THE RAIN By Harris Tobias

The Rain

     The rain never stops on Fender 4, except it isn’t really rain. At least it’s not like any rain on Earth. Here rain is a complex mixture of hydrocarbons and amino acids that has exo-biologists puzzled. It falls like rain but it’s a slimy, warm soupy substance that’s probably alive.

     This nutrient stream feeds a remarkable biota; plants that resemble enormous lichen, or perhaps fungus more accurately describe them. Thin towering fronds a mile high in some places and as long as the Great Wall of China. Whatever they are, they’re colorful, and they cover every inch of Fender’s surface like slimy paint. In some places the paint is knee deep. In others it’s only a few inches. Then there’s the black stuff. You had better avoid the black places as they can easily swallow a man.

     My name’s Winslow, Alan Winslow, I’m the communications tech for our 3 man survey team. We’re one of a dozen teams scattered around this dreary rock. Fender 4 was only recently discovered. It’s one of the rare planets that have a breathable atmosphere and a hospitable climate. The big wigs think it’s a valuable piece of real estate and have a lot of money on the line. They envision farms and colonies, cities and spaceports. Personally I don’t like the place, it creeps me out. I especially don’t like the rain. It sticks to your skin like it wanted to colonize you. It takes a lot of scrubbing to wash it off. The rain adheres to every surface with a tenacity I find disturbing. I don’t see humans living here anytime soon. After being outside for even a few minutes you’d understand.

     Teams like mine are the first to spend any real time on Fender 4. We’re supposed to do the initial recon, make rough maps, catalog the dominant life forms and assess the planet’s live-ability. Our team consists of a surveyor/map maker, an exo-biologist and an all around techie— that’s me. Lieutenant Lupo is our mapper and the person in command; Sergeant Pine is our exob, she’s number two, then there’s little old me, I take care of the gear, the rations, our shelter, power, water, radio, etc. etc. Low man on the totem pole gets all the shit jobs.

     Actually, it’s not so bad. Lupo and Pine are good people. I’ve bunked with a lot worse. It’s the rain that has us all spooked. It beats down on our shelter and slimes down the windows like mucus, like phlegm. It’s like the whole planet had a runny nose. The walls of our shelter are coated with slime. You could scrape it off with a shovel if you wanted to go out there. Of course no one does. Sometimes I worry the extra weight will bring the whole structure down on our heads.

     It’s a fight keeping us warm and dry. Our life support module is strained to the max. As for communications, forget it, they’re sketchy at the best of times. The slime covers the antenna making it hard to contact the other stations or the mother ship. We have an emergency beacon if all else fails, but so far it hasn’t come to that.

     Today we were outside most of the day. Everything was going fine until Sgt. Pine stepped in a patch of green, a color that none of had seen before, and was swallowed up. She must have slid down a hundred feet before coming to a halt. I stayed over the spot while the lieutenant went back to the shelter for more rope. I could hear her whimpering and calling for help. “Stay calm, Didi,” I called “We won’t leave you. We’re getting more rope. Stay calm.”

      When we finally pulled her out, she was so freaked out that she was screaming hysterically. Lt. Lupo had to slap her hard to bring her around. She swore the fungus was trying to ingest her. “Dark, so dark,” was all she could manage to say before another round of shudders and screams overtook her. We got her back to the shelter and let her soak under the shower until she was herself again, but she was traumatized, I could tell, and she never quite regained her footing. She had nightmares and a vacant stare as though what she saw down there was too hard to process.

      

      There are many mysteries on Fender 4. The rain is at the heart of them all. How does it pick up all those nutrients? Maybe the clouds are alive with bacteria no one has been able to study them yet.

      Another mystery is the drainage. No one understands how Fender drains. Somehow the snotty rain gets absorbed by the fungus, it extracts the nutrients and excretes the water. Where does all that water go? There don’t seem to be any rivers or streams?  There’s an ocean and the teams on the coast report the ocean is 99% water. The drainage thing vexes Lt. Lupo no end. As a map maker he is supposed to map rivers and mountains it frustrates him no end that he can’t see them.

      That’s another strange thing about Fender, no mountains. This place has a very strange topography. The fungi fill in all the irregularities you’d expect a rocky world to have. On Fender, hills and valleys are smoothed over with an even layer of plant matter, leaving the surface a vast featureless plain. Radar images show an uneven surface beneath the fungus, but the plants grow to precisely the same height. No one can explain it.

      Sgt. Pine has been behaving strangely ever since falling into the deep fungus. I tried to radio HQ about her condition but I’m not sure the urgency was understood. They said that everyone was having problems, they would only respond to serious emergencies and we should soldier on for another three weeks. Typical head quarter’s bullshit. They can’t be bothered to understand what we were going through, only their schedules are important.

      The emergency beacon is beginning to look better and better. Lt. Lupo has been going out on his own while I stay inside with Sgt. Pine and struggle to keep our life support systems operational. I worry about him out there but I worry about our shelter too. It needs constant maintenance.

      Didi Pine spends most of her day in the bathroom compartment either showering or doing god only knows what. I noticed she was clogging the filters more and more. I hear her crying in there. I try to respect her privacy, but today I heard a scream and then a thump. I called, “Didi, are you all right?”

      There was no answer so I busted the lock and found her on the floor of the shower stall, her body covered with large lumps. I carried her to her bunk and gave her a sedative. She wept like a child and called for her mother. I resolved to wait for Lt. Lupo to come back; I’ll press him to use the emergency recall device. Only he didn’t come back. I tried all day to raise him on his suit radio to no avail. I fear he’s been swallowed. There’s nothing for it but to go out and look for him. I suit up and tell Sgt. Pine I’ll be right back. I show her where the emergency call button is but I don’t think anything I say registers. She feels feverish. I give her some more sedative and go outside.

      The rain reaches for me with slimy fingers. I feel it trying to work its way up my sleeve and down my back. It’s a cold, clammy feeling. I head west where I know Lt. Lupo was working. It was foolish of him to go out alone. I stay on the light colors, as I know from experience they are the shallowest. Dark colors are deep and must be avoided. Suddenly it dawns on me that the colors are the key to the topography. An arial photograph would be an accurate map of Fender’s peaks and valleys. The different colors are like a relief map. It’s so obvious I don’t see how we didn’t see it before.

      By some miracle I come upon Lt. Lupo’s pack and close by I see his surveyor’s transit. I call out but the gooey rain muffles all sound. I try the radio and I think I hear something. Frantic, I look around but everything is flat and featureless. I get the idea to check his transit and see where he was looking. I squint through the eyepiece and see his surveyor’s marker a couple of hundred yards away. I trudge off in that direction. I can hear his cries over my suit radio, I must be close.

