PLAYING WITH KNIVES By Eugene Gramelis

Playing with Knives 

You never stab a friend in the back. At least not without good reason. I’ve only done it twice in my life. The first time was when I prattled to the boss about how I saw Joe Durif loading equipment from work onto the back of his pick-up. He promptly got the sack. I’m not proud of it. But he was more of an acquaintance than a friend, and those tools were assigned to me. So I would have gotten the blame for them going missing. Surely he would have known this? The second time… well, let me explain.

It happened about two years ago. I hung up my welding mask at the end of my shift—that’s what I do for a crust, I’m an Ironworker down at the docks— and reached for my packet of lung busters. It was buried deep in my back pocket, all flat and bent out of shape and empty. I breathed in the lingering aroma of Malboros. It was nice and spicy. This made my itch for a smoke even worse.

“Hey, Bob!” I called out, shielding my eyes with my forearm against the fountain of sparks. “Can I leach a cigarette off you?”

“Whaa?”

“Coffin nails! I’m all out!”

The sparks stopped flying momentarily while Bob rolled up about four inches of sleeve to reveal a round patch on the inside of his wrist. “Quit three days ago.”

Good for you, I thought. “I’ll try the vending machine.”

“Don’t bother. It’s out of order,” Zack informed me. He was working the hammer. “You punching out?”

“Yeah, I’m calling it a day.” That was a bit of a joke. This was the late shift. Outside it was still dark, but already a faint red ribbon was visible on the horizon through the open roller-doors.

I had been looking forward to catching a few hours sleep on a bunk in one of the shipping containers provided by the boss for us shift workers, before starting my next shift. The boss was all about occupational health and safety. Revive and Survive. But now my nap would have to wait. I had a nicotine craving to satisfy, and the nearest convenience store was two blocks away.

I took a shortcut through the holding yard. Behind the warehouses ships bobbed up and down in the faint light. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around—at least that’s what I thought until I felt a searing sting to the back of my neck. “What the heck!”

I spun around. It was Joe Durif. He was standing about three feet away. “You filthy backshhhstabber.” He was swaying from side to side and stunk like cheap whisky. “Why’d you haff to go and snitch on me, Fred?”

I looked at him, not knowing exactly what to say. Eventually, I opened my mouth and said, dumbly, “You were stealing, Joe—you were going to let me take the fall for it, too.”

He stared at me with bloodshot eyes that seemed to want to roam in opposite directions. At first I thought he was going to lunge at me again, but then the anger seemed to drain right out of him, and it looked like he might cry. He worked his jaw as if to say something, but no words came out. They seemed to get caught in the back of his throat. I almost felt sorry for him then. He waived a hand at me dismissively and staggered away, muttering.

I climbed up the steps that led away from the docks, and walked briskly across a playing field. Now other people were starting to materialize out of the morning fog like ghosts. I nodded at a lady walking her poodle. At first she beamed back at me, but then her smile faded, and she gave me a wide girth, tugging at her dog’s leash. Probably wary of getting mugged.

A kid on a scooter whizzed past me on a nearby footpath. A moment later I heard a thud as he slammed into a tree. “You okay, kid?” He was staring at me from the ground with wide eyes. He nodded frantically, scrambled back onto his scooter, and sped away.

I entered the Seven Eleven, walked straight to the counter and ask for a packet of Malboro. I bent down to pick up a mars bar then had second thoughts. When I straightened up the dark-looking guy behind the cash register was taking a step backward. He nodded nervously, and hastily reached for the cigarette display, pushing an entire row of Malboros into a bag.

“Just the one. I’m trying to cut down.”

The attendant looked confused. He handed me a single pack from the bag. Then he hit a button on the register, and the drawer containing the cash slid out. He scooped up a wad of fifties and twenties and shoved it toward my face.

“Won’t be needing cash-out today,” I said, handing him the correct change. He starred at me both dumbfounded and somewhat relieved as I walked back toward the front door. I was in a hurry to light one up.

“Ah, begging your pardon, sir,”—the attendant spoke with a funny accent. He pointed to the back of my head—“but did you know there is a… knife sticking out of your neck.”

I reached up and felt around. Sure enough there was the handle. It was in deep. But the surprising thing was that it only hurt if I jiggled it around. When I took my hand away, there was blood on my fingertips. Son of a bitch! I thought. Just you wait until I get my hands on you, Durif!

The surgeons at the hospital said it was sheer luck that the knife had missed both arteries. They removed part of the handle, but they said that the rest, including the blade, would have to stay. It was too close to my spinal cord. As long as it didn’t get infected I would be okay; because the blade was stainless steel, it didn’t. But I did have some adjusting to do. For one thing, I couldn’t sleep on my back anymore. Besides, I didn’t want them to remove it. I was saving it, just in case I ever crossed paths with the good-for-nothing drunk who stuck it there in the first place.

