FACE OFF by Lily Childs

Something a bit different from 'our Lil'...

Face Off

I keep it in a bag, my face. It hides there of a night when I slumber and dream.

The bag isn’t new. It is black and it is padded and it reminds me of cheap, knock-off Chanel. For five years it has been home to the composite pieces that come together every morning to rebuild my mask. It is the latest in a long-line of face keepers; storing cosmetics for me since the first time I walked out of Woolworths without paying for the pearly pink lip gloss tucked into my size 6 jeans pocket. I was thirteen.

‘You look… different,’ said Julia when I walked into the youth club, mouth sparkling. There was no verbal invitation but from then on I hung out with the girls; I was one of them – when it suited. But I wasn’t a beauty. I wasn’t good enough to go to the parties, and was certainly too dull to be introduced to the boys.

Eventually I grew sick of being dropped, or having Julia turn her back on me, mid-conversation when someone more interesting walked into the room. Silly bitch. She married a thief. It’s thirty years on now, and she still thinks she’s special. She’s like a skull on legs and her husband’s back in jail. Yeah, Julia. You’re that special.

The face isn’t what it was back then. There’s far more to it. I have sculptured eyebrows in place of thick doorsteps. Add a perfect ten to that teenage size 6 and I now have a couple of extra chins. But I also have a method.

There’s the seaweed wash. There’s the algae toner. Marine moisturiser spreads thinly over my fleshy visage, followed by thick demattifier to soak up the evil oil that seeps from my pores.

Beige foundation – it’s too yellow, this one. I have to mix it with a bit of pink. I smudge it into my skin until every flaw, every blemish is covered, concealed.

I pull my hair back and look at the bare-faced lie reflected back at me in the mirror. A blank canvas. I could do anything with it. I could be anyone.

But I want to be me. I’ve always wanted to be me, not her.

The ritual begins. Rose powder on the chub of my cheeks. Coffee blusher down the sides, and beneath my chin. Pale cream below the eyebrows, bumhole brown shadow on the lids. I have a tiny pot of ebony powder – I poke the black dust into my lower eyelashes, in the centre only - for that Captain Jack Sparrow look. More black goes above my eyes at the outer edges. Keep it outside – not in, if you want big and smoky. Pinched and piggy’s not nice.

I stop for a moment. It’s stark. But it’s taking shape. Eyeliner – black. Eyebrow pencil – black. Here comes the liquid liner with its tiny brush to give me those Audrey Hepburns. I have to let it dry so I stand and stare at myself, watching the green of my irises change from oyster to verdigris. And back again.

My lips are thin. They want to pout, want to be full and luscious. I take the camel hair paintbrush – it’s meant for acrylics and watercolours, but it suits my purpose perfectly. I slide it, coat it fully in a thick, black cherry lipstick, and I start painting. There has to be precision when you design your mouth, particularly the top lip. Too pointed, and you are Siouxsie Sioux for the day; too round and you could drag for England, with the rest of the queens. I fill in the white spaces where my own lip pigment doesn’t reach… and there is my outline. I make it thicker, then thicker again. I could do mulberry pink, for the office, or violent red, for me. I opt for red, more cherry – a dirty scarlet. I push the waxy stick inside my mouth, painting it as deep as I can. Then I blend it into my outline until I have a solid, unique burgundy. I blow myself a kiss, sneer in an Elvis stylee – both sides – it’s a talent I have. Now to make it permanent.

I don’t like glossy lips, the sticky gloop looks nasty left on my tea-cup, or my glass of Sauvignon. With naturally oily skin, a glistening, wet mouth looks like the oil has run and deposited itself there. Not a good look for a girl.

Instead I take a natural translucent powder on a soft pad and dab it all over my lips, encrusting them. I blow. Gently rubbing the excess inwards and away, I reveal the plump, matte, red velvet result. I am Clara Bow.

Nearly ready. Can’t go too fast or it breaks the spell. I dip a finger into darkness, into chocolate. I rub it round my eyes, softening the effect of the dried, thin black lines.

There’s a penultimate act – chunky mascara, layer upon layer. It’s clubbing stuff for divas; it makes fat, thick lashes. I don’t temper it for day wear. I like the false look.

I am complete. Now I look like the me I want to be. I’ve stopped looking like the aunt who brought me up, dragged me up – in place of my mother. No longer resemble the vile woman who hurt and abused me from infancy.

Our hair, mahogany and thick as haystacks was always the same. Long, unkempt, wiry. I cut it all off when I was fourteen, not long after the shoplifting started. Later I bleached it blond, kept it cropped in crisp white spikes. I was disguised.

***

Four years ago, happily married to Jack and nursing our first child, I got a letter. ‘Dearest Zoe. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’m trying to get the family back together again. Don’t you think that would be nice?’ She left her address, and a phone number. I didn’t reply. I didn’t call. I bumped into the usual cousins, uncles, nieces about town and I just had to ask, casually. But no-one else had received a letter. So why just me?

I looked down at my sweet baby, cooing in my arms, and I knew…

It was Christmas when I saw her in the street, nowhere near where she lived, but just two roads away from my house. I wouldn’t have recognised her if she hadn’t called out. I squinted, and my heart turned to stone. She was grey now, a light, indistinct grey that was short; short around her ears, short on top. She looked like me. She looked like the person I’d deliberately turned myself into. I had to swallow the bile that hit my throat.

I was a coward. I didn’t have the guts to take her to task, though all I wanted was to smash her face in for what she’d done to me, make her grovel for mercy as I crushed her skull in with the heel of my boot.

She started to walk towards me, but I shook my head, and walked away.

That afternoon I headed straight into town to my stylist.

‘I want to grow it out, Joey’ I said. ‘And I’m going natural.’

Joey fingered my locks, looking dubious.

‘What the hell is your real colour, hon?’ So I told him.

‘Mmmmn. Well, let’s do it gradually’ he said. ‘Lowlight it out. Give people time to get used to it. Because you know, at your age…’

‘Just do it,’ I told him.

I left the salon a brunette for the first time in decades.

***

It’s the festive season again. Millie is making paper chains, and the tree is sparkling in splendour. I’m nearly back to the original me. I have bouncing dark curls. I’ve a face I’m not afraid to look at. And whilst I’m cuddly, I’m losing weight. I’m turning back into the woman I should have been if my mother hadn’t died in a car crash when her own sister was driving. I’ve learnt to smile again, because this summer, they caught her.

"Widow Moira Gentry turned to fostering when the niece she had cared for from the age of four, left home," the newspaper said. I read on, horrified. "After Gentry approached two of her victims, now adults with new families of their own, the former foster-children each went to the police, suspicious that Gentry was trying to gain access to their own young ones".

I felt sick. That was what she had tried with me.

