African American CFO, Rick Robards.

This was her first time presenting to the Board of Directors and she was intent on making a lasting impression.

Only 25, Erin’s rise at United had been mercurial. Hired into the prestigious derivatives group straight out of M.I.T. at 23, she was United Re’s only hire in the post-financial meltdown year that had seen their reinsurance profits evaporate and government regulators snooping in their linens.

Her stochastic models and projections exploited a previously unknown void in currency fluctuations between the Yen, the Euro and the Dollar and had allowed United to recoup a tidy profit in her first 90 days on the job. Promoted at 6 months to lead a special project team, she again performed flawlessly in an investment strategy that boldly bet correctly on a Dow drop and the corresponding uptick.

Promoted to Director on her 25th birthday, she had gained the respect of her colleagues and notice of her superiors bosses, even the aloof and illusive CFO, Robards.

Her smarts and business acumen could not overshadow arguably, at least amongst her male coworkers, her strongest assets; Erin Stiles was a flat out knockout stunner.

Not a classic beauty, her nose was slightly too large for her fragile and pleasing face, but men found her intriguing and beguiling none-the-less. It was her shape that took most men’s breath away. Petite at 5’4”, she was well rounded in each of the requisite male eye resting spots. She never missed a day at the gym and her form had a toned, firm and strongly feline air that the traders spent hours debating at the pub after work.

She was not unaware of how men appreciated her other talents and was not unabashed in using these assets to advance her career to the corner office that she so coveted.

Robards was a tough nut to crack for her however. Always the buttoned-down professional he barely noticed her, or so she thought, when she had stopped by his office to review the monthly figures. He’d seemed immune to the low cut blouses she wore when she knew she’d be in his company that day. He was one cool cookie.

For his part, Robards could barely contain himself. How could anyone help but notice Erin, her tight buns, dewy eyes and obvious come-ons. He wasn’t getting any relief at home from his marriage-of-convenience wife, Delores, who had all but sanctioned his liaisons as long as he didn’t expect anything in the bedroom from her.

He needed to exercise caution, however. As CFO, he was vulnerable to particular scrutiny and as one of only 3 black executives at United he knew he was under a microscope. He’d have to make any moves and subsequent action on his terms.

The BOD meeting went off per usual. The highlight for Robards was the unobstructed view of leg crossing and uncrossing by Erin designed for both his pleasure and to send a powerful signal. He could wait no longer and like a moth to the flame, cornered her after the meeting.

“How about lunch today?” he asked Erin with a rising intonation that conveyed it was more than nutritional sustenance on his mind.

“That would be great, but I need to run to my apartment to feed my cat,” Erin purring in her own cat-like way told Robards, “Can we stop there first?”

Game on thought Robards. He was about to get the lay of his life and he got rock hard right there outside the boardroom.

“Of course, that won’t be a problem,” Robards now with a lilt in his voice, replied.

The motion activated audio/video recording device that had been set up in Erin Stiles apartment bedroom provided extremely high definition. The participants in the afternoon encounter were exquisitely captured in full bore passion that Erin enjoyed more than she would have liked to admit.

But this was business, there would be no encore. She fingered the jump drive with a lone video file in her hand on the elevator ride to the executive suites. She knew she had Rick Robards and he would deliver for her. She was also ready with plan B, just in case he did not.

Robards, decided to call her bluff. If she went public he thought, her career would be as over as his. Not only that but he’d be damned if he was giving half his considerable net worth to Delores in the certain divorce that would accompany this debacle.

“You bitch,” He sneered, “Get out of here, not only won’t you ever get another promotion, I’ll see you’ll never work in reinsurance anywhere as long as I’m around.”

“I guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re not around.” Erin coolly said and started to leave his office. She reached up to the collar of her silk blouse and violently tore it down to the waist exposing her front S clipped bra that she also tore open and then screamed, running out into the hallway.

“He tried to rape me,” she said to no one in particular though she had the rapt attention of each of the executive secretaries, “Call the police, he’s been harassing me for months, I can’t take it anymore.”

The VP of Human Resources reassured Erin that the company would do anything, ANYTHING to avoid a scandal. Of course she could have the next month off and of course they would transfer her to the London office with a promotion to VP. After all she was an extremely valued employee.

Robards resignation accepted, she had nothing to fear in the way of retribution, the HR VP assured her.

Erin stopped at Starbucks on her way home. She had made one call after leaving the office and hoped her lover would be there to meet her and offer congratulations on achieving their mutual goal.

Delores Robards greeted Erin with a Cappuccino and a big, full on, deep tongued thrusting kiss. “You did it sweetie.” She cooed.

“We did it,” Erin replied, “Is he going to settle?”

“It will be completely uncontested,” Delores said, “Half of everything should be about $6 million including the house in Regent Park. Here’s the keys, meet you there next week.”

Erin smiled; she loved the rose garden at Regent Park.


Michael J. Solender is a freelance writer based in Charlotte, NC. He writes a weekly Neighborhoods column for the Charlotte Observer and NEVER runs with scissors. His fiction has appeared online at 6S, Powder Burn Flash and Flashshot (soon). He blogs here: http://notfromhereareyou.blogspot.com/

THE LATE SHOW by Mike Whitney

A little flash fiction from Mike to keep the chiller humming....

The Late Show

Dimly, through sleep, Catherine heard sounds from the living room. Heavy footsteps thudded in the hall as adrenalin rushed through her, "I have a gun!" she shouted, "The police are coming!"

The door burst open; screaming, she emptied her ex's .38 into the blur of hair, teeth and leathery wings that rushed her.

As the creature ripped at her neck, Catherine sat straight up in bed, moaning. At the foot of the bed, the snowy television screen buzzed, casting a glow on her half empty pizza box. Sobbing, she turned off the set, and buried her face in the pillow, the gun beside her on the bedside table.

© 2003 mikewhitney