Then one sun-drenched Sunday afternoon while I was taking a drive, I stopped at a gas station to fill up. And guess who I happened to run into. It was Joe Durif. He had found himself new employment as a gas attendant. When I walked up to the counter to pay for my fuel he looked terrified. He hastily swept aside an open copy of Hustler and apologized repeatedly for sticking me with the knife. He claimed that he had checked himself into AA and was trying to make a clean start. The whole time he flapped his ugly mouth, the flesh around the knife blade protruding from my neck itched like a son of a bitch. I asked for a packet of Malboro and when he turned his back to me to fetch one from the display, my hand went to the jutting blade.

In the end though, as much as I missed sleeping on my back, I couldn’t do it. I paid for the cigarettes and walked out. On the way back to my Dodge I ran into an old man in dirty, grey overalls. Apparently he was the owner of the place. He pegged me for an out-of-towner. I told him he was right. He pointed to the blade in the back of my neck and asked what had happened. I told him it was a long story. Then we made small talk for a while and eventually he motioned to Durif, who was sneaking wary glances at us through the shop window. “You know him?” the old man asked.

“An old acquaintance,” I admitted. Then as I opened the door to the Dodge and sat in I cupped a hand over my mouth conspiratorially and whispered, “You might want to keep an eye on the cash register, if you know what I mean.”

The old man nodded slowly; narrowing his eyes, he turned his gaze in the direction of the shop counter, where Durif had resumed thumbing through his copy of Hustler. “That so?” the old man grumbled. “Guess I’ll just have to give him the sack.”

I shrugged. That’s what you get for playing with knives.

THE END

BIO:

Eugene Gramelis is a widely-published, award-winning author of suspense and dark fiction. When not writing, he practises law as a barrister in Sydney, Australia, where he resides with his beautiful wife and three gorgeous children. He invites you to walk with him athttp://gramelis.blogspot.com

THE BLOOD MAKES ME WHOLE By Dorothy Davies

Something a little different...

The Blood Makes Me Whole

Did not ask come.  Did not want come.  Do not like here.  Do not like people.  Do not like planet.  Air heavy -- make sick.  Ship damaged. Cannot go home.  No ship come for me.  Need own food.  Food here make sick.  Do not like language.  Words hurt.  Need something stop words come me.

            Universe endless.  Home many times away, many, many times away.  Home pretty colour, pretty sound, no words.

            Two legs found me.  Two legs frightened me.  Two legs say I very big, I scare, I frighten, but two legs not run.  Look with orbs in head speak with slit in head.  Sound comes from slit hurt.  Two legs not know I scared of two legs.  I want stop two legs speaking. I afraid what I do so do nothing.

            I take from head of two legs words to say what I do, why I here, I do not know all words, I do not know who two legs is.  More come look at me with orbs in head and speak to selves point speak I not speak back.  Not know how speak back.  Not possible.

            Stand.  All two legs run and stop.  All two legs look me shake like ship when it damage.

            More two legs.  Come with strange feeling, feeling hurt.  Two legs not afraid me.  Two legs go in ship and stay long time.  I do not like two legs in ship.  I go in ship.  I see two legs look at my ship.  I know they not know what is.  I know they not mend ship.  I know I not leave planet.  I hate planet.  I take feeling from two legs and know feeling right.

            I hate.

            I take one two legs and drink lifeblood from it.

            I feel good.

            I take more lifeblood.

            I feel good.

            I grow.

            I leave ship and all two legs make loud noises run from me.

            I think -- new for me -- they try kill me.

I take from their heads. They not understand.

            I am now whole.

            I feel sorry for two legs; they not know they cannot kill me.

            I can kill them.

I understand.

I can stay here now.

I can feed.

            The blood makes me whole.

            

-- 
Dorothy Davies,
author of: 'Death Be Pardoner To Me', the life of George, duke of Clarence.

(BH Publishing)

Amor Vincit Omnia

www.oneinspecyal.com
www.circle-of-light.co.uk

MY REALITY By Lorena Dorantes

My Reality

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

    



BIO:

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

LADIES' DAY by Ian Ayris

Ladies' Day


Virginia Westlake. Poor Virginia Westlake. Thirty years a golfing widow.

Her husband, Derek, was a big man at the club. Spent his life there. Meetings for this. Meetings for that. Ladies' days and Open days. Captain's days and Charity days. And he told her all about it. Every last detail.

She smiled. Virginia Westlake, smiled. She nodded. Every inch the devoted wife.

'That's nice, dear,' she'd say. 'Lovely, dear,' she'd say.

And the more he talked, the more he looked straight through her.

Derek finished his cup of tea.

'I'm off now, dear,' he said. 'To the club. Committee meeting then a round with Bob and Charles. Don't wait up.'

She followed him out to the hallway. Watched him check his clubs, one by one, and lump the bag onto his shoulder. He moved towards her.

'Goodbye, dear,' he said.

And he pecked her on the cheek. An empty gesture if ever there was one, she thought.

'Have a good game,' she called out after him as he ambled down the front path. Have a good game.

He raised a hand in silent salutation, packed the clubs into the boot of the car, and was gone.

***

'Ladies' Day tomorrow, dear,' Derek said, the following lunchtime, mopping crumbs of tuna sandwich from his mouth with a paper towel. 'You're paired with Irene Timms. Perry's wife. She works at the charity shop.'