"One of the victims said, ‘She was disgusting. Her house was filthy; she was filthy – in every way. She used to punish us for things we hadn’t done, then use her revolting ‘special’ way of making you feel better.’"

More than half-a-dozen women came forward. The court case was plastered all over the dailies, and I read every word, appalled yet relieved beyond belief. Relieved but desperately sad I wasn’t the only one. Relieved she hadn’t got to Millie.

Every day throughout the trial I told myself I needed to go to the police myself; give them my story. Actually I was amazed they didn’t contact me. Perhaps they felt they had enough evidence to send her away for a very long time without distressing others she may have abused. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if she got off? What if they let her free to hurt and destroy the souls of other children? I decided. I would do it tomorrow.

Divine intervention is a wonderful thing. I never had to make that call. The night I made my brave, momentous decision Auntie Moira died. She didn’t just die; she was kicked until her ribs broke and her spleen burst. She was punched in the face, repeatedly; shards of cheekbone pierced her eyeballs. It seemed only right. But most satisfyingly, the other women in the prison stamped all over her hands, smashing her evil fingers to pulp. When I read that, I sobbed. Because I thought of all the things she’d done to me with those hands, and I was glad, ecstatically glad that she suffered, that she died slowly of internal bleeding, and according to the newspapers, in horrendous pain.

***

It is a beautiful June morning. The light shines in through my windows and into my heart. I smile at the mirror – my face is clean and my hair is down. I am slim. I am well.

For the first time in my adult life I leave the house wearing no make-up. The fear has gone. The mask is broken.

I don’t need ‘the face’ any more.

I’m keeping it in the bag.


© Lily Childs 26 November 2009

BIO:
Lily Childs is a budding writer in the mystery, chiller and horror genre, and is thrilled to have her short stories published on Thrillers Killers 'N' Chillers.
She is currently writing her first novel and lives on the Sussex Coast with her artist husband and beautiful 5-year old daughter. Lily blogs at: 'Lily Childs' Feardom'. and here.

A PATH FAMILIAR By Lee Hughes

Part 11 of Lee's on-going series 'the Osseous Box'...

A Path Familiar

Jon was dead on his feet and he needed to sleep. The dog and Tobin were keen to carry on. Just a few hours slumber, is all he wanted.

*

It'd been three days since the Box had been broken and the beast released. That was one messed up day that Jon was sure he'd never forget.

After the beast had fled, they'd gone about the task of finishing off the demon-hound that was partly made up of broken dead-man. Tobin took to the chore of hacking it to bits and then he burned it to ensure it wouldn't find a way to work its harm the following night, or any other.

The dog that had gone missing up on the mountain trundled through one of the gaps where a gate had once hung. It sniffed at the wreckage of the car, did the same at the smoke that rose from the makeshift funeral pyre and went to stand a little ways apart from them, staring in the direction of the beast's escape.

The dog came to heel as Tobin's father said a handful of prayers that lost their meaning in the distance from his lips to Jon's ears.

Jon could tell the dog had the scent of the beast; it must have been like a Bisto waft to a human nose.

Tobin and his father had grabbed a few things and tossed them into the boot of a knackered car that had been parked over by the ramshackle barn. Jon knew he had two choices that night. He could either stick around and explain the unexplainable, or go with the Preachers in case there was anything he could do whilst hoping that the world got to see the beast. That would be one-step towards being pardoned for all the deaths that they would be laying at his door. He opted for Tobin's piece-of-shit car.

The car proved useful in trailing the dog as it bounded after the beast's scent. Jon sat in the back, a hand pushing up at the roof. He was sure there was no suspension on the car. After the third field, he was positive of it.

The car stopped. Tobin turned in his seat. "We'll have to get out here."

"Thank fuck," Jon said, and clambered out of the car. His back cracked. "I'm sure I'm an inch or too shorter now. How much did you pay for that?" He nodded at the heap.

Tobin shrugged. "Nothing. Got it from scrap and did it up myself."

Jon stared at the wreck and wondered if the only tool at his disposal had been a big hammer.

Jon saw why they couldn't go any further. The moon was sprinkling the sea with silver. "What now?"

Tobin's father didn't turn around. "We get the ferry in the morning and try and find the scent from there."

"Okay, sounds like a plan. But, what if the Beast heads north towards Scotland and we start south?"

"We'll head south. From one generation to the next the original tale of how we became Preachers tells us that the original Preacher headed north after putting the Beast in the Box."

Jon couldn't really find any fault in that, he tried, but couldn't. "What time's the first boat off this rock?"

"Half-seven," Tobin said.

"That'll work. Any time later and some of the corpses will probably start getting discovered and they'll close the port," Jon said, he noticed Tobin's father had been quiet and was staring out to sea. "What's up?"

Mr. Preacher remained quiet for a few moments before replying, "It was my job to keep watch and make sure that the Box was never uncovered, I've failed."

Tobin reached out a hand; his father didn't shrug it off.

It was a very touching moment but Jon reckoned they didn't have the time for any 'Little House on the Prairie' sentimentality. "Okay, so we've established you feel guilty for the Box being broken. Though I don't think you should. It's not like someone wandered up the mountain and found it just sitting at the top with a hammer next to it with which to break it open. Look, a psycho that turned into a dog-thing at night was the one that found it. He killed a shit load of people. Hey, I dug it up. But I don't feel guilty. The psycho had a knife to an innocent woman's throat." Jon stopped there. He realised he was going into the territory where he'd remind Mr. Preacher that his wife and eldest son were dead."

The old man nodded following an awkward silence. He turned his back to the sea. "I'm arthritic in both legs and my right shoulder. I'd just slow you boys down. Besides, I might be of better use here. There's still the body of that woman up on the mountain. She'll be found before you've even managed to get to the mainland. I'll go get her, I'll get the man you said about in the garage too, if you give me the address. I'll give them both a respectful resting place and prayers, until you've gotten a good head start. Take the remains of the Box."

"Why?" Jon asked, feeling as if he'd just dropped one burden and a moment later he'd picked up another.

"If you catch up with the Beast and if you manage to better it, what will you keep it in?"

"Yeah, suppose you've got a point, though I wasn't too keen all those, 'If's.' you were using."

*

On the second morning of the hunt, Jon's main fear became real as he saw his mug-shot on the front of the daily papers. Tobin's portrait was there, but only half the size as if they only wanted to find Tobin half as much

.*

Jon looked at the situation back on the island as if he had been the one investigating it.

Concerns would have been raised from one of two places with each easily leading to the other. It might have been Beth being absent from work for a second day running. Someone would have gone around to her house, rapped on the door, and garnered no answer. Police would have turned up and made a forced entry to certify she wasn't sprawled in a mess at the base of the stairs.

