GREEN EYED MONSTER By Claire Rowland

WARNING: Not for the faint-hearted...

Green-Eyed Monster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh yes, really.’

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

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

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

‘You’re not going anywhere!’

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

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

‘But I’m sweaty and stinky.’

‘Don’t care.’

‘But –‘

‘Now baby!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BIO:

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

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

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

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

She is now actively seeking representation and publication.

MY REALITY By Lorena Dorantes

My Reality

 
Have you ever just had to thank someone or something for having such a wonderful 
life? You look around and are forced to notice the beautiful wonders of the 
world, starting from rainbows to sweet, cuddly babies. Well... that just isn't 
me.

 
Whoever said life was wonderful and should be appreciated every second you live 
it, simply never had any true tragedy occur to them. That's the problem with 
society... no true tragedy to make you see life for what it's really worth.

 
"Would you like some more tea?" I turned to look at the young, pimple faced 
waiter, as he stood there, waiting for my response.

  

 
I smiled at him and he in turn smiled back. "No Dear, why would I want a full 
glass of tea when I have an empty one instead?" I replied.

 
The frown on his juvenile face brought a smile to mine. He shifted his feet back 
and forth and cleared his throat before leaning over and pouring more tea in my 
glass. He moved away from me quickly once he finished pouring. I breathed in and 
let out a slow, deliberate sigh as I heard his feet practically running away 
from my table. He should really be careful. The table at the end of the dining 
room could cause a real mess for him... if he were to run into it. It was not 
two minutes later that I heard a small shriek and broken glass.

 
"Hmm.  Lesson learned." I spoke to myself, but it was a young girl next to me 
that answered.

 
"What lesson would that be?" She asked.  I continued staring into traffic. I did 
not need to look at the teen blond to know she was speaking to me.

 
"To not be in haste." A simple answer I felt would suffice but sadly, today's 
children never know when to quit.

 
"Is that... is that what happened to you? Were you in a... rush?" This time I 
did look directly at her but she was too busy coddling my wheelchair with her 
eyes. I noticed her beautiful face yet it was tarnished with the imperfection of 
a malignant, small smirk. Her bright, blue eyes roved over my wheelchair until 
she found what she was particularly interested in. Me.

"I'm sorry.  I just have never... seen..." She stopped speaking abruptly. Her 
eyes looked away and although her plate was fresh and her glass was full, she 
began searching for her waiter.

 
"You seem to have a question in your mind." I forced myself to smile as I 
continued the conversation with the young girl. The noise of the traffic seemed 
to be only a slight hum now and the fast cars were only colored blurs.

 
Her eyes widened a bit and I could hear her breathing coming in a short, quick 
rhythm. "What happened to you? Why are you in a...?" She stopped. As if omitting 
the word wheelchair made the question less ominous.

 
"Life, Dear. Routines and hustles of life happened. When someone is so shallow 
that they take it all for granted, that is when Fate comes in and takes 
charge. When you think you have it all under control, someone... or something 
decides to show you who really is in charge!" I could feel the wrinkle between 
my eyes deepen and my cheeks hurt from holding the frown in place. Slowly... I 
relaxed my cheeks first into a small smile and with it, the wrinkle between my 
eyes smoothed out.

 
The girl's eyes were truly a magnificent color. Her wide eyes revealed specks of 
clear blue surrounding the pupil. "I... I... enjoyed our conversation." She 
said, and then nodded her head to me as she stood and walked away in a rigidly 
straight line, the whole time clutching her small bag to her chest.

 
The smile spread across my face. A few minutes later I watched as she caught a 
taxi. The taxi driver really needed to be careful with the stoplight. Many 
people ran the red light and if you stepped on the gas too soon for your green 
light, you could easily get hit.

 
"Waiter... Dear, can you bring me a small piece of pie? It seems I will be here 
a bit longer." I said it quickly to the waiter who now hung close to the other 
side of the patio from where I sat.

 
I turned just in time to witness the taxi with the young girl get hit by a truck 
running the red light. I ate my pie as I watched the young girl with the blue 
eyes get taken out of the taxi cab with care. There were bandages placed round 
her head, covering her eyes and most of her face. It appeared the glass from the 
taxi’s windshield had been shattered and the many, tiny fragments had been 
thrust directly into her lovely face and blue eyes. Such a lovely face… such a 
shame. The ambulance raced her off to the hospital where she would undoubtedly 
be cared for but would most likely not recover completely.

