Voting has now closed to find the top three favourite stories in the Joe Hunter style short story competition I've been running. All ten entries were excellent - remember that you can still read them all at http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/ and that all the anonymous tales will be credited to their respective authors at the end of the comp following final voting.
The top three stories are:
Short Story No 1 A Long Time Coming
Short Story No 6 Firestorm
Short Story No 7 Gallance
Congratulations to the top three short-listed entries, they move on to the second round of voting, starting today (Sat 20th until Thurs 31st March midnight GMT).
Please remember to vote for your favourite from the TOP THREE both here at Thrillers Killers 'N' Chillers AND AT Matt Hilton Thrills - http://matthiltonbooks.blogspot.com/
This is just a bit of fun, so please keep things fair folks. No Facebook campaigns or engineering mass voting.
Well-meaning friends are welcome to vote, but please keep your story anonymous from them until after the competition ends (if they recognise your writing from the names of your series character then you can't be held responsible). It is, of course, better that the story wins by the quality and enjoyment of the writing, therefore the author gains the merit he/she is due.
To keep things fair, I have decided to start all three top stories off from a level ZERO points. So...let's start reading and voting.
Thanks
Matt
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Friday, 19 March 2010
ON THE JOB By Sue Harding
Paul Hollis looked away.
In one quick glance he'd learned everything he needed to know. Myra Vale's body lay discarded like a rag doll on the floor beside the bed. Her face was still contorted in a look of surprise, her eyes staring, the knife hilt sticking out from just below her ribs. Yeah, she was dead alright.
Hollis stepped over her body, careful not to catch his shoes in the sticky pool of blood that had already soaked into the carpet. She was dead, and so was this line of enquiry. A real dead end.
He pushed open the tattered net curtain and stared out through the grimy window. The street below was quiet. Empty. The world had not yet woken up. The first fingers of dawn were itching to tear back the darkness of night.
The sickly smell of Myra's body tapped at his consciousness, reminding him that while he daydreamed she lay waiting for him, her eyes sightlessly watching his every move.
He turned reluctantly back. He'd seen enough bodies in his time and hers was certainly nothing new. For once he just wanted out, to leave this all behind him, start again. Feel clean. But he knew that he had work to do.
The knife hilt reflected the overhead light. It was a polished steel handle with a large and unwieldy blade. Just the sort of thing to make the right kind of statement: a weapon seized in a moment of frenzy.
Of course, he'd been anything but frenzied in his attack. He'd been cold and quick and despite the energy he'd expended on terminating Myra's life, her death had been quick. He hadn't relished twisting the knife, replicating the wounds an amateur might inflict, but his contract demanded it.
Hollis moved across to the kitchen area of Myra's small and pathetic world and picked up the hold-all he'd discarded when Myra had backed away from him in surprise. He reached inside to retrieve the knife block with its remaining four blades neatly in place and set it on the counter. He moved it back, then changed its position until he was satisfied, then knocked it over. It set the scene: the block toppled over by the suspect as they drew the murder weapon.
A cursory examination of the area afforded him the assurance that everything was in place. His client had been quite specific about the manner in which Myra had to die and now, as he looked around, Hollis was satisfied that the scene was ready for the next act.
He didn't want to know the details of why Myra had become an unnecessary burden to the woman who had contacted him. Maybe she'd been having an affair with his client's husband. Or perhaps she'd been threatening to extort money. Hell, it could even be sibling rivalry for all he knew. He didn't care. Just another job. Unpleasant, but a necessary source of extra income. And it made good use of his talents, too. A test of his skills.
Hollis lifted his bag and eased out of the door, pulling it to behind him, but not closed. He paused, mentally running through what had just transpired, ticking off all the elements of the crime scene, working back in time much as he would do when he returned later, assembling the evidence.
He remembered the mantra drummed into him, all those years ago when he'd begun his career in the forensics department: “Every contact leaves a trace”, and resisted the urge to remove the gloves he wore. No time for silly mistakes, he thought. He saw his watch through the latex cuff. With luck he could get out of Myra's flat and back to his own place with enough time for a reasonable nap before he got the call-out.
BIO:
Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here:
http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
MIDNIGHT by Kristen Lee Knapp
Kristen debuts...
Midnight
The ceiling fan spins overhead like a flat tire. Lights wink from brass wall-mounted plaques. An obsessive number of Polaroid photos hang from the walls like clusters of sleeping bats. An Apple computer blinks with lazy blue light, watching with fatherly tenderness.
Rebecca wakes from her dream, reaches, mumbles, gradually louder with almost practiced histrionics. She clutches the covers to her cupcake breasts, the tired butts of a hundred cruelly juvenile jokes at school. Steaming breaths roll from her chewing gum lips. When her marble eyes twitch over the closet door, she shrieks.
Three breaths pass. A father curses and passes gas, a mother sheathes her wrinkled feet into silk slippers, shuffles down the osteoporosis hardwood floors and leans her daughter’s door open.
“What’s the matter honey,” she says, scrubbing her eyes.
Rebecca looks at her, the closet, her, the closet. “I heard something,” she says.
I suppress a giggle.
“What?” Mother says. A Nyquil blink. “What?”
“There’s something in my closet.”
Wrong tone. Faltering conviction, doubts herself. Mothers sighs, sits on the bed. “You had a nightmare,” she recites.
“No,” Rebecca says, her head shakes in insistent spasms. “I heard something.”
Mother is waking. “Who’s in there then? Freddy? Jason?” She swipes her hand down her face. Too late, her mask is off. A petty, skeletal visage leers out under yellow-gold hair, dyed a hundred thousand times. “You had a dream. A dream.”