Mr. Preacher had said he'd take care of Mordecai's corpse. Yet, there'd still be a bounty of evidence. Mordecai had been missing of the bulk of his gullet so there would be gore staining the concrete floor.

Then there was the visitor's centre approach. Again, Mr. Preacher said that he would remove Beth's remains. It wouldn't make much of a difference, not even if he closed the blinds and locked the doors.

Someone would have gone up there to use the services and found them closed and complained. An irate grunt from the Department of Tourism and Leisure would have been up there in a flash to see what was going on. They would open up and be faced with the stains of slaughter in the kitchen, and the open butchery in the gift shop. Mr. Preacher would never have been able to clean it all up.

Then there was the big hole in the heart of the floor that Jon had been forced to excavate by the psycho. He knew there was no way that old Mr. Preacher would have been able to fill it in, not with his arthritis. If he'd tried, it would have likely ended up his final resting place.

Jon could easily visualize the appearance of flashing lights, complete with the noise of 'nee-nawing'. They'd find Beth's car parked halfway down the mountain in the car-park, his prints all over the passenger's door and interior. They'd head to the Preacher's farm, figuring that two of the Preacher family hadn't turned up for work the morning after a massacre. The police would find the remnants of a funeral pyre, and with a little more searching, would come up with the bodies of Mordecai, Beth, and Mr. Preacher's own family.

The prints found on the car would match his on the police database. Once Mordecai had been identified it would add another link to him. Jon started thinking fast. There were two hunts now on, the manhunt for him and the demon-hunt.

*

They'd kept to the countryside as much as they could. With their pictures being bandied about here and there, it wasn't worth the risk cutting through populated places.

The duo had discussed in bewilderment at how the dog had followed the scent through towns and cities and that no one had seen the passing of a great, big Hell-Beast.

Tobin had come up with the most credible answer. "Perhaps it learned its lesson after last time when it got slain and then imprisoned."

"So you reckon its gone invisible?"

"It’s a demon, who knows what it can, or can't do."

"Well that's gonna make it a piece of piss to find."

"We've got the dog, and the dog has the scent."

They looked down at the Alsatian.

*

Jon was now on-the-record knackered. Tobin sighed and gave in. They'd stumbled across an old and outwardly forsaken cottage. The pair had bartered. Jon had started the bidding at a four-hour rest. Tobin had counter offered two. They settled on four.

Tobin stared at the cottage. "It looks rundown."

Jon tested the door and said, "You should feel right at home."

"What?" Tobin wasn't sure he heard Jon accurately.

"Nothing," Jon said, and used his shoulder as the key to the door.

*

The interior showed that no one had lived there in quite a few decades. The furniture was gone, including the carpets. There was just one busted chair in the middle of the dusty room.

Tobin said, "You sure you want to take a nap in here?" He turned back to Jon who'd already claimed himself a spot in the corner. He closed his eyes. "Four hours. You can talk to me again in four hours."

*

Jon opened his eyes. He wondered whether it had been such a good idea to sleep on the concrete floor.

"Tobin?" He called, noticing the lad and the dog weren't in the room. The large holdall that they'd been carting the relics of the Box within was gone too. He rubbed at his neck as he wandered through into the other room. At one time in the distant past, it had been a kitchen.

There was a window covered in enough shit to make it only one-step up from being a wall. He walked over but didn't relish rubbing his sleeve to make a cleaner spot. He made do with the hazy view it offered.

He saw Tobin walking through the feral vegetation of the rear garden, the dog following. Jon made for the backdoor. It was hanging on off its elderly hinges just like the front door, only Jon wasn't accountable for this one, time was.

Jon was about to shout something. He could see that Tobin was chatting to himself just like a mentalist. He was on the cusp of shouting a witty observation but something held him in check, it felt somehow wrong, he kept quiet.

He watched as the one-sided tête-à-tête continued for another few minutes. When the conversation seemed to be winding up Tobin appeared grave, but nodded as if in accord with himself over something.

Jon waited until Tobin was utterly done flapping his lips before putting his own to work. "You all right?" He asked.

Tobin looked over as if he hadn't been doing anything abnormal. "You're awake."

Jon noticed the look on Tobin's face so kept his answer straightforward, "Yeah, the four hours we'd agreed upon was up. Where's the bones?"

"I buried them."

"I thought we needed them?"

"It seemed the right thing to do, it felt right." He pointed behind him. "There's a ruin back there, it's Wulf's hut."

Jon waded through the grass, passed Tobin and the dog. He could see the leftovers of a small building. Nothing more than a four-foot high ring of roughly hewn stones with a break where the door would have stood.

It struck Jon hard seeing the bodily image of the chronicle that Mordecai had told him. There was a moment where it seemed a dizzying coincidence. Then he realised that they were now on the identical route it had taken all those centuries ago.

Jon ignored the absurdity and asked, "I take it that's who you were talking to?"

Tobin nodded. "Wulf's now at peace, it's been a long time in coming, but he was prepared to wait for an eternity if it kept things as they should be." He seemed disinclined to elaborate.

Jon wasn't going to let it drop. "So what are we supposed to use now if we manage to beat the thing, a Safeway's carrier-bag?"

The dog moved off through the deep grass to continue the hunt. Tobin started after the dog and said, "Mine"

BIO:
Lee Hughes's short fiction has appeared on or in, Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9, Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers, Microhorror, A Twist of Noir, Every Day Fiction, New Flesh Magazine, The Daily Tourniquet, Powder Burn Flash, Blink-Ink and FlashShots. Find out more at:


http://www.leehughes.net/

AFTERNOON DELIGHT by Anna Harris

Anna's back up from down under with this refreshing noir tale...

Afternoon Delight

Fast Eddie was dead, which, in the great scheme of things was a good thing. The fact that a lot of his insides were now outsides and doing a piss poor job of redecorating my rented bedroom wall in glorious poinsettia red wasn’t as pleasing. On the plus side, he was no longer in a position to threaten me and I no longer owed him a colossal amount of money, and if I could stop throwing up long enough to let that sink in, I might even be relieved.

As it turned out, Fast Eddie wasn’t so fast. We’d both reached for the gun but my spontaneous female adrenaline turned out to be far superior to his calculated male reflexes. In actual fact, his name wasn’t even Eddie but in a moment of inspired genius I’d decided weeks ago Fast Malcolm just didn’t have the same sleazy ring to it. I’m clever like that.

Mr and Mrs Rozniak were going to be less impressed with my wit though, when they got home. They weren’t the sort of people who would appreciate having Malcolm’s innards spread across their delicate lilac print wallpaper; not even if those globs belonged to a no-good, stinking, scuzz bucket who deserved everything he got.