 
The final remnants of the accident were cleaned up as I readied myself to go 
home. I sat back and let out a long sigh of satisfaction. Having done a job well 
done was always gratifying in itself. The cars continued passing by and the 
sweet hum of their engines were like music to me… right on cue. Tomorrow I would 
be back for another encounter. After all, today’s children must have a teacher 
to learn from. They must learn obedience and appreciation. Tomorrow and every 
day after that, but for today… my duty was done. 

 

 
A small chuckle escaped me as I recalled my own tragedy. The doctor never did 
believe I would survive. Terrible death the young doctor suffered… such a shame. 
He really should have been more careful.

    



BIO:

Lorena Dorantes enjoys writing about the black holes found in the other uknown 
space... people's souls.  She has been previously published in Long Story Short, 
Absent Willow Review, and Static Motion.  Currently, she also has a book under 
review depicting what life could be like if existence depended on one dark soul.

BREAD CRUMBS By Savanna Lujan

This one from newcomer Savanna will get you thinking...

Bread Crumbs.


Let us experiment.

Find a person. Any person really. Get to know him. Get him to trust you. Do anything you have to, to get him to believe in you. Anything. Change your personality, if you must. Kill, if that’s what it takes. It’s when he trusts you that the timing is right.

Betray him. Stab him right in the back. Take from him everything that he holds dear. Let him know that it was you who did it.

Steal his soul. Make it yours.

Watch his reaction. You’ll be surprised at what you find. Can you imagine it?

I’d like to say that I don’t enjoy doing such things. I’d like to say that I only do it because I have to, and it’s true that I have no choice. However, I would be lying. A part of me enjoys it greatly. Such a rush it gives. The other part of me hates it, because I know it’s wrong that I enjoy it.

My comeuppance is coming. I can feel it. Smell it in the air. I’m looking forward to it. Punishment sounds so… invigorating.

New.

* * * *

I know he’s here. So close I can almost taste him. The man who stole my life away. I should be angry with him, but I’m not. I should want revenge, but I don’t. It’s a strange sensation. That man raised me up from nothing - let me enjoy it for a while. Let me get used to it… and then he tore it all away.

I want to see him again. I want to let him know that I didn’t crumble after what he did to me. He needs to know that it takes more to tear me down. He needs to see how well I’m doing. I need to prove him wrong. His theory isn’t right. He can’t destroy everyone.

I want him to try again.

And as I see him coming near me, I know in my heart that he will. He smirks, and I smile back at him.

* * * *

He’s directly across the street from me. I can’t believe that he’s so close. This man who my mother spoke of endlessly. The man that drove her into a worthless state. She became an endless conversation; incapable of letting go of the past. She was pointless insanity - my mother. Right in front of my eyes, the man that put her there.

She told me the same things of him billions of times. Worthless stories, and warnings that probably held truth. It doesn’t matter though, I don’t care to listen to them. It’s not as though I don’t feel for my mother, and the things that this man put her through… but I’ve always wanted to meet him. I still do. I want to spend time with him, to get to know him. The man that breathed life into my body.

Hello, father. Come and greet your son.

* * * *

He’s here - how lucky to meet him here. He’ll pay for what he’s done. He’ll pay for making me do what I did. He’ll suffer for making me lose all those so dear to me. For taking away something I can never get back. His curiosity will be satisfied.

He’ll know what pain is.

“Sepal!”

He turns around. It seems I’ve interrupted him. Some woman is coming near him. Once smiling. The man opens his mouth to greet me, and I pull out the last thing I have.

A pocket knife.

“Wait!” The woman screams. The demon is grinning.

I point the knife at him, and he backs against a wall. His expression of strained amusement doesn’t fade, and it makes me angry.

I plunge the knife into him, as deep as I can get it.

“Dad!” Someone screams. I’m oblivious to it, caught in my revenge.

“Now, you know, this is what it feels like!” I yell.

He starts laughing.

BIO:
Savanna Y. Lujan is a timid individual with plenty to say, just not to you. The total word count of how much she talks in a day is maybe 150, but her daily writing word count is in the millions. She loves to write, draw, and loves long hours on the computer. She is single, and enjoys Asian food.

HERO OF THE DAY By Michael S. Collins

Hero of the Day


Well, here’s my fairy tale. I hear they are all the rage these days. This one is an old story, but no one has ever heard it from my perspective before, and since I was the hero of the show that seems a strange enigma that needs overturned. So here I am, all words on the page to give you my version of events, that dark day in history when the grizzled, evil beast stole away Belle to his tower.

