Powder Burn Flash

NEW SITE

2008-10-09T11:07:00.000-07:00

Yes, that's right, Powder Burn Flash now has its own url.

www.powderburnflash.com

I did for several reasons, one being able to have more control over the site and being to add features. More importantly I'm hoping that when it comes down to awards for short fiction that when I submit stories from this site that it will be taken as a more professional and worthy site.

Hop on over to the new site and let me know what you think.

The stories posted here will remain. All 108 stories are also posted on the new site as well as their .pdf versions for your persual.

Enjoy

Powder Burn Flash # 108 - James C. Clar

2008-09-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

Fish Food

All one hundred and forty-two acres of the freshwater lagoon pool at the Sheraton Maui Resort were crawling with Hawaii State Police and F.B.I. agents. Not one square foot of the facility – including the tropical gardens, quaint wooden bridges and numerous cascading waterfalls – had been neglected. Scuba divers and Coast Guard launches from Ma’alea swept the pristine waters that bordered the wide, sandy stretch of Ka’anapali Beach that nestled in the shadow of the famed lava formation known as Black Rock.

“I assure you, Mrs. Kennedy, we’ll do everything in our power to find your little boy,” FBI Special Agent Müller told the distraught mother. “Speaking bluntly, you understand,” the tall man with the lantern jaw and de rigueur dark sunglasses continued, “the good news is that we didn’t find him hurt, unconscious … or worse … anywhere in the pool.”

With that, Mary Kennedy began sobbing uncontrollably. She tried to respond but, in the place of coherent words, all that emerged was an inarticulate, almost animal-like keening. Her husband, more or less successfully fighting back tears of his own, put his arm around his wife and pulled her in close. The family’s dream vacation had become a nightmare.

“Billy was swimming, just like we said,” Mr. Kennedy offered for the hundredth time, “we looked away for a moment or two, no more, to order lunch from the waitress who was assigned poolside. The next thing you know, he was gone! We spent the next forty-five minutes in the water and scouring the grounds. By then, hotel security insisted that we notify the police. I can’t understand it. Billy was never anymore than fifteen feet away from us. There’s no way anyone could have taken him. And there just wasn’t enough time for him to climb out of the pool and make his way across the grass and then over all that sand to the ocean.”

Mr. Kennedy pointed weakly toward the waters of the Pailolo Channel that shimmered one hundred or one hundred-fifty yards in front of where he stood. The islands of Lana’i and Moloka’i were visible in the distance like emeralds strewn carelessly on a swatch of cerulean corduroy. Brightly colored para-sails floated in the cloudless sky, their operators surely becoming increasingly aware that some tense drama was playing itself out soundlessly beneath them. “Please,” Kennedy continued, “you have to bring our son back to us. He’s only five years old.”

“First of all,” Müller replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Not even the tropical heat could soften the crease in his trousers or dampen his starched white dress shirt. “I know it’s difficult, but you have to calm down. Whether it was your idea or not, calling the authorities as quickly as you did renders our job that much easier and increases our chances of finding Billy. I’ve been investigating this kind of thing now for nearly twenty years. Chances are very good that your son heard or saw something interesting and simply wandered off to check it out and got lost. You told me earlier that he was entranced by the koi in the pond over near the hotel restaurant and would spend hours feeding them if you allowed him to. This is a very spacious place with lots of lush vegetation and all kinds of things to capture the attention and spark the imagination of a little boy. He’s probably hiding somewhere now as we speak, afraid that he’s going to get in trouble. You certainly know how children think. In any case, and sooner rather than later, we’ll find someone who saw or remembers something that points us in the right direction.”

Müller spoke briefly into his phone and then turned back toward the anguished parents. “Mrs. Kennedy, I’d like you to stay here and work the area near the pool with Agent Benning. Mr. Kennedy, it would be best if you came with us while we searched the parking lots, tennis courts and areas in front of the hotel along Ka’anapali Parkway . I want both of you to call out Billy’s name and try to convince him that everything’s OK, that he’s not going to be punished.” The sounds of search and rescue helicopters could be heard overhead along with the static-laced strains of official radio traffic borne on the trade winds.

Agent Bennning, an attractive and fit young woman with stylishly short blonde hair, led Mrs. Kennedy gently toward the little hut where a small group of pool attendants had gathered to watch all the activity and to gossip about the most exciting thing that had happened on the beach since any of them had begun working at the Sheraton. Folding tables and chairs had been set up so that local police and FBI personnel could interview hotel guests and staff. Mr. Kennedy, for his part, accompanied Müller and the rest of the search party across the manicured lawn and out toward the parking structure that fronted the sumptuously landscaped hotel property. Before disappearing from view he glanced back over his shoulder and gave his wife what he hoped was a reassuring wave. She seemed barely to notice.

Meanwhile, the late afternoon Hawaiian sunshine turned the water of the pool that meandered over the grounds of the resort a scintillating, eye-straining blue. Little Billy’s inflatable shark, completely neglected in the hullabaloo that attended the boy’s disappearance, bobbed with a gentle poignancy on the ripples that spread outward from the base of a meticulously designed waterslide. If anyone had thought to examine the black, grey and white carcharian float more closely, however, they might have detected an especially contented and well-fed look playing across the exaggerated features of its toothy, smiling face.

The End

BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer living in upstate New York. His short fiction has been published both in print as well as on the Internet. Most recently he has placed stories in publications as diverse as Taj Mahal Review, Orchard Press Mysteries, Everyday Fiction, Antipodean Sci-Fi, Long Story, Short, Shine: A Journal of Flash, the Magazine of Crime & Suspense, Flashshot and Word Catalyst. His criminal tendencies are sublimated in his writing. There's no money in that to speak of but it keeps him out of trouble.

Powder Burn Flash # 107 - Lydia Suarez

2008-09-09T22:08:00.000-07:00

Honey I'm Home

On the evening of December 13th the Witherspoon family was found dead. Phone records revealed that the mother had spent the afternoon disputing an insurance claim for the eleven-year-old daughter’s strabismus surgery. The daughter’s last text, a homework question, had been sent at five. The father took his usual bus.

The nineteen-year-old son, and prime suspect, found their bludgeoned bodies around eight. He worked at House Despot part time while attending community college. A few weeks prior, he was proud of having, for the first time, passed a drug test.

The Witherspoon's bought the gutted and renovated colonial from a couple who flipped houses and were headed to A McMansion blasted from limestone. At the closing Mrs. Witherspoon had asked, “And who did you buy it from?” The sellers hesitated, "Phil and Nancy." Any more questions would require a lie. Forms awaited signatures. "Did they have kids?" Mrs. Witherspoon was curious about the names traced into soft concrete by the pool. “No,"” the sellers said without resting their pens.

Technically, they were truthful. Phil and Nancy 's daughter had been killed by her estranged husband. His initial ring left an imprint on her cheek. After strangling his wife, he returned to his apartment and hung himself. Their kids, who had been at school, moved away with their grandparents and spent the rest of their lives in therapy.

The ironic coincidence of two murders occurring in one house clouded proceedings.

Every town cop congregated on the night of the Witherspoon murder. They interrogated the son. In high school, he had hung with the troublemakers smoking weed by the creek. News leaked that the son worked in the carpeting department. Certainly, that gave him unparalleled access to a ball peen hammer.

The police chief rose to his fifteen minutes. He eloquently answered the Times reporter. It’s not often that murder comes to a New Jersey suburb. Surely, there was some tragic twist, a junkie son, sordid affair, pedophile dad: dirty little secrets protected by high taxes.

After the funeral, the son was arrested. Mr. Witherspoon's sister arrived from Vegas, hired an attorney, pocketed valuables and listed the house that had been sanitized with Clorox and coffee beans. Her interest waned when it was determined that the son a product of Mrs. Witherspoon's first marriage was sole beneficiary. The son, who had been in rehab, but who had finally turned around, started using again with a vengeance. Prior to getting clean, he had owed substantial sums. The kind of money everyone assumed could get your family killed.

The conviction of a young black male with a rap sheet for narcotics trafficking followed. Residents who boasted about their exemplary school system failed to recall the theme of To Kill a Mockingbird. An innocent criminal went away.

The mayor of the top ranked town, as featured in Soprano Monthly was elected County Executive . The realtor sold to an out of state family and made a tidy profit. Neighbors greeted the Witherspoon replacements, who moved in without the benefit of even a bottle of holy water, with extra good cheer. Property Values stayed up. The SCARE Program expanded to younger children and taught them about drug practices. Within six months, the Witherspoon son was dead. Order was restored.

At the town pool and drunken backyard barbeques, the fine residents opined, "The son did it" or the "dealer did it" depending on their political affiliation. The kids by the creek said, "That house is fucked up. It’s possessed."

A closer look at the curriculum would have revealed the enduing themes of humanity and proven all were wrong.

On the afternoon of December 13th, Jeanette McGinley boarded a bus at Penn Station where she would later discard the clothes. During the prior weeks, she had observed the family's routine. Walking down their street in her winter coat and backpack, she appeared another working Mom. Someone to be shunned at practices by stay at homes but otherwise invisible in this neighborhood.

At the door, she introduced herself to Mrs. Witherspoon. Jeanette thought her pretty but ordinary: Mrs. Witherspoon's unlined face betrayed no suffering, "Hi, you must be Doug's wife," she said. The wife relieved not to find a witness or kids hawking pledges shook hands after Jeanette explained how she and Doug were schoolmates. "He talked so much about you," Jeanette said. "He wanted a hard copy of the auction catalogue for the fund raiser. The wife knew of no such bulletin but let Jeanette in.

That summer, Jeanette and Doug’s reunion had been held in a third rate hotel in the town where they had grown up. For twenty years, Jeanette had imagined what her life with Doug would have been like. To be fair that's not all she did. Jeanette worked to be a successful professional, caring mother and loving wife. But she ruminated about what would have happened if Doug and she had not split, if he hadn’t left for college, if she had spoken the right words, if she had been bustier.

At the party, she cornered him by the crudités, "Doug, it’s me." Jeanette looked more or less the same. His pasty smile was not simply the embarrassment of a forgotten name. Jeanette felt like molten metal suddenly cooled. Doug's features were as vacant as if he were already dead.

Jeanette shyly asked Mrs. Witherspoon to use the powder room. She changed into sweats, sneakers and a tee. Mrs. Witherspoon managed to say, "What" before Jeanette landed the ping between her eyes. The next crack was to the back of the head.

She went upstairs. The daughter was at the desk. Jeanette felt proud that she had spared the mother the suffering of knowing. She took care of business swiftly. Jeanette was no monster afterall.

Doug however, she allowed to go through the house calling out. She heard him scream from downstairs and race up the stairs. When he walked into the master bedroom, Jeanette was ready for him. "Now you won't forget me," she said.

BIO: Lydia's stories and poems have appeared in ezines and journals including Quality Fiction, 971 Menu and Literary Tonic. She lives in Northern New Jersey where she does not open the door to strangers.

Powder Burn Flash #106 - Barry Baldwin

2008-09-07T17:56:00.000-07:00

PET GRIEVANCE

How could a grown man spend so much time playing with - he called it working with - puffballs on legs that slept all day and pounded around a wheel all night? Stupid hamsters. Mary wouuldn't have them in the house. So John set them up in the garage, which meant he was out there with them instead of indoors with her.

This had only started after they were married. He'd simply brought a pair home. She didn't argue, but looks speak volumes and she gave him one that had him hastily promising they'd be no trouble for her. Generations of hamsters slept and squeaked and died out there without Mary having even one proper baby to play or work with inside.

Mary asked her married girl friends what they thought of this hamster-induced apartheid. They all told her to get over it. Compared with car nuts or football freaks or Friday night poker players, a husband who got off on garage parties with a few furry rodents was to keep.

It wasn't that they did nothing together, simply that whenever there was a conflict of interest, the hamsters won. One Saturday, as John was getting ready to leave, she said, "You haven't forgotten Ted and Lorraine tonight?"

"No."

"So you'll be back for six ."

"I guess."

"I don't want that we should let them down again. Lorraine was pretty ticked off when we missed Ted's birthday dinner."

"Six sounds fine."

Just what did they do at hamster shows? John had once tried to explain: different varieties - Djungarian, Syrian, Teddy Bear; coats; confirmation...Mary hadn't really listened. "It'd better be."

"I'll be back."

He wasn't. Not by six. Mary was nodding over the eleven o'clock news when he edged in. "Hi."

"You did it again, didn't you?"

"I'm really sorry. Something came up. I had to stay back for an emergency and..."

How the hell could hamsters have an emergency? "So, my evening's down the bowl, as usual."

"Our evening..."

"Mine; you had yours. Screw it. Screw you."

"Is it too late to ring Ted and Lorraine?"

"I'll do it tomorrow. They'll either not be back or they'll be in bed. Together." Mary emphasised the last word. "Anyway, they aren't the point."

When John came cautiously back from his morning cage-cleaning session, Mary homed in like a Scud missile. "I just talked with them. Like a dope, I tried to cover for you. They let me yadder about flat tires and phones on the fritz before Lorraine said there was nothing on their machine and how come they'd seen you on a sidewalk with some woman? I said no way, but Lorraine didn't sound any too convinced, then Ted came on sniggering that he hoped so for my sake, that woman was sure a looker, so I just made myself laugh and rang off. I'll never be able to face them again."

"Some friends. Listen, I can explain."

"You didn't last night."

"No, because you said your piece and stomped off before I could say much of anything. The woman was Glenda Wood, the Hamster Society President. It was her made me stay back. Apparently some guy is complaining about the judging, plans to make a stink with the National Association, so Glenda figured we'd better work out how to head him off at the pass. By the time we'd done, she said I must be hungry, why don't we grab a bite some place, so we did."

"Don't they have phones in that part of town?"

"Of course, but I knew you'd be steaming, so I thought I'd just take my lumps when I got home."
"That's a crock, and even if it isn't, it still makes you a thoughtless bastard, so we end up where we were."

For the first time ever, John stood on his dignity in a hamster-fuelled spat. "If that's what you think, that's what you think. I'll pack a few things and be out of your hair. I can sack out at the office tonight. I'll collect the rest of my stuff tomorrow."

Had she wanted him to leave or stay? Mary prowled around, at one point leaving the house for a few minutes before retreating into its silence. Then she made a call.

Around midnight, Mary's hand was on the switch, when she heard the back door being carefully opened: what with everything, she'd forgotten the dead-bolt. She was about to wet herself when John's voice came up.

"It's only me."

"So what brings you back?" "No, don't tell me, what else but the late-night hamster patrol?"

"I...I ought to take a quick look at them, but I wanted to see you first. I feel so bad about everything. You were right to let me have it. Can't we make it right between us?"

Mary didn't, couldn't, answer his question, but said, "I was too quick on the draw over Glenda Wood. I found her number in your desk and gave her a line about how you were missing some Society file and had she seen you with it last night, you'd been called into the office, two emergency meetings in a row, what a life, and it was obvious from what she said that you'd told me the truth. Okay?"

John didn't answer either. He got onto the bed. They had a long hug. "I'm deep-sixing the hamsters. At least, after next month's big show, that's the Fur Bowl and a cash prize, if I win we could take a weekend away, kind of a second honeymoon."

He might mean it. After all their previous fights, he'd not once promised to give them up. But now, what did it matter? Genuine or not, his good intentions would never survive, nor to judge by the look on his face when he got back and the way he moved towards the bed would she, his going into the garage and finding the hamsters with their stupid little heads cut off.

BIO: Born (1937) and educated in England; college-university lecturer in England/Australia/Canada. Now Emeritus Professor of Classics, University of Calgary, and Fellow of The Royal Society of Canada. Published 12 books and c. 600 articles on Greece, Rome, Byzantium, 18th-Century History & Literature, and Albanian History/Language/Literature. As freelance writer, have contributed many magazine and newspaper articles on many subjects in various countries. Did a 2-year stint as regular columnist for the British daily newspaper Morning Star. Currently write regular columns for (e.g.) Catholic Insight (Canada); Fortean Times (UK/USA); Presbyterian Record (Canada); Stitches (Canada); Verbatim (USA/UK).

Powder Burn Flash # 105 - BV Lawson

2008-09-06T21:20:00.000-07:00

BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD

They stared at the rising orange-red flambé topped with a layer of black smoky icing, that was once a mobile home. By the time firefighters could make their way up the winding road in the dark through the maze of rusted wire fencing, bramble bush and downed hemlock branches, all that remained of the double-wide would be concrete block piers and a blanket of embers.

Barrow tried not to think about the body inside. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He'd seen his share of death before, in his line of work as a sheriff's deputy. But he doubted the woman beside him had.

"Are you all right, Sister?" he asked.

She nodded, never taking her eyes away from the flames, all the while fingering her rosary beads. He guessed it was a good thing her habit was black, but he wondered if the smoke would stain the white wimple.

"It's God’s will," she said.

He almost laughed out loud at that. Was it God's will Amos Scoggins should become the largest meth producer in McDowell County, cooking up twenty-five pounds of crank each year, luring in the downtrodden and desperate looking for a little high to get them through their miserable lives?

"I said a prayer for him," Sister Theresa added.

"Too little, too late, if you ask me. What about his victims?

She replied, softly, "I say prayers for them, too.

"They watched in silence for a few moments, as silent as two people can be standing upwind of a roaring fire full of crackling pops and the whooshing sounds of heated gas.

"Do you think he'll go to heaven or hell?" Barrow asked. He wasn't a theologian, and at this point didn't care what happened to Scoggins, as long as Amos wasn't still alive and breathing on this Earth. Still, he was curious.

"I'd like to think redemption is possible for everyone." She hesitated. "Yet I can't help but remember the Parker family. And the Marsten twins, and the Satterfield baby." She sniffed. "I held that baby the night he was born, then three days later...

He'd been first on the scene at the Satterfield place. The young parents were stoned so far out in Methville they hadn't even noticed when they forgot and left the baby in its carrier on the front step where it was mauled by the neighbor's Rottweiler. There wasn't much left to bury, but he'd gone to the graveside service, anyway. The parents had skipped out of town to avoid arrest.

He knew about the Marsten twins, too, who had suffered strokes after delivery due to the mother's heavy meth use. The woman didn't even know she was pregnant until she saw blood in the tub when starting to give birth.

As for the Parker family, they were so typical of the majority of users, they could be the poster family for the DEA. Rotted, blackened teeth, infected sores on their faces and arms from picking at imaginary crawling insects. Before Scoggins got hold of them, they were a decent family, hardly saints, but law-abiding folks who worked at the sawmill and sang in the church choir.

Yet Scoggins never touched the stuff himself.

When Barrow had taken Sister Theresa into the mobile home an hour earlier, she'd crossed herself several times and mumbled a couple of Hail Marys. The main lab had been located in the bedroom, if you could call it that. Sister Theresa had taken in the stained threadbare mattress piled high with trash, an antique chest of drawers laden with bottles of unidentifiable pungent orange, yellow, and green liquids, and various other paraphernalia--rubber gloves, plastic tubing, a camp stove--and promptly cried out,"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

They'd found Scoggins in a second bedroom, sprawled out naked on a single mattress on the floor, his eyes bulging outward as he gasped for breath. They'd stood there, watching him for a full two minutes before she'd asked, "Shouldn’t we do something?"

Do what? Lecture him, arrest him, put a bullet through his head? Barrow had waited and then did what he thought the sister might approve. He'd closed Scoggins' eyes as the man breathed his last.

Out in the kitchen they found marijuana, a .45 caliber pistol, and $5,400 in cash. He'd toyed with the idea of handing the money over to the Sister for her clinic, but thought better of it. He doubted even God wanted blood money.

Funny thing about meth labs. All those chemicals and solvents made for a rather combustible situation. It didn't take much to set them off, and a Molotov cocktail thrown inside an open door did the trick just fine.

When Barrow had thrown it, he'd thought about his little brother lying six-feet under and how meth often induced paranoia followed by suicide. He knew Sister Theresa would keep his secret and how she understood God's will sometimes needed a little human assist. After all, the poor little mauled Satterfield baby, Nicholas, had been her nephew.

Sister Theresa had breathed a prayer for the soul of Amos Scoggins, and then Sister Theresa herself had lighted the wick.

It was a cloudless night, and you could even see the Milky Way. She looked up at the stars and sighed. "The pancake breakfast for the women's shelter is tomorrow morning. They said it might rain, but I don't see any signs, do you?"

He guided her gently back toward the car. "It wouldn't dare. Besides, you've probably prayed long enough and loudly enough that God got the message and ordered up a perfect morning. Aren't you the one always saying God works in mysterious ways?"

"That He does, Bill. That he does."

Through the rearview mirror, the flames were still lighting up the darkness. He'd leave it to the firefighters now. He'd done what he had to do. Maybe even God's will, if you squinted a bit.

BIO: My short story honors include a Center Press Masters Literary Award, and contest honorable mentions for Deadly Ink (published in that anthology), Mysterical-E, Crime and Suspense, and the Press 53 Open Awards, and I was a finalist for the 2008 Derringer Awards. Other recent and upcoming publication credits include Mysterical-E, Great Mystery and Suspense, Cantaraville, ESC! Magazine, Mouth Full of Bullets, Northern Haunts: 100 Terrifying New England Tales, and Static Movement. In addition, I've written articles for Mystery Readers Journal and penned public radio and commercial television feature scripts and articles for The Washington Times and special-interest magazines. I’m currently working on a mystery series, including short stories, novellas, and novels, as well as general fiction. I’m a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and American Independent Writers. My web site is bvlawson.com, and I also operate the blog "In Reference to Murder," Inreferencetomurder.typepad.com.

Powder Burn Flash # 104 - Sandra Seamans

2008-09-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

SURVIVOR'S GUILT

Folks hereabouts shy away from Baker's Quarry. Well, not everybody. There's always a stray couple or two looking for a private corner to cuddle naked in. And me.

I favor this torn up piece of earth. Relish the harshness of the flagstone walls that look straight down on the muddy, frog-infested pool of water that's cradled in the earth below. I come here for the aloneness of the place, embracing the solitude, finding a tiny shred of peace in its ragged beauty. But mostly I come because the Quarry shares my secrets, keeps them buried deep inside the fall of rocks that litter the base of her walls.

Ten miles west of here, in the little town of Sarah's Bend, folks whisper about the Quarry and her secrets. They whisper tales of death and tragedy, of ghosts that walk the flagstone cliffs at night, unable to rest. Those folks are wrong about the walking. The ghosts that haunt Baker's Quarry dance to the symphony of a million crickets singing in harmony with the sweet strains of the tree peepers. My ghosts sway on the gentle breezes of soft summer nights, bidding me to join them in their summer's waltz. But always, I walk away, returning to Sarah's Bend and the whispers that trail in my shadow.

Folks in town believe they know the truth of what happened that night, but they don't. Not really. People tend to weave a bit of romance into the telling of tragic stories in an effort to make them more palatable. Everyone wants to believe that my mother was there at the Quarry to meet a secret lover, their tangled gossip twisting my father into a killer who ran away in the face of what he'd done. In their foolish attempts to understand that horrifying night, they've stretched the truth into a romantic story of a ghost searching for her lost lover. But deep down? They don't want the truth because they know the truth is ugly.

I know. I was there on the cliffs that night. Watching. My mother, looking so beautiful in the soft moonlight, laughing and dancing with a man who wasn't my father. My daddy found them, too, stripped naked in the moonlight, the heat of their passion melting them into one being. He confronted them in that soft way he had, begging mother to come home with him, forgiving her deceit, instead of using the shotgun he carried.

I watched helplessly as they forced him to step back, closer to the edge. Horror holding my tongue silent as mother pushed him, the Quarry swallowing his screams, his gun falling to the ground, with never a shot fired to save himself. I can still feel the anger clutching at my heart, squeezing it into a throbbing ball of hatred for this woman who took my father's love and used it to kill him.

I crept to the edge as they made their way down the stone path to the bottom, my hands searching the grass for daddy's gun. Their laughter, caught on the updrafts, filled my ears as they pushed my father into the frog slimed pond, pushing his body deeper into the muddy bottom with rocks from the Quarry wall. Tears for my father flooded my eyes as I aimed for mother's heart, and in a perfect twist of fate, that's exactly what I hit.

Mother's ravaged face still haunts my troubled dreams. And nights, as I sit on the silent cliffs waiting for their moonlight dance to begin, I can once again hear the vile curses she heaped upon my head that night as she tried to pull the gun from my hands. Oh, how she wanted to kill me for stealing her happiness. I can still hear her screams as she stumbled backward, tripping over the edge to join her lover, and the deathly silence that echoed off the Quarry walls as the blood seeped from her twitching body.

I buried her lover that night, in a slide of rocks and dirt swept from the Quarry's bosom. And my dear, sweet, betraying mother? I left her naked and alone in the ragged arms of the Quarry, her sins laid bare for all the world to see. As for me? I treasure the town's whispers of ghosts and lost lovers. Their voices are a constant reminder of her betrayal, making it easier to live with the guilt of killing my own mother.

END

BIO: You can find Sandra's stories scattered around the internet in places like Spinetingler, Grim Graffiti, Thrilling Detective, and PulpPusher. Feel free to drop her a note at sandraseamans@yahoo.com

Powder Burn Flash # 103 - Phil Beloin Jr.

2008-09-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

THE LAST LOOSE END

One more stop. That’s all he had.

Jimmy didn’t like these unscheduled pickups, but he couldn’t do much about it. Two summers ago, he had broken into a house through an open window. Stupid, really, his first time, too, and all he had gotten was a few bucks and a ride in a passing police cruiser.

His cellmate turned out to be his future boss’ brother and as soon as Jimmy was paroled, he got hired driving a garbage truck. At first, he hated it, sitting on his ass all day, negotiating the never ending traffic, emptying rank dumpsters, but then he learned to appreciate the job most of the time. Driving around was perfect for a lazy man, his machine was one of the biggest on the road, and the smell never bothered him anymore.

Turning into the alley, Jimmy spotted the rusty container. He wondered what the guy in the dumpster had done to deserve his fate. What did it really matter anyway? If you crossed certain people, it could cost you your life.

Jimmy had avoided some trouble last month. While walking through the hall, he had overheard his boss and supervisor talking about a prominent State Senator. The two had seen Jimmy going by, but neither said a word to him. A few days later, the Senator couldn’t be found. Over the preceding weeks, the story had disappeared, much like the missing politician.

Lining up the mechanical forks, Jimmy maneuvered the controls to lift the dumpster off the ground, heave it over the cab, and empty the contents into the back of the truck. Got me a passenger now, he thought.

Ten minutes later, the garbage truck pulled through the gates of the landfill. Jimmy took the dirt road up and around the mounds of refuse and near the dump zone, he spotted a bright new Caddie, his boss and supervisor getting out of the car. What were they doing here? They never met him on these special runs.

Jimmy’s heart thudded in his chest. Adrenaline made his limbs quake. He guessed the body in back was that missing State Senator. His employers had been waiting for things to cool down before they got rid of the body.