Rebecca rubs her arms, unable to wash herself of the memory. The nightlight illuminates her corded neck, dainty cleavage. I barely control myself.
Mother stands up. “Go to sleep.”
“Wait,” says Rebecca. “Wait.”
Mother stops and rakes her fingers through her hair like a junkie. “Honey, I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Just check for me,” she pleads. “Can you do that? Just check.”
Her mother recognizes something in the tone. “Becca, you’re two floors up. Your brother and all his stupid friends are passed out in the living room. If someone broke in, they wouldn’t even be able to walk down there. There’s nobody in your closet.”
Rebecca starts to cry, the Maginot line of every girl with her mother. It works, she sits back down.
“I know what happened was hard,” says Mother. “We already had this talk. I went through the same thing. It’s. . .” She pauses, and a memory plays in her tired eyes like a rerun of Cheers. “It happens to one in every three women. Did you know that?”
Rebecca nods. Succulent tenderness, pummeled like a mewling calf.
“They caught Jake,” Mothers goes on. She grabs her daughter’s shoulders in her vampire hands. “They caught Jake. He’s in jail. You don’t have to be afraid any more.”
Rebecca nods dumbly, like a child scolded over an untouched mountain of peas. “I know all that.”
Mother lifts her chin and they hug, warmthl-ess. “I know you’re upset. Your dad just doesn’t understand. He. . . We both don’t understand what you were doing outside at that hour.”
Rebecca cries again, this time silent, and her mother doesn’t see.
“You walked out of Jeanine’s house at three AM for a reason,” Mother says, glancing at the hornet’s nest of pictures on the wall. “Look, maybe you two just got a little hot and heavy and he didn’t know when to stop. . .”
“He raped me,” Rebecca says. “He raped me.” Her voices revs up an octave.
“Oh-Okay,” Mother smiles, shushing her. “I’m not arguing with you. Let’s just go to sleep. You’ve got your meeting with Dr. Donovan tomorrow. You always feel so much better after your sessions with her.” She raises an imperious finger. “And you’ve got your PSAT to study for.”
A despairing smile. “Yes Mom.”
“Any of your brother’s friends try and get fresh tonight, you kick him in the balls.”
Rebecca doesn’t answer. Her mother leaves.
I turn the knob and the closet door trickles open. She sees me. Opens her mouth to scream. I cover her gummy bear lips with glacial fingers. The breath goes from her lungs. I slow myself down, lurch in beside her ear. Rashes of fear ripple across her freckled skin and I barely keep from losing it. “Do you want to talk?” I ask her, delighted at my bullfrog voice.
She screams into the eternity of my palm. I wait until she’s out of breath and I ask her again. She nods, whimpering like a whipped puppy.
I release her mouth, cinch my fingers around her windpipe. An excited little breath crawls from my throat. “Do you know who I am?” I whisper.
Rebecca’s eyes squint shut and her lips split into a grimace. “You were there,” she gasps. “At the soccer game. I saw you.”
“You’re good with faces, aren’t you?”
“Please,” she chokes. I tighten my grip and she says yes.
“Take off your clothes,” I mutter.
Her trembling fingers unclasp her flesh-colored Hanes bra. Her fingers skate down her sides and she shrugs out of a baggy pair of underwear.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
Her face rumples. She’s about to cry, but nods instead.
“Then you know how to save yourself,” I whisper.
Her hand reaches, fumbles against my body in the dark. It glides down my chest, grabs my member. She strokes it, rocks it, cries. I wait for her to notice.
She releases my cold, flaccid penis and looks at my face.
I bite her neck and drink. Oh, I drink, sloppy, gorging swallows that drool down my chin, bubble down her breasts onto her Ikea covers. Her arms flail, clearing her bedside table, sending lamps and earrings and cups of water and cell phones to the floor. I drink, reveling in the orgasmic flavor of her red nectar. I’d roll in her if I could, drink from her heart while the tap spurts all over my faces.
When I am done she is as cold as I am. I leap from the window and wait in the branches of the old oak, lick my fingers while waiting for Mom or Dad. They come, scream, run for the phone. Fingers fly from 9 to 1 to 1. Tears, hugs, sobs. Red and blue lights undulate on the lawn.
Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll find who did this. They won’t.
BIO:
Kristen Lee Knapp is an author living in Jacksonville Florida. His stories have appeared at Silver Blade, Aphelion Webzine, Moon Drenched Fables, and other publications. You can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/kristenleeknapp
Midnight
The ceiling fan spins overhead like a flat tire. Lights wink from brass wall-mounted plaques. An obsessive number of Polaroid photos hang from the walls like clusters of sleeping bats. An Apple computer blinks with lazy blue light, watching with fatherly tenderness.
Rebecca wakes from her dream, reaches, mumbles, gradually louder with almost practiced histrionics. She clutches the covers to her cupcake breasts, the tired butts of a hundred cruelly juvenile jokes at school. Steaming breaths roll from her chewing gum lips. When her marble eyes twitch over the closet door, she shrieks.
Three breaths pass. A father curses and passes gas, a mother sheathes her wrinkled feet into silk slippers, shuffles down the osteoporosis hardwood floors and leans her daughter’s door open.
“What’s the matter honey,” she says, scrubbing her eyes.
Rebecca looks at her, the closet, her, the closet. “I heard something,” she says.
I suppress a giggle.
“What?” Mother says. A Nyquil blink. “What?”
“There’s something in my closet.”
Wrong tone. Faltering conviction, doubts herself. Mothers sighs, sits on the bed. “You had a nightmare,” she recites.