      When I reach his marker I understand what must have happened. There is a ribbon of gold running through the pale yellow. The darker color indicating a greater depth but the change is subtle and easily overlooked. I can hear him clearly now. He sounds frightened. He’s overjoyed to hear my voice. I see where he slipped off the shallow fungus into the deep. He isn’t that far down. I lower the rope to him and pull him up. You never saw anyone more grateful. He was down in the depths far longer than Sgt. Pine. His suit is covered with growing material. I help him back to the shelter. It’s quite a ways and I have to stop and rest several times. I suspect the fungus growing on his suit has penetrated his body but I won’t know for sure until I get him back and can strip off his suit. He is feverish and babbling. We should be getting close to the shelter but I don’t see it. Usually it’s the only thing you can see on the level plain of Fender’s even surface.

      Then I see it. It has collapsed in on itself from the weight of the rain. I drop Lt. Lupo and run to the squashed shelter. I can barely lift up a wall to call inside. I hear no reply but I see a pale leg covered with growths in my flashlight’s beam. Sgt. Pine is dead. I search for the emergency extraction button but do not find it. Already the shelter is covered with the same yellow fungus that surrounds us.

      I look back to Lt. Lupo. He is half covered with yellow growths. He twitches feebly but I can see there is no saving him. It dawns on me that I am alone. I choke back my urge to scream. There’s no sense in wasting energy. My only hope for salvation is a ten-day march to the nearest survey station. I doubt if I can last that long without food or water but what choice do I have? I head south but soon see it is impossible. A wide ribbon of black fungus stops me in my tracks. I turn west and follow the black line. The fungus sucks at my legs. I’d give anything for a long hot shower, anything.

     

     

BIO: Find Harris Tobias here:

http://tobiash.podbean.com/

http://harristobias-fiction.blogspot.com/

COUNTDOWN by John Kenyon

John debuts in fine style...

Countdown

10...

We were so close that her heart and my heart were touching, as if fused together. She looked up at me, her eyes clouded with confusion.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“I have a confession,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s going to tear us apart, but I can’t keep on like this.”

“Oh, God. I should have known,” she said. “Too good to be true. What, you’re married?”

“No. Remember when you said it was the worst thing and the best thing to ever happen to you? Well, please keep both possibilities in mind.”

9...

It was the first time we had made love with the lights on. It wasn’t teen-aged apprehension or the shame of flabby thirty-somethings gone to seed. There were simply things she didn’t want me to see. I knew they were there. They didn’t affect me. At least not the way she thought. She was worried about the surface, how she looked. But I was in love, and appearances didn’t matter. She was beautiful, and the flaws did nothing to take away from that. She was baring herself to me. I felt like it was time to reciprocate.

8...

“I really don’t mind the scars.”

She stood looking at herself in a full-length mirror affixed to the back of the bedroom door. She turned this way and that, twisting to find the right angle to take in another part of her body. In bra and panties, the scars were clearly visible. They snaked up her forearms, made red splotches on her lower legs and angry welts along her neckline.

“You don’t mind them, do you?” she asked,

“No,” I said. “Now come to bed, and this time let’s leave the light on.”

7...

“I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without you,” she said.

She sat next to me on the couch in my apartment, her legs up under her, her head on my chest. I didn’t respond, simply ran my fingers through her hair. It had grown out into a bob that made her seem younger.

“I kind of feel like I’m falling for you,” she said.

“That’s not a surprise,” I said, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her upright. “I’ve been taking care of you.”

“No,” she said. “It’s something more.”

6...

Mr. Jennings paced back and forth across the back room. I caught a glimpse of collegiate flesh through the door to the front of the tanning salon.

“Is this going to be a problem for us?” he said.

“No, sir. It’s under control. It’s strictly professional.”

“It had better be,” he said, stopping directly in front of me. “There’s no room for guilt in this business, David.”

I nodded. “It was my mistake. I’m just trying to make it right.”

“Just don’t make it any worse.”

5...

“You’re doing what?”

Chris had just gotten back from picking up payments. We were sitting in the back of the salon.

“It’s only until she gets on her feet. I’m responsible, so I thought I’d help her out.”

“Well, she is hot. Saw her picture in the paper,” he said. “What did the fire do to her?”

“She has scars, but the doctor said they’ll fade with time.”

“Guess she won’t be coming in here any time soon,” Chris said with a laugh. “These piece-of-shit beds would finish the job.”

4...

“Did you get that from me?”

We were on my couch, watching TV. She had pulled aside the collar of my button-down to reveal a small, red scar in the shape of a heart.

“I guess. It’s just like yours,” I said, pointing to her neck. “Your necklace must have heated up in the fire and branded both of us when I carried you out.”

“I still don’t know how to thank you.”

“There’s no need,” I said. “Right place, right time. I was lucky.”

“No,” she said. “I’m the lucky one.”

3...

I wheeled her to the hospital door and then helped her up and led her to my car.

“You’re sure you want to do this? I’ll be getting in your way.”

“Nonsense. I have plenty of room.”

“OK,” she said. “I guess I should expect no less. You didn’t miss a day the whole time.”

“Figured you could use the company. Now I figure you can use the help.”

“My guardian angel,” she said, rising onto her tiptoes to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Something like that.”

2...

I rushed in, pulling my jacket over my head to repel the flames already licking along the walls. The screams were coming from a bedroom in the back. I kicked in the door and found her trying to open a window that had been painted shut. I grabbed a blanket and picked her up in my arms. Holding her tight against me, I rushed back through the blaze and toward the sanctuary of the front yard.

1...

I packed the explosives next to the natural gas line that fed the furnace. It needed to burn so hot that no one could determine a cause. Mr. Jennings’ had made that clear. I wasn’t sure if it was an insurance thing or something more. He assured me the house would be vacant.

I stepped out to my car parked halfway down the block, and whispered a countdown under my breath. I fingered the trigger, heard a muted blast, and then everything was aflame.

Then I heard the scream.


BIO:
John Kenyon is a newspaper editor in Iowa and keeps the blog Things I'd Rather Be Doing (tirbd.com). He has published stories with Thuglit, Crime Factory, Beat to a Pulp and many other fine purveyors of crime fiction.

THE NEIGHBOUR by T. S. Mallow

Please welcome debutant T. S. Mallow with her creepy flash...