Her father had three daughters, all of whom would have been the prettiest face at any given dance, but of all of them, Belle shone the best. Her radiant, glowing, smiling face is one I remember well. The father had been a big shot merchant in the district, until his merchandise sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic. After that, he was just another failed money man, plying his trade as a farmhand to try and get the bread on his table. Not a very good farm hand, I hear, but he was reasonably well liked in the area, so I guess that’s Farmer Williams sympathy for you.

His daughters strove to keep up his spirits, and helped bring messages to and fro the town for a tidy sum. I would occupy the eldest two as newspaper deliverers, but I must admit, it was the youngest I had my eye on. Innocently, of course, she was fourteen back then, but she would have made a fine wife for someone in time. You could sense that in her. And with her innocent charms and wide-eyed niceness, she had the eyes of the village on her.

It was three years after the ships went down that The Incident went down. The father had heard word that the shipwreck of one of his cargos had been found, and the cargo retrieved. At once he set off for Calais to see how much was salvageable. He never returned for a month. His daughters, all of them, were getting worried. Then suddenly he was back, and in that same instance, Belle was gone. Vanished in the blink of an eye.

Naturally, I was worried. This was no age for a girl to go wandering off in the middle of the forest. But as weeks went by, we began to realise just how serious the situation was. Until Belle’s father finally broke down and told us all the horrible truth: Belle was taken away by a hideous brute of a monster, who lived in a Castle somewhere five miles east of our village.

At this point, I could take no more.

We were in the tavern when I made my stand with the locals. It was a Friday, the beer was flowing mournfully, and people sat about disenfranchised instead of deciding on plans to save the day. That was my jurisdiction. I stood on top of the nearest table and banged my beer mug off the ceiling to get silence.

“Men, and womenfolk”, I said. “Let’s be under no illusions that the fate of Belle is a tricky one. Some foul wretch has stolen her away from our midst, from the protective arms of her father, and we must do something about it.”

“What can we do?” came the cry from the bar. Little Tommy, no doubt.

“Well, we can’t just stand around here moping and hope that one day she was turn up. We can’t just sit around here and make it someone else’s problem. Belle was one of our own, therefore her kidnapping is our problem, and we need to get her back.”

A murmur of support began to rise up from the rest.

“What I suggest is we set up a militia, of our strongest bodied men, ride into the depths of the forest, find the Castle, kill this demonic imbalanced creature, and save our Belle from the Hell she is no doubt in!”

An uneasy silence filled the room, broken by Timmy, Tommy’s brother.

“Well, sure”, he said, “I’d love to join this little Militia of yours. Only, I think I left the gas on.”

Laughter, from every portion of the room, in response to him. It filled every essence of my soul, and anger burned up in me.

“This isn’t funny!” I yelled. “If you are not with me, then I’ll have to do it myself.”

“Look, Gary”, replied Timmy. “We are all with you, in spirit, but that forest is dangerous. All kinds of wild animals live in there. And we have no idea of where this Castle actually is. It’d be a fool’s errand.”

“Fine”, I said. “I’ll go myself, and I will find Belle, slay this vampiric disease, and then I intend to marry Belle.”

I dropped back down to the floor and was on the way out of the door, my hand resting on my trusty sword, when Timmy put his arm out.

“I don’t want to see you going out into the unknown like this, Gary.” He said. “I’ll go with you.”

Old friends. You can always count on them in the end.

Together we rode through that evil forest, heading east, all kinds of hideous monstrosities attacking in the rare instances our guard was down. Snakes and wild boars and cats and animals you would never believe in. The forest is a home to all kinds of hibernating deadliness.

And then we found the Castle. Weeks after the trek had started. The quest.

“Cyclopean leviathan, we have found you at last” I said, starring up into the vertigo inducing towers. We stormed over the drawbridge, but then disaster struck. Timmy died. I’m not really sure what happened, what dark forces the evil at the heart of this stone asylum had used, but he was dead. And I was on my own. I let him drop slowly to the ground, and grabbed my sword tightly in caution.

I knocked on the large oak front door.

A voice called out from the other side.

“State your name, occupation and business being here” it said.

“Gary Gaston, tailor, heroic quest.”

“Very well” said the voice. It sounded bored, but the door swung open. The servant the voice belonged to welcomed me in.

“I hope you had a trouble-less journey” he said. “Now, what is this heroic quest you are on?”

“To save the lady Belle from your evil clutches” I cried and stabbed him through the heart.