“No,” Rebecca says, her head shakes in insistent spasms. “I heard something.”
Mother is waking. “Who’s in there then? Freddy? Jason?” She swipes her hand down her face. Too late, her mask is off. A petty, skeletal visage leers out under yellow-gold hair, dyed a hundred thousand times. “You had a dream. A dream.”
Rebecca rubs her arms, unable to wash herself of the memory. The nightlight illuminates her corded neck, dainty cleavage. I barely control myself.
Mother stands up. “Go to sleep.”
“Wait,” says Rebecca. “Wait.”
Mother stops and rakes her fingers through her hair like a junkie. “Honey, I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Just check for me,” she pleads. “Can you do that? Just check.”
Her mother recognizes something in the tone. “Becca, you’re two floors up. Your brother and all his stupid friends are passed out in the living room. If someone broke in, they wouldn’t even be able to walk down there. There’s nobody in your closet.”
Rebecca starts to cry, the Maginot line of every girl with her mother. It works, she sits back down.
“I know what happened was hard,” says Mother. “We already had this talk. I went through the same thing. It’s. . .” She pauses, and a memory plays in her tired eyes like a rerun of Cheers. “It happens to one in every three women. Did you know that?”
Rebecca nods. Succulent tenderness, pummeled like a mewling calf.
“They caught Jake,” Mothers goes on. She grabs her daughter’s shoulders in her vampire hands. “They caught Jake. He’s in jail. You don’t have to be afraid any more.”
Rebecca nods dumbly, like a child scolded over an untouched mountain of peas. “I know all that.”
Mother lifts her chin and they hug, warmthl-ess. “I know you’re upset. Your dad just doesn’t understand. He. . . We both don’t understand what you were doing outside at that hour.”
Rebecca cries again, this time silent, and her mother doesn’t see.
“You walked out of Jeanine’s house at three AM for a reason,” Mother says, glancing at the hornet’s nest of pictures on the wall. “Look, maybe you two just got a little hot and heavy and he didn’t know when to stop. . .”
“He raped me,” Rebecca says. “He raped me.” Her voices revs up an octave.
“Oh-Okay,” Mother smiles, shushing her. “I’m not arguing with you. Let’s just go to sleep. You’ve got your meeting with Dr. Donovan tomorrow. You always feel so much better after your sessions with her.” She raises an imperious finger. “And you’ve got your PSAT to study for.”
A despairing smile. “Yes Mom.”
“Any of your brother’s friends try and get fresh tonight, you kick him in the balls.”
Rebecca doesn’t answer. Her mother leaves.
I turn the knob and the closet door trickles open. She sees me. Opens her mouth to scream. I cover her gummy bear lips with glacial fingers. The breath goes from her lungs. I slow myself down, lurch in beside her ear. Rashes of fear ripple across her freckled skin and I barely keep from losing it. “Do you want to talk?” I ask her, delighted at my bullfrog voice.
She screams into the eternity of my palm. I wait until she’s out of breath and I ask her again. She nods, whimpering like a whipped puppy.
I release her mouth, cinch my fingers around her windpipe. An excited little breath crawls from my throat. “Do you know who I am?” I whisper.
Rebecca’s eyes squint shut and her lips split into a grimace. “You were there,” she gasps. “At the soccer game. I saw you.”
“You’re good with faces, aren’t you?”
“Please,” she chokes. I tighten my grip and she says yes.
“Take off your clothes,” I mutter.
Her trembling fingers unclasp her flesh-colored Hanes bra. Her fingers skate down her sides and she shrugs out of a baggy pair of underwear.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
Her face rumples. She’s about to cry, but nods instead.
“Then you know how to save yourself,” I whisper.
Her hand reaches, fumbles against my body in the dark. It glides down my chest, grabs my member. She strokes it, rocks it, cries. I wait for her to notice.
She releases my cold, flaccid penis and looks at my face.
I bite her neck and drink. Oh, I drink, sloppy, gorging swallows that drool down my chin, bubble down her breasts onto her Ikea covers. Her arms flail, clearing her bedside table, sending lamps and earrings and cups of water and cell phones to the floor. I drink, reveling in the orgasmic flavor of her red nectar. I’d roll in her if I could, drink from her heart while the tap spurts all over my faces.
When I am done she is as cold as I am. I leap from the window and wait in the branches of the old oak, lick my fingers while waiting for Mom or Dad. They come, scream, run for the phone. Fingers fly from 9 to 1 to 1. Tears, hugs, sobs. Red and blue lights undulate on the lawn.
Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll find who did this. They won’t.
BIO:
Kristen Lee Knapp is an author living in Jacksonville Florida. His stories have appeared at Silver Blade, Aphelion Webzine, Moon Drenched Fables, and other publications. You can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/kristenleeknapp
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Interlude - The heat is on...
I'm glad to see so many people taking part in the voting for the competition to win a signed copy of my up-coming book, SLASH AND BURN over at the Joe Hunter's Fixers blog, and it looks like we have three stories racing towards the finishing post up until now. But will Gallance, Long Time Coming and Firestorm be the eventual short-list? It's down to you for your favourite to win. Make sure that you tell your friends, your family, anyone who enjoys to read a thrilling story, and send them there to vote for their favourite. Who knows where that will lead? Or who the eventual winner will be.
For clarity and fairness I'm taking no part in this round of voting. It's down to you, the readers to decide your favourites.
The stories are anonymous, so if you're one of the writers, keep things fair and don't tell your readers which is your story. Allow the story to stand on its own strengths, but do encourage people to read them and VOTE.