The Neighbour

The Danforth, Greektown. Opa! She had moved there because it sounded exotic and God knows she needed some exotic in her sad, isolated life. Muriel had built her nest in the small flat over top of a dusty men's clothing shop. It wasn't really what you'd call exotic but the bustle of living on the busy street distracted her from the suffocating weight of loneliness. At least for a while.

And then he moved in next door.

It was as if the Gods of Historical Romances, to which she prayed each night alone in her bed, had answered her prayers. They'd sent her a prince. She first saw him through the tiny window in her kitchenette. It faced his building next door - literally an arm's length away - overlooking an alley so narrow raccoons would feel claustrophobic. An alley with a picket fence. A picket fence for God's sake. Four pickets. Why bother?

She'd always wondered about that window. Why it existed. Now she knew. Destiny. Those crazy Gods of Fabio and his ilk, the same ones that had brought the prince, had put in that window. Others would wonder why one would care for a view of a brick wall, but Muriel knew otherwise. It wasn't a view of a wall; it was a view of a window. His window. A view into his life.

He'd smiled at her the first time. A funny smile, uncomfortable (maybe he was shy) but there was no denying their connection.

As with all fairy tales there was a monster, in this case an evil witch. The witch mocked Muriel, growling and snapping every time she passed by the window, abusing Muriel's beloved prince, squeezing and biting him.

For hours, Muriel worked diligently on the window frame with a big ol' knife. It hadn't opened in years, painted over and over again. The knife's tip dug in to the layers, white and yellow and powder blue flakes chipped off, falling to the floor, catching in her hair. She held firmly, the handle gripped two-fisted, little beads of sweat on her brow and upper lip until finally it loosened, the glass panes rattling as she worked it open. She reached across the chasm, the long drop to the dirty alleyway below.

Almost there my love...

***

“Good God. She's doing it again,” Sarah said to her husband. “She's going to fall out.”

He chuckled. “She's harmless.”

“It's creepy. And there are fingerprints all over the outside of the window, how are we supposed to clean it?”

He shrugged.

“Maybe we should move.”

“We just got here.”

“I'm buying blinds tomorrow. Heavy ones.”

“Then you won't have to worry about fingerprints.” He leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek and she rose up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck.

***

Today would be the day.

Muriel twisted the cold metal between her fingers. Today she would save her prince and they would be together. Squatting between the two buildings, she leaned up against the grey, weathered pickets, facing the street, hidden from the front doors. Waiting. The wicked sharp blade drew blood as she ran it over her palm again. She'd be brave for him. After all, he'd do the same for her; he loved her.

The witch would be along soon.


Bio:
T. S. Mallow is currently ensconced in the snowy Canadian countryside, waiting for spring's thaw and the opportunity to remove the frozen shrinkwrap shrouding her beloved sailboat. She spends her days, creatively exploring her dark side (writing, honest, just writing) and fervently hoping to find an agent for her newly completed thriller, Butterflies in a Hurricane.

THE ROUNDABOUT WAY by Kieran Shea

The Roundabout Way


The Hub was a strictly a breakfast joint plugged into a seven unit strip mall, backing up to a slag-savaged creek just east of Dundalk, Maryland. Gary Nelson, twenty-seven, was a Hub regular. Stoop-shouldered at the counter, Gary pulled into the shabby pot-holed parking lot every morning to grab a bite to eat and a moment’s peace before his day labored out in a bitter blur.

“Mornin’…”

Gary glanced up from the Baltimore Sun sports page spread in front of him. On the yellow cushioned stool immediately to his right an older bearded, black man sat down. He wore a khaki colored bucket hat with a Orioles baseball logo on it and had at least seventy pounds on Gary. Thick green flannel shirt reeking of cherry-scented tobacco. Gary licked a forefinger and turned a page. Ravens digest gave way to storage advertisements and then the death notices.

“Gary Nelson, right?”

Gary looked up again from his newspaper and turned.

“Do I know you?”

The bucket hat man clasped his hands on the counter in front of him and tick-tocked his head in a slow and deliberate fashion.

“Me? Nah. Not really. But I kind of know y’all.”

“That so?”

“Yep. In a roundabout way.”

Gary went back to his paper and turned another page, “That a fact.”

“Yep.”

The bucket hat man looked out the breakfast shop’s streaked and grimed windows and caught his own eyes in the reflection. The December sunrise hadn’t cleared the horizon yet and the windows were still dark. The big man considered his reflection for a moment and then turned back to Gary and said, “Oh yeah, we have what polite folk call a mutual acquaintance.”

Gary started to take a sip of his mug of cooling coffee but stopped himself. He tried to place the black man’s face through a jumble of memories but found that couldn’t. An icy feeling of mistrust coiled low in Gary’s stomach, but he decided to go for humor instead.

“Someone who thinks good of me I hope.”

“Not really,” the man said somberly. The waitress arrived to take his order and he brightened. “Hey, honey. How y’all doin’? Good, that’s good. Let me see. Can I get me one of them strawberry frosted donuts and a coffee milked? That’ll be fine. I’ll eat the donut here but have to be on the road so make that cup of coffee to go, okay? ” The man turned back to address Gary, “Now then, where was I? Oh yeah, our mutual acquaintance. A while back. A young boy, three or so years younger than y’all, went by the name of Price?”

Gary stiffened, “Hey—what is this?”

“Just two men talkin’.”

“You got the wrong guy, man. You’ve mistaken me for somebody else.”

“See lying to me like that, that’s just plain rude.”

Gary hands trembled a little as he nervously started to fold his newspaper. The waitress returned with the man’s strawberry frost donut on a small plate and a lidded coffee. She slid a ticket face down on the counter as the man removed the cup’s lid and commenced sugaring his coffee from a dispenser in front of them.

“Let me lay it out for you, a’right? Eight years back. You and your boys met up with my nephew Timbo Price. Y’all were settin’ ‘bout to buy some weed from Timbo, but instead of playin’ it cool y’all up and decided to shake down my little nephew and beat his ass. A skinny sixteen year-old kid like Timbo? Shit, takin’ him off looked easy ‘cause y’all thought y’all badass an’ shit bein’ high school footballers. But Timbo? Even with his ass all beat, broken ribs, my boy braves up. Gets his arm caught in your car door and gets dragged, like, a hundred and fifty-seven feet. Oh yeah. Now you remember….”