The Rozniaks were the sort of people who covered their spare toilet rolls in frilly material and didn’t let you inside the house with your shoes on. They also didn’t allow smoking in the yard, television after 10pm, animals on the property or members of the opposite sex to visit boarders in their rooms, and seeing as how Fast Eddie ticked the last two out of those four boxes, I was pretty certain they were not going to be pleased he’d met his maker on their faded lime green 1970s shag pile. Actually, I thought, as I balanced over the toilet and retched again, this might even give them cause to evict me and that would really, really suck.

As dealing with trauma had never been one of my strong points - I used to get light headed when Wile E Coyote fell under a boulder - the daunting prospect of facing the chaotic scene in the bedroom again loomed ever present in my mind. I considered remaining in the en suite bathroom hugging the toilet bowl until help arrived but the phone was in another room and I hadn’t actually got around to calling for any assistance.

I figured there were only two ways out of the mess; to face it head on or avoid it altogether. My personal philosophy has always been that avoidance is the preferred option - just staple feathers to my skin and call me chicken - but unless I made a move soon, I might be stuck in here performing intestinal acrobatics until Sunday afternoon when Mr and Mrs Rozniak returned from their out-of-town Christmas shopping expedition. I’d just have to make a run for it. It was a simple plan because I was a simple woman. Not so simple, of course, that I’d consider sleeping with Fast Eddie again though. Oh no, no no.

I’d had a stinker of a week. Sometimes you just have to say enough is enough and any man with shit for brains knows you don’t wave slimy intimidation in the face of a woman who’s had a stinker of a week – not even if you have a gun to hide behind. Either Fast Eddie didn’t know the universal rules about dealing with PMT or he didn’t have a brain at all, else he would’ve left his attempt at playing macho dirtbag for a more appropriate time on my calendar. I was not in the mood to be trifled with today. I needed an unhealthy dose of cholesterol-laden greasy food, not a horizontal tango under my threadbare Holly Hobbie sheets.

I’d trudged my way home in the middle of the afternoon through last-minute-shopper chaos from my part-time shift work job as one of Santa's helpers at the department store to find Malcolm in my bed with nothing on but his wristwatch and a seedy leer looking for a little afternoon delight.

“Delight this,” I’d said, waving a solitary finger in the air. I was the queen of biting comebacks so I hoped that glib retort would stop him in his tracks. It didn’t.

That’s when he threatened me with the gun before being smug enough to return it to the bedside table. He had the nerve to lay it right alongside my little tin Santa with the wobbly head. Now that was just rude. I may have been behind in my payments but I wasn’t desperate enough to be coerced, cajoled or cornered into sleeping with the slime ball again. The one time I’d relented and had done the deed - under pressure and in sheer desperation - with Fast Eddie in lieu of an overdue payment it had been…well…fast.

I might be stupid sometimes but I’m not dumb. Even when threatened with death or disfiguration by illegal firearm up close and personal, closing my eyes and thinking of England through a repeat performance of The Bad, The Worse and The Ugly would be just plain sad and my life was already depressing enough as it was. I was a less than svelte - okay, moderately plump - thirty three year old, wearing a too-tight pixie outfit under my coat, up to my over-plucked brows in debt and renting a back room from a couple whose idea of a wild time was playing Trivial Pursuit with the next door neighbours. I didn’t need another of Eddie’s premature demoralisations to remind me of how much lower my life could plummet. So I shot him.

I supposed the Rozniak’s perspective on their comfortable suburban life might now take a sudden unexpected turn for the worse. Sad, I know, but we’ve all gotta face reality some time. It was my turn now. I had to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom or stare malnutrition in the face. Hey, I’d just thrown up my Maccas breakfast with extra bacon and cheese and the six doughnuts I’d had to tide me over for lunch so if ever there was an excuse for comfort eating, now was as good a time as there’d ever be.

I opened the bathroom door and took a steadying breath, making a mental note to force open my eyes as soon as I started for the opposite doorway leading to the lounge. I took tentative steps and kept my eyes averted from the schizophrenic Picasso abstract on my duvet, all the time crossing my fingers I wouldn’t do a Torville and Dean in the splatter.

I phoned the cops and reported the fatality, then with shaking hands, tore open the foil packaging around a family block of Cadburys before sitting back on the couch to wait for reinforcements to arrive. I had a lot of pondering to do about my future. I didn’t think I’d have the stomach to sleep in that room again. Merry bloody Christmas.

I also wondered how Mr and Mrs Rozniak were going to take the news their son Malcolm wouldn’t be around to partake of their seasonal ham this year.


BIO:
Anna shares her house in Australia with her husband, a dog, a tank full of tropical fish and is now down to two teenagers out of seven children still living at home. She juggles her days between that lot and work, sketching portraits, writing, reading and chasing her own tail. Any wonder her fantasies include living on an unchartered, deserted island. Anna blogs here.

LIAR'S LEMONADE by Copper Smith

A warm welcome to Copper from across the big pond on his debut...

Liar's Lemonade

First was fourteen-year-old Kevin Shears:

"Cynthia Germain and me broke up weeks ago."

Sarah's first crush, her first kiss, and the line about the break-up with Cynthia Germain? The first lie lobbed her way from a suitor. Within seconds they were tangled in a blur of clumsy kisses under the bleachers when they should have been in study hall.

A week later, Kevin would take Cynthia to the homecoming dance.

Parking a few blocks away seemed like a sensible move at the time. In theory she would escape detection as she dipped through the shadows towards the house on foot. But oh, that satanic humidity. Even at the darkest hour of night she feels tugged to the earth, damn near sedated by this cloud of mugginess.

But she soldiers on, creeping past the bushes of a neighbor's home and raising nary an eyebrow of suspicion – she's good at this. Almost there now, nothing stopping her save for the dodgeball game next door. Damn kids, shouldn't they be in bed or at school or something at this hour. She'll have to wait in the shrubbery, head tucked to her chest, body impossibly still. She checks her purse – everything there. Soon it will be time to strike.

Then it was Trevor's turn:

"C'mon, honey! It'll be fun – something for us to watch alone. I won't let anyone else see the tape, I swear."

This drunken college frat boy with a camcorder and an over-active libido could be very persuasive. So Sarah slipped into the Wonder Woman garb and believed him. The first surprise was that those Amazonian bracelets made her wrist chafe. The second surprise sent her down like a five-year-old tumbling from her tricycle.

All is quiet now, so she dashes to a side window, opens her purse to find the wire cutters. She is stunned that it is so easy. She clips and claws her way inside in seconds. Greeted by the cool of a hardwood floor, she stays squatted for a while, collects her thoughts. This is not like the movies at all, she concludes. This is too easy, too comfortable. How do burglars ever get caught? she wonders. How does anybody choose a career unrelated to burglary?