This round finishes this Friday 19th March at midnight GMT.
The top three will then be posted here at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers and at my blog over at Matt Hilton Thrills http://matthiltonbooks.blogspot.com/ where voting will be opened again. Votes from this round will be carried through. But, you are then invited to vote again for the eventual winner of the three shortlisted. You are allowed to vote at both sites (because I've no way of stopping this) and indeed it will pay you to do so to ensure your favourite wins. I will also add my vote to the story that I think is the best.
Round two will end Wednesday 31st March 2010 at midnight GMT and the winner announced on 1st April. All authors will then be credited to their respective stories.
Hope this is clear?
Now, go round up the troops and keep on voting.
For clarity and fairness I'm taking no part in this round of voting. It's down to you, the readers to decide your favourites.
The stories are anonymous, so if you're one of the writers, keep things fair and don't tell your readers which is your story. Allow the story to stand on its own strengths, but do encourage people to read them and VOTE.
This round finishes this Friday 19th March at midnight GMT.
The top three will then be posted here at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers and at my blog over at Matt Hilton Thrills http://matthiltonbooks.blogspot.com/ where voting will be opened again. Votes from this round will be carried through. But, you are then invited to vote again for the eventual winner of the three shortlisted. You are allowed to vote at both sites (because I've no way of stopping this) and indeed it will pay you to do so to ensure your favourite wins. I will also add my vote to the story that I think is the best.
Round two will end Wednesday 31st March 2010 at midnight GMT and the winner announced on 1st April. All authors will then be credited to their respective stories.
Hope this is clear?
Now, go round up the troops and keep on voting.
Monday, 15 March 2010
TOGETHER AT LAST by Jim Harrington
TKnC welcomes Jim...Together At Last
Glenda turned from the window, placed the mug on the counter, and rubbed damp palms down the front of her brown slacks.
“So you’re my son.” She slid onto a cushioned stool, swiveled slender legs under the glass-topped table, and stared at the stranger. Black bangs loomed over his dark eyes. The head of a green dragon with red eyes peeked out from the sleeve of the young man's black t-shirt.
“According to the adoption agency.”
“I thought those records were sealed.” Glenda, back stiff, held his eyes with hers.
“When your adoptive parents are rich, you can do lots of things.”
“You’re rich? Dressed like that? And when was the last time you got a haircut?"
“You sound just like my mother.” Jonathan's gaze lowered to his lap where his hands lay motionless. “She didn’t approve either.”
Glenda swiveled out of the chair and retrieved a bottle of Dewars from the cupboard. Her eyes widened when his last statement sunk in. She returned to the table. “Didn’t? Is she—?”
“They died in a car accident five months ago.” He looked up. “Two days after I learned about you, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m sorry.” Glenda rose and retrieved another glass from a stained dish rack. Was it an accident? She chased the words from her mind. “So I guess I know why you’re here.”
“To see you, mother.”
“Don’t call me that.” She set the glass down and offered him the Dewars.
“No thanks.”
“No thanks?” She put a hand on her hip. “You don’t drink?” He shook his head.
They sat in silence. Glenda poured two fingers of amber liquid into the glass and swallowed it in one gulp. She had to think. This intruder could ruin everything if he found out the truth.
“My adoptive parents left me well-off. I thought I—”
“You thought you could buy my love?" She forced rage into her words. "I don’t need your money. I have plenty of my own.” Her eyes narrowed. She placed her palms on the table and leaned forward. “And anyway, how do I know you’re telling the truth. You could be after my money.”
They stared at each other as silence returned to the room.
“I need to show you something.” Glenda rose, stepped through the door and down two steps into the back yard. Jonathan followed as she led him into a forest of oak and pine trees. Forty paces into the woods she stopped and pointed.
Jonathan dragged his eyes from the aged mound of dirt to Glenda’s face. “It’s your mother’s grave - my half-sister - the lucky one who married a plastic surgeon.” Those were the last words Jonathan heard.
The last thing he saw was the unyielding shovel nanoseconds before it slammed into his face.
BIO:
Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two cats. His stories have appeared in Apollo's Lyre, Boston Literary Magazine, Camroc Press Review, Every Day Fiction, The Houston Literary Review, Long Story Short, MicroHorror, Flashshot and others. He currently serves as flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre. You can read more of his stories at www.jimharringtononline.net.
http://quotesonwriting.blogspot.com/
http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/
Saturday, 13 March 2010
WHAT'S IN THE CELLAR? by Jeanette Cheezum
Jeanette returns with an adult mystery...What’s In the Cellar?
1940: Deep in the woods of Georgia.
If it rained or snowed no one would come down to check on Lucy. She wore diapers, sometimes only one a day until she turned four. The weight of the soiled fabric made it easier for her to slip out of them. She stomped her feet in the urine puddles because it felt good to her feet. Sometimes she could play in the wash tub that sat under one of the windows. The man had dropped a hose down the wall and put water in there for her to sit in, once or twice a month. There wasn’t much else to do down in the cellar. Except hold onto her rag doll and lay on her old mattress on the floor.
Bugs crawled on her at night but somehow didn’t feed on her nasty skin. One morning the large doors opened and the man that came to see her brought a pot downstairs for her to use. The first time she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do when he handed her a pair of cotton bloomers. She stuck her hands through the holes and placed them against her sparsely covered chest. They felt nice and soft and she liked that.
The man shook his head, removed them, and pulled them onto her soiled bottom. Up and down several times in an attempt to make her understand.
Lucy looked forward to his visits and watched his every move.
“I brung ya some food.” He shoved a bowl and a quart bottle of water in front of her.