He yelped in pain. At this point I realised he was actually invisible, but not to worry, I got him anyway. You never know, that servant could easily have been Timmy’s killer.

Inside the castle, were books everywhere. Shelves of books rising up to the ceilings on every side, and the ceiling were ten men high at the very least. A librarian’s wet dream. I strode up the stairs, dispatching demonic invisible servant after demonic invisible servant, and finally I found myself in the bedroom.

There was the grotesque gargoyle in all his wickedness, draped across a chair. He acted like a King lion regal. And sitting next to him, laughing, in some form of ecstatic joy over a terrible joke, was Belle. The object of my quest. Having fun. She was meant to be suffering and being tortured to make my heroic saving of her from the hands of desperate destitution and criminal civility all the more heroic. Instead she was here, laughing her head off, seemingly having the time of her life. Clearly, she was brainwashed. I could stand it no longer.

“Monster, rise and face your enemy” I yelled.

They both turned around.

“What is the meaning of this?” said the creature. His voice boomed out over the room, and echoed down the stairs and along the castles Cyclopean walls.

“Gary, what in Hell's name are you doing here?” said Belle. She seemed surprised by the appearance of her knight in shining victory.

“I am here to save you from foulest Hellspawn” I cried aloud. Impressively.

“And where would that be?” she said.

“Why, right here!” I cried.

The monster rose to his feet.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.” He said. “You will upset my wife.”

“WIFE?” I yelled.

“That’s me” said Belle.

I could take this slight no longer. I lunged forward and plunged my sword into the deep abscesses of horror that was his chest. Blood began bubbling out of a wide wound, and he sunk to the ground. Easily defeated. It was now that I could triumphantly take Belle home.

Only she wasn’t happy to see me. She was screaming, and screaming, and screaming. And fawning over the body of the dead villain, and crying, like a woman in deep mourning would. And she pushed me away when I went over to see how she was, and ask why she was crying. Strange, women always do weird things at the moment of success.

It was as I was thinking this that she began to attack me, with a fury gained straight from the bowls of Lucifer itself. Unwomanly power. She was a possessed harlot. I struggled from the blows, and fought to defend myself, but then, it was not to worry, as she died. These things happen.

Belle was dead, but at least the foul monster of Hades was defeated. I think, as heroes go, that was a pretty good job on my part.

It was then that there was the knock on the door. I waited patiently for a servant to answer the door, until I realised that I had rid this world of them. So I went down and answered the door.

Two policemen stood on the front door. They were dressed in the Metropolitan Police’s finest outfits.

“Excuse me, Sir”, said the first one, “We’ve had reports of a disturbance.”

“A disturbance?” I said.

“Yes, Mr Gaston, a disturbance. We had reports from the pub that you had gotten drunk and started yelling out abuse against your ex-wife. Then you and Mr Granger set off to her house to ‘sort out that husband of hers’.”

“That’s not quite true”, I said. “I had a heroic quest to fulfil.”

“We have found Mr Granger dead in the driveway, stabbed to death with a kitchen knife. Attempts to raise Mrs Beast’s parents have been thwarted. Tell me, Mr Gaston, where is the homeowner and your ex?”

I shrugged. “They are upstairs”, I said.

I never understood why so many police showed up so fast. Why they surrounded the streets and looked at me with a mixture of loathing and fear. I accepted the handcuffs without any debate. The charges happened without my understanding, and the judge put me down for life. I still don’t understand it, to be honest. What a way to treat a hero! I rid my village of that evil scum. So what if my village was London, and my forest, in reality, Hyde Park. It still counts. I still succeeded. Nothing could ever have thwarted me in that heroic quest to save my Belle from the clutches of bestial viciousness. And I did. In death, she was saved. And that was all me. I am a hero, you see. That’s what we heroes do. Save folk.

There’s an old saying around here, that Beauty killed the beast. And if you ask me, that beast killed beauty, because she was dead to me when she started going out with him. This was my fairy tale. I don’t quite agree with how the end turned out. Seemed far better when I was going over it. The Beauty didn’t kill the beast. I killed the Beauty. To save her. Because everyone needs saving, in the end.

It was a mercy. She’d have thanked me if she could. I know this. I believe this. Trust me, I am an honourable man.

Just, don’t look at me like that. With those critical eyes, through the bars of my cell. Don’t look at me like that! Like I’m some sort of serial killer. I’m not a serial killer, for gods’ sakes, I’m a hero!

LOOKING FOR JOEY By Vela Damon

Here's a gentle nudge into the week with some flash from Vela...