Tommy chimed in with this one:

"Honey, you have to trust me. There's no other woman in my life. Honest."

Well, strictly speaking this was true. But she didn't think to wonder what really happened on those boy's nights out. And what about the leather chaps in his closet? And the questions he wouldn't answer about his past? She just tried to wish these worries away. Because this one had to be different. He was but he wasn't.

She slinks into the kitchen with the strides of a stalking puma, opens the refrigerator, enjoys a shower in the rush of cool. After a look around, she grabs a container of lemonade. She glares at it, eyes narrowing, lips curling into a sinister grin. After a sip she decides it could use another ingredient.

After Tommy there would be more:

"No, I don't have any kids."

"Um… those shoes are my sister's – she visits from time to time."

"No, I wasn't looking at the waitress's ass!"

"I'm self-employed right now."

"I'll call you."

"She's just a friend!"

"I love you too."

And then there would be Daryl:

"There is nothing I want more in the world than to be with you and only you."

Married Daryl. Yes, he had come clean about the wife – after much heated interrogation. And yes, he had that mustache and that antebellum charm and he could make her laugh like nobody else with those stories about his days as a marine. But still…

By the time she got to Daryl, Sarah had had enough. Enough with lies, enough with liars, enough with waiting for men to stop being men and start being honest and forthright and true. She was known to be temperamental, a feisty little firecracker when crossed the wrong way. She had given Kevin a kick to the crotch when she learned about Cynthia, had set Trevor's porn collection ablaze when the truth came crawling out, but this is miles beyond feisty. This is breaking and entering. And if all goes according to scheme, it will be murder too.

She yanks the ziplock of strychnine from her purse, opens the lemonade container and empties the powder into it. With the aid of a nearby spoon she blends the powder into the innocuous sea of bright yellow. One more gaze at her handiwork and back in the refrigerator it goes, poised behind a can of beer and a half-finished piece of pizza, just waiting. With the flight attendant wifey crossing the Atlantic for the weekend and the kids safely away in summer camp, the extra-strength lemonade will wind up in nobody's belly but Daryl's.

And then comes a clack up the driveway, high heels – this is not Daryl. Sarah freezes.

More clacking, and a clumsy set of keys seeking the keyhole. She has to flee, has to find a way out. The window she slipped in through? Too risky – too easy to be spotted by this person coming in the front door.

The back door? Maybe, but what about the lemonade? She can't just leave that and let anybody – like the lady now opening the front door – drink it. Or can she?

It's too late, the choice has been made for her. The door is swung open, the footsteps muffled now by carpet. She's inside. Nothing to do now but take cover.

Sarah scampers into the pantry, swinging the door shut quietly – or so she tries. It creaks. The footsteps halt as if panicked, alerted. Then they start again, into the kitchen. Sarah spies her through the keyhole of the pantry door. She's sweeter, less hostile than the harpy-in-training Daryl had described, but then who knows what rage lurks behind that painted on stewardess smile that she seemingly sports even when alone. She opens the refrigerator door, reaches for the lemonade. Bad move.

Now she needs a cup, and ice too. Sarah screams on the inside, ready to spring from the pantry, ready to stop this madness. But good luck explaining all this to the police.

Then the phone rings in the living room so the glass goes down before she can pour herself a death by poisoning. And Sarah can breath again. The harpy-in-training slumps out of the kitchen, answers the phone with an exhausted growl: "Yeah?"

Sarah could flee now, she could scramble to the back door, fumble with the lock and run free. But what about the lemonade?

"Yeah, I remember what you told me, that's the problem –"

This won't be easy. First she has to open the pantry door – another squeak, this one not noticed in the midst of more heated words on the phone:

"… and what, like my needs don't mean a goddamn thing? Like my world could just explode and it's my problem, huh?"

Then a few steps to the counter where the glass of lemonade sits. But she is no ninja. Her glides are more like stomps on the sticky linoleum. But they get lost in the rattle of a soliloquy:

"High maintenance! Because I need to feel loved and needed and wanted every once in a while? Because I need to be reminded of why I fell in love you? Because I need to feel like I mean something more to you than a… than a…"

Sarah becomes a statue, unable to take another step in this silence. Come on, lady! she thinks. A concubine! A whore! A domestic servant! Anything!

"But the thing of it is…"

Sarah halts again as the harpy-in-training is unable think of what the thing of it is. But soon enough she is onto something else:

"What I need from you is devotion. I need for you to be for me what you are to you poker buddies and your softball teammates and your…"

Another pause. Sarah scoops away the glass, reaches for the refrigerator door and grabs the container.

"Yes, I think so…"

And down the drain goes every drop of the toxic lemonade – but with an oceanic splash.

"And I also think –" She stops cold. "Can I call you right back?" She hangs up cautiously, quietly.

Sarah slinks back into the pantry, pulls the door shut – another squeak. Another suspicion-raising bump in the night.

Footsteps again, coming to the kitchen, slowly. One at a time. The harpy-in-training fumbles with something in her purse, then draws it: a gun.

"Hello?" she calls. She doesn't want an answer. She wants to convince herself that she didn't really hear anything, then she'll go upstairs take a Valium and a nap. She'll laugh about it later with the hubby over a drink and a rerun of Lost. By then Sarah will have scurried off into the night. No need to panic, Sarah tells herself. She almost believes it.

Her gun is extended now and she circles around like somebody who's seen too many damn cop movies. But Sarah is patient. With the gun still extended she moves to the living room, then down the hallway.

Sarah spies the living room window, the one she came in through. Now! she tells herself.

What's your plan B? Surrender to an angry, armed harpy-in-training? Then – assuming you survive – wait for the cops and explain yourself out of lengthy prison term? The window is right there! She's a stewardess, for God's sake. She can't be a very good shot.

Now!
Sarah sprints for the window, but stumbles. The harpy-in-training turns, aims, mistakes the sprint for an attack, takes two shots. Sarah leaps for the window – She's a stewardess, for God's sake. She can't be a very good shot.

But these are not the frantic, random shots of a stewardess, his wife. These are the shots - one through the abdomen, one through the chest – of a federal marshal, his other mistress.

And so it ends with another lie. How nice.


BIO:
Copper Smith is a writer of crime fiction who resides in Minneapolis and plays the mandolin. His blog can be read at: http://uppercutavenue.blogspot.com/2009/11/my-name-is-copper-smith-and-i-write.html

THE RECKONING By Lee Hughes

Who says we've forgotten the true meaning of Christmas?

The Reckoning


- You wonder why I'm pissed off? What you think, I should be happy as Larry because I lost my job to a charlatan of a fumbled together religion that half-inched this and that from here and there. It was I, Odin that went about on my eight-legged horse at Yuletide, switching carrots for candy in the boots that children left out. Us old Gods are getting tired of it. I was retired from that tradition by Christianity and then re-designed by Coca-Cola to create a fat old fool that breaks into homes and leaves for the majority of the time, tat beneath trees.