She learned to eat slowly and save some of her food. To make a safe for the food under an old crate was the only way to keep the rats from eating it. When the man turned to leave, she shook her head flailed her arms and grunted. He paid no attention and left her alone.
An index and middle finger was used as a game to skim along the cool cinderblock walls. She did this several times just before she ate the bread and beans or apples and bananas the man brought her.
***
The warmth from the steam heater kept the cellar toasty in the winter for years; in the summer the man would open the two windows at the top of the wall. She watched the mosquito’s land on her and when they bit her she slapped them until they quit.
***
Around the nineteenth summer the man hadn’t come to see her for two nights and two days. Only crumbs were left under the safe, and the chamber pot had spilled over the brim hours ago, but she continued to use it.
The door opened and remained that way. A taller man stood in the opening and gasped. The stench was stifling.
The light was bright from the doors being open so long, and Lucy shielded her eyes with her rag doll until they adjusted.
After some time the man came down to investigate. Would there be another body like he had found upstairs? He pulled the chain to allow more light then stopped at the bottom step.
Lucy stood still; then handed him her bowl and empty quart bottle.
“Oh, my God, I wasn’t the only one--How long have you been down here?”
Silence surrounded them.
“Come let me take you upstairs.” He reached out his hand.
She didn’t budge, only stared.
“It’s okay . . . I want to take you out of here.” He brought her to the stairs and tugged.
Lucy held onto her rag doll. Once outside, they climbed another set of stairs and entered the meager house, set in the privacy of the woods.
“We need to do something about your cleanliness, but first, let’s get you something to eat?”
Before he took his big hands and moved her to the kitchen table, she had paid no attention to him, looked around the room and touched things. She stopped in front of a picture frame showing the man and another person with long hair.
“You’re not going to talk to me are you?” He moved to the sink and wet a dish towel. Tried to wipe her face and hands but she pulled away. He relented and brought her some food and water. “You can’t speak or hear can you?”
Lucy made strange sounds and grabbed the food. Eating like someone that hadn’t been fed in a long time. He watched her and thought about his mother’s story of his father. How his father had walked away when he was born and never came back. How hard he and his mother had to work to stay alive. Now that she had died he came to have it out with his sperm donor, but had been robbed of that pleasure. He had found him dead in the middle of the living room floor. At least he had the pleasure of burying him behind the house. No funeral and friends for him, he didn’t deserve it.
Zachary left the room and went into the bathroom. He rifled through the shelf where the thread bear towel and washrags were kept. At least soap and shampoo sat on the window ledge.
Lucy followed him after he waved her on to the shower. The water sputtered and came out cold at first. He had her touch the stream of water. Now . . . how would he get her to clean herself?
He stripped off her tattered clothes and moved her into the shower. She grunted a pathetic cry and struggled with him.
He turned off the shower and removed his clothing. Knowing she would watch closely, he stepped inside the rusty old shower and turned on the water. He held his head under the stream and placed soap on his face. He smiled as he rinsed and held out his hand for her to join him. She stepped in slowly. He handed her a soapy rag. She didn’t know what to do so he rubbed her face again and moved her face to the water to rinse. She held her breath flailed her arms and shook her head.
What could he do to relax her? He continued to wash himself with the soap, maybe ... He soaped up his hands making a nice lather, and ran them across her shoulders and down her back.
Lucy seemed to like this. She made a humming noise. He massaged shampoo onto her hair but found it impossible to penetrate the layers and get to her scalp. She kept trying to look up to see what he was doing. The dirty water began to puddle and soap scum skimmed against their feet. She wriggled her toes.
He continued to rub her full grown chest and moved down towards her stomach. Should he? Well it would be the only way he could clean her. He tried to ignore the swelling in his groin.
He moved up to her ears and her neck. They were unbelievably soiled from neglect. He ran his hands under her hairy armpits and raised them to the warm gentle water. She smiled and made sounds that he had gotten used to hearing. He turned her around and let the water rinse away the filth.
Did he dare? Yes it had to be done. Mother always said “never leave a job unfinished.” He lathered her behind area and slipped in and out of the crevice. At least she had used toilet paper downstairs. He washed her legs and ankles and moved in close. Her body was against his and she didn’t move. He massaged her breast and used his fingertips on her rock hard, nipples. Then he slid his fingers down to her pubic area. He ventured slowly, so as not to alarm her.
Lucy hummed as he touched her mass of hair she giggled with a honking sound. He spread her legs just a little and lathered the area. She looked down to see what he was doing when he slid his finger into her young virgin area. Her humming became more intense. He rinsed the lips with a shower hose to remove the soap and stench that had gathered for so long. He turned her around. While finishing the job he lost his erection with an explosion up against her back. He shuddered and she never knew what had happened.
He assumed Daddy had never washed her or showed her how. The detective told him his daddy had taken another wife and she died giving birth. This must be the child. Lucy held her slender fingers above her head and watched the water bounce away.
No one would know - Daddy was dead and surely wasn’t looking down from heaven.
After he dried them off, it was time to teach her how to brush her teeth. He showed her how, but when her turn came she ate the toothpaste and drank the swish water. He laughed out loud. “I can see my work is cut out for me.”
“Now to cut that hair.” He opened the medicine cabinet to find only a straight razor, shaving bowl and cream next to a brush. “Well we may have to do this the hard way, if there are no scissors.
After three feet of hair and more under her arms he felt satisfied with his master piece. He found some clothes that must have belonged to her mother and helped her get dressed. They could live here no one would know the difference. Neither of them had anyone to love so he would teach her everything. She had already started to mimic him. But he would never kiss her if she wouldn’t clean her mouth.