Virginia Westlake couldn't care less about Irene Timms and her fucking charity shop. Or fucking 'Ladies' Day.

Derek rose to leave.

'Don't wait up, dear,' he said. 'I'll have dinner at the club.'

Virgina Westlake followed him out to the hallway. Watched him check his clubs, one by one.

A pause.

'Dear? Have you seen my -'

Half turning, he caught a final, horrified glimpse of his dear wife swinging the nine iron into his face. Virginia Westlake put the next ten minutes to good use, battering him to death.

Time well spent, she thought, and she laughed and she laughed and she laughed.

Then she sat on the bottom of the stairs, put her hands to her face, and sobbed her heart out.


BIO:
Ian Ayris lives in London with his wife and three children. He has had over twenty-five short stories accepted for publication both online and in print. His stuff can be found in the Byker Books' 'Radgepacket' collections, A Twist of Noir, Curbside Splendor, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Pulp Metal Magazine, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and Waterhouse Review. He will shortly have stories up at Powder Burn Flash, Yellow Mama, and in print in Out of the Gutter Issue 7.
Ian can be found hanging around at http://ianayris.blogspot.com

FORGET-ME-NOT by Edith Y. S. Harris

TKnC welcomes new writer, Edith...

Forget-me-not

Betty Taylor stared at the dying Poinsettia in its ceramic pot decorated with forget-me-nots. She was eighty-four and had raised four children. She had worked hard all her life.

“They visit when they can,” she used to tell friends. “It’s almost Christmas and the house will be full again. They always bring such lovely gifts.”

Betty had been telling herself the same thing for years, but no one ever came. How she wished she could see them again, just one last time but it was too late now. The burglar had panicked and sent his knife deep into her stomach.


BIO:
Edith Y. S. Harris lives with husband Bill and daughter Leah in the North East of England. Although a new writer she hopes to become as successful in flash fiction as she is in her artwork. www.eyshasfineart.co.uk

SQUEAK LIKE YOUR MAMA by Pete Risley

Before reading, please note this is not for the faint hearted and deals with a shocking subject. However, we publish this tale to remind our readers that there is real horror in the world.....


Squeak Like Your Mama

Mama's funeral, like so much for days, had been a nightmare. The funeral was over, but the nightmare wasn't.

They were home again. What used to be home. Sherri sat down on the couch, exhausted. She wanted to get out of the dress. Daddy had made her wear Mama's fancy full-skirted party dress, white with elaborate red ruffles of trim, like an expensive cake from a pastry shop, purchased on a trip to Dollywood two summers ago. Mama had never worn it out, just around the house when Daddy wanted her to. It was scratchy, hot, and big on Sherri, and didn't seem right for wearing to a funeral, but she wasn't going to argue with Daddy.

No one had said anything. No one had spoken to her at all. Not Aunt Helen or her cousins from Covington. They all just glanced at her, accusingly. Nobody else was there, except some men that Daddy worked with. Everybody had heard from Daddy that it was her fault.

Daddy came in. "Don't be sittin' down, there's work to be done around this house." Roni and Brandi had already crept upstairs, closed their bedroom door, and weren't making a sound. They'd acted like they were afraid of her, like they might catch something from her. They had wailed wetly and piteously when first told, but seemed stunned at the funeral, silent before the closed coffin.

Sherri didn't touch them at all, or go near them, afraid they might have bolted away from her. They hadn't been getting along that well before the accident, because she'd yelled at them a few times lately for getting into her things, and had forbidden them to come into her bedroom anymore. Mama had taken her side on that. "Your big sister's a teen, now let her be." Roni was five years younger, Brandi six and a half. In between, Mama had told her, had been the boy babies, who had both died.

Mama was kind or at least fair, Daddy was harsh and quick to anger. They all hid things from Daddy so he wouldn't get hot-headed, yell and scare them by banging his fists at the wall, throwing the cat down the basement stairs. Now, there was only Daddy, and more than anybody, he blamed her and wouldn't forgive. It wasn't in him to forgive.

Daddy had made her tell Roni and Brandi about the accident, to confess that it was her fault. Mama was trying to teach her to drive, she had pleaded with Mama to do so, because Daddy said he was too damn busy. She was sixteen and wanted her license real bad. It had been stupid, so stupid, driving right into a building in the parking lot where they were practicing. She kept getting the brake pedal confused with the accelerator pedal, so that Mama had yelled at her, but even so, she would swear that the accelerator had stuck and caused the crash. Sherri wasn't hurt at all, but Mama had banged her head against the windshield. There was a crack in it where her head had hit, and a wide many-pointed star-spatter of blood etched into it, trickling down to the dashboard.

Sherri had thought Mama was knocked out, like on TV, but couldn't wake her up, and began to scream. Someone had come, she didn't know who. Then she was in the Emergency Room, and Daddy had come, panicked, looking at her like he never had before, as if caught in a revelation. She had told her sisters all but the last, her voice sounding like someone else, someone on TV giving a speech or reciting a poem, giving a sermon, even, and they had stared, silently. Daddy had stood over them all, also silent, arms folded, determined.