Jimmy watched the two men cover over to the cab.

“Any problems?” the boss said.

“Nah,” Jimmy said. “A real milk run.”

“Now we just got to finish it,” the supervisor said.

“All right, kid,” the boss said. “Get out. I’ll empty this one.”

Jumping down, Jimmy stumbled into the supervisor. Something prodded Jimmy’s rib cage and then his chest exploded in pain. He looked down, saw the barrel of a pistol and blood spreading across his shirt.

“Take him in back ” the boss said. “And I’ll cover him up, too.”

The supervisor grabbed Jimmy and dragged him towards the rear of the truck.

“You shouldn’t have been listening in, Jimmy,” the supervisor said. “That was dumb. Real dumb.”

Just before the garbage buried him, Jimmy heard the supervisor say, “That’s the last loose end.”

BIO: Phil Beloin's fiction has appeared in such e-zines as: Spinetingler, Pulp Pusher, Amazing Adventures! Magazine, and soon in Mouth Full of Bullets. Love him, hate hit, at zipp@snet.net

Powder Flash Burn # 102 - Stephen D. Rogers

2008-09-01T13:50:00.000-07:00

FATEFUL LIGHTING

As soon as he answered the telephone, I said, "It's me, Cornelius."

"Cornelius?"

"Don't hang up." I turned away from the FBI agents trying to stand close enough to overhear Harry's side of the conversation and focused on the man inside the house with a gun. "How are you doing?"

"I've been better."

"How is David?"

"He's sleeping like a log. This is his nap time."

"Harry, I missed you at the bowling alley last night. I had to accept Marvin as a partner. We were trounced."

"I was busy. Planning."

"Planning what, Harry?"

"This."

Harry was holed up with a gun and his three-year old boy, surrounded by local cops, state police, and the FBI. He perhaps should have spent a little more time planning.

Special Agent Davis hissed at me, "Send him out unarmed."

"Harry, this is not the best way to resolve your differences with Emilee."

"You should see him, Cornelius. David must weight fifty or sixty pounds. You know what he said he had for breakfast this morning? Chocolate pie. He ate two pieces and she finished the rest."

"Kidnapping your son is not a solution, and that's how the law sees what you've done."

"You know how I got away with him? I didn't want to run from the house because I thought it might scare him. I walked fast. Emilee couldn't keep up. She couldn't even scream, couldn't catch her breath."

"Harry, you need to come out."

"So they can return David to that monster?"

"Emilee has legal custody."

"She's killing him with that junk she eats, setting up eating habits that will stay with him forever. It's wrong."

"I understand what you're saying. You're concerned about your boy's health. You're a good father."

"I turned a blind eye to her food issues for as long as I could but this is different. He's just a child. It's abuse how she feeds him."

"Not according to the law. Since about sixty law enforcement officers are encircling the property, the law is what we need to keep in mind."

"What does the law know about raising a boy?"

"Not much. But sometimes the law is all we have."

"The price is too high if it comes at the cost of little David. Little. That's a laugh. I only have furniture in two rooms here. You think David wants to run around and whoop it up like a normal kid? He lays on the couch and complains that I don't have more channels."

A helicopter was flying overhead. I didn't look up to identify it, didn't want to break my concentration. "Perhaps he's fighting a cold or something."

"Perhaps he doesn't want to lug around all that extra weight." Harry sighed. "You remember Emilee from back when we were all in school together? She was as thin as a rail."

"Yes." I'd even dated her once or twice before she and Harry became an item. "She was."

"Her brother drank himself to death. He killed himself without breaking the law and Emilee is doing the same thing only she's taking David down with her."

"Harry. Why did you tell Officer Banks that you had a gun when she knocked on the door and announced herself?"

"I thought she should know."

"Your statement has been interpreted as a threat. Against the police officer. Against your son."

"I don't want to hurt anybody."

"That's good, Harry. We don't want to hurt anybody either. We need you to put down the gun and come out of the house with your hands in the air."

Special Agent Davis whispered urgently into his headset.

"And then what?"

"We'll take you into custody."

"What about David?"

"He'll go back to his mother. That's the law."

"It's not right."

"I'm not disagreeing with you, Harry, but we need to take this one step at a time. I can try to schedule a meeting between you and the judge so that you can state your case. But first you have to give yourself up."

"The judge didn't listen to me last time and now I'll be presented as a kidnapper. You can't really believe that anyone is going to switch over to my side."

"I'm on your side, Harry. I'm on David's side too."

"I thought you were on the law's side."

"I represent the law but the law is big enough to take care of itself. I'm here to help you and your boy."

Special Agent Davis grinned at me. "Marksmen are in position. Either send him out or move him towards a window."

"Harry, the FBI wants to wrap this situation right now. Unload the gun and place the ammunition in your pocket so that David won't be in danger if he wakes in the new few minutes. Place the unloaded gun on a flat, visible surface and come out of the house with your hands over your head. Ignore the other officer and walk straight towards me."

Special Agent Davis grabbed my arm. "What if he's wearing a bomb."I closed my eyes. "Harry, are you wearing a bomb?"

"A bomb? You know me better than that."

"I had to ask."

"Cornelius. Promise me that David will get to see a professional therapist to help him deal with his mother."

"I can try. I can't promise."

"That's what I thought. Chocolate pie for breakfast doesn't make him a victim. The judge won't order therapy just because the kid is obese."

"No."

The line went dead.

Seconds later, there was a single shot from inside the house.

David would get that therapy.

BIO: Over six hundred of Stephen's stories and poems have been selected to appear in more than a hundred publications. His website, www.stephendrogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

Powder Burn Flash #101 - James C. Clar

2008-08-31T01:16:00.000-07:00

A GOOD CURRY

The moment Paul Blaine boarded the train in Delhi he felt an enormous sense of relief. No, that wasn’t quite accurate; it was more like elation. In fact, as they pulled out of the station he was ecstatic, almost giddy. Fifteen years in this wretched country as a mid-level colonial bureaucrat and he was finally going home. As far as he was able to size up the situation it was just in time too. He gave it maybe five more years, probably less, before the blighters were granted independence. And after that, well, he reckoned there would be chaos within a fortnight. Anyone who thought that these people could govern themselves was a bloody idiot. But, so far as he was concerned, it would be good riddance to bad rubbish. Not even the thought of the forty-eight-hour journey to Bombay or the long voyage from there to England by sea could dampen his spirits. He was on his way home and that’s all that mattered. Besides, if all went according to plan, he wouldn’t be sober long enough to remember much of the trip anyway.

Later that evening, Blaine entered the dining car. He was pleased to see the usual small army of liveried waiters bustling to and fro. There were linen napkins, heavy silver cutlery and crystal stemware on the tables, of course. The sun might be setting on the empire but damned if his people didn’t still know how to run a railway. There was no reason whatsoever why one shouldn’t continue to travel in comfort. He ordered a bottle of wine and the beef curry. There was precious little that he fancied more than a good curry. For his money it was the subcontinent’s only contribution to civilization. He understood from his various correspondents back home that there was plenty of good Indian food to be found in London these days. He’d be the judge of that for himself, thank you very much!

When his meal arrived he set to work with gusto. After four or five mouthfuls he pushed his plate aside. It was hard to tell owing to how heavily-spiced the dish was but the whole lot tasted a bit dickey. Blaine suspected that they had used an inferior cut of meat. He just hoped it wasn’t water buffalo or yak or some nonsense like that. He had heard horror stories of native cooks making do with whatever happened to be at hand. He had half a mind to complain but thought better of it. What did one expect in this country anyway? The jewel in the crown; what utter rot that was. There was no point in making a scene. He drank his wine, ate more of the bread that had come with his meal and finished with coffee and dessert. When he rose from the table he belched quietly to himself.

Paul Blaine passed the rest of the evening in the smoking car reading the newspapers and drinking whiskey and soda. When he left to turn in, he attributed his somewhat queasy feeling to the fact that he had consumed a fair amount of alcohol on what was, for all intents and purposes, an empty stomach. He tossed and turned in his berth. At some point during the early hours of the morning he became violently ill. He was not alone. It seems that anyone who had ordered the beef curry at dinner suffered from the same gastrointestinal distress. When the train eventually entered the station in Bombay a number of the passengers, in fact, had to be hospitalized. All things being equal, Blaine had been lucky. His symptoms passed quickly. He was weak and dehydrated for a day or two but by the time his ship sailed he felt none the worse for wear … and, besides, he had needed to lose a few pounds anyway.

The authorities conducted a rather perfunctory investigation. The kitchen staff was interrogated and the facilities aboard the train were inspected but to little effect. Everyone knew how ferociously difficult it was to keep meat from spoiling in this climate. Besides, as one of the ministers remarked, mysterious maladies were hardly a rarity in these parts.

*****

Some days later when the train was making its scheduled return to Delhi , one of the supply stewards entered his quarters and locked the door. He pulled open a drawer and, reaching underneath, extracted an envelope which had been carefully secreted there. It contained a rather large sum of money. The man began counting. He knew it was all there, he had checked at least twice already today, but it never hurt to be sure. What a remarkably easy way to make a profit! He smiled when he thought of what his wife would say. He was well on his way to having the funds necessary so that he and his family could finally return home to Essex . But he had to be careful. He had to hold off for a bit now. No one had ever gotten sick before. There had been some complaints, to be sure, but that wasn’t at all unusual. If people fell ill again too soon, however, everyone would become suspicious and they might be forced to look into the matter much more closely. No matter, he and his native partners could afford to be patient. There was certainly no shortage of corpses in India … and there were more than a few overworked and underpaid functionaries desperate to dispose of the bodies in the most efficient manner possible. If someone took advantage of that deplorable situation, so be it. The British were always complaining that the people in this insane country weren’t enterprising enough. He wondered what they would think if they only knew. Next time he’d make certain that the shipment was packaged as chicken.

Paul Blaine, for his part, eventually arrived home safely. It was quite some time, however, before he fancied another curry.

THE END

BIO: James C. Clar teaches and writes in upstate New York. Most recently, his short fiction has been published in The Taj Mahal Review, The Magazine of Crime & Suspense, Orchard Press Mysteries, Shine: The Journal of Flash, Pen Pricks Micro-Fiction and Coffee Cramp Ezine.

Powder Burn Flash # 100!!!! - Robert Aquino Dollesin

2008-08-24T23:03:00.001-07:00

Under the Aztec Sun

As he slowly regained consciousness, Martinez felt he was dreaming. Confined in a small dark space, he was being jostled up and down. It took several minutes for his head to clear, but once it did he was able to identify the steady humming noise as that of an automobile engine. In the dark he tried to stretch his legs, only to realize that someone had him hogtied.

Maria? He pictured his wife, Maria. God, why couldn’t he think straight? Straining to recall what had happened, Martinez drew a blank. He’d been angry with Maria. But angry about what? Each surfacing image was unclear. Like fragments of a faded photograph or puzzling scenes of a movie incorrectly stitched together.

Realizing he was in the trunk of a moving car was easy. Figuring out how he got there was not. He breathed in the hot musty air. Was he inside Maria’s Pinto. Wait. The Pinto was a hatchback. No trunk. By the roughness of the ride he easily determined the driver was speeding down some unpaved road. But headed where?

The bumping suddenly halted, the engine quieted. Martinez heard the driver’s side door being slammed shut. Footsteps crunched over gravel. Someone fumbled with a key. And then the trunk flew open and Martinez closed his eyes against the blinding sunlight. When he opened them again, he recognized the Indian blanket he sometimes spread out on park grass so Maria could sit without staining her clothes. He was in his own trunk. But who was outside? Martinez squinted, but only saw mottled colors floating against a dark silhouette. Maria? No. The silhouette belonged to a man. A large man.

Still unable to make out the shadowy figure, Martinez cleared his parched throat and said, “Who the hell are you? What the hell do you want?”

A solemn, low-pitched voice answered, “I’m the man whose life you destroyed.”

The big man slowly eased into focus. Martinez watched him pull a white handkerchief from an inside pocket of his black coat and wipe his pockmarked face. His hair was tucked beneath a tilted fedora. Behind the man, Saguaro cactuses stood apart at irregular distances with their limbs held up like scarecrows guarding an endless stretch of baked red earth.

“I don’t know you,” Martinez said, feeling dampness under his arms. He tried, but was unable to squirm free of his restraints.

Maria. Something about Maria filled his mind. A Taco Bell on Sepulveda. It grew clear. He remembered now that he had caught her coming out of the restaurant with another man. But it wasn’t this man who stood outside the trunk, was it? No. The man with Maria was much younger, much thinner. But who was that man with Maria? More importantly, who was this man in front of him?

The big man turned his back to Martinez and raised an arm. He removed his fedora and swiped a forearm across his forehead. For a long time he stared into the thick emptiness of the desert. When he finally turned around to face Martinez again, the man said, “It was my daughter’s fifteenth birthday.”

Martinez closed his eyes and tried to draw out the memory of this man. Nothing. All he could recollect was Maria. She and her companion had sat down beside each other at a patio table. They laughed and touched fingertips under the shade of a large green-and-white umbrella.

Martinez remembered the hurt he felt when seeing his wife with another man. The physical pain in his chest. The turning in his stomach. The wobbling of his legs. All that rushed back. But the man outside. Martinez had no recollection of him.

“She was all I had,” the big man said. He turned back around to face Martinez and slowly leaned his head into the trunk, so close that Martinez could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath.

“Who are you?” Martinez said.

The man pulled away and said, “I am a man with nothing left to live for."

“Oh, God,” Martinez murmured.

The big man shook his head. “You remember now, don’t you?”

Martinez remembered.

While he’d sat watching from his car, Maria had leaned into her companion. They kissed. Martinez had gripped the steering wheel. His vision blurred. He recalled with clarity how he reached beneath the seat and felt the cold steel of the pistol. Then everything happened quickly. He pointed the weapon out the window and kept squeezing the trigger until the magazine was empty. Maria was on the ground. Her lover, too. But it was the table behind Maria and her lover. That was where he’d seen him. Martinez’s eyes widened. “God. I didn’t mean to hurt your daughter.”

The big man closed his eyes and raised his head to face the blistering sun. He breathed in deeply as if he needed his lungs to hold every bit of the desert air. His eyes welled. Red flecks were visible on his pulsing neck and his twitching nose.

Closing his eyes again, Martinez replayed the final moment in the Taco Bell parking lot. The big man was weeping, holding his daughter in his arms. Then when the man spotted Martinez, he had carefully laid his child onto the ground. When the man got to his feet and started across the lot, Martinez squeezed the trigger. But the weapon had been empty. He could still hear the hollow clicks. He had tried to restart his car. Then the big man was upon him. Nothing after that.

“Don’t kill me,” Martinez said.

The big man shook his head. “I’m not going to kill you.”

Relieved, Martinez sighed.

Once again the big man raised his face to the sky. “The Aztec sun will take us both.” He then turned and started across the earth. Martinez screamed, but the man continued on until he reached the nearest Saguaro. There he sat and closed his eyes. While Martinez screamed, the big man removed his cap and set it in his lap.

*** End ***

BIO: Robert Aquino Dollesin was still a kid when he left the Philippines. He now resides in Sacramento, where he writes now and again. Among numerous other venues, some of his work can be found on Storyglossia, Nossa Morte, Big Stupid Review, Thug Lit.

Powder Burn Flash # 99 - Cormac Brown

2008-08-17T09:18:00.000-07:00

Peanut Oil

It’s hot. Almost “ Death Valley kills the pioneers” hot. Which is no easy feat, considering that this is October in usually foggy San Francisco . But the Northern Californian version of Chandler ’s Santa Ana winds, the Diablo, is seeing to that, making everything as arid as the Sahara .

Kelly Boles has it in his head to take a week off…unpaid. Fuck the mounting pile of bills on the stand by the door; he feels a novel running through his head like a dam about to burst. Kelly though he would he would try “kickwriting” like Kerouac did with “On The Road,” minus the rolls of tracing paper taped together and the Benzedrine.

Nothing doing.

He over-caffeinated himself and as a result, every single thing is a distraction: the wailing cries of his computer’s overworked fan, his dying piece-of-shit refrigerator, his growling stomach, and the ambient noise of his neighbors that is bouncing off the heat and into his open windows.

The couple next door is particularly vexing, as they argue about how to prepare a dish.

“It’s not Szechwan beef if you cook it vegetable oil! You have to use peanut oil!”

“Then why don’t you go buy some fucking peanut oil, already?”

“I will!...uh, can you lend me some money?”

Kelly cannot believe that she tolerates this tool. She’s beautiful and she can cook? That idiot should be kissing the very ground that she walks on. Women like that might become extinct within his lifetime.

Kelly’s stomach is grumbling, so he drinks a glass of water to shut it up. He looks across the street and sees “Szechwan Beef” dash into the corner store. Kelly thinks about the wonderful aromas from next door that are to come and his stomach grumbles again. He gulps down another glass of water.

As he puts the glass in the sink, he notices a balding man in a trench coat dashing into the store. Who the hell wears a trench coat in this kind of weather? A flasher? The guy has to be a flasher, because porn theaters don’t exist anymore.

“Open the register now!”

“Jesus, that guy had a shotgun under that trench coat” whispers Kelly. The store’s owner reaches under the counter and oh shit, watch out Szechwan Beef! He didn’t see or hear “Trench Coat” and he panics, dropping the bottle of peanut oil and startling everyone.

The store’s owner brings his pistol up and “Trench Coat” pulls the trigger. Good God, the roar is deafening as the heat ricochets the sound all over the neighborhood. The store’s windows are peppered with blood, gore and holes. The store’s owner is nowhere to be seen. Trench Coat turns toward Szechwan Beef, but he already fled during the first shot.

Trench Coat pumps a shell into the chamber and takes a step. He slips, he disappears, a foot comes up, and there’s a muffled boom.

Kelly looks left and right, but there seems to be nobody in the store. He gets his phone and dials 911. He grabs a chair and stands up. Kelly can barely see Trench Coat’s feet twitching in the window and he sees what he guesses are teeth or bits of bone, right by the front door. It’s hard to tell from this distance.

As the 911 operator puts him on hold before he can say anything, Kelly shakes his head. Not because of the operator, but because this would’ve made a great story. Unfortunately, Kelly feels that just like stickups, crime fiction doesn’t pay enough.

BIO: "Cormac Brown" is my pen name. I'm an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis, and I'm following in the footsteps of Hammett...minus the TB and working for the Pinkerton Agency. A couple of stories that I've stapled and stitched together can be found at http://cormacwrites.blogspot.com/

Powder Burn Flash # 98 - Michael A. Kechula

2008-07-28T11:02:00.000-07:00

REVENGE DAY

My thoughts of murdering Holly Spencer were interrupted by rowdy Skinheads, who plowed through Manhattan’s rush-hour crowds. One of them elbowed me in the ribs. He grinned when he saw me doubled up in pain. Enraged, I reached inside my gym bag to grab the silenced pistol. He slipped into the crowd before I could blow his brains out.

Rubbing my aching ribs, I headed up 42nd Street toward the movie theater where Holly worked. I paid a private detective plenty to find her. He said she sold tickets in one of those outdoor ticket booths, and took lunch at 11:30.

I figured I’d shoot her in the face, right through the ticket window. But there were too many people around. So, I decided to follow her at lunchtime and shoot her as she pushed food through her lying, thieving lips. Maybe I’d wound her in the stomach, so she’d suffer every day for the rest of her life. What a great way to get satisfying, never-ending revenge. It’d be like a royalty arrangement—do a piece of work once, and cash in on it for years.

I ducked behind a store window that gave a clear view of the ticket booth. My trigger finger twitched when I glimpsed Holly’s profile. The bitch stole $50,000 from me. Money I skimmed dealing blackjack for an illegal gambling operation. Being my fiancée, she knew where I stashed the money. The day before our wedding, she dug it up and disappeared.

Somebody arrived to relieve Holly for lunch. She left the booth and headed in my direction. Suddenly my plans collapsed. Thieving Holly was sharp enough to bilk me out of fifty grand, but not swift enough to avoid pregnancy. Dammit! I never figured on shooting a pregnant woman.

She waddled by in a puffy, sunflower covered, electric-blue dress that stuck out a mile. My gut urged me to forget her and go back to Dallas. Instead, I decided to confront her.

She entered an eatery, with me not far behind. It was a noisy, greasy dump, filled with down-and-outers. The electric dress was at a small table, way in the back. My stomach was in knots when I reached her table.

"Oh My God! Ed!” Her eyes bulged, her hands shook.

“Take it easy. I just wanna talk.”

She grabbed her stomach and yelled, “Ow! My baby!”

People looked our way. A waitress rushed over. "Are you all right, lady?"

“It hurts so bad. I feel like I’m gonna heave!”

“I’ll help you to the ladies room,” the waitress said.

Holly groaned loudly, as the waitress led her away.

Sonovabitch! How slick to pull that stunt. I wondered what she was telling the waitress. Maybe she’d lie and say I was threatening her. They might call the cops.

I rushed out, headed for the subway, and barely squeezed through the doors of a departing train.

As it sped through dark catacombs, I wondered what to do next. My plan had failed miserably. Holly was alive. She hadn’t even apologized, or asked forgiveness. I imagined her laughing her ass off and calling me a freakin’ loser.

I swore I’d get revenge, one way or another. Maybe I could dream up some dirty tricks to sting her, undermine her sense of security, erode her sanity.

I started to plan something rotten to pull on her. I didn’t get far—my intense, focused thoughts gave way to disconnected fantasies, as the repetitive clacking of the train’s wheels lulled my brain.

“Coney Island—last stop.” somebody said, jolting me awake.

“How do I get back to Manhattan?” I asked.

“Stay on this train.”

New passengers boarded. One was a mangy Skinhead with a swastika tattooed on his forehead. Sonovabitch! My grandpa died during World War Two ridding the world of Nazis.

Homicidal rage slammed my gut.

The Skinhead tried to panhandle a woman. She shooed him away. So did others. Then he asked me if I could spare a buck. I snickered when I realized fate had sent me a booby prize.

“I don’t give money away. But, if you’re hungry, I’m good for a burger and fries.”

“Yeah, I’m hungry. I ain’t et all day.”

“Where’s the nearest burger place?”

“Next stop.”

As the train sped toward our exit, I scribbled a few words in my little notebook, tore out the page, and stuck it in my pocket.

“This country’s turning into a third world shithouse,” Skinhead said, his mouth full of greasy fries. “Only the Master Race can save it. This is who should be running this country.” He tapped a photo of Adolf Hitler in his wallet. “He’d seal the borders, fire up the ovens, and get rid of all the mongrel vermin.”

I couldn’t stand much more of his looniness. I wanted to get him alone somewhere.

“I got some good desert,” I said. “Columbian Gold.”

“Yeah? Let’s go out back and smoke it.”

As he puffed away behind a dumpster, he asked if I wanted to join the Nazi Vengeance Brotherhood.

I answered him by firing one round into his chest and another into his head. Then I removed the slip of paper from my pocket, and stuffed it in his wallet behind Hitler’s picture.

I combed the morning papers for news about Skinhead, but found nothing. Maybe the cops killed the story. I wondered if they hit the panic button after reading the note I’d planted in Skinhead’s wallet.

A bit of disinformation can go a long way in New York these days, if the right words are used: ANTHRAX IN PLAYGROUNDS. BEN LADEN. NEW YORK CONTACT IS HOLLY SPENCER.

“Welcome to the world of dirty tricks, Holly,” I mumbled.

The End

BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and second and third place in five others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 107 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at http://www.booksforabuck.com/ and http://www.fictionwise.com/ Paperback available at http://www.amazon.com/.

Powder Burn Flash # 97 - Sean Monaghan

2008-07-27T09:42:00.000-07:00

Long Jump

Janice jumped at the sound. She lowered her key. Someone was inside the apartment. She stepped back from the door and reached into her shoulder bag for her phone.

Another thump, closer to the door this time. Someone inside throwing her stuff around.

Janice tapped the menu, called Alex. As it rang she went to the stairs, looked down towards his apartment.

‘Hey,’ Alex said.

‘Are you at home?’ she whispered.

'Sure. Sopranos marathon on-’

‘Get up here now.’

‘Why are you whisperi-’

‘Now. Someone’s in my place.’ She heard another thump, then something breaking. Mom’s bowl, she thought, imagining the carnival glass splintering across the tiles.

‘On my way,’ Alex said.

She heard his door open, then he was running up, still in his TV clothes, beer in one hand, phone in the other, Pringles crumbs on his sweater. He was nothing like the old days when they were doing track together, but it was good to have him close.

‘Okay,’ he said, puffing a little. ‘What’s up?’

‘Listen,’ she whispered.

But there was nothing. After a moment, Alex raised his eyebrows, widened his eyes, tilted his head. ‘And?’

‘Wait.’ Janice stepped closer to the door. Still nothing.

‘Fire escape?’ Alex said.

Janice grabbed her key and leapt at the door. A click and it was open. Glass on the floor from her trophy cabinet. She ran along the passage to the living room. Someone was there trying to get out the window. Wraparound sunglasses, hoodie, trackpants.

‘Hey.’

He looked up.

‘What the hell do you think-’

He sprinted at her. Straight at her.

Janice sidestepped and the intruder collided with Alex. Both of them tumbled to the floor. The man kicked at Alex and scrambled to his feet. Then he was heading down the passage to the door.

‘Alex?’ She went to him.

‘I’m okay.’ He started to get up. ‘Don’t let him get away.’

Janice dropped her bag and ran after the intruder. She realised that there was something missing from the cabinet as she flew past. Why the hell would anyone want to steal her old trophies. Gold plating worth fifty cents?

Mrs Hudson and her latest suitor were on the stairs just below the landing and the man had to head up. Janice followed.

‘Miss Echelle?’ Mrs Hudson called after her.

‘It’s under control Mrs Hudson,’ she called back.

‘Oh good dear.’

The man was fast, taking the stairs two and three at a time. Where was he going? Another apartment? It was five floors to the roof and the door was permanently jimmied. Surely he wouldn’t go to the roof. Where could he go from there?

She came around a landing and saw him standing on the next landing up, facing her. Something hit her chest and knocked her back. She stumbled and fell against an apartment door and he was gone, still running up.

On the floor one of her trophies, Louisville trials 1996, triple-jump, second place. He’d thrown it at her and now it was broken, the base snapped off at the gold-athlete’s legs.

She stared for a moment, then went after him again. Steps three, four at a time. Swinging around the balustrades, using her momentum on the landings to push herself on up. Four steps, push, four steps, three steps, landing swing around. Four steps. She got her rhythm. She could hear him pounding on the stairs above. Two more levels to the roof.

‘Get back here,’ she yelled.

‘Leave me alone,’ he shouted back’ A few more thumps, then she heard the door to the roof get kicked open.

Swing, four steps, four steps, three, swing, four, four, three and she was at the door.