Zachary showed her the mirror and she jumped. Lucy had no mirror so she never gave any thought to her appearance; large nose, sunken eyes, protruding brow, thin lips and matted brown hair.
He touched the mirror and then touched her face. Pointed to himself and then touched his face. “See, we look just alike. No one wants us, but now we have each other.”
“Let’s go to the bedroom and change the grimy sheets,” he wondered if she’d want to sleep on the floor. He led her to the side of the bed. On the other side he lay down and patted the mattress for her to do the same.
She stood still and gazed around the room. He crawled over to her side and pulled her down on the bed, then turned off the light.
All night she entered his thoughts. He moved closer to her wanting to feel her body against his. Daddy had given him something after all... a home and a woman that didn’t care how he looked.
Jeanette Cheezum 2010
BIO:
Jeanette lives in Virginia Beach, VA. She watches the rolling surf of the Chesapeake Bay for inspiration. You can find her work on several online writing sites; including this one. She has been published in three of Smith Magazines anthology books, and two of Six Sentences anthology books. Forthcoming: Harbinger*33*book.
Last year she published 160 online stories. She hopes to publish her latest novel this year.
Let the voting commence
http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/2010/03/let-voting-commence.html
The voting is now open over at JOE HUNTER'S FIXERS to determine the top three stories in the competition to win a signed first edition hardback copy of Matt Hilton's latest Joe Hunter thriller -SLASH AND BURN. Please click the link above and vote for your favourite read.
The voting is now open over at JOE HUNTER'S FIXERS to determine the top three stories in the competition to win a signed first edition hardback copy of Matt Hilton's latest Joe Hunter thriller -SLASH AND BURN. Please click the link above and vote for your favourite read.
SWEET THINGS by Lou Treleaven
A warm TKnC welcome to Talkbacker, Lou, with something a bit different...Sweet Things
I love sweet things. Goodies, tasty morsels, delicious little treats. A fairy cake here. An iced doughnut there. I deserve it, with what I have to put up with.
When I met Gustaf, I knew straight away what sort he was. A plain Madeira, reliable but boring with a tendency to go crumbly with age. He was rich, which was the icing on the cake. And he was desperate to get married, which was the cherry. He had been married before, you see, with two children who needed a mother. Not that he told me that. I only found out when he produced four airline tickets for the honeymoon.
He had been scared, he confided. Scared I would refuse him if I knew. I was too beautiful for a man like him and he had hardly believed his luck when I had shown an interest. The fool didn’t realise I only wanted him for his money. Well, as the saying goes, a fool and his money are soon parted. But before I had got half the surgical procedures I’d planned, Gustaf lost everything on the stock market and soon we were living in a two bedroom shack in the middle of nowhere while Gustaf pottered around pretending to be a groundsman.
Me, the Queen of Tarts (read that any way you like), married to a woodcutter and dragging up two brats like a wicked stepmother.
I wasn’t having it, not one bite.
The children were the sort of annoying little cupcakes everyone coos over. They sickened me with their creamy youth. The boy, Hansel, was tall but still rather stringy for my tastes, but the girl would soon be rising to womanhood and bringing the photograph of her dead mother on the mantelpiece to life before my eyes.
That picture. That picture. The beautiful wife who never aged. I smashed it one day in a fit of rage. Gretel burst into tears but Hansel simply picked the photo out of the shattered glass and said, “She doesn’t need props to make her beautiful.”
I knew what he meant. It was at that moment that I made up my mind. I put an arm around them both. “Oh my poor little ones. Let me be your mother now. I want us to get to know each other more. Why don’t we go for a picnic in the woods together?”
Now I knew Hansel and Gretel wouldn’t be keen on the idea. Firstly, they hated me, and secondly they were afraid of the woods and never went in there if they could help it. There were rumours that a witch lived there who caught children and ate them. Where that all started I don’t know.
Before the brats could disagree, I grabbed a basket and called out to Gustaf that I was taking his delicious darlings for a special treat. Gustaf was delighted. He stood in the broken pieces of his wife’s photo frame and waved us off with tears of joy in his eyes.
Poor, besmitten Gustaf.
I led the children into the woods, turning left and right and doubling back until they had no idea which way we had come. I had grown familiar with the little tracks and pathways recently, however. I stopped at a clearing and threw down the picnic basket.
“Unpack this,” I ordered Gretel. “I’ll go and find some sticks to make a nice little fire.”
“There are sticks here, Stepmother,” pointed out Hansel.
I gritted my teeth in irritation “Yes, but these are damp. I’ll find some much better ones. Just stay here and unpack the picnic.”
I walked off laughing quietly to myself. There was nothing in the basket but a stale loaf of bread. It might keep them alive for a few days but there were plenty of creatures in the forest who preferred meat to bread. As I crept back towards the house I couldn’t help rubbing my hands together with glee.
I saw a number of shiny white pebbles dotted along the track but thought nothing of it until later when Gustaf and I were enjoying a romantic meal back at the shack. I had to make him fall in love with me even more, so that when he heard of his children’s tragic deaths in the forest he would be so blinded by love he would not think to blame me.
“Hello Stepmother.”
I nearly choked on my leg bone when I heard Hansel’s voice.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he continued. “For the picnic.”
“Good,” I said, finally managing to swallow.
Hansel’s face was as stony as the trail of pebbles he had left. “And the extra time in the forest by ourselves.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.” I smiled at him mirthlessly. “We must do it again some time.”