How strange that the funeral had come and gone. It seemed so long, she was surprised it wasn't dark out when they left the chapel. The minister had spoken on and on and said nothing. There was some crying, but many faces looked bored. Now it seemed to have lasted only a short while. It was late Saturday afternoon, Mama would be working in the kitchen, and dinner would be over, and if her homework was done, she'd be sitting right here watching TV with her sisters. They'd want to watch those Japanese cartoons of theirs, which she thought were so weird and goofy. She'd watch them now, gratefully. She looked at the silent, grey-screened TV set. She didn't dare ask to turn it on.

Daddy had been drinking early this morning before the funeral, and had chewed on some cloves to cover the smell. It didn't work, but no one had said anything. He had a bottle out again, a different one than this morning, a long square bottle with amber liquid in it, and was striding back and forth through the living room and kitchen, still in his suit but with his tie off and shirt open, muttering darkly to himself. She wished he'd stay in the kitchen, but here he came again, and this time, was looking right at here. He came up and stood over her, scowling down.

"OK. Didn't I just tell you there was work to be done around here?"

"What do you want me to do?" There was a whine in her voice she couldn't keep out. It seemed to aggravate him more.

"I want you to get this house clean. Your mama kept it clean. That's gonna be your job now." His breath was like something fiercely rotten, and he was swaying. He was way more drunk then she'd realized. Maybe he'd been sneaking drinks at the funeral too, and she didn't see him.

"I will, but you have to tell me what, I don't know where to start."

He sneered out a laugh. "Look around you! Why don't you start with the damn dishes? Your mama's not comin' back to do them for you."

"I'll do it Daddy, I'll do whatever you want." She couldn't cry anymore, she didn't know why. Her voice had that whine in it, but it couldn't become crying anymore.

Daddy shook his head and chuckled with disgust, glared hard at her again. "Everything is about you, isn't it? All about you."

"No, Daddy, it's not. It's not. I'll do anything."

"Anything." He shook his head. "You don't have any idea in the world what your mama meant to me, do you? I had me the best damn little wife in the world." His voice broke. "She sure knew how to take it. You know what she used to do? She used to make this little squeak, it meant she was tightening up. She would just, it would..." He paused, shook his head. "Nah, you wouldn't know. You sit there like you're so fuckin' pure. She got you every fuckin' thing you wanted. Think you're so cute, doncha? You won't ever be as good as her." He leaned closer, not swaying now, intent.

"Well, you killed your mama, and now I got you. And you're just gonna have to take her place. Now get out of your mama's good dress."

Sherri tried to take the dress off, but Daddy was impatient, tore it and pressed her down, sunk into the couch beneath him. So heavy on top of her, grabbing and squirming, bared skin in a rank sweat. Kissing her brutally, his gruesome breath in her face. She felt it against her, something dirty and wrong, and with strong hands he wrenched her legs apart.

It hurt bad, but she didn't cry out, didn't want Roni and Brandi to hear. Soon, however, she found she was making that little squeak, like Daddy wanted. Mama was gone forever, and Sherri knew now that she'd really never wake up.


BIO:
Pete Risley is the author of the novel RABID CHILD, published by New Pulp Press in July 2010 http://www.newpulppress.com/titles/rabid_child/ He lives in Columbus, Ohio.

THE DEFENSE RESTS by Stephen D. Rogers

The Defense Rests


My son's a good boy. If you have video showing what looks like the clerk giving my son money, why it's probably money the clerk owed my son, who would always do the Christian thing and loan his last dollar to someone in need.

Maybe he was planning to whittle after he left the store. Maybe the clerk hired my son to whittle something, and the clerk gave my son money out of the register and then realized his actions had been captured on camera. That's why he's telling lies about my son. If you ask me, that clerk is simply trying to cover up his own crime. Probably a foreigner.

The quality of the video you showed me is so bad I didn't even recognize the man you claim is my flesh-and-blood, never mind determine the racial makeup of some stranger who's trying to frame my son.

Yes, framed. I know what I'm talking about. My boy's been framed in the past. This is nothing new. There's a truckload of jealousy in the world, a truckload of hard feelings. People see my boy - a good boy, an innocent boy - and they take advantage.

I don't see what's so funny. You don't have any children, do you? You don't know what it's like to sacrifice everything for a child. Everything. And then the pain of watching that child be mistreated.

My son knows his way around a knife. He got that from me. If my boy had wanted to hurt that clerk, you wouldn't be paying no mind to that clerk's lies. You'd be fishing parts of that clerk out of the lake behind my house.

I'm just trying to make a point. I raised my son by myself, and I've learned to talk so people listen. People like a touch of the dramatic. There's a reason all those sinners die in the Bible.

The boy's father disappeared one night and good riddance.

If you knew the man, you'd ask if we were married in the eyes of Satan. He was an evil man. Two-tongued. Sick and depraved. The ultimate judge of right and wrong as far as he was concerned. Course he couldn't block a knife thrust to save his own life.