“Look—”

“I’m not finished. My sister’s kid and he ends up intensive care, side hamburgered to the bone and the mess makes the papers. You boys got nailed on assault, robbery, theft, false imprisonment, reckless endangerment, conspiracy, possession, disorderly conduct, mayhem—"

“Look, man. I don’t know you.”

“No, but sure gonna.”

“I have no beef with you.”

“Wrong there. Y’all got a truck load.”

“I’m an electrician now.”

“Yeah, been following that van for a couple of days now. Good money in that, bein' an electrician?”

“Hey, listen. I did my time, man. I’m sorry for what happened to your nephew, but I did my time.”

“Paid your debt and all that?”

“Yeah.”

“Diet-state time, lightweight shit. Heard y’all practically gave it up first day you were so scared. Some image that. But Timbo? See, y’all jamming him up like that, that was the beginning of the end for him. Yeah, sure, he was dealing, but who don’t? Once he got out of the hospital he took a light pop in county but afterward? Guess what my boy go and do? Up and joined the fuckin’ Army.”

“What?”

“I said he joined the Army. Floored me that. My nephew, little Timbo, fighting for the man. Done did him three tours over in that nasty business and what do y’know? Comes back here to Maryland, takes a good look around at this hard life and thinks, hey, a bullet tastes better. I hold you responsible for that.”

Gary struggled to his feet. He felt light headed and felt the world start to wash out beneath his feet. “I don’t have to listen to this,” he stammered grabbing his paper. “I got to get to work.”

“Go on then. Get to work. Free country….”

“God damn right it is.”

The man ate half of his donut and chewed thoughtfully. He pointed a lazy finger out the window after he set the half eaten donut down on his plate. “Might want to check the parking lot first.”

Gary swiveled his head and looked out the glass. The morning sun had finally crested the ragged highway tree line and the parking lot was visible now in a milky cold light. Across the parking lot a group of men huddled in a tinted, rimmed-out black Escalade backed into a slot. A steaming intestine of exhaust leaked from the vehicle’s rear.

“See? You weren’t expecting that were you? Thinking me and mine some kind of fools.”

Gary looked back at the man.

“Run along now, big boy. Those boys are waiting. Me, I’m gonna finish my breakfast here first.”

BIO:
Kieran Shea blogs at BLACK IRISH BLARNEY.

BAD SEARCH by Brian J. Smith

Bad Search


After they tied him to a chair, the thick brown cords hugging his chest, Simmons slipped the nail file out of his right sleeve and sawed at the rope. The two heavyset men, one bald and the other blond, had already torn the place apart, knocking over half empty glasses, a digital alarm clock and half a bottle of Jim Beam; the noises they were making suffocated the sound of the nail file scratching at the restraints.

His gun, a nickel-plated .38, was lying in the toilet courtesy of these pricks and he was clueless as to what they were carrying. Once the rope broke and fell to the floor, the heavyset blond guy turned away from the bed and cursed loudly before slipping a knife from his pocket and slicking at the air at Simmon's chest. Simmons ducked the first swing, then the second, snatched the guy’s wrist out of the air and spun him around in time.

“Son of a bitch.” The fat man said, waving his hands in front of his face. “Don’t fuckin’ shoot, Louie.”

Outside, the night was rocked by thunder. The streets were wet with angels' tears.

The bald heavyset man fired his Colt .45 and struck his partner in the chest. Simmons slipped the knife out of the dead man’s hand, dropped his human shield and threw the knife across the room before the guy could get off another shot. The blade flipped, throwing spheres of rapid lightning across the wall and jammed itself into the shooter’s throat. Simmons ran around the end of the bed, grabbed the pistol and shot him twice in the head; soft red pulp sprayed the sheets like a bad finger painting. He tossed the gun onto the dead man’s chest, sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled his pants down and leaned against his left hip.

Simmons yanked the piece of cloth tape off his massive thigh with one quick pull. The sound of the tape coming off his skin reminded him of a dog hacking in dry heat. He eased the tape off the see-through CD case, tossed it into the wastebasket and held the case between two fingers. He hoped it was all worth it, hoped it was all worth dying for. Why did he have to ask himself that?

He was part of the crew who stole the damn thing, even planned it all out. They wouldn’t tell him what was on it but the money they were going to pay him sure made that seem meaningless. Now that he thought about it, maybe he should’ve known what was on it, should’ve known what was so important. All they would say was that it was “important to a lot of bad people” and they left it at that. No matter what was on it, it belonged to him now that the others were dead, each one of them killed because of a blank CD.

Which was why they’d come by in the first place, why they tied up, tossed his gun in the toilet and ransacked the place. They were looking for the original CD, not a pirated copy of The Donna Reed Show.

He hurried over to the window and stared down into the slick black street. The bee-colored Mustang idling across the street sputtered thick clouds of exhaust. Hillary, his beautiful girlfriend, raised the front of her hat and gave him a smile that turned his dick into stone. He returned it, held up two fingers and stepped over the dead man’s body to the bathroom. He retrieved his .38 from the toilet, emptied the chamber, dried it all off - including the bullets - shrugged into his camel-colored overcoat, dropped the gun in his right pocket and the CD in the other.

“Don’t want to keep my lady waiting.” Simmons said, “See you guys later.”

Saluting them, he shut the door on his way out.


BIO:
Brian J. Smith has been featured in Drabblecast, Darkest Before The Dawn, The Forbidden Zone, New Voices In Fiction, Crooked, Postcard Shorts, The Horror Zine, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Thrillers, Killers and Chillers and Withersin Magazine. His story “For Rachel” was featured in “And The Nightmare Begins…The Horror Zine Volume One. He currently lives in Chauncey, Ohio with his mother, brother and their six dogs.

TORALOO by Sean Patrick Reardon

Toraloo


"KG is a fucking force," I tell Layne, who's more interested in his iPhone than watching Kevin Garnett slam home an alley oop pass from Shaq.

"Best move they ever made getting KG,” he says, fingers still moving around on the touch screen.

The Celtics are crushing the Kings by twenty-six with six to go. The spread is more than covered. Layne’s up a grand and happy about it.

We’re down from Jay, Vermont hanging out in our room at the Crown Plaza in Nashua, New Hampshire. Layne’s waiting for a Facebook status update from Shannon that will let us know if our game is on for tonight.

At ten-thirty it comes and Layne comments on her status to acknowledge receipt.

“It never ceases to amaze me how stupid some people are,” Layne says, walking toward the bathroom. “What the fuck was he thinking? This Little Chucky dude sounds like a real fucking pissah.”

“If his picture is any indication, yeah, I’d have to agree. Stupid and ugly is a tough cross to carry through life. The odds were stacked against him from day one.”