She jumped out onto the gravel, saw his blur as he went over the side to the next building. She kept moving. The building was one storey lower and she dropped almost right behind him. She grabbed the hoodie, and he looked at her, glasses lost. Just a kid, fifteen or sixteen. He rolled away from her. Sprinting again.

Janice smiled. No next building, just the 21st street alley. Nowhere to go.

But he was still running. Still running. She followed, slower now. He kept going. Kept going. Jumped.

Janice ran again as he vanished from sight. The alley was narrow here, and the building across the street even lower, but he wouldn’t make it.

She came to the edge and looked out. Not dead. Hanging on to lip of the building over twenty feet away. One of his hands came away and he swung, feet scrambling again.

Janice turned back and focused on a mark. Turned at the mark and breathed. She ducked her head and pounded across the asphalt. Three, two, one and she put her foot right on the edge. Out and over. Spinning to grab as much air as she could. A car beneath, a siren in the distance. Lights in her eyes from the apartments. Out and out and over.

She came down on the roof. He foot slid out and she tumbled, rolled against an aircon fan.

To her feet and two quick steps and she grabbed his wrist. His other arm came up and she pulled him onto the roof. They sat together breathing. He was crying and he looked so young and small.

‘I dropped your trophies,’ he said. ‘Down there.’

Janice smiled a little, looking back across the alley. ‘Yeah, well. I’ll have to measure it, but I think that was my personal best.’

Copyright 2008 by Sean Monaghan

BIO: Sean Monaghan is a New Zealand writer who also tutors in creative writing, makes music and art and works in a busy public library. Sean’s affair with short stories is long, his first published story came out way back in 1987, with recent flash fiction stories on http://www.antisf.com/ and http://www.microhorror.com/. More info about Sean and his writing is at his website http://www.venusvulture.com/.

Powder Flash Burn # 96 - Kieran Shea

2008-07-24T12:47:00.000-07:00

FLUKE LUCK THAT

The night Hurricane Chino made landfall, Stu Mason took forty feet of barbed wire and lashed Linda Cox to a Cypress tree.

Stu picked up Linda at the bar attached to DG’s Liquor Mart, a shit-colored concrete bunker about forty miles southeast of Olustee. Linda was bombed beyond repair and coming off a bad relationship with a Disney cruise puppeteer named Cal. So Stu made nice. He complimented her on her homemade jewelry, eyes, and bought her a trio of rocked, fizzed gins.

“I like you,” Linda slurred as her hand crept like a shaky creature up Stu’s thigh, “But I'm not so drunk or crazy to be messin’ with nobody just yet. I'm still tender inside, know what I mean?”

Later in the parking lot Stu sped things up with a sinker-filled sock. Actually he marveled at how simple it was this time around. Florida bar flies having their half-hearted hurricane party, the storm providing good cover for him taking Linda out clean. Didn’t hear jack shit. Fluke luck that.

In the front seat of his pick-up Stu caressed the puffy, belly flab that mushroomed out and over Linda’s unsnapped jeans. His groin itched and thickened, so Stu swallowed hard, fired the engine of his F-150, and tried to focus on the rain-hammered road.

Johnny Cash sang “Guess Things Happen That Way” as he plowed northwest across the state, the bands of Chino rocking his Ford from side to side as he struggled to stay between the lines. Weather Channel had said Category 3 back at the bar. Not as bad as Andrew or catastrophic as Katrina, but sure as hell a lollipop swirl of motherfucking doom.

The spot Stu picked out was at the bottom of Marion County, two hundred swamp acres off a sandy two track where a golf developer went tits up the year before. Stu knew it would be some time before anyone came looking back there. The wind screamed as he dragged Linda from the cab and worked the barbed wire around her tight with a pair of slip-joint pliers.

Once finished, Stu peered into the rain slashed dark. Probably take her feet first, he thought. Gators always lay low in weather like this.

Stu went back to his truck to get his digital camera.

*

Eight months later, Deputy Sheriff Walter Gates knocked on Stu Mason’s trailer.

Gates was conducting a routine follow up. Some old lady claimed Stu or someone with a black F-150 like his had clipped her van while leaving a Stuckey’s parking lot out near Lake Butler.

No answer from within prompted a quick peek through an adjacent window. A set of hairy bare feet forked in the hallway. Gates removed his sidearm and identified himself twice. He then slowly pulled open the trailer’s door.

Place was a wreck. Not from a struggle, but just from degenerate, white trash living. Above the dish-choked sink a couple of freaked out crickets bashed themselves to death against a rusty screen trying to escape.

Gates crept closer to the body. The stench of rum sweat, cigarettes, and sour garbage was prime in the Florida heat. Then Gates heard Stu Mason’s faint snore and he was relieved.

Mason’s jeans were wet with a long, dark patch that led from his crotch and halfway down his thigh. Christ. Dumb bastard must’ve passed out drunk and pissed himself. Gates holstered his gun, hitched up his belt, and went over to the sink. He ran some tap water into a faded plastic tumbler and spat with disgust. Man, this shit was getting old. Serving papers to welfare dads, giving bad news to car wreck victims’ families, shaking kids down all sparked up without a dime to their names, grunt work and then some. Not what he envisioned as an exciting career in law enforcement.

Gates was about to pour out the tumbler of water on Stu Mason’s forehead when he saw a laptop open on the kitchenette table. The computer was coal black and looked worse for wear, its keyboard flecked with flakes of ash. The screen-saver was hot and displayed a simulated lake bottom complete with fat bass, abandoned tires, and an oil drum with a leering toxic skull.

Half expecting some hardcore smut, Gates ran a damp fingertip on the touch pad. He nearly gasped out loud when dozens of tortured images of three unsolved homicides bloomed before his eyes. He knew about these women. Each body had been half eaten by alligators, rats, and assorted swamp feeders.

Quietly Gates snuck back out to his cruiser. He plucked up the radio mic from the dash thinking, sweet Jesus… and me just here just to check some pissant traffic complaint. Man oh man. Handle this right and I'm going places.

Fluke luck that.

BIO: Kieran Shea believes the quality of mercy is strain'd so you best back the fuck up, Portia . His short fiction has appeared in Thuglit, Word Riot, Dogmatika, Pulp Pusher, Plots with Guns, and upcoming in both Demolition and Thrilling Detective.

Powder Burn Flash # 95 - Michael A. Kechula

2008-07-23T20:49:00.000-07:00

BAD INTUITIONS

“How much was in the safe, Honey?” Ann asked, while cleaning her pistol.

“Fifty thousand,” said Alex.

“No way!”

“It’s true,” he said. “Not only that. Look what I found in the safe.” He tossed a clump of papers on the motel bed.

“What’s this?”

“A plan for a coin shop heist. It’s supposed to happen in two days. That’s why so much money was in the safe. Probably pay for the driver, and whatever.”

“Oh Hell!” Ann yelled. “You musta robbed mob money. I don’t want my share.”

“But with this you can get that fur coat and diamond tennis bracelet you want so much. Well, that means more for me,” Alex said.

“Yeah. More bullets for you when they find out.”

“How the hell will they find out?” he asked. “We’re unknowns around here. Listen, I stopped for coffee and read the plan. It’s pure genius. Somebody’s gonna hit a coin shop that’s loaded with gold and silver ingots without serial numbers. So, I got a brilliant idea.”

“Like what?”

“We’ll use their plan and pull the robbery before they do.”

“Wait,” she said. “We’re talking heavy stuff here. You rob the safe of a company---probably one of the mob’s legit operations. You get fifty thou, plus a plan for a heist. Bad enough you took their cash, but you also took their plan. Wake up! We’re talking mob, here. They’ll go ballistic. They’ll turn this city upside down looking for us.”

“Let them. We’ll be in Mexico on our honeymoon.” He grabbed her and kissed her hard.

“I love you so much, Alex,” she said. “You know how protective I am about you. Listen to me. I got a bad feeling about this. Please…for me…for the sake of our future life together…take it all back. We got enough to live on for six months.”

“Are you crazy? You want me to go there, open the safe and put everything back?”

“Yeah. Right now.”

“You going soft on me, Love?”

“No way,” she said. “There’s plenty of other jobs to pull. Forget this one. Listen to what I’m saying.”

“Are you having one of your intuitions?”

“Yeah. It’s a bad one. Take it back. Real quick.”

Alex trusted Ann’s intuition. It’d gotten them out of a few pickles over the past few months. Without another word, he dropped everything into a black laundry bag, kissed her passionately, and left.

Intuition or no, Alex really hated to see a good plan go to waste. Why should somebody else get all them gold and silver ingots? Charlie in Fresno can melt them and cast them into palm-sized bars. They’ll be easy to sell. Plus we can use the extra money now that we’re gonna get married. I wanna get her that beautiful wedding band she likes so much.

Passing Kinko’s copy shop, he was struck with an idea.

* * *

Alex woke Ann. “Look, Sweetie. I copied the plan. Now there’s no link between the plan and us. So there’s nothing to worry about. We can pull the job tonight. And then we’ll head to Mexico and get married.”

Throwing her arms around him, she said, “I’m gonna marry the most brilliant crook in the whole world.”

She didn’t tell him her intuition nagged even worse.

They spent a few hours studying the plan. At noon, they drove downtown to check out the coin shop. Alex occupied the owner by buying a silver commemorative coin, while Ann looked the place over.

“It’s just like the drawings in the plan,” she said. “You were right. That plan is dynamite.”

“We’ll hit it at midnight,” Alex said.

* * *

“Rise and shine, Honey,” she said. “It’s time to get those sweet ingots.”

On the way to the coin shop, a dozen fire engines raced by.

“Wow. Must be a huge one,” Alex said.

Street barriers blocked them several blocks from the coin shop.

“What’s going on, Officer?” Alex asked.

“Whole block’s on fire.”

“Oh God, my uncle’s coin shop is up that way,” Ann said with faked alarm.

“That’s toast, along with a bunch of other stores,” the cop said.

“Sonovabitch!” Alex yelled as he turned the car toward the Interstate. “Talk about rotten luck. We get a chance to make a real killing, and this happens. It just ain’t right. I had fifty grand in my hands before you made me take it back. Now we got nothing for all that work.”

“Fate,” she said. “It wasn’t meant to be. Let’s leave for Mexico right now. Please.”

As they drove toward the border, Alex tuned the radio to a news station.

A newscaster was interviewing the Police Chief.

“We think it started in a coin dealer’s shop,” the Chief said. “The arsonist used a Molotov cocktail. That’s why the fire spread so fast. Right now, three people are dead, including a fireman who has a wife and four kids. And the fire isn’t out yet.”

“Hear that?” Alex asked.

“Yeah. Tough break”

“What’s that up ahead?”

“Looks like a roadblock,” she answered. “Must be a hundred cop cars.”

“No sweat. They ain’t got nothing on us,” Alex said, as they approached the barriers.

Suddenly, cops brandishing pistols ordered them out of the car.

“What the hell is this?” Alex yelled.

“You’re under arrest for suspicion of arson and murder.”

“You’re making a big mistake. I’m gonna sue you for false arrest!”

“We have a witness. He wrote down your license plate. You have the right to remain silent…”

* * *

While cyanide gas filled the chamber, Ann wished she’d never gone to the coin store an hour before they were supposed to rob it.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she muttered in the rising fog. “I hadda do it so we could get married and have children.”

Drawing her last breath, she screamed, “If I didn’t burn it down, we woulda got killed during the robbery!”

The End

BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and second and third place in five others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 107 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperback available at www.amazon.com.

Powder Burn Flash # 94 - Paul McGoran

2008-07-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

The Lesser Evil

They took Harold down, blindfolded him, trussed him up from behind and tossed him in the car. He fainted. When he woke up, he lay face down in the dirt listening to a ragged squeal of car tires fading away.

Alone now. Highway noise. Must be the woods outside of town, close to the interstate. But why? Was it Chaz, the thug he hired to get rid of his wife Carmella? How could this happen?

Time passed. The smell of dirt and leaves filled his nostrils. Pain radiated from his neck clear down his arms. Finally, a car pulled in – twigs, branches and gravel popping beneath the tires.

With the blindfold pulled away, Harold looked up and saw the cynical smirk on Chaz’s hard face.

“Think it’s funny?” he sputtered. “You gotta be a freakin’ idiot to screw things up this bad. Now cut me loose.”

“Can it, shithead,” Chaz said. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

The passenger side door of the car opened, and a long, tanned leg descended to the ground. Carmella! She picked her way over the littered ground and stood looking down at him while Chaz took a tightly coiled blanket out of the trunk and rolled it out to the side of the car.

“Thanks for bringing Chaz to town, Harold,” she said. “That was real thoughtful of you. We haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“Wha …?”

“Never told ya I had a brother, did I, honey? I used to be ashamed he was a mob guy.”

While she spoke, Carmella rummaged through her handbag. Finally, she pulled out a little gun. Just then Harold noticed a glint of sunlight playing over the butcher tools Chaz was arranging on the blanket.

“The gun!” Harold begged. “First, the gun.”

BIO: Paul McGoran lives in Newport, Rhode Island. In his life before fiction, he was a Russian interpreter for the U.S. Navy, a career marketing executive and a management consultant. He began writing crime fiction in 2005 and can't seem to stop. He has written two novels and a collection of shorter fiction -- all, alas, unpublished. Look for a short story of his called The Thanks You Get on the U.K. webzine Pulppusher.

Powder Burn Flash # 93 - Cormac Brown

2008-07-09T19:35:00.000-07:00

Poker Face

Well, there are curveballs and there are curveballs. And this? This is like the other seven guys on the playing field have decided that they want to pitch too…

…All at once.

…While the catcher is tying the batter’s shoelaces together.

“This was supposed to be easy pickings,” Pratt curses. He knew from the other kids that went to the same privileged high school as he did, that almost half of this neighborhood was spending Christmas vacation in Tahoe and the other half was in Hawaii . Pratt guessed that nobody explained that to the man of this house, Dougray Hiatt, that he should be some 2,300 miles away in Kauai .

Why just a minute ago, Pratt was just mulling throwing a party in what he believed to be an empty house and now he is cursing himself for not checking first or even bothering to have a mask on. He knows that his partner John won’t care either way, which is bound to make this tenuous situation even worse.

“You’re supposed to be in Hawaii ” Pratt says out loud. “Because we wouldn’t be here or at least we would be wearing masks” he finishes in his head. His partner John comes into the room holding a laptop inside a gray Tumi bag and is just as startled as Pratt was seconds ago to find someone home.

There Dougray is, sitting in the combination computer and exercise room that was formerly the bedroom of his eldest daughter, Deborah, who was currently in college, but was now in Kauai with his youngest daughter, Dana. He was sitting the same spot some eleven hours ago, but something work-related came up and he had to cut short his vacation. He had four files out on his desk and until Pratt’s intrusion, he was typing away on his desktop computer.

Pratt is trying to figure out just what the fuck is this guy doing at home and why didn’t he heard them come in. The burglar alarm’s chime made an awful racket throughout the two times it took Pratt to disarm it, because he was so nervous, that he momentarily forgot the code. He knew the code well enough; he spent many a night spying on Deborah to have seen it. Then Pratt hears the washing machine and realizes that Dougray probably was putting a load in and didn’t hear them enter.

And when Deborah moved out for college, Pratt’s eyes moved onto Dana as she worked out in this very room, five days a week. He couldn’t help but overhear about the Kauai trip, because Dana’s friends called her about it every three minutes, cutting short her dance routine and his fun. Now Pratt’s fun is cut short again, with a complication that seems completely nonplussed at the fact that he and John are standing in his house at three in the morning.

The silence between them and Dougray’s cool exterior get to John. He thrusts his chest out and pulls his shirt up, exposing the cheap Glock knockoff that was in his waistband of his baggy jeans.

Dougray responds by merely sitting at his desk with a face that any poker champion wishes they could own. He doesn’t seem scared or particularly perturbed; he isn’t happy or grim-faced. As a matter of fact, he is just sitting there with his lips slightly clenched.

Pratt looks over in askance to John as to what should be their next move, and John answers back with a scowl. Pratt winces as John reaches under his shirt with a snarl and pulls the nine millimeter out. Pratt almost pulls his gun out too, but he doesn’t like the math behind this. He wants to run away, but he stands his ground and resigns himself to the fact that nothing good will come of this. Yet Dougray just sits there, blinking every so often.

Pratt wonders if this is just a case of Dougray being as scared as he is and that Dougray is simply too damn scared to move. Finally, Dougray’s nose twitches and a nervous John almost pulls his trigger. His nose twitches again and Dougray takes a few, long, large gasps.

Huh-huh-ah-ah-ah-chooo!

Dougray sneezes hard and his dentures flew across the room, where they land inches away from John’s feet. John and Pratt both look down at the displaced false teeth and that’s when John flies backward into the wall with a crimson hole in his chest. Wide-eyed, Pratt looks at the last bit of life escaping John and turns around to see a still-seated Dougray. He had the same poker face, but it looks pathetic without any front teeth.

A small wisp of smoke escapes the barrel of the silver-plated hand cannon that Dougray has pointed at John and the last thing that John sees is that cannon roaring again.

Dougray shakes his head and thinks, there are sticky wickets and then there are sticky wickets. And this?

This is like the other nine fielders have decided that they want to be bowlers too…

…All at the same time.

…While the wicket-keeper bites your ankles.

Here he is a hit man of nearly thirty years of experience and he has let two amateur burglars get the drop on him as if he still was wet behind the ears. He has to be in Tahoe within the hour to take out somebody that is in the witness protection, before the mark moves to another safe house, and now? He has two bodies in his own house to contend with.

Well, he’ll have to tarp them and leave them in the garage; the paying job always takes precedence.

The End

BIO: "Cormac Brown" is my pen name. I'm an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis, and I'm following in the footsteps of Hammett...minus the TB and working for the Pinkerton Agency. A couple of stories that I've stapled and stitched together can be found at http://cormacwrites.blogspot.com/

Powder Burn Flash # 92 - Keith Rawson

2008-07-08T17:26:00.000-07:00

SHUTTING UP AUNT SARAH

“Ya know he’s gonna kill you, right?”

“Shut up! Let me think a couple of minute, would ya?”

“What were you thinking when you and your asshole buddies came in there with your funny little masks and waving your big bad guns around?”

We were thinking that robbing a mall jewelry store would be an easy score. Four guys in dead President’s masks packing shotguns; we thought everyone in a quarter mile radius would hit the tiles and squirt their panties and we’d walk away with fifty or sixty thousand dollars worth of swag. We thought it would be a lot easier than the Mexican drug dealers we’d been ripping off for the past couple of months; yeah it was a shit load of fun busting down the front door of some beaner crack dealer and watching the taco benders scurry around thinking our crew was Border patrol getting ready to haul their dirty asses back down south. That shit was hilarious, and the scores weren’t that bad either, but it attracted the wrong kind of attention. Dealers didn’t report you to the cops, they gave you up to their distributors; the distributors were harder than hardcore who had no problem torturing you 2 or 3 days before putting a bullet in your head and dumping your dead ass out in the middle of the desert. The Mexican suppliers didn’t even care if the head of your crew was the son of the craziest crime czar in Arizona.

“What did your Dad tell you? He said lay low! He said don’t make any moves!”

“What he meant was to stop hitting the Mexicans.”

“Bullshit! He meant everything, Roger!”

Roger Raines led the crew. He was the only son of Clyde Raines. The senior Raines has been a prominent villain in Arizona for the past 20 years. He made his bones back in the day when the Italians were still trying to run things and the Indians and the Mormons were chopping the Wops into little bitty pieces. The senior Raines was fortunate enough to be there and have enough muscle and brains to carve out his own little empire. Clyde Raines was the last great white man in Arizona, and his son, Roger, was the great big hope with a capital H to continue the empire. The problem is that I’m pretty sure that Roger is mildly retarded and 100% insane. The only reason I’ve stuck it out with his dumb ass so long was the drugs, and after today, I’m starting to think it was a pretty lame reason to hang around with the kid.

“And what the fuck were you doing holding up my job?”

“I forgot you worked there!”

“You forgot? I’ve worked there for 15 years, Roger! I used to take you there when you were in diapers!”

The woman lecturing Roger is his Aunt Sarah. Normally she’s sweet as pie. She helped raise Roger and was as close to a mother as he had. She’d been working in the same branch of London Gold, like, forever, even though she didn’t have to work because of her little brother’s illicit businesses. But ever since I’ve known Roger, she’s been lecturing him, me, and anyone else around to hear her that you need to create your own success, your own place in the world. Roger took her philosophy to heart and decided to make Aunt Sarah’s little place in the world his own—at least for 3 minutes of bloodshed and hostage taking.

Despite what the little retard is saying, I’m pretty sure the kid knew walking in that we were boosting Aunt Sarah’s store. He was probably thinking that Aunt Sarah would recognize him—despite the fact that he was wearing a Ronald Reagan mask--when the four of us walked in and she’d just start shoveling merchandise into our pockets with a big, proud shit eating grin on her face and the rest of the staff and security would take the hint and play along nice.

Bullshit.

We came in hard and face-to-face with two security guards packing MAJOR firepower. Within a minute and a half of walking into the store front, two of our crew were sporting sucking chest wounds, one of the guards looked like Dick Chaney’s best friend after hunting quail, two clerks minus heads, and Roger had his Sig Saur pressed hard into Aunt Sarah’s temple giggling like a kiddy fiddler in a locked room full of toddlers.

We booked out of there dragging Aunt Sarah by the neck. I thought for sure the Mall parking lot would be the last sight of the living world I’d ever lay eyes on; at the very least I thought there’d be sirens and a couple of dozen cops ready to drop us.

Nope.

Nothing but blue burning summer sky and row upon row of mini-vans; but you could hear them coming. The distant sirens, the whoop-whoop of low flying helicopter blades. We jacked a retired couple’s Oldsmobile and burned it out of the lot, Aunt Sarah begging for her life; that is until we ditched the masks and then she started beating the shit out us. We lost the stolen wheels a few miles away from my folk’s place and switched over to Roger’s Lexus and drove back to my place to get our shit together.

Roger’s been pacing the kitchen the past hour, his Sig pressed tight against his hip, listening to Aunt Sarah nag and bitch about what a fucking idiot he is. I can’t help but agree, but even she’s starting to get on my nerves.

I zone, smoke a joint, I let my ears and brain check out, eyes down and focused on the off-white kitchen tiles. I barely flinch with the roar of the Sig. I look up, suck in a big lung full of cordite, and I see Aunt Sarah standing in the middle of the kitchen with what’s left of her head looking like the messiest taco ever made. The body drops limp and soundless.

“What the fuck did you do?” I know I say it, but I can’t hear the words.

“I didn’t do shit,” the Sig is right in my face; right there, the barrel’s hot. “You did.”

Fuck.

The drugs definitely weren’t worth it.

BIO: Keith Rawson lives in the Phoenix, Az. suburb of Gilbert with his wife, daughter, and dog. He works as an Education counselor and has been writing off and on for the past fifteen years. He love crime fiction and other such degenerate literature.

Powder Burn Flash # 91 - Dana C. Kabel

2008-07-03T11:23:00.000-07:00

Fucked and Finished

McTeague jammed the barrel of the snub nosed .38 into Ferret’s mouth and shattered several of his teeth.

“Where’s my daughter?” He shouted.

Ferret mumbled something desperate and unintelligible.

McTeague pulled the gun out of the scrawny man’s mouth and pressed it against his temple before pulling back the hammer. A gob of blood and teeth shards drizzled down Ferret’s chin and the front of his pants grew dark as he pissed himself.

“Jesus Christ, Mac! Are you out of your head?” Billy jumped out from behind the bar and ran to the front door.

McTeague swung the gun around and aimed it at the bartender.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Relax!” Billy said. He turned the bolt on the door and flipped the sign to “CLOSED” before pulling the shade down behind it. In his head he thanked Christ that there were no other customers left in the bar.

Ferret started to wiggle and the gun pressed into his skull.

“Talk, you toothless fuck!” McTeague growled.

“You fucking idiot! I’m a cop.” Ferret said.

McTeague put his mouth close to Ferret’s ear. “I know. You’re the reason I spent the last five years in the can, you fuck!”

Then he bit down on Ferret’s ear and tore a mouthful of it away. Ferret screamed like a banshee as McTeague spit the piece of fleshy cartilage out on the floor.

“Whiskey!” McTeague barked at the bartender.

Billy reached behind the bar and handed him a bottle of Jack.

He took a swig to rinse his mouth out and another to swallow down. Then he tipped the bottle up and splashed a generous amount of the fiery liquid over the bloody mess on the side of Ferret’s head. The wounded man screamed louder.

McTeague repeatedly slapped the side of the man’s head where his ear used to be until his screams turned into tired whimpers. Then he let go and Ferret slumped to the ground and curled into a fetal position.

“Tell me where they took Michelle or I’m going to kill you.”

Ferret was shaking on the floor as McTeague raised a foot up over his head and let it hover there for a moment.

“Mac!” Billy put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Michelle ran away from her step-father’s house after they convicted you of killing her mother.” He said.

McTeague brought his foot back down to the floor instead of stomping Ferret’s skull in. Then he bent down and grabbed the dirty cop by the throat and yanked him back up to his feet.

“Is that what this piece of shit told you, Billy? And did you really think I killed Evelyn?”

Ferret couldn’t stand on his own legs. McTeague held him by the throat as he choked and sputtered.

“Mac…please…he’s a cop! Don’t do this shit in here. Don’t bring this shit down on me!”

McTeague shook Billy’s hand off his shoulder.

“Then tell me where she is, cop! Tell me where she is and I won’t spill any more of your blood on Billy’s floor.”

Ferret gasped. His face turned blue.

“F-f-f-fuh…” Ferret sputtered.

McTeague released his iron grip on the man’s neck and let him drop back down to the floor.

“TALK!”

He heeled back and kicked the cop in the ribs. There was a loud crack and Ferret coughed out a spray of blood. Then he started to laugh through the tears and snot and blood.

Fucked!” Ferret spat. “Fucked and finished! We fucked your little girl…and then we killed her.”

The blood boiled in McTeague’s head until his eyes looked like they would explode.

A gunshot ripped through the air and Ferret’s head turned into an unrecognizable pulp of shredded flesh and blood. McTeague’s face was wet with splashed gore. He wiped it from his eyes and looked at the gun that was in his own hand, thinking at first that he had instinctively pulled the trigger and hit the mark without consciously aiming.

But the little .38 couldn’t have caused the mutilated mess at his feet. He realized that his right ear was ringing and looked over that shoulder.

Billy stood there breathing hard through his flared nostrils and holding the smoking shotgun still aimed at the dead man on the floor. McTeague slowly took the weapon from the bartender’s shaking hands.

“Jesus, Billy…why did you do it?”

Billy’s mouth gaped open, but nothing came out. How could he tell Mac that he had betrayed him so many years ago? How could he tell him that Michelle was really his own daughter?