BIO:
Stephen D. Rogers is the author of SHOT TO DEATH (Mainly Murder Press) and more than 600 shorter pieces. His website, www.StephenDRogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

CURLY by B. R. Stateham

Curly


The eyes of a Black Mamba glanced up into the rear view mirror. Black as sin the eyes. Black as a nightmare induced coma. And in the darkness he watched closely. In the taxi’s interior only the soft whispers of the two talking intensely in the back seat, huddled close together like conspirators, disturbed the silence.

And the one with the black eyes listened. Listened and drove the taxi over the glistening streets of a dark, cold, rainy blackness.

“ . . . I don’t know where I am going to get the money! But I’ve got to. Got to! If I don’t, they’re going to hurt Vic. Hurt him bad.”

“Who’s going to hurt him?” the girl—a petite little thing with curly red hair and a slightly upturned pixie nose—asked.

“Some hood by the name of Curly. Vic needed some money in a bad way. Was going to lose his business. So he found this loan shark—this Curly—to loan him the money. But, Jesus. This guy is a monster! He’s demanded five hundred percent back on his money! Vic can’t come up with that. Just can’t.”

“He should go to the cops, Mike. You should go to the cops. Get this guy arrested.”

“They won’t arrest this guy, Ellen. He’s too sharp to get caught. There’s no evidence the cops can use to arrest him. But he told Vic if he did go to the cops this Curly would kill him and his family. Vic is scared shitless. He believes this Curly.”

“Where are you going to get fifty thousand dollars by tomorrow night, honey?”

“I . . . I guess I can sell my house. My cars. That’ll cover the mark,” the man of about thirty said, his voice filled with despair and despondency.

“But not by tomorrow night. There’s no way you can come up with fifty thousand by tomorrow night.”

In the rear view mirror black eyes saw the image of a man totally crushed and defeated flash across the boy’s face with each passing street light. The two slumped together into embrace. Defeat and resignation of the inevitable clearly emanating from their combined souls. Two people in love—a brother hurting for the brother he could not help—a night filled with injustice.

And on the lips of the man with the black eyes an odd smear of a cruel—even vicious—grin of grim pleasure.

In silence the took the fare the man gave him and watched as man and woman climbed out of the car and ran through the rain to ascend a set of stairs leading into a brownstone apartment building. He waited until the door to the building closed and then slowly, like a shark quietly swimming into the depths of an ocean dark, the taxi moved off into the rain and slipped into the blackness.

Curly.

Even the name made the man with the black eyes glow with a warmth within his soul. An old acquaintance. Someone he knew from way back—from a time when he wasn’t what the man he was now. Curly. Back in town from a long stay in the state pen. And back doing business again.

Through the night and the rain the man with the black eyes drove. Eventually, turning at a traffic light to his right, he brought the taxi to a slow halt up against the curb and killed the lights and engine. Rain, a hard rain, pounded the roof and glass of the big cab as he sat in the darkness and waited.

Across the street the bright white, blue, red, and green neon lights of a small bar flashed with a regulated monotony into the night. The Cove was a cheap bar in a cheap part of time catering to the dregs of life that lived off fear either as the one who created the fear, or the one who ate the fear as a regular dietary supplement. Either way, it was a smoke-filled, alcohol infested joint Curly called his own. If the man’s brother had come to see Curly for a loan—he had come to see him here. Some things, and most people, never change. And in the darkness the man with the black eyes again stretched his lips into that wicked, vicious grin of grim pleasure.

When the neon lights went out he climbed out of the taxi and began walking across the street. The door to the joint opened and he watched three drunks being shoved out into the rain by big man with bulging muscles. He didn’t stop. Walking past the drunks as they stumbled into the street he walked straight up to the door and to the dark from of the bouncer standing in the middle of it.

“Place is closed, bub. Find some other joint to grab a beer in,” the big man said in a tired, irritated voice.

Black eyes didn’t say a thing. But his actions spoke violently and eloquently. A black loafer came in a flash of agility so fast the big guy never saw it coming. The loafer landed in the man’s nuts so hard the big man woofed out all his strength and bent over double in pain. Black eyes grabbed the man’s greasy hair in one hand and the thick, solid oak door of the joint with the other. With almost inhuman strength black eyes smashed the man’s head twice with the door, holding the head just in the door jam for effect. Letting go the greasy hair the goon collapsed into the doorway unconscious. Opening the door, black eyes stepped over the slumbering form at his feet and entered the bar.

“What the fuc . . . . . !”

There was a second bouncer. As big as the first. Just as stupid. He came flying toward black eyes in such a hurry he tripped over a chair. Black eyes caught him with the open end of his finger tips in the man’s throat and then a foot into the man’s left knee. The snap of bone breaking and a man gagging and struggling to breath through a throat badly bruised dropped the man to his knees. A beer bottle up beside the man’s head finished the fight.

Black eyes stepped back, looked to his left and right, noted the bar was empty and silent. And then through a back door he saw the glimmer of light slipping through the bottom end of a door. Smiling like the Angel of Death, black eyes moved toward the door in absolute silence.

Curly, head down and working on some financial paperwork, didn’t look up when he heard the door to his office open.

“What was that commotion outside, Steve?”