Layne laughs. “Fucker does look like that psycho doll though, deserves the nickname.”

“Don’t even know the dude and I’m feeling bad for him. Not our problem though, we’re just a solution. He dug his own grave man, had choices. Just didn’t make the right ones.”

Little Chucky Arla is the guy we’re here to see. He fucked up by selling a pound of indoor to some college kid who was dealing out of his dorm at Saint Anselms. Schoolboy got busted, gave up Little Chucky, who then rolled on someone who works for the people that contracted us. Word is the weed’s tied to eighty pounds that was stolen from an evidence shed in Londonderry during the policeman’s ball right before Christmas.

He’s been cooperating and carrying on like it’s business as usual, not knowing a connection on the force put out the good word that Chucky has been telling tales out of school.

Just like learning your ABC’s, everyone knows the Italians don’t…fuck…around. Chucky must have been in the bathroom sneaking a cig during that class.

We get our shit together and head out, looking like a couple of clean cut guys going for a drink. We drove down this afternoon in my Durango, but get into the Toyota Tacoma that’s been left in the parking lot for us. I drive and we leave for a strip joint called the Blue Moon Lounge in Tyngsboro about twenty minutes away.

***

I pull the truck into the Blue Moon parking lot, start looking for a black Camaro. We find it in the back lot. The plate number matches and I pull in beside it. Seems Chucky is a creature of habit. Thursday’s are strip joint night.

The bartender’s been paid off and used Facebook from his handheld to let Shannon know when Chucky arrived. He also knows someone’s coming and what the code words are. If he didn’t, he’d most likely make me for an undercover and spread the word.

Layne reaches back into the extra-cab section, pulls out the briefcase, opens it and hands me a pair of gold rimmed glasses. I put them on, slide a wedding band on my finger and I’m just another married jerk-off going to a titty bar. Ten years we’ve been doing this and never had to use our guns. A gun does the job, but it’s so damn impersonal. For me, it’s more like a prop.

He takes a Walther with a suppressor on it out the briefcase case, closes the cover. “Hopefully he doesn’t spend all night in there, already after eleven.”

“Let’s rock and roll. I’ll call you when he’s on the way.”

We bump fists, I get out, and Layne slides over to the driver’s seat.

***

The Blue Moon is no Gold Club, more like a honky-tonk bar with seating around a runway stage that runs down the middle of the floor. Everything about the place is cliché, although I’m impressed that Weezer is doing “Troublemaker” instead of some Motley Crue song. The red headed chick on the stage is decent looking, but wouldn’t make the JV squad of any city team.

As I walk toward the bar, I see Chucky sitting on the right side of the stage, making small talk with a bleach blonde stripper who’s waiting for her turn in the rotation. The twelve inch Plexiglass barrier around the perimeter of the stage makes it look like a mini hockey rink.

I take a seat near the end of the bar, wait to be served. The bartender notices me, takes his time coming over. He’s big and has the MMA fighter look going on with the shaved head and tribal tattoo’s running down each forearm.

“What can I get you?”

I point to the liquor bottles lining the wall behind him. ”You have any Jameson back there?”

His cocky facial expression transitions as he realizes who I am, like he was expecting Jason Statham or Paulie Walnuts, not someone who could have been his high school English teacher. He’s probably thinking he should make a career change, has what it takes, if someone looking like me can do it.

He says what I’m expecting to hear, “No Jameson, only Bushmills.”

I give him a twenty for an eight dollar bottle of Heineken, turn around and pretend to be interested in what’s going on. A couple minutes later, a brunette wearing neon pink pumps and sheer black negligee comes over for the hard sell. Her name is Destiny and I tell her I’m Rick, not Shane. I know the drill, ask if she wants a drink and pay ten dollars for a White Russian.

She’s nice enough and when I glance at Chucky, he’s draining the last of his drink and starting to stand up, getting ready to leave. He starts bullshitting with one of the girls while he grabs his North Face jacket off the seatback. I tell Destiny I need a smoke and head toward the exit, pushing the send call button on the cell in my pocket. Layne is now on standby.

Outside, standing near the entrance, I light a Newport. I don’t smoke, but it lets me hang out front without getting Chucky nervous. Two minutes later he comes out. I pretend to be on my cell, smoking, not acknowledging him as disappears around the side of the building.

One minute later, my cell vibrates. I flick the smoke into the cold February air and head for the truck. When I get there, Chucky’s in the driver’s seat of the Camaro and Layne is riding shotgun. He’s already made sure Chucky’s not wearing a wire, or they wouldn’t be in the car. Layne opens the door, still pointing the Walther at Chucky’s head. He’s got a Glock in his other hand that he’s taken from him. We knew he would most likely have a gun and true to form, he gave it up. I take the Walther from Layne as he gets out, and sit down.

Chucky starts the Camaro as Layne gets into the trunk. I tell him to follow behind when Layne pulls out.

***

“Listen, I’m not going to hurt you. They wanted me to. Shit, they wanted me to kill you. But that’s not how I roll. I’m a huge fan of the powers of persuasion. You know, talking things out, man to man, making a gentleman’s agreement. What do think?”

He nods his head, squeaks out a yes. Despite the death grip both his hands have on the wheel, I can see them trembling. More assurance is needed.

“I know you’re uptight, but you need to relax and clear out your head man. Jesus, Chucky, you already proved you’re a cowardly, rat fuck. Now is the time to start turning things around, be a big boy…and man the fuck up.”

***

It takes us twenty minutes to get to the abandoned quarry in Westford. During the ride Chucky has settled down. I still sense apprehension, but he’s calm and told me everything I need to know. We stop behind the Tacoma. Layne jumps out with a pair of bull cutters, snaps the lock securing the steel gates, pushes the right side one open, and gets back in trunk. He drives through with me following. He gets out, puts the gate back into position.

We drive a couple hundred yards down the dirt road. Layne pulls over to let us pass and Chucky stops the Camaro fifty-feet away.

I tell him to kill the headlights, shut down the engine, and put the interiors on. Layne comes over to my side, holding the briefcase. I lower the window and put a hand on Chucky’s shoulder.

“Here’s how it’s going to play out Chucky. We’re going to secure you to this seat, take the keys and leave you here. I know it’s cold and it’s going to suck being stranded, but sooner or later, someone’s going to see the car, and get you out. Hell, if you can somehow free yourself, go for it. You’ll just have to rely on your survival skills. If you ask me, it’s more of a mental thing than a physical one.”