Hansel left the room and Gustaf grasped my hand and kissed it passionately. “I never thought such a beautiful woman would ever agree to be my wife,” he gushed. “But to see you be a mother to my children as well, especially in these hard times we must share together – it’s just the –“
“Icing on the cake,” I cooed lovingly. “We’ll go again tomorrow.”
And so we did. The children were even more reluctant but Gustaf insisted. It made him happy, he said, to see his little honeybuns with a new mother. Mother? I nearly choked with disgust at the word as I hurried them away into the leafy darkness.
This time we walked twice as fast as before. There were no pebbles to guide them home now, I made sure of that. We found a new clearing where the trees stood round like candles on a cake.
“I’m going to get some wood,” I said. “Hansel, Gretel –“
“Yes, we know,” said Hansel.
On the way home I noticed that somebody had carelessly dropped pieces of bread all along the path. I whistled and threw a few pieces up in the air. Soon the path was full of twittering, squabbling birds. Such a shame to waste food, I always think.
When I got back to the shack I prepared another delicious meal for Gustaf. The sort of meal which would make a husband swear never to leave his wife. He got so drunk on homemade wine, he didn’t remember to ask about the children until the following day.
“The naughty things refused to come home with me,” I sobbed. “And now they’ve probably been gobbled up by wild animals!”
I knew Gustaf would want to search the wood. I insisted on giving him a drink for the shock first. Then another, and another. When the crying finally stopped I slipped out. I had to be sure the brats were stripped of their meat, one way or the other.
They had found the house, my other house in the woods. My fantasy. It hadn’t taken them long, once they had given up trying to get home. The smell had probably driven them to it. Nothing like the smell of gingerbread when you’re starving.
That devil Hansel had eaten half the roof and Gretel the window frames by the time I got there. I shoved Hansel in a cage to fatten him up, but Gretel was already ripe and so I told her of my intentions.
“Show me the oven,” she said, no doubt intending to sound brave, so I did. My lovely, huge oven, big enough to cook anyone who wandered into the woods unprepared. When I told Gretel where our household meat had been coming from, she didn’t believe me. I put my head inside, just to show her, and the cursed creature pushed me in like I was a Christmas cake. She cranked the oven up high, that girl, burning me from the outside in. I only escaped with my life because the timer was faulty.
It took me two days to crawl back to the house where my husband was waiting for me. Every movement was a torture. Half my face and most of my fingers and toes were burnt off. I was blackened and charred, a neglected piece of meat.
“What have you done to the children?” he yelled.
“What have they done to me, you mean!” I shouted back. “Look at me. I’m ruined!”
“They said you planned to... to eat them.” Stunned at his own words, Gustaf staggered a little and steadied himself against the wall.
“So what if I did? It’s your fault. I would have been content with plastic surgery but you had to go and lose all our money. I had to go back to my old ways. Did you want a wife who looked like an old crone? I need meat, Gustaf! Human meat! It keeps me beautiful. And you want me to be beautiful, don’t you?” I advanced on Gustaf, who backed away. “You would give me your children if it kept me beautiful, wouldn’t you?”
Incredibly, the silly fool looked like he was about to agree. Desire, confusion and self-loathing flashed across his face. Then he broke down in tears. “They’ve gone,” he sobbed. “They blamed me and left. You’re all I’ve got, and look at you!”
“Yes, look at me,” I said. “And you’re all I’ve got. I’d say you’re nearly ready now, too. The oven here isn’t as big as the one at the gingerbread house, but after all, you are a woodcutter and there’s a very big axe in the shed. If I can’t have your money, I’ll have my beauty back.”
And I did.
So beware, my dears. Beware of second marriages and wicked stepmothers and old women who live in the woods. But most of all, beware of sweet things.
I was a sweet thing once, you know.
BIO:
www.loutreleaven.wordpress.com
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Interval and competition update
UPDATE:
OK, because I changed the format of judging for the Joe Hunter Style Short Story comp (to allow everyone to read all the entries) I'm going to have to add an extra date in order to keep things straight. So, on Saturday 13th March I'm going to put a poll up at Joe Hunter's Fixer's Blog http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/ to determine the top three as selected by the readers. This will run until Midnight GMT Friday 18th. At this time the top three stories will then be posted here at TKnC and over at Matt Hilton Thrills and a new poll opened to decide the winner. This will close Minight GMT on Wednesday 31st March and the winner announced to great fanfare and hullaballoo on the 1st April.
Hope this works for everyone.
AN APPRAISAL by Robert Crisman
An Appraisal
The hourly rate wasn’t bad, even if it did seem like lifetimes.
Roanne and Michelle had doubled that night with George at a place by the airport. George wanted the girls to bump pussies and then suck him off. It was Michelle’s first time in the trenches and George was a slug, so Roanne gave her head to the cause. George blew like right now, and soon after the girls were out of that room with 500 bucks in their kick. Not bad for 22 minutes.
Admittedly, some of those minutes were lo-o-ong…
Back in town they dropped off at the 13 Coins Restaurant on Denny. In the booth sipping coffee, Roanne said, “Hey, girl, how are you doing?”
Michelle said, “Alright…” She grinned and shuddered. “Unngghh! What a warthog!” They laughed. “God, Roanne! It was like, I swear to God, he opened the door and—I don’t know, I—“
“You were scared shitless.”
Michelle, 22, a suburban princess gone wrong, had indeed been scared shitless. Roanne let Michelle know that it was expected the first time around. Nearing 30, Roanne was an olive-skinned queen, eyes lit with hard wisdom. Michelle paid attention.