No answer. Only the odd—eerie—feeling of a presence hovering just in front of his desk. Irritated at being disturbed, and rudely disregarded, Curly snapped his head up.

“Goddammit, Steve! When I ask you a ques . . . . . Jesus!”

Black eyes smiled. “Hello, Curly. Good to see you, again.”

“Smitty! Goddammit! Let’s not do something crazy here! What happened years ago is behind us now. We can be friends.”

“I don’t think so, my friend. I told you what I would do to you if you ever came back to town. I warned you, Curly. I warned you.”

There was a click and suddenly the flash of a long, steel blade of a switch-blade was in Smitty’s right hand...

...and even people, pedestrians, two blocks away running through the rain heard the horrible screams of a man howling in pain that night. A sound they never would forget. Never.


“...I can’t believe it! It’s crazy! Absolutely crazy!”

“What’s crazy? Tell me, honey. What?” the petite young thing with the curly red hair and the upturned nose said in the back seat of the taxi.

“This... this Curly. This loan shark who gave Vic the fifty thousand he needed. He... he... he phoned Vic late last night. Told him all debts were paid. Told him to forget the note. Told him he didn’t need the money anymore! It’s crazy! Just crazy!”

In the night the taxi drove on. And behind the wheel a man with the eyes of a Black Mamba had a cruel, vicious, even pleased grin playing across thin gray lips.


BIO:
B.R. Stateham is sixty-one years old and still waiting to grow up. And when he does, he want's to be...

A Polite Request from Ye Olde Editors

Hi folks,

Here at TKnC we've been inundated with submissions of late and have a bit of a backlog on our hands, so we respectfully ask for a wee bit of patience should you have submitted work to us but not had a reply yet. We'll get round to reading and deciding on them all very soon.

In the meantime, you might see a few multiple posts in a day. I hope you take the time to check out all the stories in the bunch, and that everyone whose work appears here gets the attention it is due.

Also, some of the subs that we get in don't fit the criteria or word max for the site, and for this reason we have to reject them. This is not a reflection on the quality of the writing, but in fairness to the authors who do submit to the guidelines. If you're unsure of what we do publish here, check the submissions tab below the header. And remember if you don't label your sub correctly in the subject line, it will get lost in limbo.

Remember...submissions should be headed in the subject line as follows:

Submission: horror
Submission: crime
Submission: thriller

if not, it doesn't come through to the correct recipient and gets dumped in the spam bin.

But that's my plea over, now go and enjoy the latest very mixed bunch of stories for your enjoyment.

Cheers all

Ye Oldest Editor

TIGER, TIGER By James C. Clar

Here's the latest in Jim's superb Hawaii based series...

Tiger, Tiger … 

 

“In those days, the world of mirrors and the world of men were not … separate and unconnected … one could pass back and forth …”

 Jorge Luis Borges

The Book of Imaginary Beings

 

 

“So, you haven’t seen Eddie Makiki for three days now. Is that right?”

 

“Yes,” Mary Nakamura pushed back a strand of jet black hair from her forehead distractedly as she answered. She shifted in her chair. As far as HPD Detective Jake Higa was concerned, the young woman sitting in front of him bore the usual mélange of island features – Japanese, Hawaiian, Filipino and, in this case, a little Irish thrown in for good measure – with strikingly attractive results. What she had been doing hooked up with a moke like Eddie Makiki was a mystery to him.

 

“Like I told you, detectives, not since the night of our argument.”

 

Higa’s lumbering partner, Ray Kanahele, had remained standing. He leaned carefully against the countertop that ran the length of Mary Nakamura’s somewhat cramped kitchen between the old enameled cast iron sink and the more modern range top.

 

Nakamura’s apartment was on the second floor of an aging building that straddled the corner of Kapahulu and Campbell Avenues. Through the open window over his shoulder, Kanahele heard the sound of cars and buses as well as the soft swish of palm trees being buffeted by the trade winds that had picked up over the course of the last few days.

 

Sniffing surreptitiously, the big man also detected the aromas of onions, ginger and peppers being prepared in the Chinese restaurant that occupied most of the first floor of the building in which he stood. He and his wife Maile had, in fact, eaten in the place a few times. As far as he could recall, the food had been pretty good. Damned if the smell wasn’t making him hungry!

 

“I’m a little fuzzy here this morning, Ms. Nakamura,” Kanahele offered. “Can you run

through it again for us? What were you arguing about? I mean, a guy has an argument with his girlfriend then doesn’t show up for work and isn’t seen again since. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure there’s maybe a connection.”

 

“Toshio. We were arguing about Toshio.” Nakamura lowered her voice and looked toward the doorway leading to the living room where a TV set was tuned to Oceanic Cable. The audio from a Yomiuri Giants’ game mixed with the sound of the wind and punctuated the silence that suddenly engulfed the little room.

 

“Toshio’s a big fan,” the woman said eventually by way of explanation. “Baseball and his books …” her voice trailed off and she looked down at the table where she sat.

 

“Toshio’s your boy, right Ms. Nakamura?” Higa wrote quickly in his battered and sticker covered Moleskine notebook. “Eddie Makiki’s not the boy’s father, I mean.”