Looking for Joey

Amy rolled her eyes so far back it gave her a headache; she cursed at the computer screen, then at her brother. As usual, Troy had timed his entrance perfectly and the distraction had cost Amy her last life in Zombie Action Heroes. And she'd been so close to defeating the crypt commander!

"Thanks a lot, Troy, now I gotta start all over."

"I've got more important stuff to worry about than some stupid computer game. I guess it's too much to ask for you to get off your butt and help me?"

"Don't get on my case 'cause you're suddenly obsessed with finding some old stuffed animal. What's so important about a singing kangaroo anyway?"

"It's not the kangaroo that's important, it's the joey."

"Who's Joey?"

"A joey is a baby kangaroo. You know, the cute little guy in the pouch? Duh."

"And this joey's so great because?"

"Because Grandma's last words were 'find the joey'. Any of that ring a bell?"

Amy shrugged. "I just thought she was delirious, remembering some old boyfriend or something."

She turned back to the computer and restarted her game as Troy began rummaging through the hall closet, pulling out boxes, dumping the contents on the floor. Where is it? Come on, Grandma, help me out here. I know that's where you hid the rest of the diamonds. It has to be, the cops ransacked everything else...

"Troy, you're not listening to me."

"Grandma?" Troy said, looking around wildly.

"No, idiot," Amy said. "You think she's speaking to you from the other side or something? What is it with you lately? I miss her, too, but dang... anyway, I remembered where I saw your precious kangaroo."

"Where?"

"Remember how Grandma harped at me for months about cleaning out the shed and I finally did it right before...."

"Yeah, yeah, so where is it?"

"I gave it to Goodwill with all the other stuff, like Grandma told me to."

BIO:

Vela Damon has been writing forever, but only recently started trying to "do something with it". When she's not writing, reading or daydreaming about making the bestseller lists, she's all out of time to do anything else. Lack of food and sleep will do her in eventually, but posthumous fame is still fame, right?

A GOOD SHOWA by Glenn Gray

Glenn's back with his own inimitable style...


A Good Showa


Damn, there ain’t nothin like a good hot showa.

Nice an burnin hot. Hey, you drippin all ova.

Throw me that towel, will ya, hot stuff?

Ah, you lookin all tan an muscula, ya know? You a hottie wit the body.

Now you talkin

Let me dry that back.

Lookit these abs, huh?

I could do some frickin laundry on them things.

And these guns.

A real-life bronzed God.

I mean, a good hot showa is like the key to everythin. The friggin key to life.

And it’s gotta have good presha.

Hell yeah. Good strong presha’s the best. Like gettin a massage.

Little fingas workin you ova.

Dancin around. Tickle tickle nice.

And I can put it you know where, hmmm?

Get outta here, yeah?

Why not?

Whateva works for ya.

Once in a while. In the showa. Betta with the hand-held extension thing.

Niiiiice.

Does things like nothing else does.

You dang horny puttana, you.

Watch it, Big Boy.

Sorry. You gettin me all worked up. Gimme the towel back, hah? I gotta dry something, know what I mean?

All I’m sayin is it works. Sometimes betta than a vibrata.

No way.

It’s got that constant rhythm and presha.

Works betta than this thing here?

You know we ladies don’t like when you flop that shit around like that.

You started it. All that talk about the vibrata and the presha.

That means you gotta swing it like a propella?

Just gettin warmed up. Stretchin.

For what?

You know what.

Hold ya horses, Bigshot. I’m not done with the presha. It’s just that presha is good. In general. Good hard presha. Pins an needles presha.

I gotcha. What about this thing ova here? I’lllll give you some presha.

I’m sure you will. If there’s no good presha, the soap leaves that scummy shit all ova you.

I know, right? You can’t get it off. Eva. Even if you scrub like hell.

Definitely gotta have good presha.

Presha I think is more important than tempature, ya know?

I think it’s just as important.

I guess.

So what’re we doin here?

I guess a half an howa this time.

Okay then.

How much that gonna bang me up?

Buck fifty.

Maybe you wanna get in the showa, hah?

No thanks. Do that on my own time.

It’s got real good presha.

Fuck off, hah?


BIO:
Glenn Gray lives in New York. He’s got stories forthcoming in the 1st Beat to a Pulp Anthology, the 3rd Thuglit Anthology and Zygote in my Coffee’s 8th print edition. He’s also got stories in OOTG 3, 5 and 6 and a buncha places online.