***

Chucky shows no signs of being afraid, even though his thighs and upper body are chained to the driver’s seat. His hands are tie wrapped behind his back and duct tape covers his mouth. Compared to dying, this must seem like a minor inconvenience. He’s just waiting for us to get the fuck out of there, while every episode of Criss Angel-Mindfreak is probably running through his mind.

We’re standing outside the driver’s side of the Camaro. I bend down so my head is level with Chucky’s and look at him through the open window.

“You should be thankful Chucky. This is how a real man goes out. You’re leaving a legacy man. And not as a squealing, untrustworthy, little sack of shit either. You’re going to be a bona-fide folk hero. I’m going to make it known that when it came time to pay your dues, you took it like a man. How you told us to fuck off, spit in my face, started saying Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s.”

Just like the bartender at the Blue Moon, Chucky’s expression morph’s before our eyes as he processes what I’m saying. I watch his eyes widen, fill with water, and overflow down his cheeks. He starts hyperventilating, snorting air out of his nostrils.

Layne’s nodding, going along with it, says, “Yeah, that Little Chucky, guy had ice water in his veins right to end. Telling us he was going to come back from the dead, hunt us down, and drag us by our cocks to meet Satan himself.”

Now he’s fighting against all the restraints, almost convulsing.

“Come on Chucky,” I say. “What did we talk about on the ride? This is your time, your moment. Quit your sniveling, get it together, and look at me.”

His body goes limp and his head turns slowly toward me. He’s still in a bad emotional state, but at least he’s looking me in the eye.

“Think back to when you were a kid. Did you have a happy childhood?”

He nods a yes.

“Both parents raise you?”

Another nod.

“Think of those nights when you had a bad dream, then ran into you parent’s room and jumped in their bed. Think of how comforting it was to feel the warmth of the blankets and your mother’s body as you snuggled up next her. How safe that made you feel, like nothing in the world could ever harm you. Take yourself to that place Chucky. Visualize it, go there. You…can…do…it!”

Layne hands me a CD. I reach through the window and push it into the disk player. It loads and the first notes of Bing Crosby singing “Irish Lullaby” start to play. Layne and I watch as Chucky loses it. The sobbing and high-pitched moans are coming from the depths of his soul as snot syrup oozes from his nose.

Layne starts squirting charcoal lighter fluid all over Chucky, stopping when the bottle is empty. He steps back, starts walking toward the truck.

I pull a Mexican made ½ stick from my coat pocket, light the end of the fuse, and toss it on Chucky’s lap.


BIO:
Sean Patrick Reardon is the author of the crime thriller novel "Mindjacker". He's blogging at: http://seanpatrickreardon.blogspot.com/

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT by Julie Morgan

The Birthday Present

She wasn't what he'd expected at all. When he rang the agency to book an evening with ‘Krystal’, he'd had visions of a living doll turning up on his doorstep, someone beautiful and voluptuous with immaculate hair and make-up. He'd pictured her in skyscraper heels and a stylish trench coat, which she would discard to reveal a basque worn with tiny lace panties, suspenders and seamed stockings. He had fantasised about the things he would do to her, the things he would instruct her to do to him, had seen her on her knees looking up at him, on all fours, peeking coquettishly over her shoulder, then underneath him, long, stockinged legs wrapped around his body, stiletto heels bobbing at the ceiling.

In his fantasies, the woman he ordered from 'East End Girls' had been variously blonde, auburn and brunette, but always beautiful and never in the slightest like this creature.

He looked again at the woman on his doorstep. She was an emaciated mouse with corned beef legs, shivering in an orange fanny pelmet, bubblegum pink fun-fur jacket and scuffed gold shoes. Her hair was in a scrunchy, her make-up made her face look like something a child had crayoned, and she both smoked and chewed gum. The ceaseless chomping made a vein in her temple crawl back and forth like a wayward snake. His breath caught in his throat: he’d saved up for her for weeks.

'Howay, man, let's in,' she demanded, hefting the huge shoulder bag she carried. 'It's fucking brass monkeys out here!'

Once inside, he ran to find a saucer for her to use as an ashtray. When he returned, he found her picking through his CDs, a scowl on her face.

'Have you not got nowt more poppy?' she asked, clearly unimpressed with his jazz collection. 'Birra Kylie?'

It was his birthday: she was his present to himself, the only one he would get. At thirty-five, having reached what his mother called middle-age, he thought it was time he had a woman in his life. Leaving work he had felt buoyant, excited, for once the first one out of the door.

He wiped his palms on his trousers, bought new from Matalan for the occasion, then shook his head.

'What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?' She gave up on the CDs, dropped the cigarette into the saucer and wriggled out of her jacket. It lay on the couch where she dropped it like a sulky, hairy, pink pig.

'Do you like me tits?' she asked, pushing them together and leaning forward. 'I got them for Christmas. Mint, aren't they?' He nodded, then noticed the scabs and bruises, the tracks on her arms. He swallowed, feeling queasy. 'I do hand relief, oral and full straight sex. Give us an extra twenty and you can have anal. I won't be tied up or slapped nor nowt, mind, and I don't perform with pets. Oh – and I don't do nowt without a condom, plus lubrication for penetration. Got that?' He nodded. The agency'll charge your card for whatever you have. Anal gets charged as a straight shag and I get to keep the twenty.'

He wanted her to leave. He wanted his first time to be special, couldn't imagine doing anything with this woman. He looked at her hands, rough little monkey paws, bitten nails coated in chipped purple lacquer, and felt he would rather die than have her touch him. He felt cheap and dirty, his fantasies sitting in the pit of his stomach like an indigestible meal.

'What's up?' She rummaged through the bag she'd dropped on the floor and pulled out a condom. 'First time?'

He swallowed. There had been moments, fumblings, when he was at school. Then magazines while he cared for his mother, films after she went into care. The nursing home ate his money like a gannet ate fish. She had meant first time paying for it. She had no idea.

She grinned. 'Don't worry, I'll soon get you warmed up, then you can tell us what you fancy.' She nodded at the bag. 'I've got all sorts in there if you like toys.'

He hadn’t wanted to pick up any of the girls who hung around the industrial estate after the workers went home. Besides, he didn’t drive, couldn’t afford a car. The care home costs…. He had been grateful when he heard someone at work talking about that particular agency: East End Girls, who came at east end prices. He wanted a girlfriend. He was lonely, had been lonely for as long as he could remember.

But this woman was not what he wanted. Not what he wanted at all.

‘N… no,’ he said.