BIO: He has had other work published in Muzzleflash, and is currently seeking publication for my novel, Killing Is My Business. He can be contacted at danabushi@yahoo.net,

Powder Burn Flash # 89 - Clair Dickson

2008-06-28T13:51:00.000-07:00

HEAD FOR REVENGE
A Bo Fexler Story

"I know you had something to do with those photos!" she hissed, her face close enough that I could smell her lunch.

I smirked. "What makes you so sure about that?"

"You—you're that kind of… trouble-maker."

"Trouble-maker? That's not really fair, is it? Really, we both know that I'm far more of a bitch than just a mere trouble-maker."

She slapped me.

My cheek flushed with the blow, but I stood deadly still. The smirk remained. It takes more than a girly slap to take the edge off my attitude.

"You—how dare you?"

"What reason do I have?" I asked.

There was a small crowd bunching up around us. Officers and staff members in the PD come to see if the former-file-clerk turned PI was really going to duke it out with the secretary. Some tsked. Someone asked if we could move it outside where there was construction being done. It had just rained, after all, and it was nice and muddy.

Sherry shot a dirty look at the cop who said that. I laughed and fanned the flames by saying, "No one wants to see her naked. Her boobs hang like a basset hound's ears."

She went to slap me again, but I snatched her wrist mid-blow.

"You could lose your job."

"No one here would testify on your behalf."

"No? Ruiz still wants to fuck me on all fours. And Leopold wants to show me how big his cock is. There are others who would back me just for a fuck."

"Whore," she spat.

"No shit, Sherlock!"

"You'll regret this."

"Will I? No. I don't think so. I'm enjoying it far too much to regret it."

She blinked back the tears of hurt and rage. "Why are you doing this?"

"No one fucks with Bo Fexler. Don't you get that?"

"This—this is because I told that woman not to hire you, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It is. And all the nasty things you've been saying about me. You've affected my ability to earn a living. But I can't afford a lawyer. I can only afford photographs."

"So you admit it?"

"I can't really deny it. I'm in those photos."

Her face turned a badass shade of red that I didn't think humanly possible. She pushed past me and through the crowd to the 11x17 photo I'd hung on the bulletin board. Me and her hubby playing tonsil hockey. Him with his hands up my shirt. Most of my face was blocked by his head, but it was pretty obvious which green-eyed, blond haired woman her hubby was enjoying.

She couldn't blink the tears away anymore. They spilled over. She grabbed the photo, tore it down and stormed away.

"Don't you think that's a little over the top?" one of the older cops muttered. He gave me a shake of his head.

"No. Over the top would have been getting a picture of me giving him head."

He closed his eyes. Probably imaging that scene. On himself. "Yeah—it's harder to pretend the rumor are lies when you have photographic proof, isn't it?"

"Who says I'd go down on someone just for fun? Anyone who says that, I'll take them down, too."

"I don't doubt that. Now, go on, Fexler, get out of here. Go read a book on ethics or something. It might come in handy."

"Yeah, but it might also get in the way of revenge."

END

BIO: More than 50 Bo Fexler stories have been published. Visit www.bofexler.blogspot.com for links to those stories and more. The first Bo Fexler novel 'Sex and Violence' is complete and currently looking for agent to love it and feed it and find it nice home. I've done all this while teaching alternative high school and working three other part time jobs.

Powder Burn Flash # 88 - James C. Clar

2008-06-22T12:11:00.000-07:00

Amazing Grace

“How did you find me, Nick?”

“Shit, Jack. I’m over here doing a little job for Mr. S. He told me about this place so I stop in to light a candle for my mother – not many churches left with those little votive candles – and there you are puttering around the altar. What were the chances? I couldn’t believe it.”

Fr. John Byrne sat in a pew next to his old friend and former protégé. He thought for a few moments before responding. The sound of the ocean just across Kalakaua Avenue and the equally relentless hustle and bustle of Waikiki’s busiest sidewalks were muted by the wood and concrete of St. Augustine ’s-by-the Sea. The French-Gothic structure with the distinctive green copper roof also provided some welcome relief from the midday heat and humidity. Fr. Byrne knew that was the real reason why so many visitors stopped into the church each day. Even so, he sometimes deluded himself that his numerous guests were actually seeking spiritual renewal amid the tourist juggernaut that roared on the streets of the area day and night. Many of those same guests were surprised to learn that the church, built back in 1901, actually pre-dated the rabid development of the 70’s and 80’s.

Byrne’s rugged features were highlighted by the ocean-teal and sky- blue light streaming in through the giant stained glass window depicting the church’s namesake high over his left shoulder.

“What are you going to do about this Nicky? You know there’s still a price on my head, right?”

“No kidding … $50,000. Mr. Salvatore hasn’t forgiven you for refusing to do that last hit or for taking off like that. Besides, you’re a real liability out here ‘in the cold’. If the Feds ever got to you, hey, you could put a lot of people away … including me. Finding you like this was ‘the luck o’ the Irish’ I guess. Hiding out as a priest, shit! You’re a genius.”

“Listen, this wasn’t a scam. My conversion was real. I’ve found a home here and I’m doing good work. Nothing will ever make up for the way I led my life before but at least I’m making a positive contribution now.”

Nick Amaroso looked at his one time partner. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket then, remembering where he was, put them back.

“Sure. Sure. The thing is … that’s personal. I have to make a professional decision here, Jack.”

“Well, I’m not running. If you want me, you know where to find me.”

“Take it easy, Jack. I need some time to think. The truth is Mr. S. and I haven’t been getting along too well lately. Besides, I owe you. You taught me everything I know about the business. If it weren’t for you there’s no telling where I might have ended up. Hey, you want to hear something freaky? Last month I notched number eighteen. That’s your record, right? One more and I have you beat.”

Before Fr. Byrne could express his shame and regret, the two men were interrupted by the arrival of a noisy flock of Japanese tourists chattering away like birds. The clicking of their digital cameras added an even more pronounced avian note. As soon as the group left, Amaroso continued.

“I’m going to go for a walk, Jack. Do some thinking. You know in this same situation, if it were anybody else, I’d take care of things right now. Maybe I’ll be back … maybe not. Either way, it’s just business, right?”

“It’s never ‘just business’, Nicky. Remember? That was Lesson Number One. Anyhow, it was good to see you again, I guess. You always were a good soldier. Maybe you don’t know it, but you’ve already made your decision. See you around.”

******

Byrne spent the rest of the afternoon working on his homily for the coming Sunday. Around three o’clock he walked across the street and went for a swim. He came back, showered and then took up his position in the confessional. The rich scent of the varnished Koa wood was comforting. Forty minutes later, after the usual revelations concerning “impure thoughts” and affairs real or imagined, he recognized his old friend’s voice from the other side of the screen.

“I knew you’d be back, Nicky. It was inevitable.”

“What choice do I have, Jack? I can use the money and, maybe, this will get me back in Mr. Salvatore’s good graces.”

“You always have choices, Nick. But do you have enough courage to live with the results? As far, as grace goes, well, I’ve learned a lot about that during the last ten years.”

Before Nick Amaroso could respond, he heard the unmistakable “fupp,” “fupp” sound of two silenced rounds. The bullets tore through the thin partition separating the two sides of the confessional and struck him in the chest. He was alive just long enough to realize what had happened. “Damn,” he thought with his dying breath, “that was number nineteen.”

Fr. John Byrne never moved. He quickly punched a number into his cell phone.

“Salvatore? It’s Byrne. I did what you wanted. That wipes the slate clean, right? OK. Listen; put her on … I need to be sure … Máthair … are you alright?”

“Johnny? Of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be? That nice Mr. Salvatore and his staff have been treating me like royalty. He’s even putting me on a plane tonight so that I can come visit you in Hawaii . You’ll be there to pick me up at the airport, won’t you?”

Satisfied, Byrne ended the call after reassuring his mother. He had two hours before the parish council meeting. That was plenty of time to clean things up … after all he had considerable experience in such matters. What really worried him was the thought of entertaining his elderly mother for two weeks. Maybe Salvatore was still out to get him after all.

THE END

Updated BIO: James C. Clar lives and writes in upstate New York. His short fiction has been published in print and on the Internet. Most recently his work has appeared in The Taj Mahal Review, Everyday Fiction, Orchard Press Mysteries, MysteryAuthors.com, Long Story Short, Word Catalyst and Bewildering Stories.

Powder Burn Flash # 87 - Julie Morgan

2008-06-21T15:56:00.000-07:00

God's Chorister

'My laptop's been stolen.'

'Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry to hear that. But hey – you'd had it a while anyway.' He shifted in his seat, switched the phone to his other ear. 'Tell you what, I'll buy you a new one.'

'It's not that. You don't understand.'

'What is it, then?'

'We're on it.'

With those three words, Gabriel Priest's world crumbled. 'We're on it.' That she had been so stupid, so careless, that they could be exposed in this way, was unthinkable. He had warned her time and again about storing images and files securely. 'Don't leave anything on your hard drive. Get it off there, encrypt it, keep the data in a safe or something…' She'd laughed at him, thought him paranoid.

Gabriel took a series of deep breaths, tried to steady himself.

'What happened?'

She didn't reply immediately. He heard her breathing. Then, finally, she said; 'I left it on a train.'

'You stupid… anybody could have it! Anybody at all.' He pressed his fist to his forehead. 'Wait a minute. You said it had been stolen.'

'Soon as I was on the platform, I realised I didn't have it. I got straight back on once the crowd had cleared and went back to my seat.' He heard her swallow. 'It wasn't there.'

'When you say "We were on it", just how much…?'

'Everything. Us. And everything else.' He heard the doorbell ringing in the background. 'Gabe, I have to go. I'll call you back as soon as I can.'

'When?'

'What?'

'When did this happen?'

'Last night, coming back down from Manchester.' She hung up.

Gabriel sat and stared at the handset in disbelief. Hands shaking, he put the phone down on the rest.

The damn thing could be anywhere by now. It could be on eBay! Right now, some thieving little toerag could be beating the password protection, assuming there even was any password protection, and looking at…

He started to hyperventilate. Christ, this couldn't be happening, not to him! He was God's chorister, he had the primetime Sunday evening slot on television. Not one of those do-it-yourself channels either: even in his distress he sneered at the thought of Peter Stone, the cheap sets, the second rate backing singers. Gabriel had only the best; Gabriel was on the BBC.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Images danced through his brain, images that were very likely stored on Rebecca's laptop. It wasn't just the two of them, although that was bad enough. He was a pillar of the community, a paragon of virtue, a holy paradigm. If video footage of the things he and Rebecca got up to was made public… even in the mask, it was obviously him. In some of the clips, he was singing 'Jerusalem'. Then there were the boys from the choir, his trumpeting angels, as Rebecca called them, young and fresh-faced, doing his bidding because they trusted him, believed in him. How could he ever explain that! No-one at the BBC would understand that.

The BBC! What if someone gave the laptop to the BBC? It would be a major news story, for all he was one of their own, they would show him no mercy. He imagined the announcer, his voice deep, his expression grave, telling the nation of the downfall of Gabriel Priest. There'd be reporters chasing Faith down the street. She'd laughed about it when they pursued her before the wedding. He doubted she'd be laughing when this came out. If, he reminded himself. If this came out. He'd think of something.

The phone rang and he seized it. 'Rebecca!'

'Mr Priest?' It was a voice Gabriel didn't recognise. 'Gabriel Priest? That is you, isn't it?'

Gabriel's heart was in his mouth.

'My name is George Woodward. I'm the senior investigative reporter with The Sun newspaper. I have a laptop computer in my possession…'

Gabriel shrieked and threw down the phone. The Sun! The tabloids would have a field day, they loved nothing better than a fallen hero. It was so cruel, so unfair. They'd chase the kids, his mother, they'd hound the whole family.

And they would crucify him.

He realised he was standing up, arms out to the sides. He sat back down. He would go to prison. He would go to prison for a long time. There were people there who would… do things to him. Hurt him. Well, he wouldn't let it happen. He wouldn't. They weren't going to get him. He still had some choice in the matter. Tears were streaming down his face, but his mind was made up. Gabriel went out to the garage and quickly found what he was looking for. Within minutes, he was working the rope into a noose, looping the end over the roof beams in the loft. He stood at the edge of the hatch and eyed the drop; more than enough for his purposes.

***

Rebecca raised a glass of champagne in a gesture of salute to her companion. 'Cheers!' she said.

'Cheers, sweetheart.' Peter Stone drank deeply from the glass in his hand, then lay back against the pillows with a satisfied sigh. 'That was beautiful.'

She smiled, not sure whether he meant the sex or the meeting he'd just attended at the BBC when he had reluctantly accepted the recently vacated primetime religious programme slot. 'Do the voice again,' she urged him.

He obliged. 'My name is George Woodward. I'm the senior investigative reporter with The Sun newspaper. I have a laptop computer in my possession…'

They both cracked up laughing. Rebecca stood and retrieved the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket on the sideboard. She refilled their glasses, then as an afterthought moved her laptop to the desk, out of harm's way.

BIO: Julie Morgan lives by the seaside in the north east of England. She has previously been published on Muzzle Flash and (as Julie Wright) in Out of the Gutter, Flash Pan Alley and here on Powder Burn Flash.

Powder Burn Flash # 86 - Gay Kinman

2008-06-18T18:52:00.000-07:00

THE MYSTERY WRITER

"Hello, Ms. Sinclair. I'm Lt. Charles Blossom. I never worked with your husband, but you have my sincere condolences."

That's it! she thought, I'll name my character, Blossom...Lt. Lotus Blossom.

"I'm following up on some questions about his murder."

Ah--at this point she could bring in the goodgal/badguy, and then--

"Your husband was not living here?."

She noted his expression, a slight tightening of the muscles around the eyebrows. She could use that.

"We haven't lived together for seven months." And three days. Oh, poo, that's not what her heroine would say. She'd say...hmm what would she say? Maybe nothing. That's not right either. Couldn't have a story where the heroine said nothing. He made a note in his small notepad.

"I understand you're a mystery writer."

Casually said, like you have to keep busy with a hobby while your husband's at work. At work a lot. Supposedly.

"Yes."

"You've made a fair amount of money?" As though he considered anyone daft to pay for her words.

"I'm not starving." Good line for her heroine. It showed a little spunk.

"And your husband wanted half in the divorce proceedings?"

"My latest book became a best seller while we were married so under California community property law, he claimed half of that income. Now my other books are picking up considerably in sales."

He wanted half of that, too. Even the ones written B.V. Before Vince.

"What's puzzling me is that he was killed exactly the way the victim was killed in your latest book, the antique sword--everything."

She backed away. Bad cop. "This is not a casual visit to offer your condolences. This is an interrogation."

"Forgive me, Mrs. Sinclaire, I've not been known for my good manners. All I want to do is clear up a few things."

Good cop?

She didn't think so. "I know the spouse is the first person to be suspected. And me, probably more than anyone. I mean I wrote the book on it." She spurted a laugh. Was she babbling? Maybe she was putting a noose around her neck. No, in California it was a lethal injection.

"Killing your husband in the same manner and circumstances does seem like someone was trying to be sure you were the prime suspect." His eyes stared into hers. Beautiful sea green.

A love interest for her heroine? She glanced at his hand. No wedding ring. She knew most cops didn't wear them. Vince's excuse had been that his ring might get caught on something and rip off his finger. Ha!

"Do you have any idea who might want to frame you?"

She shook her head. She knew she had to come up with someone for the book she was writing now.

"The other thing that puzzles me is the fact that your husband had been here--dead--for possibly ten hours before his partner found him. How do you explain that?"

"I didn't know he was here. I've kept the door of the den closed ever since he left." Ever since I kicked him out. "I never go in there."

That's where Vince spent all of his time--whenever he decided to come home. Watching TV, drinking a case of beer and acting like the obnoxious pig he turned out to be.

"He still had a key?"

She nodded. Locking him out was the first thing her attorney told her to do when she filed for divorce. She hadn't gotten around to it. Sometimes procrastination paid off.

"Who else has a key?"

"My cleaning lady, my housesitter--I can't think of anyone else."

"Is there someone who might have had access to your keys?"

"I have one hidden in the car." Every thief in the world would know where to look.

More notes.

"Tell me your schedule on the day of the murder."

"I left about eleven, dropped of my car for service--"

"Did you leave your house keys?"

"Oh. Yes."

"And then what?"

"I met a friend for lunch, but you already have her name and number."

"Then what did you do?"

"I picked up my car, came home at about three and worked on my novel--I'm quite close to the deadline. I wrote until about one in the morning and then went to bed."

Until awakened by Vince's partner who was looking for him as he hadn't shown up work. And found him. In the den. The front door wide open.

Actually she had been in the hall earlier. She heard the key in the front door and there he was, walking in like he owned the place, like he still lived there, with her family's heirloom civil war sword in its scabbard clutched in his hand. The one he had taken with him, knowing what it meant to her. Drunk, smelling like the floor of the worst beer joint in the world. He'd gone into the den and turned on the TV. Just like old times.

"I'm moving back in," he had said.

"Oh, has your latest girlfriend thrown you out? Did you think you could return anytime? Kudos to the chickie who had enough sense to dump you." But her sarcasm had been lost on him.

"Whose prints are on the sword?" Time for her to ask a few questions. Who wanted a passive heroine.

"Wiped clean."

"How many times was he stabbed?"

"Just the once."

Every mystery writers knows than once indicated the murderer was involved emotionally with the victim, so stabbed many times to vent hostility and anger. Once only indicated that the murderer wanted him dead, nothing personal. Could have been a burglar, especially since the front door was wide open.

"Another thing I found curious was you stated you were working in your office while your husband was being murdered and you didn't hear anything--no cries for help, no voices. According to the Coroner, the death occurred between 6 and 10 pm."

Actually it was 7:08.

BIO: Dr. Gay Toltl Kinman has eight award nominations for her writing, including three Agatha Award nominations; several short stories in American and English magazines and anthologies; eight children's books; a Y.A. gothic novel; two adult mysteries; several short plays produced; over one hundred and fifty articles in professional journals and newspapers; co-edited two non-fiction books; and writes three book review columns, and articles for two newspapers. Kinman has library and law degrees. http://gaykinman.com

Powder Burn Flash # 85 - Michael Knowles

2008-06-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

The New Face of Terror

MacDonald stood beside his Ford in the middle of a field. He had found a path leading off Highland Road just minutes away from the car wash. He was in the shade of a tree watching the car, moving his eyes only to check the second hand on his watch.

Birds had settled near MacDonald and the car. They ventured closer and closer to the still figures until a series of pops sounded from under the hood. Smoke billowed out from the car obscuring the birds as they flew away.

“Eight minutes twenty-three seconds,” he said to himself before opening the driver side door, turning off the engine, and walking to another nearby tree. He sat in the shade and opened the plastic wrapper on a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. MacDonald relaxed in the shade chain chewing the gum. As soon as the flavour was pounded out of the piece in his mouth, he spit it out and started on another. He finished seven pieces under the tree before he got up to feel the hood of the car; it was cool. He popped the hood and reached into the engine; his hand disappeared into a cavern that was just big enough for his fist. He dragged a tinfoil pouch from the warm cave and dusted away the spent smoke bombs inside. He pulled eight more of the smoke bombs he had bought at a nearby convenience store out of his pocket, put them inside the dusty pouch, and slid the pouch back under the hood.

MacDonald slammed the hood, set his watch for eight minutes, and got behind the wheel. He drove the Ford out of the field and onto the road making sure to stir up as much dust as possible.
One minute and eight seconds later, he felt the tires bounce over the curb of the Hamilton mosque parking lot. The mosque was set back from the street and shared its parking lot with Hamilton Mountain Bowl. On any other day, the building was quiet and unassuming. Today, the building was a hub of activity.

Young children held signs decorated with cartoon bubbles and prices. Fourten dollars, the children would wash a car; SUVs cost five dollars extra. It was an expensive car wash but another sign, designed by an adult hand, explained that all proceeds went towards a private Muslim school in Hamilton. Only the public and Catholic schools in Ontario received provincial funding, so the other faith based schools had to drum up financial support any way they could. It wasn’t unusual to see children on the streets raising money for some activity or cause every weekend of the year. None of the children working the car wash looked to be in need of money themselves. The hijabs on the young girls were made of expensive fabrics with intricate patterns, and they boys all wore high-end running shoes. They beamed perfect orthodontic smiles at him through the windshield as they waved him in.

MacDonald pulled up to the rabble of children and got out of the Ford, leaving the engine running.

“Your car is still on,” a young girl in a red hijab said.

MacDonald bent to the tiny girl and smiled. “I don’t want it to get hot while I wait.”

“We can wash it?” She smiled a little brighter at the prospect of a sale.

“That depends little lady. What is my money going towards?”

“We are trying to raise five thousand dollars for new uniforms. All our teams need new ones. When we play the other teams from Burlington and Mississauga, we look so gross. I had to wear number five last time and it…”

“Little lady, school uniforms are important and I would be happy to help. Give the car the works.”

“Yes, sir.” She flashed one last hundred-watt smile then motioned the crowd of waiting children over. They attacked the car like jackals on an antelope. Some of the children were even bold enough to climb on top of the trunk to reach the roof.

MacDonald checked his watch; four minutes eighteen seconds had elapsed. He caught the attention of the girl in the red hijab and motioned her over.

“Do you know a Mr. Zarar?”

The little girl shook her head. “Not Mr. Zarar, Mrs. Zarar. She is in charge of our car wash. She runs all of our fundraising. She’s so nice.”

MacDonald stared at the girl for a second until he noticed that his mouth was hanging open. He closed his mouth and asked the girl, “Could you point her out?”

The little girl pointed with a tiny finger. “She’s over there. In that lawn chair.”

MacDonald followed the pointing finger and saw an old woman alone in a lawn chair. She was beside the building so that she was shielded from the midday sun.

“Thank you, little lady.” He looked over her head at the Ford. “The car is looking better already.”

“We’re not even done yet. You just wait!”

The little girl ran back to the car while MacDonald walked over to the woman in the lawn chair. As he approached, the old woman caught sight of him and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare coming off the wet car. When she could see him clearly, she squinted at him as though she were deciphering an eye-test chart.

“Yes?” Her tone was serious.

“Ma’am, I hear you’re the one in charge of this event. I just wanted to pay up for the car wash.”

She squinted a little less. “I’m sorry young man, these hands aren’t nimble enough to count money anymore. The children’s teacher will collect your money when you leave.” She gestured to a woman in her thirties watching the children from a shady patch of pavement.

“I will do that ma’am. If I can’t pay you, I’d just like to tell you what a good job I think you’re doing. It’s a shame the government doesn’t give you more funding. Sometimes I hate my bosses; they can be so unfair.”

“You work for the government then?”

“Guilty.”

“Yes, they can be unfair.” She was squinting again and her tone was quiet and distant as though it were trying to follow her mind to whatever memory it had gone to.

“Fundraising like this is hard to do, but sometimes people have to take it upon themselves to make things right. I am a firm believer that the government isn’t perfect, and that on occasion people have to take things into their own hands to do what’s right.”

“You are very right, young man; very right indeed.”

“Don’t I know it. I hear this isn’t even your first fundraiser. Six months back you almost made ten thousand selling chocolate door-to-door all over the city. Those poor kids must have worked hard for that. Before that, you raised a couple thousand by having a walk-a-thon. I bet everyone must have walked plenty for that kind of money.”

“It seems little Jameela told you many things about our charities.”

“Oh, I already knew some things. I also know that things can be expensive these days. Gas is up, grain is up, heck water is a dollar twenty-five a bottle. You know what I’m talking about, I mean school uniforms are five thousand dollars these days. That kind of money could buy an African village food for a year. It could even buy a crate of RPG’s for a group of rebels in Afghanistan.”

Mrs. Zarar squinted harder at MacDonald and her lips moved a silent curse.

“Yep, five grand will get you a crate of circa 1980’s rocket propelled grenades. Perfect for cooking soldiers and dignitaries inside their Humvees. The Afghan rebels don’t have government funding, so they have to beg, barrow, and steal. And they’re not picky about who they get their money from.”

MacDonald turned his head to look back at the car wash. The car was being hosed off. Little Jameela waved to him and he waved back. His sleeve rode up his arm as he waved and he saw seven minutes had passed.

“They are not rebels.”

MacDonald turned back to Mrs. Zarar.

“They are soldiers fighting an unjust occupation. Afghanistan is a sovereign land and your country tramples it in order to install its own Western puppet regime. We Afghani people have never surrendered to anyone. My husband died forcing the Soviets off the sand and back to the Russian snow. And when the West crushed our homeland under its boot, my son went home to make sure his father did not die just to see another superpower take our home. I will not let my son perish as his father did; in the mountains, hiding like a rat. I do what needs to be done. I raise funds so that he and the other Mujahideen can make sure our land remains ours.”

“My teacher says it is time to pay.”

Both MacDonald and Mrs. Zarar turned to look at the young girl who had snuck up behind them.
MacDonald slid his hand inside his suit jacket. “I got my wallet right here little lady. But I need your help. I have to leave pretty soon. Can you go back over there and supervise your crew? I need you to make sure they hurry up and dry off the car.”

“Okay,” Jameela said as she ran, screaming orders, back to the other workers. “Hurry up everybody!”

MacDonald looked back at Mrs. Zarar and watched her stare at the little girl running back to the car. He kept his hand inside his jacket.

“I met your boy.”

“Faisal?” Her eyes found MacDonald. There was no squinting anymore; they were open in terror.

“Yeah, I caught up with him after he took out a convoy I was in with a mortar your walk-a-thon paid for. Those mortars took out a high-ranking government official and four soldiers; the kids would be so proud. I tracked down your boy and he and I got to talking. It took some sweating…”

“Sweating?”

“It’s a technical term Mrs. Zarar. I put some effort into getting your boy’s story.”

“Oh, God.”

“Like I said, it took some sweating, but he eventually told me that he was the one who paid for the mortars; he even let slip that he had funded some RPG’s that were on the way. Faisal showed me that the battlefield was much bigger than I thought. Long story short, I had some time off after your mortars did their job, so I decided to follow the money. I gotta admit, I didn’t see you or this car wash coming, but that’s the wholepoint isn’t it? You’re part of the new face of terrorism.”

“I am no terrorist.”

“But your not honest either. How many bake sales went towards killing infidels instead of books? You might not consider yourself a terrorist, but I think you’re smart enough to know what side of the board you’re on.”

“Then I am to be arrested?”

“No, no arrests. Just a new game, and a new face for our side.”

Low pops came from the car and the kids screamed. Mrs. Zarar shot a worried glance to the children. The final pops made the FUPP, from ten feet in front of her, inaudible. She barely felt the bullet enter her heart.

MacDonald holstered the gun and jogged back to the car. He had his phone in his hand by the time he reached the Ford.

“Get the kids inside the mosque! I don’t know what that smoke is, but it doesn’t look safe. I’ll call for help. Move!”

The children and their teacher ran into the mosque as MacDonald slid behind the wheel. None of the children noticed the body slumped in the lawn chair in the shadow of the building. The smoke dissipated as the Ford picked up speed. Rapidly disappearing in the rear view mirror, MacDonald saw the empty lot littered with hoses, buckets, and the lone body of Mrs.Zarar.