 

“No.” Mary Nakamura looked up with more than a trace of defiance in her pretty almond eyes. “Toshio’s father took off just after he discovered I was pregnant. It’ll be ten years this coming April. We haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

 

Ray Kanahele cleared his throat before speaking. “So your son is, like, a sore spot between you and Eddie?”

 

“Maybe. I mean, Eddie resented the attention Toshio got I think. But that wasn’t really it. It’s because, well, Toshio’s a quiet boy. He spends most of his time watching baseball or reading. Eddie picked on him, called him names. Said he was becoming a mahu or a ‘donut-pincher’. Stuff like that.”

 

Higa and Kanahele looked at one another. Both men suddenly acquired an over-riding desire to locate this Eddie Makiki.

 

“Have you and Eddie been living together long?” Higa asked. Kanahele wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a hint of something approaching jealousy in his usually impassive partner’s tone.

 

“Just about three weeks. Since we moved over here to Waikiki.” Mary Nakamura fiddled with her hair again.

 

“We used to have a little place closer to downtown. I worked for a trucking company. I was the dispatcher. That’s where I met Eddie. Anyhow, I recently went back to school, up at Kapiolani Community College. That’s when Eddie moved in. Said he’d help out. I’ve started working at the Borders over at the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center. My hours are good. I can walk to work. Toshio likes Jefferson Elementary better than his old school and, most days, he can wait for me at the library there at the corner of Ali Wai and we can walk home together. Everything seemed to be going well until …”

 

Nakamura paused. The young woman fought back tears.

 

Kanahele leaned forward and offered one of his trademark handkerchiefs. “Until … what?” the big Hawaiian urged.

 

“That mirror out in the hallway. That’s what really got to Eddie. Toshio would sit for hours staring into the stupid thing. Then he started making up stories about seeing animals in it. Old Charlie Liu, our landlord, filled Toshio’s head with all kinds of wild tales about it being an old family heirloom with magical or mystical properties or something.”

 

Higa stood and, without comment, walked out into the ill-lit hallway. At the end, near what he assumed to be the bathroom, was a rectangular mirror mounted on the wall. He estimated it at, maybe, six feet high and four feet wide. It was clearly an antique. The frame was gilt with weird Asian symbols and other strange designs in red and black lettering. The glass was old, too, smoky and blotched in spots. Even so, the mirror seemed to possess a nearly fathomless depth. Higa could have sworn that it absorbed whatever light shone on it. He noticed that it had been broken at some point and repaired with a piece of clear plastic packing tape.

 

“That’s quite the piece,” the wiry Japanese-American said as he returned to the kitchen and sat back down. “I can see why your son is so fascinated with it. You know, Ms. Nakamura, there are Chinese legends – Japanese too, for that matter – about animals, whole worlds even, existing inside of mirrors. I know some older Japanese folks who don’t like mirrors because they believe that whatever images the glass reflects are also stored or ‘trapped’ inside.”

 

“That’s what Toshio said. He checked out a book or something from the library. He started reading up on it, like he does with everything. Sometimes I worry about him.”

 

“I wouldn’t.” Higa counseled “He sounds like an intelligent and interesting little boy.”

 

Mary Nakamura glanced apprehensively toward the living room. “You won’t have to, like, talk to him … will you?”

 

Higa reached out and patted the woman’s hand. Self-control was not something Ray Kanahele was noted for. It took all that he had, and more, for him to hide his surprise at his longtime friend’s unaccustomed show of emotion. Son-of-a-bitch, the veteran detective muttered to himself.

 

“Maybe in a few minutes,” Higa answered reassuringly. “For right now, though, let’s get back to the night Makiki disappeared. You were telling us about what happened here.”

 

“I was right here in the kitchen fixing something for dinner.” The Doppler strain of the siren on an emergency vehicle of some sort way down near the beach on Kalakaua Avenue was borne on the trades that blew unabated outside the window.

 

“Eddie came in from the living room to get something out of the refrigerator, another beer probably. He’d been drinking. ‘Jesus, Mary’, he said, ‘the little freak’s out there staring into that friggin’ mirror again’.”

 

“I told him that what Toshio did was none of his business, to leave him alone. He laughed. Told me to shut up. Said he was going to get Toshio and drag him outside, make him play in the park like a ‘normal’ kid.” Mary Nakamura began crying again.

 

“Eddie made to go out into the hallway. I got up to stop him.” Nakamura looked down, embarrassed. “He backhanded me. I fell and hit my head on the edge of the sink there near Detective Kanahele. By the time I got up and out into the hallway, Toshio was on the floor surrounded by a few pieces of broken glass and a bunch of his Matchbox cars. Eddie was gone.”

 

Once again, Jake Higa got up from his chair. He looked over at his partner and, then, at Mary Nakamura. Something unspoken passed between himself and the distraught young woman. The policeman walked into the living room where young Toshio was watching, or at least pretending to watch, his baseball game.

 

Kanahele, for his part, felt like he had just missed something important. Nonetheless, he continued to question Nakamura.