She rolled her eyes and went to work, taking charge, leaving him no room to protest. Half an hour later, he felt much, much better about the whole situation, and after an hour, he no longer understood why he’d ever had reservations. He negotiated a price for her to stay the night, to hell with the expense, then let her handcuff him to his mother’s brass bedstead. Later still he fell asleep, wrists abraded despite the lining on the handcuffs, a strangely satisfying ache in his balls, and dreamed of trumpeting angels.

He awoke in the early hours, at first puzzled by the animal warmth of the small body at his side: then he remembered, and he smiled. He looked down at her, her features lit by the landing light shining in through the glass above the door. Mascara was smeared around her eyes, streaked on her cheeks, and her arm was thrown up above her head, her stubble-filled oxter a smudge, the track marks on her arm seeming to glow faintly in the artificial twilight. Her mouth hung open and she made little snorting sounds as she slept. He adored her. He decided her pet name would be ‘Piglet’. He could hardly wait to tell her.

Next morning, it being the weekend, he reckoned on a lie-in and a late, leisurely breakfast, but for her it was business as usual.

‘I have to get back,’ she told him, stepping into the orange skirt and pulling on her top. ‘Me mam’s got the bairns.’

He hadn’t reckoned on kids. ‘But it’s different now.’ They’d work it out. Maybe her mam could keep them all the time.

‘How’s that, like?’ she asked, picking up sex toys and throwing them in the huge shoulder bag.

‘Well, now we’ve ... you know.’

‘Shagged?’

He winced at the coarse language. ‘Made love.’

She rolled her eyes and headed downstairs as he scampered along behind. ‘You paid for that, you daftie,’ she said over her shoulder. She shrugged into the pink, fun-fur jacket. ‘That’s me job.’ She hefted the shoulder bag and headed for the door. ‘And now it’s home time. Ta-ra, pet.’

Panic caused him to dance across the room and place himself between her and freedom. ‘Piglet!’ he exclaimed.

‘What?’

He shook his head. ‘Not anymore. You don’t do that anymore, we’re together now.’

‘Look, get it straight, we’re not together. You’re not the first to get mixed up about it, but I’m not your girlfriend. It’s just business. You’re a client.’ She popped a stick of gum and began to chew: the vein in her forehead kicked into life and recommenced its squirming. ‘If you want to see me again, ring the agency. They’ll book it in the diary.’

‘The diary! I need to make an appointment to see my own girlfriend?’

She sighed. ‘I’m not your girlfriend.’ She took a step toward the door. ‘Now let me past.’

She made to move around him and he grabbed at her arm. ‘Marry me!’

‘What?’

‘Marry me.’ He took her hand. ‘It’s not how I’d meant to ask, but I mean it.’ He clumped down onto one knee and gazed up at her. ‘Will you?’

‘Me? Marry you?’

He nodded, a smile beginning to form on his lips, hope for the future blossoming in his heart. He would buy her a ring, they could shop for it that afternoon.

She let out a derisive hoot of laughter. ‘Look at you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Sad, fat, borin’ ... not if you were the last man on earth!’ She shoved him backwards, knocked him off balance, and he toppled over. ‘Now get out of me way, you fuckin’ freak.’

When he thought about it afterwards, the memories came in a series of images, juddering, flickering, like an old film: her startled expression when he hit her; the bag flying off her shoulder and showering the room with sex toys; her eyes, then her tongue, bulging out of her face as his hands found themselves around her throat, squeezing and squeezing until she stopped trying to fight him. The next clear memory he had was of sitting on the floor, his back to the front door, her head cradled in his lap.

As the morning slipped by, her phone chirruped again and again as the people in her life tried to contact her. He ignored it. His girlfriend – fiancée, really – was dead and he felt justified in allowing his grief to take over.

Later in the afternoon, the thought of her starting to decompose stopped his hand as it stroked her hair. He sniffed. Could he detect a tang in the air? He thought so. He eased himself out from beneath her slight frame, trying not to shudder as he did so: she was still the love of his life, after all. He went upstairs to the bathroom and relieved himself, the stream of urine a blessed relief after holding it for so long. Then he washed and dried his hands, put the plug in the bath and turned on the hot tap. Nipping down to the kitchen, he seized the bottle of washing-up liquid from under the sink and jogged back up the stairs, panting as he reached the top. He squirted a generous amount into the streaming water and looked on in satisfaction as it frothed up and bubbles filled the bath. Then he turned off the hot tap and ran the cold: cold water was a much better idea, he decided.

Back downstairs once more, he picked her up. She felt stiff and cold, and, for such a small person, unnaturally heavy: a dead weight, he thought, and a strangled giggle escaped him. In the bathroom again, he turned off the tap and undressed her. He tried to slip her gently into the bath, but she was awkward to manoeuvre and he dropped her. She fell in with a splash and disappeared under the water completely. He hauled her up, then dipped his facecloth in the water, wrung it out and placed it over her face: the bulging eyes and protruding tongue had belied the image of her enjoying a restful bubble bath. He left her to it and went to change into dry clothes and make some sandwiches: after all his grief and trouble, he felt famished.


Later in the day the police knocked on his door. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re looking for a missing woman,’ the one on the front step told him. He could see the copper’s female companion a few paces behind him on the path. ‘Ann Chilton. We understand she spent last night with you.’

He looked at the photograph the copper held out. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she was here. But she left.’

‘When was that, sir?’

‘This morning, around nine o’clock.’

‘Did she say where she was going?’

He shrugged. ‘She said her mother was looking after her children.’

‘Do you mind if we take a look around inside?’

‘Do you have a warrant?’

‘We don’t need one if you give us permission.’

He thought of the sex toys strewn around his living room, the shoulder bag – her shoulder bag – lying on the floor, scuffed gold shoes at the bottom of the stairs. He swallowed, wiped his palms on his trousers. ‘Well, I don’t,’ he said.

‘Any reason why not, sir? After all, if you’ve nothing to hide …. ’ The policeman let that hang in the air.

He made to shut the front door on them, but the copper on the step was quick, got his boot in the way. His companion was already moving, making for the door, talking into her radio. Next thing he knew, the door was open and they were inside the house. They took one look at the state of the sitting room and there was shouting and the thudding of boots, one copper heading through to the back of the house, the other up the stairs. He heard the bathroom door slam open, the handle smacking against the wall.

‘She’s here!’ the woman copper shouted. ‘Oh god! Poor cow.’