He was on the expressway within two minutes; moving away from the car wash and onto the next name.

BIO: Mike Knowles is a Canadian writer. His first book, Darwin's Nightmare, is out this year under ECW press.

Shifting Gears Flash Challenge

2008-06-15T10:40:00.000-07:00

Hi All,

Listed below are a few of the Shifting Gears Flash Challenge put together by Patti Abbott and Gerald So. After you read John McAuley's and Sandra Seaman's flashes check out the list below. Hope you enjoy reading these instead of putting $4 plus gas in your vehicle......

Flash Fiction Challenge-The challenge was to use the line "With gas/ (diesel/petrol) prices rising, our (their) plans had to change" in a 750 word or less flash fiction piece.
Here are the takers.

http://crimespace.ning.com/profiles/blog/show?id=537324%3ABlogPost%3A145823

http://deadman-r2.blogspot.com/

http://sandrascoppettone.blogspot.com/

http://wellesfan.blogspot.com/

http://geraldso.blogspot.com/

http://johnmcfetridge.blogspot.com/

http://pattinase.blogspot.com/

http://powderburnflash.blogspot.com/

http://cormacwrites.blogspot.com/

Shifting Gears Flash - John McAuley

2008-06-15T10:37:00.000-07:00

SHELL GAME

With gas prices rising, their plans had to change.

They were down to sawing off Danny's legs when they heard the helicopter.

"Fuck. I bet they ain't just looking for our crop."

"Godamnit Eddie! I told you we shouldn't do this on our own property. We should'a spent the fifty bucks to drive him up north and do it."

The End

My third novel and my first decent advance payment. My publisher thinks this book is the big one. Most of the money will go to pay my medical bills. I'll keep what's left for myself. It should come out to a couple of thousand dollars for each bruise and broken bone.

The waste of DNA I'd married already had the check in hand. "So when you cash this we can go to the casino?"

"Sure. You've never been across the Mackinac Bridge to the upper peninsula have you?"

"Nope. They got casino's up there?"

"Sure do."

"Long way from Detroit ain't it? I don't wanna' piss away any more cash on gas than we have too. It'll cut in to the slot money."

" It will only be about fifty dollars. "

Shifting Gears Flash - Sandra Seamans

2008-06-15T10:33:00.000-07:00

RABBIT IN A TRAP
by Sandra Seamans

Cindi felt the plaster and lath walls of her cage creeping closer, squeezing the air from her lungs. She grabbed the television remote, punching up the volume until the sound waves forced the encroaching walls to retreat. Another hour and her husband, Jim, would be home and their apartment wouldn't feel so claustrophobic.

"Breathe, girl, you've got to breathe," she muttered. In and out. In and out until her heartbeats slowed and the sweat dried cold on her body.

A fist pounding on the door slammed her heart back into high gear. She hit mute on the remote, trying to pretend she wasn’t there, praying the door wouldn’t surrender to the assault on its wooden panels. Today was the first Friday of the month, and the landlord was busy ambushing paychecks before they got swilled back at the local bar or pumped into some monster 4X4's gas tank.

Cindi shuddered. She couldn't stand how the man looked at her. Booley Jackson made her feel like she was walking around naked, his leering eyes slowly raping her. She needed to breathe. In and out. Her heartbeats slowing with the sound of Jim’s truck wheeling into the driveway.

Jim was the hub of her world. Without him, she didn't exist. His vague promise of a nice little doublewide was the only dream she permitted herself, but even that dream was fading. After buying gas, beer and accessories for Jim's toys there was barely enough left to pay the rent let alone buy a house. With the price of gas rising, their plans had to change. Shivering, she remembered Booley's lewd jokes about a flat-backing exchange.

A key scratched in the lock. Cindi ran to her husband, throwing her arms around his grease-streaked coveralls, the scent of gasoline wrapping around her like a snare.

Leaning back, she looked up into his face, "Booley stopped by for the rent."

He pushed her away. "Yeah, I talked to him when I came in. We settled on a payment plan." Jim didn't look at her, just started jamming clothes into his duffle bag. "Don't bother fixing supper, I'm outta here for the weekend."

"What kind of payments?" she asked.

"Don't go pitching one of your hissy fits. You know how things are. I've sold damn near everything we own. You'd best be nice to Booley this weekend or we'll find ourselves living in a briar patch."

“You ain’t sold everything.”

“You expect me to sell my truck? Maybe walk to work?”

“No, not the truck. You could sell your motorcycle, the boat, and the four wheeler. If you sold those gas guzzlers we could afford to buy a house.”

“A house? We’re barely making ends meet and you want to buy a house?”

“I could get a job, help pay the bills.”

“You ain't getting a job. I seen them wives who work, thinkin’ they’re better’n their husbands just because they make a few dollars. Out there strutting their goods, looking to step up in the world. I won’t have no wife of mine looking down her nose at me.”

“I can’t get a job but I can spread my legs to pay the rent?”

“If you really love me, you'll take care of Booley without making a fuss.”

Jim slammed out of the apartment. Cindi heard his motorcycle kick to life, heard him roar off down the road, then Booley came knocking.

“Breathe, girl. In and out. In and out,” screamed her brain as Booley's heavy body pounded her into the mattress.

Rent collecting done, Booley said, “You ain’t much, are you?”

Cindi trembled beneath the sheets, relief flooding through her body as Booley zipped his pants and crossed the room to leave. His parting shot shattered her life.

“You’d best get used to me, girl, cause your husband and I made a deal. You’re mine for the weekend and I’m guessing this’ll be his regular method of payment from here on in. Oh, and don't bother getting dressed, I'll be back."

Tears bubbled up in Cindi's eyes, her world exploding with the realization that she was nothing more than an untapped piggy bank to her husband. Her hands fumbled under the mattress, searching for the gun Jim kept hidden there.

The sound of Boolie’s returning footsteps in the hall gave her courage. “Breathe deep, girl, you can do this,” she muttered. Her heart shifted down as she slid the barrel of the gun into her mouth.

END

Powder Burn Flash # 84 - Bradley Mason Hamlin

2008-06-14T16:39:00.000-07:00

A TICKET TO RENO

Otis set down his beer can on the park bench, took a moment to feel the sun on his neck, and turned to look at his friend Floyd. “I’m gonna kill somebody,” he said, “just you know, to feel ‘em die.”

Floyd chuckled. “Ya mean, like that Johnny Cash song?”

“No, duckweed. I said feel, not watch.”

“In Reno ?” Floyd asked. “Ya gonna do it in Reno ?”

“Fuck Reno . What’s in Reno ? You’d have to kill somebody just to make something happen in Reno .”

“Well,” said Floyd, “this is Sacramento . There’s lots to do. Sunny fuckin California . Have another beer. You don’t have to kill anybody.”

Otis drained his can and opened another. “A man gets tired of being brave,” he said.

“Who said that?” Floyd asked. “You didn’t think that, somebody else …”

Otis grabbed Floyd around the fat skin of the throat and squeezed. He dug his fingers into the sickly softness and watched the eyes bulge like baby balloons as smelly beer gurgled out of Floyd’s mouth.

He tried to pull away, tried to force off Otis’s hands, tried to kick at Otis’s gut. He even scratched at Otis’s face, but Otis felt more determined than Floyd, felt more determined on the inside and didn’t care about superficial wounds to the outer being.

Otis squeezed, fiercely, waiting, waiting and watching Floyd die …

Floyd’s body shuddered as if in some secret wonderful orgasm; his bloated tongue stuck out his fat lips like a wet parking ticket, and it was over.

Otis let out a long sigh, more out of boredom than relief. He just didn’t feel as much as he thought he might. He remembered watching his cat give birth to a litter of kittens in the garage and that carried much more feeling than this. He felt something stir inside his gut watching those little cats pop out all new and fresh and gooey like oven-baked cookies, just a little underdone. Floyd’s eyes popping out in a dead blank fishy stare and the snarl on his white face felt more like an inconvenience than anything else.

Otis finished his beer, then finished Floyd’s. The Greyhound bus station was just a few blocks downtown and a ticket to Reno didn’t cost that much.

THE END

Mystery Island Publications
www.mysteryisland.net

Powder Burn Flash # 83 - James C. Clar

2008-05-22T16:11:00.000-07:00

Beach Rubble

With the crystal tones of Ella Fitzgerald trickling softly from the speakers tucked into the rafters above him, Ben Apana watched as the distinguished looking man with silver hair strode imperiously up the white coral steps and entered the Royal Hawaiian Coffee Company Café in the tower wing of the Moana Surfrider Hotel.

Ben was sitting at a table in front of an open window that looked out on Kalakaua Avenue in the heart of Waikiki . Not even the high cost of living on Oahu could ever make Ben consider moving. It wasn't that Ben was rich, shit, far from it. But after retiring from the Honolulu Police Department, he had gone back to graduate school. For the past three years he'd been teaching English at the University of Hawaii . With that plus his pension and his work doing a little informal “private investigating” he made a decent living. And every morning he got to wake up in paradise. This particular morning, however, he had an appointment with a guy who reminded him that, even in paradise, there were still more than a few snakes slithering around in the sea grass.

“You better have something for me,” the man with the silver mane barked as he took a seat across from Ben. “I don't have any time to waste. So let’s get this over with.”

Ben slid a manila envelope across the table and took a sip of coffee. He noticed that, even in the July heat, his client was wearing a business suit instead of the ubiquitous aloha attire.

“So you got it, did you, proof that the bitch is cheating on me. As soon as we're finished I'm going to my lawyer.”

Ben slid a little further back in his chair. At the counter the young barista all but sang what might have passed for some weird litany in an arcane Latin ritual: “Vente latte double mocha … Dominus vobiscum … “

“You better take a look first, Councilman Brillande. It’s never a good thing to jump in until you know just how deep the water is. A Kama’aina like you should know better.”

“Don't lecture me,” the local politician spat. “I paid you to do a job and you’ve done it. And it damn well took you long enough.”

Ben took another sip. He was beginning to enjoy this. “Listen,” he said. “These things take time. Sometimes you never know what’s going to turn up in an investigation; dead ends, false starts and more than a few wasted hours. It all paid off, though. I can't wait for you to see what I have.”

Sensing something in the ex-cop’s tone, the councilman tore open the envelope and removed a series of five digital prints. Brillande took one look at the photos and, with a few furtive glances around him, began to tear the pictures into tiny pieces.

“How did you get these? I'm not the one I paid you to investigate.”

“You hired me to follow your wife. She’s actually quite nice. I can see why you two don't get along. Three months and I couldn't find one hint of infidelity. I can only speculate as to the causes, but it seems that she began to have her own doubts about your, um, appetites. She was actually following you … pretty good at it, too. I watched her, she watched you. ‘Elementary, my dear Watson’.”

Ben drank some more coffee. The over-dressed man across from him was beginning to perspire.

“How much money do you want? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it … blackmail? You bleed me dry to keep these pictures out of the papers.”

“The papers,” Ben answered with surprise. “Listen, no paper would print these things. We’re talking felony level offenses here. Besides, from what little I know about this sort of thing, it’s probably only the tip of the iceberg.”

“It was only the one time, I had no idea how old he ….”

“Please,” Ben interjected, “don't insult me. I don't want any more of your money. You're going to withdraw quietly from public life. Say you want to spend more time with your family. In the meantime, here’s the name of someone you're going to contact, someone who might be able to help you with your compulsion.”

Apana shoved a business card across the table. The councilman almost recoiled.

“You have no idea who you're playing with,” Brillande hissed. “I can make you disappear.”

“Sure. You probably could. But you won't. My lawyer has copies of all my notes and of those pictures. If I so much as stub my toe coming out of Mass at St. Augustine ’s, you're screwed. Take the card. Do what you've been told and get the hell away from me.”

“I can tolerate your insolent tone,” the man in the suit responded with the death throes of his old swagger, “but don't get sanctimonious on me.”

“Yeah, well, like most men I have my weaknesses but they're not criminal. If I don't read about your ‘retirement’ by Saturday and if my buddy on the card hasn't heard from you by Monday your reputation, and most probably your freedom, is a thing of the past.”

Brillande was beaten and he knew it. He grabbed the proffered business card as he stood up. “I hired you to do a job for me,” he said, “not ruin my life.”

“Hey, it’s like an ancient Greek poet said, ‘if you're squeamish, don't stir the beach rubble’. You stirred the beach rubble …‘Sucks to be you’.”

The councilman turned on his heel and walked away. He descended the steps and, within seconds, disappeared in the crowd of pedestrians as he headed off in the direction of Diamond Head and the intersection of Kaiulani Avenue . Ben’s Kona coffee had gotten cold. He finished it anyway. Something about the bitter taste in the beautiful tropical setting seemed somehow just right.

THE END

Powder Burn Flash # 82 - Robert Aquino Dollesin

2008-05-18T18:40:00.000-07:00

Personal Business

Gil. Talk about a pancake. Guy finds out his wife’s getting hammered by a coworker and what’s the first thing he does? He calls me up to ask if he should apologize for neglecting her.

“Sure,” I say. “Buy her some roses, too. Hell, why not go all out and bring home a stone.”

“I’m serious,” Gil says. “She went outside the marriage because I never made time for her.”

So naturally, I want to know -- since he’s got a handle on his wife’s affair -- why he’s wasting his dime on me.

“I want Trixie’s lover offed,” he says.

“I don’t do domestic disputes.” Sure, I’m in the business of leveling the playing field, but I don’t get involved with domestics. Too crazy. Too unpredictable. Too emotional.

“But we’re practically brothers,” Gil says.

“If I do it for you . . . word gets out and next thing you know every jellybean whose wife spins a fling starts wanting a personal favor. It’s not good business to get involved in personal shit.”

Gil, after pausing on the phone for a few moments, says, “I’d do it for you.”

I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Would you?”

“You know I would.”

God damn pancake. Forced my fucking hand. “So you’re saying you’d off yourself for me.

“When Gil doesn’t answer right away, I can almost feel his fear bolting right through the phone line. What’d he think? That I didn’t know?

Charlotte, loafing on the living-room sofa, turns down the volume on the television. Good. She needs to hear this, too.

Gil finally breaks his silence, speaks: “I’m not sure I get what you’re saying.”

I try real hard to keep anger out of my tone. “So I’m what, Gil? A sap? You don‘t think I know you’ve been banging Charlotte?”

Charlotte glances up, wide-eyed. I narrow my eyes, can almost see beads of sweat bubbling up on her forehead.

“It’s not like that. I mean --” But Gil’s brain is spinning faster than he can slap the sentences together.

Charlotte’s still staring. She’s scratching an elbow and blinking a lot.

“I have to get going,” Gil says. In the earpiece, his voice is quavering.

“No.” I reply. “Not yet. Besides, Charlotte wants to say good-bye to you.”

On the sofa, Charlotte stiffens. Her eyes grow even rounder.

“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says. “Let’s you and I talk about this.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing. Talking.” I raise my free hand, point to Charlotte, curl my finger to call her over. “Hold on. She’s coming.”

Charlotte shakes her head.“Oh. I guess she doesn’t want to talk right now. Too bad.” Then I tell Gil, whose breathing has grown quick, that Charlotte’s not going to say goodbye after all.”

“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says again. “Don’t do anything hasty.”

I wait a minute before answering. Then I say, “You’re right Gil. Let me try your approach.”

Gil doesn’t say anything. Charlotte doesn’t move.

Still holding the phone, I address Charlotte, saying “Babe. Sorry I neglected to find time for you.” I reach inside my coat, withdraw my revolver, thumb the hammer back.

“Not like this,” Charlotte says, real soft. “Please, Ricky, not like this.”

“What’re you doing?” Gil says, his voice in a desperate panic. “What are you doing, Ricardo?”

I squeeze the trigger. Charlotte falls back into the coffee table. Shit crashes everywhere. I breathe in the sulfuric odor and place the revolver on the kitchen counter. Then I raise the receiver to my mouth, say to Gil, “No. Your way didn’t work so well. My way didn‘t either, but what the hell.”

The phone on the other end crashes down into its cradle. I go over to the sofa and sit down, grab the remote and start searching channels. Charlotte’s on top of the collapsed coffee table, a forearm over her face. The bullet entered her throat. Blood is still containing, arterial spray littering the whole damned place.

I check my watch. Gil. What a fucking pancake. He won’t be hard to find. Some pancakes -- they just don’t have the sense to listen. After all, I did try to convince him getting involved with domestic strife was too emotional.

***

BIO: Robert Aquino Dollesin was still a kid when he left the Philippines. He now resides in Sacramento, where he writes now and again. Among numerous other venues, some of his work can be found on Storyglossia, Nossa Morte, Big Stupid Review, and forthcoming in Thug Lit.

Powder Flash Burn # 81 - Ed Lynskey

2008-05-14T19:57:00.000-07:00

The Last Stakeout

“After tonight, no more stakeouts,” Gerald told me again.

I hugged my ribs for warmth. We sat in my car as unlikely partners: a PI and a bounty hunter.

Gerald tipped his chin. “Put on the damn heater.”

I shook my head. “Can’t risk it. He’ll see the exhaust.”

“Hercules ain’t returning here.”

“This is our best shot to grab him up.” I paused. “That’s some name, eh?”

“Yeah, Hercules . . . isn’t that some punk-ass rapper?”

“I don’t want any cut. This is a favor to you.”

“Frank, you earned it, the same as me.” Gerald fixed his eyes on the two-story apartment building. “Do we go toss his crib?”

“We better chill out for a while longer.”

Scraping my cold palms together, I thought back. Hercules skipping his court appearance was now a fled felon. Bad move. Gerald’s boss held the bond. What’s more, Latasha, Hercules’ latest human punching bag, was Gerald’s ex-girlfriend. He shifted in his seat and I heard a crinkly noise -- cellophane. My glance darted over at him.

“Man, you can’t fire up a smoke. He’ll see it.”

Repocketing the cigarette pack, Gerald gave me a snort. “I hate doing stakeouts.”

“You’ve had it worse. Anyway how’s Latasha?”

“That home girl is tough stuff, Frank.”

“Uh-huh. You’re still sweet on the said home girl?”

“All you PIs have big nose problems. Put on some bluegrass.”

My nod agreed with his point about PIs. “But no bluegrass tunes. You know you’re a walking contradiction, don’t you?”

“How so? Can’t a ten-ton brother dig listening to bluegrass music?”

“Yep, a walking contradiction.” My palms created more sandpapery sound to get them warm. I could see the puffs of my breath. “You can’t tune up Hercules either.”

“I already know it. My boss says I have to work harder and ‘establish a rapport with the bail jumper’. Her new touchy-feely approach is total bullshit. Sometimes it takes the application of due force.”

“Your boss is right. Look at it as a challenge.”

“Shut up, Frank.” Cracking his knuckles, Gerald stretched his legs. “Time?”

Squinting, I counted the luminous dial tips to my wristwatch. “Quarter past two.”

“After tonight, no more stakeouts.”

“Stakeouts go with your job.”

“This job is unpredictable. Dangerous. Fast.”

I gave a chuckle. “Sounds right up your alley.”

Gerald sat bolt upright. “Yo, who’s that?”

My pulse kicking into overdrive, I followed his head jerk and spotted the taillights to the car flashing red. I heard the distinctive two-note snick to a chambered niner. But my eyes stayed pinned on the car braking under a mercury vapor lamp. A man-form hauled out of the car and froze behind the open door, sniffing the air as if for any trouble.

“Tall, thin build. Yep, that’s our boy Hercules.”

Stirring, I reached for the door handle but Gerald’s huge pawmashed into my chest.

“No Frank, this one I do solo. Just keep the engine running.”

“You’ve never made a collar before without back-up. What’s going on here?”

His voice roughening into a growl, Gerald tightened his fingers and balled up my coat front to lift me from the car seat. “I said this is my party. You’re only the wheelman. Catch?”

I did my best to shrug at the big man. “Sure, whatever you say, Gerald.”

“All right, that sounds better.” Gerald turned lose his grip and I dropped back into the car seat. “Sorry to get rough with you. But you need to understand this thing.” Our eyes fixed on the man-form stalking back to stand by the car’s taillights. “Hercules won’t hurt Latasha again. I promised her. Okay, on my signal, I want you to crank up the engine.”

I looked confused. “What signal?”

“You’ll know it when you hear it.”

I didn’t like how that sounded. Gerald was too vague. “This better go down easy. Hear me?”

“Uh-huh. Just remember you’re the wheelman. That’s it.”

“Right. I’m Jeff Gordon.”

Satisfied, Gerald bounded out of my car, crouched in the knees, and padded across the pavement. My own niner remained on the dashboard. Too many damn guns, I brooded. By now Gerald had crossed the parking lot. The man-form giving us his back stood there, sizing up Latasha’s apartment building as if plotting away up to her apartment, bust her up, and sneak back out. Hercules was a real stand-up guy, all right.

My hand fumbled at the steering column. “Shit!” I’d dropped the keys to the dark floor mat. My eyes left Gerald as I groped my hands between my shoes, looking for the keys.

Bang!

The gunshot belched out and my head snapped up. I saw Gerald’s silhouette in a classic Weaver’s stance not six paces away from the red-lit taillights. The shot Hercules had crumbled to sprawl across the trunk like a hunter’s trophy buck.

After flipping on the map light, I picked up the found keys. I slotted the right one into the ignition switch and rotated my wrist. The V-8 engine kindled to life. Just then a wad of bile flushed up into my mouth, but I didn’t look over at the cut down Hercules. I hadn’t seen a damn thing.

“Last stakeout, my ass,” I said, rattling down my window. “He just didn’t say whose last stakeout this one is.”

Gerald slammed open the door and vaulted into the shotgun seat. “Okay Frank, floor it.”

Hawking, I tried to spit out my disgust. My shoe goosed the gas pedal and the back tires smoked before we spurted down the street.

“You doing okay, Frank?” Gerald yelled over to me.

“I’m just the wheelman,” I said, my eyes riveted on the windshield. “I didn’t see a damn thing.”

Gerald nodded. “Right. And a promise is a promise.”

The End

BIO: Ed Lynskey's third title, PELHAM FELL HERE, will be published inJune 2008 from Mundania Press.

Powder Burn Flash # 80 - James C. Clar

2008-04-21T19:56:00.000-07:00

Rogue Wave

“What a great idea this was, Edward. I'll never forget today. In some ways it means more to me than our wedding day.”

“'Liz, you know I'd do anything for you,” Edward responded as he looked lovingly at his wife.

The couple, along with four of their closest friends, rode in a limousine provided by the Princeville Resort. Off to their right, the blue-green waters of Hanelai Bay sparkled in the mid-morning sunshine. The only person who looked somewhat uncomfortable was the priest who was also provided through the auspices of their hotel. With his deeply tanned skin and silver hair, it was easier to picture him on a golf course somewhere rather than doing quickie weddings or, in this case, presiding over a renewal of wedding vows for wealthy tourists at Kauai ’s most upscale resort. Oh well. Even if the padre only got a percentage of the outrageous fee they'd been charged to arrange this whole shebang – multiplied by the hundreds of these he must do each year – Edward was sure the old duffer made a pretty good living. Nice work if you can get it, Edward thought, recalling that great old Gershwin tune. I might have to look into the gig myself.

Speaking of nice gigs, Edward had to admit that he'd had a pretty damn good run. He had married Elizabeth because of her money; there was no getting around it. In the ten years they'd been together, though, he had at least developed something akin to affection for her. In the last two or three years, however, ‘Liz had really begun looking her age … a few new wrinkles here, a few extra folds there … at forty-six she was fourteen years older than Edward. He shuddered to think about what the next decade would bring. In all honesty he questioned his ability to bear up under that kind of strain. People were already starting to stare at the couple when they went out to dinner or the theater or to one of those charity affairs Elizabeth insisted on attending. Shit, he felt like some kind of low-rent gigolo or half-assed escort. If it weren't for the fact that his wife was loaded, ole’ Edward would have lit out for the territory ahead … like yesterday already!

Edward’s thoughts were interrupted by the driver. “Here we are,” the young Filipino in chauffeur’s livery said over his shoulder to his passengers as he turned the vehicle into a small roadside pull-off. “You see where that trail starts? The beach is right down there. Watch your step, though, the trail is steep and it can be muddy. Ladies, especially, you don’t want to ruin those dresses.”

Lumaha’i Beach: Edward had really done his research in selecting this location. Used as a backdrop in South Pacific when Mitzi Gaynor – did anybody even remember who she was these days? – sang “Gonna Wash That Man Right out of My Hair,” it was reputed to be one of the most beautiful and romantic beaches in the world. Movie buff that she was, Elizabeth had been ecstatic when Edward suggested that they fly to Kauai for their tenth anniversary and renew their weddings vows in such a famous and picturesque spot.

Once the party reached its destination – dubbed “ Tourist Beach ” by the locals – everyone commented on how magnificent a location it really was. With its brilliant white sand, majestic palm trees swaying lithely in the tropical breezes and the waves crashing against the pulverized coral that had been deposited at the water’s edge, it would be difficult to imagine a more beguiling place. Elizabeth felt like she was twenty years old again.

Edward posed for pictures with is wife both before and after the brief renewal ceremony. He was careful that they always faced the ocean. “Hey, Elizabeth ,” Edward said to his wife at one point, “let me get a shot of you alone. Why don’t you stand over here?”

Elizabeth agreed and posed with her back to the sea … the better, Edward had explained, to capture her beauty against the majesty of sand, sea and sky.

Motioning with his arm, Edward had her back up almost to the water’s edge. Camera in hand, he remained about ten or fifteen feet away. Only the priest seemed alarmed when he noticed where Elizabeth was standing. Before the older man could open his mouth in warning, a rogue-wave at least five feet high crashed over ‘Liz’s head. Only her dress sandals remained on the wet, glistening sand when the surge subsided. Before the onlookers could even register their shock, another wave deposited Elizabeth ’s lifeless body back on shore.

…

Two days later, after all the tiresome arrangements had been made concerning Elizabeth ’s mortal remains, Edward packed and got ready to return to the mainland. Their friends – ‘Liz’s friends, actually – had left yesterday. Edward had been glad to see them go; here he was in friggin’ Hawaii and he had to play the role of the grieving widower. Son-of-a-bitch! He returned his rental car at the airport in Lihu’e and grabbed something to eat at one of the kiosks in the small terminal building. Just before boarding his flight, he took out his cell phone and hit a number on speed dial.

“Sara … yeah, listen. It went great. It had to be the freakiest think I've ever seen. But everything I read about that damn beach turned out to be true. What? … No …The insurance and the will won't be any problem. There were five witnesses to what happened. I'm supposed to land around 9:30 your time. See you then … I love you too.”

Edward was almost looking forward to the long flight. It would give him a chance to do some reading. He had to start searching for a special place to take Sara on their tenth anniversary.

THE END

BIO: "James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK) and WORD SLAW."