 

“So, you didn’t see what actually happened in the hallway or where Eddie Makiki got to?”

 

“No. I hit my head pretty hard. Like I said, it took me a moment or two to get up and re-oriented.”

 

The sound of muted conversation could be heard coming from the living room. Kanahele could tell that was where the Nakamura woman’s attention was focused.

 

“OK. What did your son tell you about what happened? I mean, you must have asked him, right?”

 

“Toshio said that Eddie came over and grabbed him by the shoulder. Said he started dragging him toward the mirror, like he was going to rub his face into it or something.”

 

“But something stopped him?” Kanahele prompted.

 

“Yes. Toshio said that Eddie slipped on one of the Matchbox cars he keeps leaving around. I tell him to pick them up, but you know how little boys are. It made Eddie let him go. He said that Eddie reached out his hand to steady himself against the mirror. That must be how it got broken. Anyhow, Toshio squirmed around and humped back out of the way on his backside. Said he heard a weird sound like a giant drain emptying. When he looked up, Eddie was gone. That’s just about when I got out there into the hallway.”

 

Higa returned to the kitchen. He remained standing. The veteran policeman made eye contact with his partner.

 

“Alright, Ms. Nakamura,” he said with a faint smile. “I think we have everything we need for right now. You need to call me if you hear from Eddie Makiki or, if by chance, he shows up again. It’s not that we want him for anything formally, you understand … unless you decide to address the fact that he struck you … it’s just that he’s gone missing and his employer filed a report.”

 

Higa approached the still-seated woman and handed her his card. “You can reach me, um, ‘us’ I mean, at any time … if you need anything. Understand?”

 

“By the way, your son’s a remarkable little boy. You should be quite proud of him. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for the two of you.”

 

***

 

“Hey, Jake,” Ray Kanahele said as the two men drove down Campbell Avenue toward Monsarrat. Higa, as usual, was at the wheel. The mauka slope of Diamond Head rose up ahead of them. If anything, the wind had picked up. Petals from the red and yellow shower trees that grew in profusion nearby blew wildly about the street in front of them.

 

“Let’s stop at the Diamond Head Grill. It’s early. Place shouldn’t be too crowded yet. I’m hungry.” Kanahele turned in his seat and faced his friend. “You figure Eddie Makiki will ever show up again?”

 

“I doubt it. Guy’s been in trouble with the law a few times already. He went too far the other night. Probably took off once he realized he might be facing a domestic violence or assault charge. Either that or somebody settled an old score. You know how it goes with guys like him.”

 

“Still,” Kanahele continued, “as long as there’s no sign of our man Eddie, like a body or something, it’s still an open case, right? It might be a good idea to check back with that Nakamura woman. You know, just to make sure she’s OK, that ole’ Eddie hasn’t been back around?”

 

“Maybe so,” Higa replied, eyes on the road. “Maybe I will give her a call in a day or two … if we’re not too busy.”

 

“It’s all about effective policing, right?” Kanahele said as he looked down so that his partner wouldn’t see the smile playing across his face. “Head the situation off before it becomes a problem, that’s what we’re taught.” He reached for his phone and began texting his wife. He couldn’t wait to tell Maile what he suspected.

 

***

 

Meanwhile, little Toshio Nakamura sat on the floor in the hallway of the apartment on Kapahulu. The ball game was over. His beloved Giants had won dramatically in the ninth inning. The two police detectives – how cool was that to have real live detectives asking you questions – who just left seemed like nice enough men. At least they treated his mom with respect … especially that Japanese guy. He wondered again why she couldn’t meet someone like that instead of losers like Eddie and, in all honesty, probably his dad too.

 

Thoughts of Eddie Makiki turned Toshio’s attention to the old Chinese mirror on the wall in front of him. Gazing into its sooty depths he saw a flying serpent swoop down toward the bottom of the glass. He noticed that it had iridescent wings. Best of all, the tiger was back. Right there in the middle. The animal was burnt orange. The boy felt that he could almost read its tigrine thoughts in the bold, fulgenous stripes that traced their way all over its powerful body.

 

The big cat was feeding again, its muzzle stained red as it ripped and tore its way through something it had recently caught. Sated now, the beast raised its head and looked right at Toshio. After a moment, it trotted off toward the edge of the mirror. Toshio thought for certain he saw it “wink” just before it disappeared from view.

 

Maybe, Toshio, thought, he could get his mom to walk with him down to the gift shop at the Zoo. He figured they’d have a book about tigers. Things were going to be better now, he knew it. Whatever the future had in store for them, something told him they wouldn’t have to worry about Eddie Makiki coming back any time soon, that’s for sure!

 

The End

 

BIO:

 

James C. Clar's short fiction has been published in print as well as on the Internet. His work may be found in places like The Taj Mahal Review, Flashshot, Golden Visions Magazine, Word Catalyst Magazine, Antipodean SF, Bewildering Stories, A Twist of Noir, Static Movement, The Magazine of Crime & Suspense, Weirdyear and Apollo's Lyre. Stories featuring Honolulu Detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele have appeared previously here on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.