- I've heard the saying that if you wish hard enough then it'll come true. So now you're here and I'm a mixture of wrath and spilled reindeer blood. Think I wanna be like this? I'm a fucking God. What am I reduced to now? A page on Wikipedia?

Father Christmas gave out a howl as Odin ordered Thor to take his hammer to his right kneecap. One hit and most of the leg was gone.

- That'd didn't sound much like a ho-ho-ho. Knee-shots hurt like a bitch, don't they. We're taking back what's ours, all of us. We're starting with you fuck-nut. Don't worry, we'll dump you beneath a tree.

"But what about the children? The good boys and girls?" Father Christmas said through tears.

- Sleipner is coming out of retirement and I'll go back to doing the job that was rightfully mine.

"Will you embrace the true essence of Christmas?"

- No, but I'll embrace the true essence of Yule.

Thor took the hammer to task again and did the other knee in.

"Please, NO!" Father Christmas begged.

- Too late. It's the only way. Gotta have you bashed out of existence, I'd do it myself but only Thor can lift the hammer.

*

Odin smiled at Sleipner as he mounted him and took to the skies. The horse's eight legs bothered thin air as it galloped.

For hours, he rode the Yule Eve skies searching for shoes or boots left outside. He encountered only one pair and found them barren of carrots for Sleipner. It wasn't going to plan. He picked up the mud-covered shoes with the studs in the soles. He shrugged and sniffed to make sure that the shoes weren't soiled with shit when the door opened.

Odin smiled.

The man hit him hard with a golf club. "What the fuck do you think you're doing sniffing my boy's footy boots, sick bastard." He hit him again.

Odin took a decent beating before managing to get back to Sleipner and escaping to the safety of the skies while the angered father looked on in disbelief.

The first thing Odin did when he got back to Asgard once he'd dabbed at his face with Savlon was to get in touch with the fertility Goddess Eostre and tell her to let the Easter Bunny go; it just wasn't worth the hassle.

Merry Yuletide, one and all!

BIO:


Lee Hughes's short fiction has appeared on or in, Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9, Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers, Microhorror, A Twist of Noir, Every Day Fiction, New Flesh Magazine, The Daily Tourniquet, Powder Burn Flash, Blink-Ink and FlashShots. Find out more at:
http://www.leehughes.net/

GETTING WHACKED by Colin Graham

Colin's getting a taste for it...

Getting Whacked

It was always like this for Mickey O’Slane after a hit. He never knew quite what to do with himself afterwards. It was as if the whole day, week, month even, was stretched out in front of him like a desert, one which made him maddeningly thirsty for the sound of bullet leaving barrel and sight of brains blasted all over the wall.

Strangely, it was thirst that always overcame Mickey after he’d wiped someone out, which was why he would always sit at the bar in his favourite watering hole guzzling down a beer that tasted like the brew of angels. It wasn’t the adrenalin, fear or drama associated with the occasion that made his mouth dry. He was way beyond all that at this juncture, having been in the job for 20 years or so; each time a body hit the floor he’d sigh and shake his head and then start thinking of Joey’s Bar.

It was because he felt barren, bereft of usefulness, beside himself with boredom that Mickey needed a drink. Some who knew what profession he was in, or had at least guessed – such as the other regulars in Joey’s Bar - assumed it was some kind of post-traumatic thing he had after killing someone. They were wrong, though no one ever discovered as much because it wasn’t the sort of subject you brought up with Mickey in casual conversation. In fact, after he’d clipped a guy – or every now and then a girl – the hired assassin wasn’t one much for idle talk.

If only they’d told him way back at the age of 20 that patience was the key in being a contract killer. He probably would have turned his hand to something else. Growing up, he’d always fancied himself as a bit of a singer and when they had the odd Karaoke night at Joey’s he would step up to an affectionate round of applause. Mickey wouldn’t have it any other way. But that was the problem. He could never really become a professional singer, because in his heart of hearts he knew that when people clapped, they clapped out of fear that he was Mickey the killer, not Mickey the crooner. On the odd occasion he reflected on his life and had regrets, he invariably felt a tang of remorse for the times he’d placed a pistol to the head of a musician, or any other artist for that matter. In another life they would have been his soul mates, but it wasn’t to be. Their aspiring careers were cut short too.

At the time he started shooting people Mickey thought that the jobs would come thick and fast and for a while they did, mainly because he had novelty value. The police hadn’t a clue who he was and as he was fleet of foot and cute as a fox that stayed the case for a long time. But then after a while his paymasters got wary and employed his services more sparingly, using him only for the really big jobs, at premium pay, naturally. This left Mickey wealthy but at a loose end, something he didn’t at all like.

Anxiety wasn’t something Mickey was big on, as it would have been a bit of a handicap, what with the way he earned his living and all, but he did sometimes worry that he shared some characteristics with serial killers, and this disturbed him profoundly. This notion was borne of the fact that he needed to murder on a regular basis, just to keep himself fulfilled. He even did some research on the most famous names in the history of repeat butchery and squirmed with discomfort as the computer screen lit up his face. “Half of them are fucking faggots,” he said under his breath in the internet cafe, disassociating himself from the breed in one fell swoop.

But that made him even more depressed, another term he struggled to imagine next to his name. However, when he googled “depressed’ it didn’t do any good at all. No one else seemed to have his type of experience. Mickey was emotionally marooned and was beginning to realize it.

He’d started checking out the internet when he realized that the stories related to his hits made it onto to 24 hour breaking news sites and he didn’t have to wait a whole fucking day for the story to come out in print, which had always rankled.

But then the web stories only extended to a paragraph or two and missed out all the important details. On numerous occasions, Mickey almost reached into his holster to shoot the computer to pieces so that it would learn a lesson, but was becalmed ultimately by the studious quiet of the internet cafe. He didn’t want to make a scene.

He was happier, a few hours later, sitting on his stool at Joey’s pouring over a fresh copy of the newspaper that had recounted his crime. When the report called the deceased “the victim” he always laughed out loud, and invariably got a drink on the house.

But then that newspaper story would become yesterday’s news and again Mickey would have nothing to do. So after reading it fifty or sixty times and downing several beers, he decided to go back to his swish apartment.

Then he did something he never done in the past, because Mickey was no alcoholic, let alone a serial killer. How would he have done all those hits otherwise? He bought a bottle of whiskey on his way home and there he drank it, to the very last drop. Losing all feeling that he was here on earth, Mickey had just enough sense in his body to grapple with his ankle holster, lift his revolver and pull the trigger next to his head.