Powder Burn Flash #79 - Michael Knowles

2008-04-18T22:59:00.000-07:00

Ten For the Price of One

“This is one outstanding sandwich. I had no idea a little convenience store like this even sold fresh sandwiches.”

“Thank you, my friend. Are you sure you would like only one? You look like two or three would be more appropriate.”

“No, no one is enough. Say, could you turn up the television? I want to see what the Prime Minister has to say about that poor dead boy.”

“Fucking Canadian Government! One soldier dies and they lower the flag. One man gets a national symbol. What about the people he helped kill? Where is their symbol, my friend?”

“You don’t support the war in Afghanistan?”

“My friend, I am Afghanistan. My country is no better with you there. Taliban we knew; with you people, there is no order at all”

“I’m not there, I’m here. So are you.”

“My friend I am here, but my mind has never left the land of my father. I raise support everyday for my brothers in the struggle.”

“Oh yeah? Raise how?”

“I send funds back to my army.”

“You mean jihadists.”

“We are nothing so fundamental my friend. It is not jihad on the ground; it is war. Jihad is for the imams in the mosque.”

“Ironic.”

“What is ironic, my friend?”

“That I’m a government employee eating in your fine establishment.”

“And why is this irony?”

“I do government work, get paid a government wage. By eating here, I’m sponsoring terrorism.”

“Not terrorism - a noble war effort against an unjust occupation. Terrorism is so subjective. In my home, it is your employers who are the terrorists.”

“Why are you here then? Why not stay and fight in your war?”

“My friend, what I do here does more for my people than what ten of me could accomplish on my home soil.”

“Aren’t you worried about the government? What if they find out about what you are doing?”

“Worry? What is there to worry about? Your country is civilized is it not? You will not murder me. You will simply send me home. And before long, I will be back. It has happened before and it will happen again. You see, your meal is not ironic; it is part of a chain of ignorance. Your employer lets me exist; they even gave me a business grant. Your patronage is just another extension of you country’s ignorant hospitality.”

“Well, whatever it is, the sandwich sure is good.”

“Thank you, my friend. But tell me, what do you do for your country?”

“I serve, like you, just not with sandwiches.”

“How do you serve then?”

“I assess risk. I find out the best way to solve a situation. It’s a good job. I get to lug this briefcase all over the world. ”

“Where will you travel next?”

“I’ll be home for a while. My last trip overseas showed me the real risk was not where I thought it was.”

“Where is it then?”

“At home, in places you’d never expect. But enough of that, I’ve talked your ear off long enough. My lunch break is over and I have to get back to work. How much do I owe you for the sandwich?”

“Three seventy-five.”

Three loonies and three quarters hit the counter.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have much left for a tip.”

“My friend, your money will do plenty. I thank you and my people thank you.”

“Let me check my inside pocket. There we go, I found something.”

“Wonderful, my friend.”

“What do you tip on a sandwich worth three seventy-five? Ten percent?”

“It is up to you.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I just happen to have a .38.”

FUPP. The sound of the body hitting the floor was louder than the silenced shot. The government man holstered his gun and threw the rest of the sandwich in the garbage. He took out his phone and dialled the number for a clean, prepaid, phone as he walked away from Hasty Market.

“It’s MacDonald. Everything went fine… No, no one saw anything. I think the sandwiches keep most people away. I’m moving onto the next name… I don’t care if you don’t think it’s wise. My down time is my own. The way I see it, it’s like there will be ten less people waiting for me when I meet you in Kabul.

MacDonald ended the call and got into his car. He checked his watch then started the engine. He put the Ford in drive and waited with his foot on the break. Through the windshield, he watched the Hasty Market tremble before sending its glass out onto the pavement ahead of the explosion inside. No one watched MacDonald leave the parking lot; everyone’s eyeswere on the fire.

Powder Burn Flash # 78 - James C. Clar

2008-04-15T11:09:00.000-07:00

Trouble In Paradise

Amir sat at a table beneath the famed banyan tree on the ocean side of the Moana Surfrider Hotel in Waikiki . It was December 6th and night had fallen as it usually does in the islands, like a soft curtain of midnight blue velvet. On the veranda stage behind him a small combo worked its way through yet another rendition of “Blue Hawaii.” He sipped his guava juice and watched the lights of a giant container ship about one-half mile off-shore pass behind the eastern flank of Diamond Head . The freighter disappeared into the inky tropical darkness. A moment later he looked up to see an older, Asian man in khakis and an Aloha shirt approach his table.

“Excuse me,” the stranger said, “but you look like a ‘local’. I was wondering if you know of anywhere decent to eat within walking distance of here?”

Amir expected someone younger. The man’s ethnicity was also somewhat perplexing. Nevertheless, he was too well trained to betray his surprise. “Maybe,” he replied. “What type of food are you interested in?”

“I was thinking Thai, perhaps.”

That cinched it. The reference to Thai cuisine was the key. With that, Amir took his pen and, grabbing a cocktail napkin, began writing. A moment or two later, he folded the napkin in half and offered it to the man.

“About five or ten minutes west of here, where Kalakaua and Kuhio Avenues intersect, there’s a place called Keo’s. You can't go wrong.”

“Thank you,” the Asian gentleman said as he accepted the proffered paper. “My family will be quite appreciative.” He turned on his heel and walked away. Amir lost sight of his erstwhile companion as the man mounted the steps to the veranda and made his way across the crowded hotel lobby.

About fifteen minutes later Amir, too, left. He glanced over at the band as he walked past the stage. This time the musicians were attempting to inject new life into “Little Grass Shack” but the tune seemed to be beyond the point of resuscitation. He climbed the main staircase and returned to his room on the second floor of the stately hotel. He showered and then packed. He was in bed and asleep in less than thirty minutes He had an early start in the morning. His flight left at 7:15 A.M. HST.

A quarter-past seven, that was four hours before the president’s motorcade left the airport and headed for the annual December 7th commemoration of the attack on Pearl Harbor. It had taken Amir nearly five months to cultivate his sources and ferret out the exact details of that route. Allah willing, with the information that he had just passed to his contact, the American president would never reach his destination. If all went according to plan, Amir himself would be well on his way back home by that time.

The next morning at 5:00 A.M. he exited the hotel via the marble staircase that led to the porte cochère. He stopped at the bell desk and requested a taxi. As he was waiting, he sensed a presence at his elbow. Slowly, deliberately he turned and came face to face with his contact form the previous evening.

“I wanted to thank you again for the tip about that Thai restaurant. We had a wonderful meal. We’re leaving today as well. I'm just sorry that we didn't discover that place earlier in our stay. We most certainly would have eaten there another time as well.”

Amir was speechless. Either he had made an egregious mistake or this man was one of the boldest and most iconoclastic operatives he had ever encountered.

“By the way,” the man continued, “the directions on that napkin made absolutely no sense whatsoever. I threw it out after spending nearly twenty minutes studying the map in one of those tourist publications you find everywhere here. You must have been confused. Fortunately your verbal instructions were accurate and easy to follow. Again, thank you so much for your kindness. I assumed that you were a resident. For a visitor you're remarkably well informed.”

Amir was rendered speechless. Without really being aware of what he was doing, he bowed in response to the man’s gesture. Once again, the Asian turned and, without another word, walked to the street where he and a group of eight or nine other Japanese climbed aboard a small shuttle bus that, presumably, was taking them to the airport.

Amir turned to the bell captain and explained that his plans had changed. There was no point in returning home. He had failed in his mission and, given the timing and the meager resources at his disposal, redemption was an utter impossibility. It might take days or weeks, but retribution was inevitable. He would welcome it when it came. For now, he would continue to enjoy what remained of his time in paradise He descended the stairs to the street. He turned right and, as he passed the police substation just past Kaiulani Street , he noticed the sun beginning to rise over the ocean to the East. He would find a place on the beach to pray. Then, after a light breakfast, he would look for somewhere more economical to stay until his masters came for him.

THE END

BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).

Powder Burn Flash # 77 - Ron Richardson

2008-04-11T21:14:00.000-07:00

THE PAUSE

Grady O’Toole was a born loser. On the up side of sixty, he lived in a seedy neighborhood above a Vietnamese grocery store. His one room flat was as hopeless as he was.

Unable to sleep because of the heat, Grady rose at first light, padded to the open window and stared down on his personal hell. He wiped his brow, scratched his belly, and sucked down the dregs of a longneck left from the night before. Hung over, he was thinking of ice cubes and aspirin when there was a loud knock at the door.

Grady groaned. “Who in the . . .”

Another knock.

“Hold your horses, I’m comin’.” He pulled on a pair of soiled pants and crossed to the door.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

Grady twisted the key in the lock and cracked the door.

“Ah, good morning, Mister O’Toole.” A tall man smiled and slid a shiny business card through the opening. “ My name is Benjamin, may I come in?”

“No.”

“Please, I have something to show you, it won’t take long.”

Pause.

“What is it?”

“I’ll have to show you,” Benjamin said.

Curious, Grady pulled the door open. “Okay, you gotta minute.”

“Over here,” Grady pointed towards the open window, “catch the breeze.” He dragged a chair across the room. “Sit,” he ordered Benjamin.

Grady leaned against the wall, crossed his arms. “ Show me. Make it quick.”

Benjamin opened his briefcase and removed a laptop and a DVD. He held it up so Grady could see it. “It’s a DVD. Do you agree, Mister O’Toole?”

“Yeah,” he said, “so what?”

“On this DVD is your life in living color. I have been directed by my client to show you one minute of your past, anywhere you choose. Think about it, Sir. Where would you like to spend the next minute?”

Grady jerked a cigarette from a crumpled pack, lit it, inhaled, exhaled, stalling. “Is this some kinda sick joke?”

“No sir,” Benjamin said, “ it’s no joke. Give it a try. What have you got to lose? Now, where would you like to go?”

Grady pushed away from the wall. He cracked his knuckles, opened his mouth, “Uh . . .” closed it. Opened it again, “Okay, okay let me think about it.”

Benjamin smiled. “Take your time.”

Finally, “Lets go to the summer of 1957.”

“A special time Mister O’Toole?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Pause.

“I was ten,” Grady began, “my dad took me swimming for the first time. He bet me a burger and coke I couldn’t do a back flip off the high dive. He didn’t even know if I could swim.”

Grady stared at the ceiling, remembering, gathering words.

“He was always tryin’ to make me look bad.”

Grady smiled.

“I tell you, I was scared. He kept yellin’, ‘come on chicken, come on chicken!’ over and over, laughin’at me.”

Grady stubbed out his cigarette, lit another.

“A perfect flip, that’s what it was. I’ll never forget the look on his face. Man, you should have seen it. I think he was disappointed I didn’t belly flop.”

Grady felt good.

“He’s been dead a long time.” He shook his head. “ No matter, that’s what I want to see, that sorry look on his face.”

Benjamin turned on the computer and inserted the DVD. His finger touched rewind.

“So be it, Mister O’Toole.”

The machine whirred and stopped. “Is this the right place?” he asked.

Grady looked at the screen. Bile rose in his throat. Excited he said, “Yeah, it’s the right one.”

“I’ll press play now and for the next sixty seconds you will relive that minute. Are you ready?”

No answer.

“Mister O’Toole?”

“Yeah.”

The figures came alive and began to move. He saw himself wave a skinny arm at his taunting dad. He walked to the end of the diving board, bounced, and jumped. He flew through the air in a perfect back flip. Down he went in slow motion.

Grady watched, waiting for that golden moment.

“Five, four . . .” Benjamin counted the last seconds. “Two . . .”

At one second, a manicured finger touched pause. The machine ground to a stop. Grady’s perfect flip was frozen one inch above the water, forever. He was cruelly robbed by Benjamin of that happy moment, seeing once again his father’s silly face.

“Hey! What’s goin’ on?” Grady blurted.

Without a word, Benjamin switched off the machine and stowed it in his briefcase. He walked to the door, turned and spoke to the shocked Grady, “Your father sends you a message . . . ‘once a loser, always a loser’.”

BIO: Ron is a native Texan. He spent time in the Navy in the early 50's. He is married, a college graduate and a retired air traffic controller. Soon after retirement he began to write mainly as a hobby. He has completed several college level creative writing courses and is active in two fiction writers groups. He is a member of Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. Ron has been published by LITBITS.CA, ESC! magazine and Powder Burn Flash. He also received an honorable mention in flash fiction from Byline magazine.

Powder Burn Flash # 76 - James C. Clar

2008-04-07T00:55:00.000-07:00

LOYALTY

“I let it go longer than I should have,” Vince Toscano said to the man in the sport jacket standing in front of the desk, “because you've been such a loyal employee. Anything I've ever asked you to do, you've done.”

“I know that, ‘Mr. T’, I know that.” Freddie Zito replied. He resisted the urge to reach up and wipe the sweat off his brow. God knows he'd seen lots of these kinds of meetings over the years. This was the first time he'd been the one on the “business end.” It gave him a whole new perspective on things, that’s for damn sure.

“The thing is, Freddie, if I let you get away with it, well, you know how it goes. Discipline, that’s what it’s all about in this business. I have to set an example. Not even one of ‘my boys’ can get a break. You owe $25,000 in gambling debts plus the ‘vig. With your habit, you'll never make good on the money. God only knows what you'll do, who you'll talk to, in order to get out from under. I can't take those kinds of chances. Never have, never will. No one lasts very long if they do. You know it’s nothing personal.”

Toscano clapped his hands and two guys, each the size of your average office building, moved quietly into the room. They took up positions on either side of Zito … and just behind him.

“Please, Mr. Toscano, give me another week. I swear on my mother’s grave I'll get you your money.”

“Freddie, it’s not about the money any more. You understand. I promise you we'll take good care of your wife and kids. I haven't forgotten the way you looked after Mrs. Toscano when I was in the hospital last year. Somebody else might have taken advantage of the situation, you know what I mean?” Sally Toscano was in her early-thirties, nearly half the age of her husband. She was also hot enough to melt the polar ice-caps. “Boys ...”

With that the two behemoths flanking Zito moved forward. Instead of grabbing hold of the hapless man, however, they both drew weapons.

“Easy, boys,” Toscano said with surprise in his voice. He had used these two guys before and they were good. “What the hell are you doing? Not here. You know better. And listen … make it quick and clean. I owe him that.”

The two thugs didn't respond. Instead, they leveled their guns at Toscano.

“What was I gonna do, ‘Mr. T’? Zito began. I owe you and I owe Falcone. He offered me a way out. Said if I took care of you he'd forgive my debt and pay me enough so that I could take a little vacation in the Caribbean and give Sal and Johnny here a cut as well. Maybe if you'd given me more time? But, hey, like you said, it’s just business.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Toscano chuckled nervously. “I should have seen this coming. I should have taken care of it sooner.”

“Yea, well, everybody makes mistakes. Listen, as far as Mrs. Toscano is concerned, you can rest easy. She'll be in good hands.”

At the mention of his wife, Toscano’s eyes blazed. Almost imperceptibly he moved his right hand toward the drawer of his desk. Just as his fingertips reached their destination, two gunshots sounded. One bullet struck Toscano in the middle of his forehead. The other caught him in the throat. He was dead before he tumbled backward out of his chair.

“Get this mess cleaned up,” Zito told Sal and Johnny as he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. The smell of cordite was strong in the small confines of the room. “Do just what we talked about. And remember, loyalty means everything in this business … Sally, yea, it’s me …”

END

BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).

Powder Burn Flash # 75 - William Brazill

2008-04-04T13:50:00.001-07:00

Taking Back the Night

“Foreign Legion,” she thought as she saw the four young men approaching on the dusk-dimmed street.

They were dressed in civilian clothes but she could easily identify them. Their close-cropped hair, their forearms muscled, developed, carrying the intimation of power unchecked and intimidating. But more. They wore their clothes awkwardly, as if being used to uniforms made them uneasy in anything else, men in disguise, animals wearing borrowed skins that did not alter their identity. There was the almost-strut, straight-backed, as if the parade ground were the natural environment and its step the natural gait, a stride meant to signal ownership, this place is ours. And the smirking way they leered at women, their military status awarding them the entitlement to see any female as an object of use and abuse, as if there were no more to a female than her anatomy, the contours of her body meant for the pleasure of their explorations.

Still, as they maneuvered the street, their eyes were watchful, distrustful, ever-scanning, as if they sensed they were in a world that could suddenly dissolve into chaos, into something incomprehensible and menacing. Fear, she suddenly understood, underlay their arrogance.

She slowed her walk, aware that, sloe-eyed and high-cheekboned, her skin toned the color of rich mocha, she cast an aura of exotic sensuality that readily ensnared European men.

She turned her back to them, sensing their eyes scanning her body and measuring her supple movements as they imagined the lithe body draped inside the sensuously swaying folds of silk. One of them shouted at her in words that she could not comprehend, in a language she did not know. But they did not speak to one another, only making sounds, grunts, as if lust had reduced them to the primitive level of pre-speech, as if words were too complex, too civilized to express the throb of what they felt.

She walked slowly, confident that they would follow. With the lapse of each minute they surrendered more and more of their wariness, their helpless attraction to her became a depth that swallowed their minds and wills. Her barefoot steps took her along the street, down alleys, into shuttered walkways, through one turn after another, leading them into the serpentine labyrinth of the Quartier Bouna, where the indigenous population, the natives, lived. They followed, propelled by visions of the night of savage sex that awaited them. The air changed, new scents that stimulated their imaginations, shadows darkening into blackness, unfamiliar sounds that diminished finally into a silence that wariness should have identified as a warning.

Her pace lessened slightly as she passed through a gateway into a courtyard. The four followed, the closeness of lust-to-be-fulfilled dulling all their instincts and training. As she passed through the gate on the far end of the courtyard, she heard new sounds behind her, bodies colliding, struggle, muted cries, the distinctive sounds of violence committed with a lethality meant to be delivered with little noise. Then the suddenness of total silence.

She continued. Her pace now became a stride, the parade step of conquest. Her mind raced not in thoughts but in slogans: “Four more victims! Another victory of the Armed Front for National Liberation in its struggle for independence! Ownership of our country being re-established!” Slogans were now her language.

She made her way back to the square in the central city, knowing that other victims awaited and the night offered unlimited opportunities to be taken back.

BIO: William Brazill lives and writes fiction on the banks of the Potomac River in Virginia. His most recent stories have been published in LitBits, Amsterdam Scriptum, Electric Acorn, and Long Story Short.

Powder Burn Flash # 74 - Pearce Hansen

2008-04-01T20:33:00.000-07:00

PARAPLEGIC KILLER CHIMP

You heard me. See, my wife cheats. That ain’t automatically bad: Her hygiene’s always been out of left field, and she craves dick like a goat on Spanish Fly. Wants it way more than I can supply if you catch my drift. Suffice it to say I’m no Ron Jeremy.

I don’t mind as long as she’s discrete. But when I find the strange’s smelly drawers in my bathroom, or I pass guys on the stoop exiting my house still tugging up their zippers and thanking me for my wife’s skills? You can imagine what goes through a guy’s pulsing brain.

So I’m reading this article in the paper about some Chimpanzee at the local Zoo that’s had a spinal injury. Poor Chimpo’s paralyzed from the waist down, they’ve even given him a wheelchair.

I get to feeling sorry for that chimp. I mean, his only job in the world was for zoo-goers to gawk at him, and to throw occasional clumps of his own shit at them to liven things up. Now he can’t even do that minimalism. He’s as useless as me. He’ll push himself around in that wheel chair until he dies, probably in protective custody from the other chimps. See, I’d heard chimps even commit murder on their own kind; they’re advanced that way just like us humans.

That’s when it occurs to me: maybe me and Chimpo could help each other out.

I rent a second story Industrial, and break Chimpo out of the zoo, wheelchair and all. I set him up in that rental and take care of him. Get him to trust me. It ain’t fun: Did you know chimps can’t be potty trained? Chimpo has a grand time crapping his wheelchair until I finally stock up on disposable diapers.

I’ll spare you the details of our training program, but graduation goes like this: At night, when no one’s around, I take Chimpo outside into the alley and give him a boost to the fire escape. See, his lower body is useless, but that upper body of his works just fine.
He climbs up hand over hand, and then crawls through the window with his legs dragging and dead. He clambers up the bed that’s in there, reaches into the gunny sack hanging from his shoulder, and pulls out the 38 that’s in there and shoots all six of the blanks it’s loaded with. He empties that pistol full of blanks into the department store mannequin I have lying under the covers. I even have a wig on the mannequin, about the color and texture of my slut wife’s hair.

Chimpo’s easy to train, he’s smart. I teach him that if he does all those steps right and in order, that he gets a pack of smokes and an eighth of Old Overcoat to suck on. Yeah, it’s hilarious watching Chimpo chain smoke and chug at his bottle. Guess I’m just lucky he doesn’t have more expensive taste in his alcohol.

So then it’s the night. I take Chimpo to the building me and my wife lived in. I listen long enough to know she doesn’t have any gentlemen callers – I can tell because she’s a screamer, the whole building knows when she’s entertaining.

But our apartment is silent as the tomb.

Up the fire escape and through the window Chimpo goes, only this time the 38 in his bag is loaded with live rounds. I wait for the gun shots signaling my wife’s departure to hell. When those shots come I’ll fade and Chimpo will be left holding the bag, literally I suppose.

I wait, but no shots come. So I creep up the fire escape and peek in the window. It’s dim inside, but something’s happening on the bed, shapes are thrashing around. Then the screaming starts.

It’s my wife screaming, and Chimpo too, like they’re killing each other. Then the lamp next to the bed goes on and I see what’s happening in my bed.

My wife has a strap-on dildo buckled around Chimpo’s waist and she’s riding him cowgirl style; staring me right in the eyes. Fuckin monkey’s dick may be limp and paralyzed; but he knows exactly what’s happening, they’re both screaming jungle love at each other. As I cringe away, I realize she knows I’m out there, and she turned on the light deliberately, she wants me to see.

Those monkey house orgy screams mock me as I stumble away down the street.

But never say die, right? I heard about this gorilla at a Zoo in the next town over. Old Kong there has a spinal cord injury like my Chimpo, but way worse. Kong’s a quadriplegic; they’re training him to make his electric wheelchair go by blowing in a plastic tube. Kong is especially useless, just like me. Just like Chimpo before my wife turned him into a sex toy.

I’ll break Kong out of his zoo, I’ll put a remote control unit in his electric wheelchair and then I’ll strap a plastic explosive suicide vest on his chest, just like those towel-heads do over in Iraq.

Problem is, I’ll only be able to get at Chimpo and my wife when they’re in a handicap access area -- but that's where they'll be anyways, right?.

Powder Burn Flash # 73 - Clair Dickson

2008-03-28T10:45:00.000-07:00

FAMILY RESEMBLANCE
A Bo Fexler Short Story

She put her head in her hands and sobbed. "You lied to me!" she wailed to the table.

"Yeah. Sure." I wanted a cigarette, but the little cafeteria nestled into the front corner of the retail giant prohibited most vices. "Explain that to me, if you would?"

"You said you'd find my real father!"

"I said I would investigate your claim that your father is not your biological father."

She shook her head and lifted it to give me an angry, childish glare. She was barely eighteen, with a body that would be great for nubile porn, but a tendency to act like prepubescent. She was, in spite of her appearance, still a child. I don't remember being that young or juvenile. "He's NOT!" she growled at me through a clenched jaw.

"You wanna keep paying me, I'll keep talking to people. I already talked to your aunts, your mother's friends from high school, other folks who went to school with her, a long-lost boyfriend, a former best friend, college roommates. No one has any reason to even think that your mother slept with anyone but your father after senior prom. I also talked to a lab that, for a nice, hefty fee, will do a paternity test. I also have a current address for your father."

"I know where he lives!"

"Ah. Wasn't sure about that. I read those letters your mother wrote, and talked to your father about them--"

"He's NOT my father!"

A few people were staring. I was tempted to write up a sign indicating that I was a private investigator. For all this drama, maybe I could drum up some business. But I kept my fingers woven together, my expression impassive. "Your father told me what the secret was that your mother was referring to. It was that she had cheated on her Algebra final. Remember she had all As. Because of the pregnancy, she'd been kind of freaked out and cheated on the final. She got away with it, but it weighed on her conscience."

"No. That's a lie."

"Do you want to do a paternity test?"

She glared at me, tears running down her face like they were fleeing the intensity of her emotion. "Why don't you believe me!"

"I believe that you think you're father's not really your father."

"I don't look anything like him!"

"Great. I'm a genetic freak myself! I don't look anything like either of my parents, who are dark haired. My father has hazel eyes. I am a collection of all the recessive traits in my family."

"Maybe you're not really their kid, you ever think of that?"

"Is this because your father left your mother? You don't want to be related to this man?"

"I'm not related to him!"

"Then let's do a paternity test. Shit, I'll pay."

Her lower lip was trembling. She lowered her head and her dark hair swung forward, hiding her face from me.

"What's the problem?"

"I-- I don't like needles."

"Cotton swab in the mouth. No needle."

"My mother told me when she was dying that family is more than shared blood. She meant something by that!"

"That's the trigger, isn't it? That's the catalyst that sent you hunting for your 'real' father. Did it ever occur to you that you made the wrong hasty conclusion?"

"What are you talking about?" She snuffled and ran the back of her hand across her nose. And I would probably shake that hand when I left.

"Your mother and her friend Abby both got pregnant on prom night. Not entirely uncommon, in my experience. I found Abby and she doesn't have a child. She told me that she lost the baby at birth. But I looked it up. There's no record of her birthing a still born. In fact, there's no record of her having a baby at all."

"So what?" She'd lost interest like a cat asked to fetch.

"So. I went back to talk to her. She admitted that she gave the baby up for adoption. It's not uncommon for a new birth certificate to be drawn up, thus hiding the evidence. Then she explained that your father talked her and your mother into a three some on prom night. Abby got pregnant. She knew who the father was. Your father. She didn't want the baby, and a scheme was hatched. Your mother and Abby carried out this ruse, making your father think that your mother was the one carrying his child, from their prom night romp. They kept your father out of the delivery room. Your mother adopted the baby-- you. And Abby told everyone that she lost her baby in childbirth. Not entirely a lie."

"Why-- why wouldn't my mother tell me this?"

"Well, according to Abby, your mother rather liked the threesome."

"Oh. She was pretty… straight-laced," she said with a small smile.

"No. You misunderstand. She liked having sex with another woman. That is why your father left. Because your mother told him she was a lesbian and therefore their marriage was a sham. He only admitted it in a fit of anger after I badgered the shit out of him. He's not real fond of homosexuality."

"My mother-- a dyke?" Her face contorted.

"Well, see-- you are your father's daughter!"

I didn't shake her hand as I stood up and strode out, long black sweater duster fluttering after me.