“Well—yes,” Michelle said, “I guess. God, he… And then, we go in and he—it was like, he thought we were going to, like, steal his bedsheets or something. Goddamn, Roanne, I swear. And then, when we were, you know, on the bed and he’s—“
Roanne laughed. “That was so funny!”
“Funny?” Michelle screwed her face. Then, she had to laugh too. “God, I could just—there you are, and he’s all pressed up, like, humping the both of us, and his hands are—“
“Believe me, girl, he had at least eight of the fuckers. I know.”
“And then, he grabs my hand and puts his fucking cock in it, and—God!”
Roanne started laughing again, as much at Michelle as at George.
“It was a firehose, Roanne! God! And he’s humping my hand and—I don’t know how you…” The visual took over. Michelle blinked.
Roanne was still laughing. “I had to get you out of your predicament.”
“I can’t thank you enough but—yuck! What did you… I mean, I know what you did but…”
“I had a rubber.”
“You had a rubber?”
“In my mouth.”
“You—I don’t get it.”
“When I went down on him, I had the rubber in my mouth and, you know, I just slipped it on there and did him that way.”
“Oh.”
Roanne laughed. “God, girl, you should see yourself.”
“Well, I…”
“It’s just, you know, something you learn. You know, it’s just—“
“A real taste treat.” Michelle giggled.
Roanne laughed. “Scrumptious, honey!”
“Bleaugghh! Oh well…” Michelle slumped in her seat. “At least it’s over. God. I thought we were going to be there forever.”
“God, Michelle. How long do you think we were there?”
“I have no idea. Eight months.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes? Really?”
“Yup, twenty minutes.” Roanne laughed. “And we spent half of that in the bathroom.”
“He’s just lucky we didn’t just lock ourselves in there!” Michelle giggled. “I could just see it. We’re in there, you know, and then, panting and moaning, and he—“ She started laughing, “he’s beating his meat and drooling all over the door—“ They both whooped at that one. “And then, when we finally come out he just pays us, you know? He got what he came for, so, sayonara, you know?”
“Really, girl, it was almost that easy. I told you he was a mouse.”
“With a hog.”
“Yes, wasn’t it…” Roanne laughed. “He came in two minutes.”
“Two minutes? He fucked my hand for a day-and-a-half!”
“No, dear. Two minutes.” Roanne rolled and then batted her eyes. “I knew it wouldn’t take long. He just—I knew. We came out of the bathroom, old George was ready. And then, God—we’re there on the bed and he’s—I thought he was going to cum on my back.”
“On my hand.”
Roanne laughed. “Yeah. Anyway, soon as I, uh, took him in hand, I knew. He was just about ready to spit, girl, and—“
“Oh god, stop. Anyway, Jesus, twenty minutes. It sure seemed longer.”
“Twenty minutes. Two-fifty a pop for the both of us, girl, and that’s $750 an hour, less commission, which knocks it down to $375—“
“The service takes half?”
“Yeah, I told you.”
“Jesus, I must have missed that.”
“Well, dear, you were loaded and—“
“God, I guess.” Michelle shook her head, grinned.
“Yeah, so anyway, $375. That’s still not bad, eh? Let’s see, $187.50 for each of us and—“
“It sure beats working at Denny’s. Or, being a bar-r-rista at fucking Starbucks for six bucks an hour plus tips.”
“Indeed yes it does,” Roanne said. “And it happens, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Us getting out of there early. You notice, our little mouse, after he, uh, spritzed, he just, he wasn’t much for small talk and stuff. He just wanted us gone.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did notice that. Poor man, he seemed, what do they call that…?”
“Post-coital depression. And that’s exactly what it was too. All he wanted to do after we left was jump into his bottle of bourbon or whatever and get drunk. I think if we’d’ve, you know, lingered, he’d’ve started gnashing his teeth or something like that. I mean, he was just, Please go away! He didn’t even want to look at us. I said, Goodbye, George, and he’s just, like, unh or something and nods his head and gives me this look out of the corner of his eye and goes back to looking out the window.”
“I know,” Michelle said. That’s so weird. Men, I swear. It’s like, as long as their dick’s hard they’ll kiss your ass. But once that’s over it’s, well, fuck you, bitch, and goodbye.”
“Yeah, well, that’s alright, dear, they can pay for the privilege. Five hundred for twenty minutes’ work. I’ll take that every time. And some guys give you a bonus too, so… He didn’t, but—“
“Cheap motherfucker.”
Roanne laughed. “Maybe next time.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Uh huh. Yeah…” Roanne said. “I figure, six more months.” She took on a musing sort of a tone. “Six more months. A year, maybe, I’ll have enough saved and then, kiss this shit goodbye. Get back into school. Do that, come out, open my shop, and I’ll be set…” Her tone darkened. “I can do what I want then, and the world can go kiss my ass.”
“Yeah…” Michelle looked for a moment as if she was afraid of being left behind.
Roanne caught it. “I’ll take you with me, girl.” She laughed. “And in the meantime I’ll teach you the trick with the rubbers.”
“Yuck.” Michelle rolled her eyes. “Oh well. I want cherry-flavored. Then, maybe.”
Michelle sat back in her seat. First date down. Michelle thought, not too bad… She remembered dates back in high school. Those times with some pimply-faced doofus with change for the bus and that’s it, who’d keep sliding his hand up her dress till she slapped him or something.
At least with old George she got paid.
BIO:
Robert Crisman knew Eddies and learned early on that they'd die for nothing. He wanted to live so he cut them loose. He tries to bring them alive in his stories, however, through acid-noir looks at the way they did business. He loves Dashiell Hammett, who also knew Eddies, and thinks Raymond Chandler is bullshit.
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