Mickey, the killer, had whacked himself.


BIO:
Colin Graham is a Birmingham-born freelance journalist currently based in Belgrade, Serbia. Struggling along with hack work (in the main) he invariably finds himself uplifted by an unforeseen boost when all seems lost. He has previously lived in Russia and Poland, meaning he has been in Eastern Europe for over a decade, a fact that always amazes even himself.

BUMBLEF*CKED By Chris Allinotte

Tis the season to be jolly...

Bumblef*cked

1

Fitch watched the apartment across the street, and ground his teeth. This job was completely beneath him. Still, an order was an order, and the sap would be getting home soon.

2

He’d raised his objections to Gerard, when he’d been given the plain yellow envelope detailing this worthless waste-of-time hit. “I’m a specialist Gerry. Why is he still sending me out on this low level garbage? I can hit a moving target with a sniper rifle from three blocks away and I can put an explosive in a pack of gum that will do the job. So why am I expected to barge into yet another defenseless idiot’s apartment and put two in his head, like I was fresh meat? Huh?”

The rail-thin man in the immaculate tailored suit was quick to reply, “Because we tell you to, Fitch. Your job is whatever Mr. Dallas says it is. My job is to tell you what he said, so he doesn’t have to waste time talking to overconfident little hit men who whine.” He gestured at the packet. “There is a perfectly legitimate reason to want this man dead. ‘Why’ is not something you’ve ever needed to worry about, so don’t start now. I suggest you get going. As you’ll see in the packet, your best chance is fast approaching.”

Gerard turned then, and strode toward the door of the seedy little tavern where he often did his business with the hired help. It was the kind of place that, as long as there was money going one way over the bar, and booze the other, no other talking was required or expected. There was a pathetic wreath on the door, that said “M rry Chris mas and a Happy 1978”. The only other nod to the season was the jaunty Santa hat that Murray the bartender had on, creating an image so incongruous, it bordered on obscene.

“This is bullshit Gerry.” Fitch muttered, at a level he assumed wouldn’t be heard. Unfortunately for him, he was.

With a silent speed that his lanky frame belied, Gerard was back in front of him before he could blink. He stood over Fitch, who was sorry just then that he was sitting. Feverish spots of colour stood out on his cheeks, and his steel gray eyes flashed, “Let’s get one thing straight Fitch. You wanted respect; I gave it by not bringing this up. But if you’re going to piss and moan, I’ll give you the truth. Dallas hates using you. You get the job done surely enough, but it’s almost not worth it when you’re involved. Every single contract you’ve had, there’s been screwups.”

Fitch opened his mouth to protest, but Gerard held out a hand, and gave him a look that said silence wasn’t just golden, it was all he had going for him right now, so he’d best keep his stupid face closed. Gerard went on, “How did Mr. Dallas put it? ‘If I wanted to send a hitter AND a cleaner every single time, that’s what I’d do from the start’ So yes, you’re very good when you actually hit the button, but everything before and after? You’re hopeless. No class at all. You know what Dallas told me, when this job came down? He said ‘give it to Bumblefuck.’ And here we are. Get busy.”

The voice of the boss turned to leave, and then swung back one last time, “Oh, Fitch? If you ever call me Gerry again, I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it up your ass. Merry Christmas.”

Then he was gone, and Fitch was left with the manila envelope and burning cheeks.

3

Now Fitch was camped out in the rotten hotel room just across the street from the sap’s apartment, he was looking at the dark, dull windows through the high powered binoculars, with the special filters that didn’t give off tell-tale reflections. Gerard’s epithet reverberated in his skull, Bumblefuck.

He knew what Dallas had been thinking of, and it was a totally unfair assessment. The previous jobs had had snarls, no question, but none of it had been his doing. Flossy Banyan, for example. He’d been instructed to make it look like an accident, so he’d pushed the old bat down some stairs. Who possibly could have foreseen that she’d survive? Unfortunately, fourteen smashed bones and a knife wound was still one knife wound too many for an “accidental death.” Fitch had taken her purse and made it look like a mugging. It had passed the sniff test, barely.

The second incident, at “the pet house” as he still referred to it when he was drinking deeply with his few colleagues in the know, had been a comedy of errors. The lock-pick had snapped off, forcing Fitch to bust in the door. He immediately stepped on a hissing, spitting dervish that sank needle teeth deep into his calf. He’d pulled the trigger on the silenced Walther once. Unfortunately, he took out Pinkie Toe at the same time as the cat, and he’d screamed despite himself. Before the vic-to-be could wake up, a huge slavering mutt had skidded into view along the hardwood floor, and with a vicious snarl went right for his balls. Why? Why did mutts always go after the crotch? He kicked out at the dog and connected, but it was with his bleeding foot, and it hurt him twice as much. Two more pulls on the trigger, and the dog went down. He’d caught it in mid-jump, and it left a pathetic little trail of blood and fur as it had come down. There was a piercing chirrup to his left, and he spun to see a Parakeet in its cage. Taking no more chances, he pulled the trigger, and birdie disappeared in a cloud of feathers.

Fitch had had it. The sap peeked his head out of the bedroom door, phone receiver to his ear, doubtless already on hold with 911. Fitch said nothing. He just pulled the trigger, and a smoking hole appeared above the man’s eyebrow. Fitch reset the receiver, and called “The Cleaner” This was going to require additional finesse.

That was the one that had earned him the name “Bumblefuck.” He was convinced.

4

His thought process was shattered by a yellow light suddenly coming on across the street. The sap was home. This changed the entire plan. Suddenly, the man himself came into view, and Fitch was astonished again at the similarity. White hair, white beard, could stand to lose a couple pounds? Check. For whatever reason, Dallas’ current sap was the spitting image of Old St. Nick. Not that that mattered, business was business after all. Fitch may have griped about the lack of challenge, but there was nothing wrong with the nine large he’d be putting in his stocking this year.

Now it looked like he’d have to act fast. He shifted his bulky frame up from the leather seat he’d been perched on, and exited the hallway, stopping for nothing.

Thankfully, these older buildings had next to no security, and after pulling a simple buzzer bluff, he was inside. Apartment three seven four. He was determined to make a clean job of it. He screwed the silencer on in the elevator. There were no cameras there either, this was cake. He’d knock on 374, wait for the old guy to pull open the door, even as far as the chain, then put two in his face before he could so much as ask, “Who are you?”

Fitch pulled the slide to chamber a round and almost had a heart attack on the spot. In his flustered surprise at finding out the sap was home, in his haste to quickly get across the street, he had neglected to put bullets in the gun. Part of his stakeout ritual was to clean his weapons thoroughly, and give them a last scrutinizing glance for anything that would leave a trail. He’d broken the Walther apart, wiped it down with oil, and had been in the process of reassembly, while looking through the binocs on their tripod, when the vic-to-be had started the game early. Not a single bullet had made it back into the piece. Well now. He’d been aching for a challenge.