THE END

BIO: Clair writes Bo Fexler short stories when she's not teaching alternative high school. More than thirty other Bo Fexler stories have darkened doorways with their presence. Short stories certainly have more of that instant gratification Clair needs some days after teaching her darling students. Or trying to teach them. Keep up with Bo at http://www.bofexler.blogspot.com/

Powder Burn Flash # 72 - James C. Clar

2008-03-27T18:09:00.000-07:00

BAND OF BROTHERS

Ed Dodd sat on a bench behind the Waikiki Aquarium and watched the waves crash against the break wall in front of him. The coconut palms rustled dryly overhead in the trade winds. The power at his condo down where Kalakaua and Coconut Avenues intersected had been out since earlier that morning. Grabbing his mail on the way down the stairs, he had walked to the Starbucks on Kapahulu to get coffee. He stopped on the way back home to watch the surfers just off shore. A power outage; of all days for something freaky like that to happen! After all, it was forty-five years ago to the day that Ed Dodd had murdered his older brother.

Sitting in the bright sunshine absentmindedly sorting through his mail, Ed remembered it like it was yesterday. He and Mike had been jumping off a railroad bridge into the canal back home in upstate New York . Ed had been fifteen. Two years older, Mike had been taunting his younger sibling and showing off. While Mike was standing on the railing ready to dive, Ed ran up behind his brother and pushed. The older boy’s wet feet slipped and he tumbled. His head slammed against the trestle on the way down. Ed could still hear the hollow, ringing sound. They never recovered his body. Of course Ed lied to the police and fire-rescue crew. He said simply that Mike had been clowning around and fell awkwardly. The story had been all-too plausible and no one had any reason to doubt his word. Ed had been living with and running from that lie ever since.

The stress of their son’s death had been too much for Ed’s parents. They divorced shortly after that tragic day. His father went AWOL and the teenager lived with his mother amid constant recrimination and a succession of men she called her “boyfriend.” When he turned eighteen in 1966, Ed joined the Marines. He served three tours with the 1st Military Division in Vietnam . He almost hoped that he’d “buy the farm” in-country, but he survived. He was still waiting for his “luck” to run out. Karma might be one slow-moving bitch, but she was inexorable.

Ed sipped his coffee and worked his way through the pile of mail on his lap. One item caught his attention. It was a small envelope bearing only his name and address in red. The postmark was from somewhere in California . Ed read the message inside: “Eddie, my brother, remember what happened all those years ago? Pretty soon, everybody else is going to know too.”

Ed’s heart skipped a beat and he started to perspire. It couldn't be! True, they never found Mike’s body. He often wondered what it might be like if his brother had survived only to reappear some day, but there had to be another explanation. Shit, he had to relax. His doctor had warned him that he was a stroke or a heart attack waiting to happen. Ed put the mysterious note in his shirt pocket and continued opening the rest of his mail. At the bottom of the stack was a postcard emblazoned with the 1st Military Division insignia. It was an invitation to a reunion next month at the Sheraton Waikiki.

Suddenly, it all made sense. The enigmatic note had to be from his old friend Pat O’Sullivan. He and ‘Sully had spent three memorable days of R & R here on Oahu in 1969. Ed hadn't seen him in forty years. ‘Sully must have tracked him to Hawaii and figured that they'd meet up at the reunion. He recalled that his buddy was forever quoting some bullshit speech from Shakespeare about how the men in their division were a “band of brothers.” 'Sully hadn't known how ironic that was!

O’Sullivan must be talking about that wild night they picked up those two girls vacationing from Texas . That visit had been the reason why, after leaving the Corps, Ed decided to settle on Oahu . That plus the fact that Hawaii was as far away from New York as you could get and still speak English.

Breathing easier, Ed finished his coffee and stood up. He made his way to the sidewalk that ran along Kalakaua Avenue . The midday sun was blindingly bright but the iron wood tress that grew on this stretch of the broad roadway offered at least some shade. Five minutes later, he began climbing the steps to the second floor of his building. As he reached the landing, something niggled uncomfortably at his memory. Ed seemed to recall seeing Pat O’Sullivan’s name a few years ago in the necrology section of a 1st MDIV newsletter. Son-of-a-bitch, if he was right, ‘Sully had died back in ’05 or ’06.

Ed’s heart was pounding again. He began walking down the open-air hallway to the door of his apartment. Suddenly he heard footsteps behind him. He spun round but, as his eyes hadn't adjusted to the dimness of the corridor, he couldn't really see who it was.

“Hey, brother,” the figure seemed to be saying in a gruff voice. Ed never heard the rest. His heart exploded in his chest as he collapsed to the floor.

“Listen,” the guy from the Hawaiian Electric Company said thirty minutes later to the policeman taking his statement, “I just got to the second floor and saw this dude walkin’ in front of me. I figured he was a tenant. I wanted to tell him that the power would be back on in fifteen minutes. I said ‘hey, bruddah’ and he dropped dead. How ya figure dat?”

“Don't sweat it, man. It wasn't your fault. When your number’s up, your number’s up.”

“I guess you're right,” the shaken utility man said as he turned to leave. He mouthed the words “Hang loose” as he descended the stairs to the street.

The cop made a fist and, extending his pinky and thumb, gave it a shake in return. ”You too, bruddah. You too.”

The End

BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, MYSTERY REVIEW and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).

Powder Burn Flash # 71 - Mike Knowles

2008-03-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

Mouth Full

“You can imagine my surprise. I stop in to Little Saigon for a little of that spicy soup I like, and what do I see? I see you walking out of a store with a bunch a rice pickers. Then they pass you a bag and you bow to those little motherfuckers. It all fell into place after that. The Twelve Buddha’s have been making grabs at our territory for months. The little bastards are goddamned good at it too. They knock off our guys and set up so fucking perfectly that life carries on just as it was. Junkies keep getting their fixes and dealers keep getting paid – only we don’t get our money anymore. The fucking slants get it. No one knew how it was going down, but everybody knew that there was an inside man. Julian put out the word that the boss will turn over twenty-five large to whoever brings inthe piece of shit that’s selling us out. So I guess I got a prize with my soup – a rat worth twenty five g’s.”

“….”

“What you got nothing to say Greene?”

“Mmm nnnn hmm mmm.”

“What’s that? I didn’t catch it. Hard to talk with a gun in your mouth?”

Vincent was pleased with himself. He had been “connected” since he was twelve, but he never broke through. He never made it big. Now he had a real shot at the big time. He was going to waltz the traitor in and wait for his reward and his pat on the back. He never figured a man like Greene to be a two-timer, but it didn’t matter – he caught him in the wrong part of town, with a bag from the wrong people. He didn’t know what was in the bag. It was probably cash - payment for selling out to the Twelve Buddha’s. After he called Julian, the boss’ right hand, and turned over the bag, Vincent knew he would soon be on a first name basis with Paolo Donati. “Vincent,” he would say. “I need someone to handle a job for me. Someone I can trust to handle my affairs. I know you are that man.”Vincent knew that everything was about to change. No one would be calling him Vinny anymore, or worse Bobarino. People would respect him because they would know that he was the kind of guy who knew how to take care of business. The kind of guy who deserved a bonus.

“What’s in the bag Greene?”

“Mmm nnnn hmm mmm.”

“What’s that? I should have it. You’re probably right – cause you won’t be needing it.”

“Mmm nnnn hmm mmm.” Greene’s eyes were glued to the bag as he mouthed incoherently around the gun barrel.

Vincent laughed at the desperation. “Don’t be stupid. You lost Greene. You were big time, but you got greedy. Now it’s my turn to be big time, and that bag is gonna start me off right. I’ll get some new clothes, abetter phone, and a cool hat. People are gonna recognize me from now one. They’ll see that I’m a real player.”

“Mmm nnnn hmm mmm,” Greene mumbled louder. The barrel of the gun rattled off his teeth as he grunted his message.

Vincent grabbed the back of the kneeling man’s head and shoved the gun deeper into his mouth.

“You don’t talk to me like that. No one does. Not anymore.”

Greene gagged and threw up. Vomit streamed out around the gun onto the grey pavement of the alley. Greene tried to breathe, but he choked on the vomit leaking back down the gun barrel into his mouth.

“Shit that’s gross. Heh, I thought you’d be better with things in your mouth.”

Exhausted, Greene leaned into the gun and pushed out another grunt between heaving gasps. “Mmm nnnn hmm mmm.” His left hand reached for the bag while his right went another way.

Vincent’s eyes followed Greene’s hand to the bag. He laughed at the pathetic reach and let Greene get a finger on the bag before kicking it out of reach. As his toe connected with the bag, he realized he couldn’t feel the gun anymore. His eyes whipped towards Greene, but his gaze didn’t make it past his hand. His hand was still on the gun, but his fingers weren’t gripping the butt anymore. The gun was suspended between Greene’s mouth and his index finger, which was still hooked in the trigger guard. Vincent saw his mangled wrist in the dim alley light. The white of bone gleamed between the spurts of dark blood rhythmically jetting out on to the pavement.

Greene pulled the gun free from his mouth and Vincent’s finger came loose. He yanked his hand back to his chest trying to plug the leak with his left hand. The blood flow slowed, but it still managed to find a way onto the concrete from in between his fingers. He didn’t notice that Greene was off his knees until his chest collided with the other man’s. The knife in Greene’s right hand went in under Vincent’s rib cage, twisted, and came out.

It was Vincent’s turn to be on his knees. The pavement bit through his pants as he hit the ground – leaking.

Greene wiped his mouth and spat. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Vincent tried to say, “What?”

“I kept telling you, just take the bag. But your greedy ass had to brag about what a smart fucker you are. You’re so smart you decided to steal from the bag before you finished with the bag man. There’s only ten in there. Nothing compared to the twenty-five I’ll pull in for handing your body over to Julian.”

Vincent sank all the way to the ground. He landed in a warm red puddle he didn’t see there before. Nothing worked; he could only listen to the soundof Greene on his phone.

“Julian, it’s Greene. I found the fucking rat you were looking for. It was that piece of shit Bobarino. Yeah that’s right, Vinny. I know, that little moron was always destined to be a fuck up. Sorry, you’re too late. I had to put him down. I caught the little shit red handed with a bag of cash in the middle of Little Saigon. Can you believe he was selling us out for five g’s? I’ll leave the body here for the Twelve Buddha’s as a message. Yeah, I got the bag right here. I’ll see you in ten.”

Greene hung up the phone.

“Thanks Vinny. This will put me in with the boss for sure, and that twenty-five g’s means I won’t have to freelance anymore either. So long Bobarino.”

Vincent didn’t hear Greene leave. He couldn’t hear anything anymore.

BIO: Mike Knowles is a Canadian writer. His first book, Darwin's Nightmare, is out this year under ECW press.

Powder Burn Flash # 70 - James C. Clar

2008-03-16T20:15:00.000-07:00

A NOBLE DEATH

Eddie Doyle sat by the window at the Wailana Coffee Shop on Ala Moana Boulevard in Honolulu eating cherry pie and chocolate ice cream. As he watched the sunburned tourists scurrying across the street toward the grounds of the Hilton Hawaiian Village he mentally ticked off the names of the twenty-seven people he had killed since his career began three decades ago. At one time Eddie had been the best in the business, hands down. Even at sixty-seven he was still a force with which to be reckoned. Oh, he was slowing down a little and, truth was, he could be more conversant with the latest technology and methods, but his reputation still preceded him; he had never turned down a contract. Nor had he ever botched a job. Give it to Eddie, they said, and it was a “done-deal.”

Nevertheless, the crazy-ass kids in charge of things these days didn't trust him. He had been around too long and, besides, he knew where all the bodies were buried… literally. There were few people left who appreciated a real craftsman, what they used to call a “mechanic.” Still, everybody knew that Eddie was “Mr. Automatic,” no questions asked. No one in the business today had his work ethic or his integrity. He was still a good soldier.

Eddie finished his pie and used a spoon to scoop up the last dollop of ice cream. He signaled the waitress for another cup of coffee. “This is it,” he said to himself, “my last hit. I'm finished after this one.” He fingered a folded piece of paper in his right hand. His anonymous contact had passed it to him on the street less than an hour ago. He hadn't looked at it yet. “This might not be such a bad place to retire,” Eddie mused as he watched he palm trees outside sway gently in the light trade winds, “the climate is great and the people are friendly. The cost of living is outrageous but, hell, I can afford it. One more job and then it’s guava juice every morning on the lanai and long walks on the beach at sunset.”

“Can I get you anything else, Sugar,” Eddie’s waitress asked as she poured his coffee.

“No, darlin’. Just the check, thanks.”

Dropping the check on Eddie’s table the waitress turned and walked back to the long counter that ran parallel to the far wall. Eddie was sure that her extra little shimmy was intended especially for him.

Getting ready to leave, Eddie took out his wallet and put some money down on the table. At the same time, he unfolded the small square of paper that he had been holding in his hand. He opened it and, gazing down at the name printed neatly in red on its ivory surface, his face registered only mild surprise. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he said aloud smiling wryly, “this one needs to be really good; something they'll all remember.”

After the ruggedly handsome man in the booth near the window left the restaurant, his waitress went over to collect the check and, hopefully, her tip. Gathering the money she noticed a piece of crumpled paper next to the man’s coffee cup. Her curiosity got the better of her. Using her palm to smooth out the creases she was able to read what was written there. The name “Eddie Doyle” meant nothing to her. She finished clearing the table and headed out for a cigarette.

THE END

BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, MYSTERY REVIEW and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).

Powder Burn Flash # 69 - Ron Richardson

2008-03-15T18:04:00.000-07:00

THE COUNT

A figure draped in night shadow, waited patiently outside the home of Otto and Mary Owen for their lights to dim.

Inside, Otto crawled into bed and turned out the light.

The mystery man smiled. He crossed the lawn and laid a small package on the stoop and then melted into the night.

The next morning, Otto went to fetch the paper and found the package on the step.

“Mornin’, hon, look what was on the porch.”

“What is it?” Mary asked.

“Beats me.” He opened it. “Looks like a fancy gadget of some kind and a note,” he said.

He began to read:
Dear Otto,
As an old soldier of eighty-two, you should be aware that 1500 of your fellow comrades are passing away daily. It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been selected number 761 to join them after midnight tonight.

An electronic counter is included.

Sincerely,
The Count Keeper

Otto shrugged and tossed the note in the trash. He kept the counter.

“Must be a joke,” Mary said.

“Not very funny.”

The letter’s message spooked him. All day and into the night thoughts swirled through his mind. Fear nested behind his eyes.

“Hon, you awake? I can’t sleep. I’m going to sit up for awhile.”

“You okay?” She asked.

“Just restless.”

He rose from bed, stumbled barefoot through the house to his easy chair. He switched on a lamp, picked up the counter and laid it in his lap.

At one second after midnight the black box came to life, shivering in his hands. The face glowed yellow. A chime sounded. The countdown had begun.

Ding!

Otto flinched.

Morning passed.

“Come eat your lunch,” Mary called.

“Not hungry.”

Ding!

By late afternoon, Otto’s face had turned ashen. He wiped his brow.

“You don’t believe that silly letter do you?” Mary called.

“Maybe . . .”

“That’s silly you know.”

“Can’t help it. . . damn.”

Ding!

760 . . .

Otto twitched. He felt his chest tighten.

Ding!

761 . . .

“Oh!” he moaned, and pitched forward out of his chair, dead.

****

The phone rang.

No answer.

“Please leave a message,” the machine droned.

“Hi Otto, it’s me Orville. Pick up. Did you get my little surprise?

APRIL FOOL!”

BIO: Ron Richardson is a native Texan, raised in Dallas . He spent time in the Navy in the early 50’s, married, graduated college, retired from DOT as an air traffic controller and began to write. Ron and his wife Lois have three children, five grand children and six great-grand children. he has completed several creative writing courses and is active in two fiction writers critique groups. He is a member of the Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. and was recently published on line by LITBITS.CA and ESC! magazine. His work has received an honorable mention for flash fiction from Byline magazine.

Powder Burn Flash # 68 - Mike Knowles

2008-03-07T11:31:00.000-08:00

ON THE CLOCK

The car was so perfectly placed I almost missed it. Between bouts of itching imaginary spiders and sniffing the car almost stayed hidden. The black Audi was such a commonplace model in this upscale area that it blended in like army camouflage. The car was double parked in front of the TD bank on Hurontario Street.

It was 12:30 p.m. – a time when everyone was running errands on their lunch break. I figured the Audi to be waiting for someone inside the bank.There was a driver behind the wheel in a nice grey suit, and he was checking his watch often as though it were a nervous tick. The engine was running to keep the cold February air from getting inside.

I scanned the street for any Missasagua cops before starting across the street towards the car. I had to force myself to stop scratching as I picked up my pace. I put my hand into my pocket and gripped the taped butt of the revolver. The army surplus jacket concealed the gun while keeping me warm.

I jogged up to the Audi as though I were the person it was double parked for. I said a silent prayer to the twelve step God and pulled at the rear driver side door. The door opened and I was out of the cold and into the warm artificial climate.

The driver looked behind him for a second until I convinced him to keep his eyes forward.

“Drive.”

“Not for another two minutes.”

“This is a real fucking gun with real fucking bullets. Drive.”

“Not for another minute and fifty five seconds.”

The driver only had one hand on the wheel. The other, his right, was held up between the seats. He had his suit jacket sleeve pushed up and he was looking again at his watch. It was a large silver time piece with several dials and hands.

“Drive!” It came out whinier than I wanted, so I shoved the gun harder into the back of the drivers head to make up for it.

“Listen, we got one minute and forty two seconds left. Then we’re out of here. I’ll drive away from here to somewhere a bit more private and I’ll give you the keys. I promise, but not for another minute and thirty eight seconds.”

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

“My boss. If I move the car before I’m supposed to, he’ll take it out on my ass. Come on you know how it is.”

I looked around the car; it was immaculate. There were no personal items, no wrappers, and no bags. The inside of the Audi looked like it could be a company car. I thumbed back the hammer. “Move the car now, or you’re dead.”

“Listen, this job is important. I promise in a minute and fifteen seconds, max, you will be out of here and on your way to ownership of this fine European automobile, but you gotta wait.”

I was stuck. I wasn’t going to off some chauffeur for a car. I had been sent up for little shit before there was no way I was going down for killing somebody. I couldn’t just walk away either. The driver would call the cops as soon as I got out. I was stuck for another minute and fifteen seconds.

I scratched an imaginary spider with my left hand and gripped the gun harder. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Glen. How bout you? You gotta name?”

“Don’t worry about me. This job worth dying over Glen?”

“Job’s important because I said I’d do it. I gave my word I would wait in the car for another fifty eight seconds. If I break my word and fuck up here, I won’t be able to find work again. Plus there’s my boss to consider. He’d kill me.”

“That’s why I’m self employed,” I said laughing at my own joke. “How much time is left on the clock?”

“Forty eight, but I think we’re done waiting,” Glen said. He extended his arm and pointed towards the bank.

Three men were rushing at the Audi. They were all in matching grey suits with white shirts and no ties. Each man was also wearing matching plastic Batman masks. The three men broke from their huddle and each ran to a different car door. The rear passenger side door opened and a man with a Batman mask and a huge revolver shoved me into the middle of the backseat. My gun scraped away from the back of the drivers head as I was sandwiched in between two Batmen with bigger guns than mine.

“Drive Glen!”

The car rapidly accelerated through its gears. Glen spoke to me over his shoulder as he sped away from the bank. “See, I told you that you wouldn’t have to wait long.”

The Batman up front turned to me with his shotgun. “Who the fuck is this Glen?”

“I don’t know his name yet, but he’s into taking over the lease on the car – immediately. I said he could have it when we’re done with it.”

My gun was sweaty in my hand, and it was now pointed at no one. The barrel shook as the ants under my skin tried to crawl out through an old hole. I didn’t dare scratch the spot they were trying to escape through. The front seat Batman, on the other hand, had his gun pointed right at my face. His barrel didn’t shake. Even when the car went over bumps the shotgun never left my right eye.

“Get his gun.”

The Batman on my right put his revolver to my head and took my gun. I didn’t fight it. I put my hands in my lap and began to scratch like a dog after a tick.

“Look at this thing. You ever clean it?”

“I… I… never used it yet. Look, you guys can just let me out. I don’t even know what you look like. I made a big mistake and I promise if you let me out I won’t tell anyone I swear.”

“Promise is a promise pal,” Glen said. “Just like I promised to wait outside the bank, I promised to give you the car. Just sit tight. Okay…Well I don’t even know your name. Why don’t you just tell me? You know mine.”

“Davey. Everybody calls me Davey.”

“Good money in car jacking Davey?”

“I know a guy. He gives me a couple hundred for the cars I get. If they’re high end enough.”

“Couple hundred for this. Shit Davey that is a rip off.”

“Yeah well it gets me by. I got habits you know?”

“Don’t we all Davey. Don’t we all.”

I bounced into the Batman on my right as the Audi cornered off Hurontarioon to another street. We did three more turns like that before we stopped. The windows all rolled down and I felt the cold air chase all the heat in the car away. I stopped scratching and held myself tighter to keep warm. Glen and the Batmen got out leaving me in the back seat. I didn’t move a muscle, not even when the clothes began to come through the windows. Suitjackets, shirts, pants, and masks were tossed onto the seats beside me one by one. I stared at the floor forcing myself not to look up. Despite the cold, my ass was wet with sweat. I was sure I was a dead man.

Seconds went by and then I heard car doors opening and closing. I snuck a peak to my right. All four men got into a tan Ford Taurus. The car started and it drove up close to the passenger side of the Audi. Glen yelled out to me but I kept my head down. He yelled again, “Davey! Davey, look at me man.”

I raised my head not at all ready for the shot. I screamed when the car keys hit me.

“Promise is a promise. Car’s yours Davey. Take it easy.”

I sighed and slid my ass off the car seat. The damp material made an embarrassing noise, but I didn’t care - I was alive, I had the car, and I was breathing. By nightfall I would have my fix and I could sleep easy. I could even call Crime Stoppers and earn a little cash with the getaway car description. I laughed as I started my climb over the seats. Things were looking up. It was then that I heard my name again.

I turned my head and saw one of the unmasked Batmen throw a flaming bottle through the open back window of the Audi. It only took a few seconds for my damp pants to catch up with my shirt.

BIO: Mike Knowles is a Canadian writer. His first book, Darwin's Nightmare, is out this year under ECW press.

Powder Burn Flash # 67 - James C. Clar

2008-03-06T16:59:00.000-08:00

101 MINUTES

The Freighter Yang Ming cleared the Golden Gate Bridge and headed into the bay. Chin-Ning Chu watched from the Hyde Street Pier as the giant container ship passed in front of Alcatraz Island . Gulls wheeled overhead, daubs of black and white paint against a powder blue canvass sky. It had rained earlier in the day but now, just after 2:00 P.M. PST, the sun was out and there wasn't a cloud to be seen anywhere. It was a good omen, certainly.

Chin turned his back to the ocean and made his way along the dock to the sidewalk. As he walked toward Jefferson Avenue , he punched a series of numbers into this cell phone. In theory he had just armed a nuclear device which lay concealed in the hold of the Yang Ming. If he had calculated correctly he now had two hours, a mere 120 minutes, to hit “send” and trigger an explosion that would lay waste to the Bay Area – symbol of the decadence and corruption of American and, indeed, of Western society.

Despite all his training and all his preparation, Chin still had doubts. He had lived in San Francisco now for years, assimilating, fitting in … all the while waiting for just this assignment. He had grown to have some measure of admiration, even affection, for the American people. They possessed a lust for life, an animal vitality, which 10,000 years of civilization had all but bred out of his people. Ideology and political expediency aside, he was still not sure that he could go through with what he had been charged to do. In truth, he was not even sure whose bidding his bosses were doing. It may have been the North Koreans, his fanatical cousins; or perhaps the Iranians, strange bedfellows indeed. Certainly his government might have its own agenda vis-à-vis massive American casualties and widespread disruption of the Western economy. Whatever the case, and whatever decision he ultimately made, his life was over. The question was how to preserve his honor. The two-hour time frame had been designed to give him an opportunity to flee the immediate area. He had already rejected that as an option. He would either succumb to the firestorm that ensued from detonation of the bomb or he would take his own life if he failed – or opted not – to complete his mission as instructed.

At the corner of Beach and Hyde Streets, Chin waited for a trolley car to rattle and clang up the hill. Once the coast was clear, he crossed the road and turned left. He reached Columbus Avenue and headed diagonally into North Beach . As he approached Washington Square , he heard a voice from a doorway off to his left.

“Hey, Benihana, I could use some money. How about helping me out?”

Chin turned slightly only to be confronted by a disheveled looking young Caucasian man with wild eyes. Used to the ways of the streets in the area Chin disregarded the plea and, keeping his head down, walked on. A few seconds later, however, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He stopped and, calmly, deliberately, turned around.

“Talkin’ to you, man,” the kid barked with venom. This time, Chin noticed a knife in the miscreant’s hand. “You think I’m chopped sushi? Not really making a request. Now give me your fuckin’ money!

Chin could have disarmed his assailant in seconds. It would have been a simple matter to break his arm in two or three places. The hyped-up punk wouldn't even know what was happening until it was too late. That or one quick blow to the neck and the boy would be writhing in agony, choking to death on the ground at Chin’s feet. But, no, here was an answer to his dilemma.

“I’m Chinese,” Chin remarked quietly, “not Japanese as you mistakenly assume. It’s a common enough error. But, no matter, here’s my money.”

Slowly and carefully Chin reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a money clip. It was in the shape of a silver dragon inlaid with emeralds. The mugger’s eyes dilated even further when he saw the denomination of the outside bill. He reached out and snatched the clip from Chin’s hands.

“Shit, I don't care what kind of gook you are, man. All I care about is that you’re loaded. Is that a wallet in your other pocket?”

“No,” Chin answered, “I don't carry a wallet. “It’s just my cell phone.”

“Quick, let me have it. I'm losing patience with you, dude.”

Chin pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and handed it over. The young tough whistled, “High-tech. I can sell it. How many minutes you have left on this?”

“Let’s say there’s an eternity on that phone.”

With that the kid smirked and made a playful lunge toward Chin. Once again the Chinese man restrained himself. He backed up and sidestepped with élan. Laughing, the thief turned on his heels and ran. Before disappearing around the corner, he shouted “Remember Pearl Harbor” over his shoulder.

Unfazed by the encounter, Chin continued walking up Columbus Avenue . He gazed overhead at the twin spires of Sts. Peter and Paul Church. The fate of the city was now in the hands of its own citizens, how utterly appropriate. Would they fall prey to avarice and complete moral dissolution or, by some miracle, save themselves from themselves? Either way, Chin’s obligation to his superiors had been fulfilled to his satisfaction. He was soon lost in the labyrinth of streets bordering Chinatown . There were 101 minutes left … and counting.

THE END

BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, MYSTERY REVIEW and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).

Powder Burn Flash # 66 - John Kenyon

2008-03-05T10:02:00.000-08:00

Gutshot

Either Frank didn’t know the gutshot was a death sentence or he simply didn’t care. All I knew was he was the only one who could tell me where Marla was, so I was going to humor him until he gave it up.