He sat down on the step, looked out at the garden with its too-long grass and raggedy hedge. Beyond that, over the road, the curtains were twitching at number eleven. Mrs Todd. She missed nothing, nosy old bat, she was always gossiping with the neighbours. Well, he thought to himself, they’d all have something to talk about now.


BIO:
Julie Morgan has stories in a variety of places, and is trying to corral them all here: http://gonebadonlinestories.blogspot.com/.

TKnC regular, Lily Childs, nominated for Spinetingler Award!

The Spinetingler Awards are among the most respected on the net. So, to see some of your friends on the list of nominees is thrilling.

Finding it hard to be impartial, I have to say, I'm particularly thrilled that my loyal friend, Lily Childs, made the coveted list with her short story Carpaccio. We're so proud to have published this creepy and memorable tale here on TknC.

The list of ten nominees just oozes class - Jodi MacArthur, Matthew C Funk, Nigel P Bird, Chad Eagleton, Steve Weddle, plus some others I'll be checking out. Voting starts next week. The full list is here.

Congratulations to you all!

NO LOOSE ENDS by Charlie Wade

No Loose Ends


Bill was getting too mad.

We’d been set up. I was annoyed too, but he was flipping his lid. Dangerous thing that is.

“What are we gonna do with her?”

I looked down at the trussed up policewoman. He’d tied her up pretty good. A bit too good. I found myself wondering who else he’d tied up like that before. And what for.

“I’m thinking.” It’s true, I was. Weren’t no ideas coming though.

“Fucking bitch,” said Bill. A trickle of spit rolled down his chin. “How did she find us? She couldn’t have followed us. Weren’t no one following us.”

I shook my head. He was right. We’d checked twenty, maybe thirty times after the robbery, no one was behind us. One hell of a job it was. Bookies in the middle of night, hundred grand in the safe. Good tip off that was. Damn good tip off.

“Maybe she’s telling the truth,” I said. “Maybe she did just see the cars and wonder what was going off?”

Four cars outside a deserted farmhouse at night. It would attract attention. Especially if you knew it was empty. A local cop would. And she was the local cop.

“We gotta do this now.” Bill was sweating hard. I knew he had it in him though. I knew he could shoot her.

“Yeah. Reckon we outta. They’ll be finished divvying up soon.”

Al and his brother Ray were in the kitchen, dividing the money into four piles. Neither of them wanted to shoot her. I knew they wouldn’t. I didn’t want to neither. Didn’t seem right, shooting a defenceless woman. It had to be done though, had to be. She’d seen our faces. She could identify us. We couldn’t have that. There could be no loose ends. She had to die.

Bill walks towards her. Sweats pouring off him now, like he’s in some sauna. He holds his gun out, pointing it at her face. His hands shaking but he’s only eight feet away, he ain’t gonna miss.

“Fucking pig.”

He pulls his trigger.

I pull mine too.

The crack of Bill’s pistol was overpowered by the roar of my shotgun. My ears rang, felt like they’d exploded. As the smoke cleared, I looked past the barrel. The body was full of shot. A pair of eyes stared at me, pleading, questioning. Slowly the colour in the eyes faded as life flushed from them.

I couldn’t stay in that room long. I felt sick, needed some air that didn't taste of cordite. I went in the kitchen. Ray and Al had finished counting. They were smoking the big cigars we’d found in the safe. They offered me one, but I shook my head. I needed fresh air. I stood by the sink and ran some water, cupping my hands under it.

“All done?” asked Ray.

I nodded. “Bill’s still in there. God knows what he’s up to now.”

They laughed. They knew Bill was a sick bastard, none of us would put anything past him.

“We better clear out,” I said. “Someone might have heard the shots.”

Right on cue, it happened.

The policewoman burst into the room and pointed the shotgun at Ray. He reached for his gun but was too late, she opened a barrel on him. She turned straight away and emptied the other barrel into Al. He’d already picked up his gun, aimed it and pulled the trigger. His gun's blast was tiny though, like no bullet had actually come out.

She looks at me. Both of her barrels empty and two dying people sat at the table with a pile of money on it.

She nods her head. “Not bad was it?”

“Very believable,” I said. “Very, very believable.”

You see, just before Bill pulled the trigger I turned round. Pointed the shotgun at him. He looked surprised, even more surprised when I pulled the trigger. He might have shot at her with his gun full of blanks, but mine had the real thing in it. After that I untied her, gave her the shotgun and a few more cartridges. All I had to do then was keep the boys in the kitchen and wait.

She lowers the shotgun. “Do you know how fucking scary that was, him shooting at me?”

“Sorry,” I says. “I told you they’d be blanks.” I’d gone out back, dug up the guns and swapped the bullets this morning. She knew I was going to do it, but had to trust me. Must have been real hard.

“Come on then,” she says, “we’d better hurry. You got the live bullets?”

I nodded and grabbed an old coffee tin from under the sink. I replaced the bullets in the guns, the gloves on my hands making it awkward. Then I fired off a few shots to make it look like they’d missed her and threw the cash into a holdall.

The money wasn’t going to be missed, you see. It should never have been there. The owner of the bookies was not going to report the break in. The bookies’ CCTV only showed three people going in, too. I was the driver, and I made sure I was out of sight of the cameras the whole time Al cracked the safe. No one knew I was involved in any way. It was Ray and Al’s job, see. They picked me and Bill and didn’t tell no one else.

Going out to the cars, I got in the newest.

“See you then, sis. Give us quarter of an hour before you ring in, eh?”

She nodded. Her patrol car stood behind her - Fighting Crime And The Causes of Crime - written along the side.

“Are you coming to Jenny’s birthday party next week?”

I shrugged, but her stare forces me to turn it into a nod.

“Good,” she says. “You are her only uncle, you know. You really ought to make more of an effort.”

“Yes sis,” I replied, starting up the car.


BIO:
Charlie Wade lives in Derbyshire, England and has written two unpublished books, a comedy spy thriller and a post credit crunch dystopia. He's had a few short stories published online places and his story, Pleading and Bleeding, will be in Out Of The Gutter Magazine issue 7. He blogs at www.spiesliesandpies.blogspot.com

HORRORFEST

Howdy folks,
just a quick head's up. We're currently trying to bring down the backlog of stories here at TKnC. So, for your delectation, I've posted five fresh new tales of horror and the downright weird. Please make sure you scroll down and read 'em all. I wouldn't want you to miss a treat.

In the meantime, submissions remain closed until 31st march. Watch for the traffic light symbol on the right to turn green when we re-open.
cheers
Ye Olde Editor