He knocked on 374, no reason to change everything. Stepping back, he readied himself for a kick that would smash any brass chain out of its mooring. The door swung open, and there was the sap. All six foot nothing, four hundred pounds of him. Not wanting to waste a good kick, Fitch stepped into a textbook forward straight-leg kick. The genial expression on the tenant’s face disappeared on the rough exhalation of air. Still, it only knocked him back a foot or two, and he remained composed enough to try to slam the door. Fitch was as quick as ever, and rolled his shoulder into it just before it closed. He kept the roll going, which drove the doorknob right into his hip.

“Shit.” He grunted. Then the vic-to-be was on him, swinging the closest thing to hand, which had been a decorative red velvet strip with bells all along it. The brass bells raked across his face, immediately bringing tears to his right eye. The fat man whipped him again, and Fitch lost it. He dropped his shoulder and drove forward, only to trip on a low bench that Tubby obviously kept handy when putting on his shoes. This situation was going from bad to worse, and now the sap did the only other thing that he could. He sat on Fitch. Four hundred pounds of potential income was settled firmly on his pelvis. Fitch was immobilized. The fat man pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and began to dial. He looked down at Fitch as he did so, and said, “Not too good at this, are you?”

Hearing such derision coming from behind that big white beard, past the big, no, jolly mouth drove Fitch into a frenzy. He pistoned his left hand out and squeezed the massive man-tit for all he was worth. Far from the baritone of legend, this simple bugger had a thin, petulant voice, especially now that he was screaming. Having put the man off balance, Fitch drove up and over with his hips, and “Santa” fell off.

It was Fitch’s turn to be on top. Coming down with his knees to either side of the vic-to-be’s barrel chest, he started to squeeze the huge throat closed. His expert thumb found the small dent that marked the edge of the trachea, and he shoved forward. Two minutes final struggle, and it was over.

He got up, straightened his clothes, and arranged the apartment a little. He might still be able to make this run-of-the-mill job look it. When he heard sirens, however, he dropped the fastidiousness, and took off for the fire escape. His reputation he could resuscitate. Jail time was not an option.

As he walked briskly down the hall, trying to maintain an aura of calm, cool, professional composure, he heard it. It was the tinkling, jingling bells that fatty had been beating him with. Every step he took, there they were. He didn’t go in for superstition, but he wasn’t deaf. He’d just killed a man that looked like Santa, and now he was hearing phantom jingle-bells? This was nuts. He quickened his pace, and the sound of the bells picked up too.

He finally gained the staircase at the end of the hall. Its hydraulic arm hung dead out in the hallway, so when he banged it open and ran through, it banged shut on the ricochet from the wall. The door closed for just a second, but it was long enough to catch the looped end of the velvet ribbon that had attached itself to Fitch’s leg, which in turn threw him off balance, and though he pinwheeled valiantly, he still pitched headlong down the stairs.

He landed in a broken heap at the bottom of the landing. His useless, empty pistol had clattered to a rest well out of arms’ reach. Looking up, he saw the tail of jingle-bells still caught in the door.
As the voices of the cops coming up the stairs grew louder, he had time to think, before he passed out, Bumblefuck? Damn. That’s about right.

© Copyright 2009, Chris Allinotte

BIO:
Chris Allinotte lives in Toronto, and writes in any spare time that he can manage. More of Chris' stories and info on his writing can be found at:
http://chrisallinotte.blogspot.com/

TK'n'C reviewed & Lee Hughes story praised...

Apologies for the second interruption, but it's just a quick heads up that our site got a nice little review from horror writer T R Shaw on her blog here.
'Some of the work on there is absolute brilliant…you must go and see,' is one of the quotes so hats off to one 'n' all.
Lee's short, Coins For Charon gets recommended too and, as T R Shaw says, it's, 'Shockingly intriguing from the first paragraph.'
Well done Lee!
And a big thanks to Tina for the review.

Quickfire posts...

Hi Folks,
In case you missed 'em: three of the last four posts are from newbies, so if you've gotta spare half hour then have a scroll down 'n' give 'em some welcome feedback.
Regards,
Col

AHEAD OF THE GAME by Colin Graham

TKnC welcomes Colin with this macabre tale...

Ahead of the Game

Timothy Skiller gave out the merest of tuts when the head rolled out of the fridge into his palm as he was reaching for a beer. It was always doing that, no matter how steadfastly he thought he had wedged it into the corner on his previous visit. He’d removed the eyes some time ago, so using two fingers to push back the head via the sockets into its designated home had become an intuitive act for Timothy, who kept swearing to himself that he would dispose of the thing properly any day soon.

He’d kick himself for holding onto things – invariably body parts – for too long. He just grew attached to them, somehow, and liked having them around the flat, which was why the air in his home wasn’t the most fragrant. Not that that mattered too much. Hardly anyone every came to visit, not of their own volition anyway, and those that did cross Timothy’s threshold went back the other way in bloodied installments.

Such had been the case with the person who belonged to the head, or vice-versa, depending on how you prefer to look at it. For a day or two Timothy had had the corpse sitting beside him on the settee watching TV with him, as he ate his favourite snacks and supped his beer. But then even he, Timothy, realized that things couldn’t continue that way, so he hacked the body up in the bath with a saw, diligently placed the various parts in several black plastic bags along with the requisite number of bricks and had hurled the cargo into the river at around 3am after a 10 minute drive to the embankment.

He had his routine down to a tee. There was a building site on the way from the river and he would stop by there to stock up on bricks so he would be ready for next time.

Because there would always be a next time and another one after that. That’s just the way things had to be for Timothy. He often pondered with a chuckle to himself that if that new office building not far from the river ever got built, it would be a minor miracle.

Back home he reached into the fridge again and the same thing happened with the despairing skull, looking like a decapitated version of Munch’s ‘The Scream’, just worse. It once more fell into his hand as if Timothy was auditioning for a part in Hamlet.

He again swore to himself that it would be his next gift to the river, tomorrow perhaps. Other craniums he’d had sundered from shoulders had known their place rammed into the top right hand corner of his fridge and hadn’t budged when he opened the door.

It would have to go, but there would be a replacement. Timothy had to keep a head. You always had to keep ahead in his game.


BIO:
Colin Graham is a Birmingham-born freelance journalist currently based in Belgrade, Serbia. Struggling along with hack work (in the main) he invariably finds himself uplifted by an unforeseen boost when all seems lost. He has previously lived in Russia and Poland, meaning he has been in Eastern Europe for over a decade, a fact that always amazes even himself.