“When you and me get this sorted out, me ’n Marla are gonna go to Florida,” he said weakly. “Maybe we’ll open a restaurant.”

I wanted to ask him if he was really that clueless, if he thought my sister would really have anything to do with the scum who had broken into her apartment and taken her by force. He’d already given me the tired line about how he’d always really been in love with Marla, not my mom, how he couldn’t hide his passion any more. Instead, I tried to draw him out.

“I’m sure the cops will be here soon, and we’ll just explain that it was a big misunderstanding,” I said, hoping he didn’t fixate too much on the gun I had leveled at his head to match the one he had pointed at mine. “We’ll clear things up and move on. You can go get Marla…” I let the sentence drag, hoping he’d finish with “at Duke’s pad” or “at the Super 8 on Rockland.”

Nope. He just nodded, as if responding to another conversation. Then, his eyes seemed to focus on me.

“Why’d you shoot me, Ricky?”

I had always hated that. I hadn’t been Ricky since I was 12 and he knew it, but he also knew he could use it like salt in a wound when he needed it. Good old Uncle Frank, who, thank God, was no blood relation He had been my father’s best friend, the guy who moved in on my mom when the old man kicked it four years ago.

“I told you, I didn’t realize it was you, Frank,” I lied again. “I thought maybe you were in trouble. I was looking for Marla and thought she might be here. When I came in all I saw was the gun and I panicked.” Really, rage pulled the trigger, overpowering my desire to learn where Marla was. I was glad rage had bad aim.

He was lying in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen of his little flop house. He’d kept it all these years even though he had pretty much lived at our place as a sort of fix-it guy/guardian until a couple of days ago when he revealed to everyone that he was in love with Marla. I had rushed around the dinner table to grab him by the collar and drag him out of the apartment. I gave him a kick in the ass as I shoved him out the door, hearing Marla and mom begin to scream at each other as I did. Marla ran off that night. I know she made it home because her neighbors said she had been there.

I was just inside Frank’s front door, sitting with my back against the wall. I’d kicked in the door, hoping to get the drop on him. He’d come out of the kitchen with the gun drawn and I’d fired, catching him in the stomach. He’d dropped to the floor, but tough bastard that he was, he never lowered his piece. We’d been at a stalemate for about 10 minutes, a pool of his blood seeping slowly across the floor.

“She loves me, you know,” Frank said. “Your sister, Ricky, she always did.”

I couldn’t contain myself. “What do you mean, ‘always’? She was 15 when you moved in! And what about now? Her place was a mess when I stopped by today. It looked like a crime scene. Her neighbors said they heard a bunch of banging around and then the two of you running to your car. How do you explain that?”

“Everything isn’t what it seems, Ricky,” he said, his gaze glazing over as he seemed to stare off into the distance again, distracted by the pain or something else. I saw it as my only opening and lunged across the room. He reacted too late, his shot sailing wide of me to hit the living room wall. I kicked at his hand, sending the gun clattering across the floor, and pushed him onto his back. I dropped one knee onto the wound in his stomach, causing him to cry out in pain, and pointed my gun at his forehead.

“Where is she you son of a bitch? Where is my sister?”

From behind me I heard the front door shut and a metallic scrape as Frank’s gun was picked up from off the hardwood.

“I’m right here, Ricky. Get off my man or I’ll blow your head off.”

BIO: John Kenyon is a newspaper editor in Iowa who keeps the blog Things I'd Rather Be Doing (www.tirbd.com) where he writes about music, books and movies, with a particular focus on crime fiction. He has published stories with Thuglit and Muzzle Flash, with a story forthcoming in Demolition.

Powder Burn Flash # 65 - David Coyote

2008-03-03T13:43:00.000-08:00

Beatings

She pressed his police special to the side of his right temple and pulled the trigger. The noise, louder than expected, and the explosion of parts painting a gory path across the pillow shocked her. She dropped the pistol.

Her ears rang. Swollen eyes and cheeks numb from beatings snapped her back. You son-of-a-bitch. She knelt and picked up the revolver. Blood covered the muzzle and her right hand. I wish you’d been awake instead of in a drunken stupor. I shoulda waited. You woulda shit your pants when you saw what I was gonna do.

At the bathroom sink she washed her hands and wiped the handle of his pistol. Using a small towel, she took the gun back to the bed and put it in his hand, his fingers around the grip. Using the towel to cover her hand and arm, she lifted his and pointed the gun toward the opposite side of the room. It was easy to make his finger pull the trigger.

Now you got powder burns. Let’s see you talk yourself out of this, asshole. No one can tell which shot was fired first. You’re never beating me again!

She returned to the sink and cleaned it thoroughly with soap and bleach. She rolled up the small throw-rug next to the bed, took it downstairs to the boiler room and shoved it into the firebox. When she was sure nothing was left but ashes, she went back to the room and sat in the old chair closest to the window and waited.

A minute later a black and white pulled to the curb. She glanced back at the bed. A terrible realization crushed the satisfaction she’d begun to feel. The pistol lay cradled in left-handed Danny’s right hand.

BIO: David Coyote, is a scribbler. Seven biographies and numerous poems were published in a national non-profit organization's quarterly. Two of my short stories are in anthologies published by LBF Books. His first novella, Roomful of Rainbows was published in 2004. Visit his website. www.dcoyote.com

Valentine Special

2008-02-14T08:52:00.000-08:00

I'm proud to be participating in this wonderful tribute to the day of love. Patti Abbott has worked hard to pull together all these stories and I feel priviledged that Powder Burn Flash is able to assist in posting some of the stories.

Below you will find a listing of the stories submitted.

Read them all with the one you love.............

"Bye, Bye Love" Sandra Seamans http://powderburnflash@blogspot.com/

"Love on the Rocks" Aldo Calcagnohttp://acalcagno.blogspot.com/

"Tongues" Patricia Abbotthttp://pattinase.blogspot.com/

"It Ain't Easy Loving Green" Daniel Hatadihttp://danielhatadi.blogspot.com/

"Stand Up on Blow Pops" Bryon Quertermoushttp://bryonquertermous.wordpress.com/

"Cupids Bullet" Clair Dicksonhttp://bofexler.blogspot.com/

"Warmer" Cormac Brownhttp://cormacwrites.blogspot.com/2008/02/warmer.html/

"Leaving Rachel" Patrick Shawn Bagleyhttp://patrickshawnbagley.blogspot.com/ (reprinted from FITG)

"Connect the Dots" Gerald Sohttp://geraldso.blogspot.com/

"The Many Forms of Love" Steve Allanhttp://noirwriter.blogspot.com

"Beautiful Trouble" Christa Millerhttp://freelancemother.wordpress.com/(reprinted from FITG)

Valentine Special - Sandra Seamans

2008-02-14T08:49:00.000-08:00

BYE BYE LOVE

Thanks to an accident shutting down the interstate for a few hours, a convoy of truckers had pulled into the Landry Truck Stop for lunch. Tildy loaded her plastic tub with dirty dishes, pocketed her tip, wiped the table clean, and moved on to the next one. A few more busy days like this and she'd have enough money in her stash to get out of Landry and her sorry-assed marriage permanently. The thought brought a smile of satisfaction to her weary, life-battered face.

A pair of hands grabbed Tildy's waist and spun her around. The smile faded as her husband, Jake, pulled her close and danced her around the diner. That he'd been up to no good was a given. Jake was never this happy unless he was downing a six-pack, and there wasn't a whiff of beer on his breath.

"What put you in such a good mood?" asked Tildy as she untangled herself from his embrace and grabbed her tip money from the table before he could slip it into his pocket.

He pulled a stack of bills from his shirt pocket and fanned them under her nose.

"Where'd you get all that money? You told me the bank wouldn't give you another loan until you paid off the note on that big screen TV you bought to watch the Super Bowl."

"You've been holding out on me, Honey."

"What are you talking about?"

"That bracelet you had, the one your grandma gave you? I took it down to Harry's Swap Shop. Did you know that piece of junk was an antique? Harry gave me two grand for that little trinket."

"That was my bracelet, Jake. You had no right to sell it.”

"That's where you're wrong sweetheart. We're married. What's yours is mine."

"Give Harry his money back, tell him you made a mistake. That bracelet was the only remembrance of grandma’s I had left and I want it back."

The back of Jake's hand caught Tildy's jaw, knocking her to the floor. “You don’t tell me what to do, woman."

Tildy struggled to her feet, waving off the truckers who'd left their seats to help her. No point dragging them into her troubles. With the Sheriff being Jake's favorite drinking buddy, they'd wind up lining the Sheriff's pockets with fines they couldn't afford to shell out because they decided to play knights in shiny armor.

“You’ve wrung out the last drop of love I ever had for you, Jake Lamont,” she said. “You'd best get my bracelet back or the next time you drink yourself to sleep in front of that fancy TV set of yours, you might wake up dead.”

"Oooo, you're really scaring me," he laughed. "All this time we've been pinching pennies and you're hoarding a fortune in your underwear drawer. What else have you been hiding from me?"

Tildy flushed as he scooped the tip money out of her apron pocket, biting her tongue to keep from saying something that would land her on the floor again. He’d gone too far this time.

The Sheriff was halfway through his breakfast the next morning when Harry called to report a break-in at the Swap Shop. “Damndest thing, though,” said Harry. “All they took was a bracelet Jake Lamont sold me yesterday, and that ain’t even the strangest part. Danged if that thief didn’t plunk down the two thousand dollars I paid for it.”

The sheriff, who’d fielded a dozen calls about the Lamont’s domestic dispute at the truck stop, headed out to Jake’s house. There was no telling what Jake might have done when he found out Tildy stole his money.

He walked into the Lamont house figuring he’d have to talk a beaten and bloody Tildy out of pressing charges, but Tildy had turned the tables on Jake. The sheriff found Jake duct-taped to his Lazy Boy, his balls shriveled under the glare of a double barreled shotgun Tildy had slid between his legs. But it wasn’t the cold metal of the gun that had knocked the stuffing out of Jake, it was the sign Tildy had taped to the shattered big screen TV before she left.

“AIN’T YOU GLAD I’M NOT LIKE YOU?”

END

Valentine Special - John McAuley

2008-02-14T08:46:00.000-08:00

Since I've Been Loving You

Led Zeppelin's, "Since I've Been Loving You,"-- for years I thought it was the most powerful and perfect rock and blues track ever made; until I my wife pointed out the squeaking bass-drum pedal buried deep in the audio mix. Ruined the whole song for me. In the five years we've been married Julie has really sharpened her ability to point out flaws in things I like. She cost me two- hundred- thousand dollars last month when she mocked the church I designed. She said to one of the Elder's, "..it looks like a big, fat, horizontal dick with wings instead of balls..." At first I was attracted to her vulgar humor but now she has to go. And with what I've got planned she's not taking half my money with her.

*******

Dave was in his third year of architect school when he asked me out. I figured I'd served him one too many whiskey and cokes; other than a big rack I'm kind'a plain looking. But I went out with him on Friday night and was fucking him by Sunday afternoon. What the hell, why not? I liked him and he was good looking, even if most of the shit he talked about was over my head. We broke up for a while when he skipped the summer semester. I wallowed around for a few weeks, listening to Bonnie Raitt's, "I Can't Make You Love Me" , and drinking too much. When he came back in the fall we made nice and got married on Valentine's Day the next year. First time I was ever really happy. I thought he was perfect. And he is perfect; a perfect little tight- assed prick. I'm through thinking I'm not good enough like that woman in the Bonnie Raitt song. And I'm not settling for half his stuff; the way I've got it planned out I'm going to get every damn dime.

*******

It's the first time I've ever had a husband and wife come to me seperately to do a job; it's like a miracle. Though given what I do I doubt it's any kind of divine intervention; but it's working out good for me. I'll kill one, keep screwing the other and collect on both.

Valentine Special - Sophie Littlefield

2008-02-14T08:42:00.000-08:00

RIVAL PASSIONS

Charlotte Klipsinger couldn’t believe it had come to this – on Valentine’s Day, in her favorite room in the house, the little sunroom where she had spent so many stolen afternoons with Bertrand.

Who could have guessed that, having never deviated from his accustomed schedule in thirty-two years of marriage, Ned would think to come home on the four o’clock train, with a six-dollar bunch of flowers and a plan to take her to Red Robin for the early-bird dinner special?

And now Ned’s hands were closed around Bertrand’s throat, squeezing the last of the life out of him. Bertrand’s eyes were beginning to bulge from his head and his tongue protruded from his mouth and he was no longer making any sounds at all. Charlotte knew she couldn’t stop Ned – him of the Georgia Bulldogs defensive line, of the decades of pot roast and buttered potatoes – not with her rheumatoid arthritis and weak shoulders. Not without a weapon. Frantically she scrabbled at the desk behind her, keeping her eyes fixed on Ned, willing him not to notice.

Her hands found the letter opener.

“I warned you, Charlotte,” Ned shouted. Spittle collected at the corners of his mouth. “I told you if it happened again, I’d kill him! I just wish now I’d killed Glover, too.”

Charlotte let out a wail of frustration. “You’ve never understood! All these years you’ve been so distant, all the travel, the late nights, and then you come home and it’s nothing but your sports and your ESPN! I needed warmth, Ned, I needed someone to hold, and you – you were as cold as a man could be –“

“It’s no excuse!” Ned roared. “You know what it does to me. Just thinking about it, Charlotte – I can’t even breathe. It practically killed me the last time. Or was that your plan? Was it?”

Charlotte’s hand closed on the porcelain handle of the letter opener. It was a pretty thing, painted with a garland of roses – how she loved her pretty things. She adored this room, her sanctuary, the one place - with the needlepoint cushions and the chintz drapes, the silk flowers and the Limoges teacups in the curio cabinet – that Ned never entered.

But Bertrand loved this room.

“What I don’t understand is how you could have thought you’d get away with it,” Ned snarled.

But she’d been so careful. They’d stuck to the arrangement, Bertrand coming to the back door at the appointed hour, then making his way silently out into the darkening evening before Ned came home, giving Charlotte time to straighten her clothes, plump the pillows, and start dinner. It had been so perfect.

Until today. “If you could have just left it alone,” she sobbed. “You never had to know.”

“But I would have found out!” Ned said. “I can’t believe you could be so stupid. You can never get rid of all the traces. Never.”

Even now she saw his eyes, swollen an angry red; heard how his voice had gone hoarse and raw. Deep down, she knew Ned was right. It had been crazy to think she could keep her secret. But she hadn’t been able to resist – not when she first saw Bertrand, with his brooding dark eyes and his lithe, strong body. And if she had lost the luster of her early years – if her own body had sagged and pillowed, if her hair was thin and gray, if her fingers were twisted by the ravages of the arthritis – well, dear Bertrand had never cared. He had loved her as passionately as she loved him.

The pain in her hand was excruciating, but she forced her fingers tight around the letter opener and drew it to her side, concealing it in the folds of her skirt. “I’ll kill you,” she whispered.

“Hah,” Ned said. “You crazy bitch, you would, wouldn’t you? You’d go to jail, over this – this worthless sack of -“

Charlotte sprung at him then, the wicked blade held straight in front of her, screaming a banshee wail as she drove it home, never hesitating as it sunk deep into her husband’s chest.

For a moment they both stared down at the handle, and then Ned’s expression changed to one of wonder, and at last he let go of Bertrand. His hands went to the weapon, as if to pull it out.

But it was too late. Too late for Ned, and, Charlotte saw with a seizing horror, too late for Bertrand as well, for as her husband crumpled to the floor, gasping and twitching, Bertrand lay limp upon the antique game table.

The light had left her beloved cat’s eyes forever.

Valentine Special - r2

2008-02-14T08:35:00.000-08:00

Doctor Doctor
(A Valentine’s Story)

Y’see, Doc, I’ve had this headache for four years. Nonstop. Just about ready to bring me to my knees. Today it’s the absolute worst.

By the way, thanks for meeting me so early. I know you’re a busy man. I brought you some Starbucks. It’s nothing. Enjoy.

What’s that? No today’s been a really nice day. Except for the pain in my head. Didn’t have to go to work. Gave my Linda roses for Valentine’s. Lots and lots of roses. Can’t get her enough. Did I tell you? When we first met, I never thought she’d have anything to do with me. She’s everything I’m not. When I first saw her I understood she had qualities. Y’know? Certain qualities. I felt like the biggest clod next to her yet she made me feel like the most important man on earth, the only man that ever mattered.

Did you ever notice how the light was drawn to her?

I know I sound like an old fool.

Well, thank you, I try. I have cut back on the burgers. Still like a good steak now and then. Okay, okay, if you say so, I’m not that old.

I love Valentine’s Day, don’t you? It’s the one chance you have to tell your woman about feelings you have that you don’t talk about any other time. Even though she knows you love her. Does she know how it felt when she kissed me the first time? Like time had stopped? Or how scared I was to even touch her face?

See? I just haven’t got the words and it comes out stupid, but it’s okay to talk about those things on Valentine’s somehow. It’s okay to sound stupid. Maybe to even try writing a poem, I don’t know.

Why am I talking so much about her?

Well, Doc, you should know, she’s everything to me.

I know, we all make mistakes.

I heard about the boy they thought was partially deaf and he went to specialist after specialist, and none of them thought to check and see if there wasn’t something keeping the sound from getting to his eardrum. Finally, one day, the end of a Q-tip popped out while he was playing. Now the kid can hear fine. What a freakin’ buncha clowns they were, all those specialists, that can’t see a Q-tip lodged inside an ear? Gimme a break.

I know that’s a whole different deal. But she came to you five times. Five! And then she went to four different specialists. Doc, c’mon. It’s not like you guys aren’t paid enough. With the kinda dough you make, and the fact that human freakin’ lives are at stake, doncha think you could look kinda hard to maybe double check things? To think, gee, she’s hurtin’, maybe it ain’t just indigestion. Like, duh! Women might have hearts too. Huh? Whatta concept. You stupid piece of…. Sorry.

No, I’m not mad. Did I tell you what I do for a living, Doc? I’m kinda the anti-you. You have that Hippocratic oath. Well, I took an oath. I work for a special branch of, let’s just say it’s the government. I make very, very bad people, well, I make sure they have an early demise, if you catch my drift. I do it in a way that no one can tell. It looks natural. There’s no scandal. No international incident.

My one flaw, if you can call it that, is I get this splitting headache thinking about the scum I’m gonna void. You know what I mean? I get such a headache thinking about the bad stuff they’ve done and it builds and builds and doesn’t go away until after I’m done. Isn’t that weird? Four years ago when I buried my Linda, I had a spike a pain start right in the middle of my forehead. And as I read up on things and talked to some other doctors, the pain just swelled and swelled. You’re probably starting to get a bit of a headache now, too. You’ll have your’s the rest of you life. Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon. Yea, it was the coffee.

My headache’s starting to ease up a quite a bit.

Sorry you can’t hear me now, but I think I’m on the road to recovery. A visit to a few more doctors and I may be totally cured.

Valentine Special - Graham Powell

2008-02-14T08:24:00.000-08:00

The Last Time

I walked off the construction site when I got the call. I couldn't go back there now, but that's okay. I've been fired before.

Four years without a word, then this. It was nice to know that she still thought of me when she had a mess that needed cleaning.

As I climbed the four flights of stairs I promised myself this was the last time I would help her. Then I told myself it was the last time I'd make that promise.

I didn't knock, just opened the door. She sat on the couch opposite, staring at nothing. As I stepped into the room I noticed the smell, the scent of fire and smoke hanging in the air, like the Fourth of July when I was a kid. But this wasn't firecrackers.

Then I saw the man's body to the left, by the TV.

I hadn't been a cop in years but I knew what happened inside of ten seconds. Three shell casings just inside a doorway on the right. Three red holes in the man's chest. One casing next to the body. One bullet wound in the head.

The gun, an automatic, probably a .32 or .380, lay on the coffee table. Alice didn't look at it. There were no tears. She was beyond that now.

It was easy to see the girl I'd loved, but she wasn't that girl any longer. The makeup was thick upon her face but couldn't hide the lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Her hair was no longer blonde, but yellow, a color Mother Nature had never intended. The roses on her cheap print dress had faded.

She stood up slowly and walked past me without a word, close enough to smell her perfume. I saw the plan. She goes, I stay.

No. She'd always asked a lot, more than she'd earned, but not this. She wasn't worth my life. Maybe she never had been.

I picked up the gun from the table and took careful aim. "Alice," I said.

She didn't turn around, just stopped in the doorway. I took a breath, held it, the sight picture steady on the back of her head. A moment passed and I exhaled.

Alice turned and started down the stairs. I listened to her footsteps as they grew fainter, finally punctuated by the slam of the front door.

I laid the gun on the table and sat down to wait for the police.

BIO: Graham Powell is the creator of CrimeSpot.net. His stories have appeared in Plots With Guns, The Thrilling Detective, and Hardluck Stories, among other disreputable establishments.

Powder Burn Flash # 64 - Jim Harrington

2008-02-08T10:16:00.000-08:00

The Old Gray Mare

The old lady, her pointy ears protected from the cold by earmuffs, shuffled by the parked police car with its lights flashing. She scooped sunflower seeds from the pocket of her tattered pea jacket and shoveled them into her mouth. As usual, no one paid any attention to her as she pushed her cart through the onlookers.

“Did anyone see what happened?” an officer said to no one in particular.

Heads shook, eyes darted from side-to-side, nostrils spewed vapors.

The officer interrupted his partner, who was questioning a beggar propped against the wall.

“Imagine that,” he said. “Nobody saw nothin. Nobody heard nothin. Bunch of damn monkeys.”

“The owner didn’t see anything either,” the partner replied. “Says he thought he heard a noise in the store room. When he got back to the front, the money was gone.”

The first officer did an about face just as the old lady reached the edge of the crowd. “Hey, lady. Wait right there.”

The old lady stopped and turned toward the voice. “Was I speeding, Officer?”

He grimaced and shook his head. “No, nothin like that. Did you see what happened here?”

“I don’t believe so, Officer...?”

“Rodriquez. Somebody robbed the bodega. You didn’t see anybody run out? Nobody acting strange?”

“Around here, everybody acts strange,” she said with a smile. She looked at the assembled crowd--three homeless men cowering in a doorway, trying to look invisible, two hookers prancing to keep warm, five teens of assorted nationalities; And a partridge in a pear tree, she hummed to herself. “No, Officer. I didn’t notice anyone running from the store. Is Mr. Alvarez all right? He’s such a nice man. Always lets me use his bathroom to perform my ablutions.”

“Your what?”

“Means she needed to take a leak,” his partner said as he approached.

Rodriquez blushed.

“Well, that’s not really…” the old lady started to say.

“We gotta go, Rod.” The partner waved toward their patrol car. “We got another call.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help, Officer Rodriquez,” she yelled after them. “I’ll pay more attention next time.”

The old lady watched the police car speed down Franklin and out of sight. She, in turn, strolled the few steps to the alley entrance and, looking to see if anyone was watching, pushed her cart into the dimness and behind a dumpster.

She glanced toward the street as she removed her coat and put it in the cart. The earmuffs came off next followed by the gray wig, a latex mask and a faded blue dress. She donned a fake fur coat, fluffed her auburn hair, replaced the sneakers with red, three-inch, patent pumps, and adjusted the hem of the leather mini dress. Just another working girl looking for Johns, she thought. She retrieved a mirror from the cloth bag, plucked the remaining latex pieces from her face, put the mirror back in the bag with the money from the bodega, flung the bag over her shoulder, and sashayed out of the alley singing,

The old gray mare,
she’s just what she needs to be,
just what she needs to be,
just what she needs to be.

BIO: Jim Harrington is a retired librarian embarking on a new journey. His stories have appeared in Apollo's Lyre, Baker's Dozen Review, Bent Pin Quarterly, Brilliant, Defenstration, Long Story Short, Litbits, MicroHorror, and others. You can read more of his stories at www.jimharringtononline.net

Powder Burn Flash # 63 - Barry Baldwin (2fer Issue)

2008-02-01T13:00:00.000-08:00

GUILT-EDGED INVESTMENTS

‘Word on the Street says we’re in line for a takeover attack.’

‘Who in hell would want to take us over? Third Quarter figures were a disaster. Our bottom line is so red that it’s positively bloody. Not even Gordon Gecko could find anything to strip except our balls and the shareholders have already got dibs on those.’

‘Gozo Nakamura doesn’t care about any of that.’

‘And just what would that honourable gentleman want with a screwed-up old family concern like ours?’The chairman held up a liver-spotted hand: ‘Revenge.’

‘Revenge? What revenge? We’ve never had any dealings with him or against him.’

This ignited a history lecture. ‘His father was the industrial power behind General Tojo in the war. In 1945, the allies seized all his assets as a war reparation. On George Marshall’s recommendation, Truman personally sent my father to Tokyo to mastermind the handover. He put the boot in so bad that Nakamura senior killed himself, committed Seppuku in his office, only way he could salvage a smidgin of honour. Junior swore he’d get even. Now he’s about to do just that. Cost no object, doesn’t care how bad a deal it is. All he wants is his feet on my desk.’

I couldn’t help grinning. ‘Sounds like Cliff Barnes and JR on Dallas . So, how do we stop him?’

‘That’s how you’ll earn your Christmas bonus.’

I took Gozo Nakamura to the best Japanese restaurant in town, ostensibly to celebrate his eightieth birthday, which had been in all the business papers. Faking drunkeness, I fed him along with the food some tidbits about the company, hinting at a secret plan that would hoist us into the black in a year. The next day, a couriered letter from our corporate lawyers informed Mr Nakamura that he was accidentally in possession of confidential information and so could neither bid for our shares nor advise anyone else to, under pain of prosecution for insider trading. There was no more takeover talk.

‘You’re a genius,’ babbled the chairman. ‘How the hell did you come up with that?’

‘Another bit of history. Remembered something I read in The Economist . A 1980s stunt they pulled in the City, at least until it got too well known. Nakamura had no London interests back then, and no one’s ever tried it over here before.’

‘Let’s drink to history.’

Six months later, we were bankrupt and Nakamura’s name was on the door.

I had one consolation. The chairman, my father, jumped from his office window. But for underlings, Thank God, Western business has no tradition of Seppuku.

Gozo had simply found out who our creditors were, bought up all the debts, and served them on us for simultaneous repayment. An old Victorian business squeezeplay. History’s a two-edged sword.

FAT PROFITS

The advertisements at the back of her magazine, now reduced to eight pages by wartime paper restrictions, promised remedies for many a disease sent by God or invented by man: bad legs, bunions, flatulence, piles, problems 'Down There', varicose veins, and the mournful-sounding 'Night Starvation'.

Doris Jones suffered from none of these, except the last, and no pill or potion was going to cure that, only a change in her boy friend's work load and shifts. But this new one looked as if it might be the answer to her prayers, not that she was all that religious or naive.

Ethel Courtney-Browne (the double-barrelled name comported extra weight, an unfortunate phrase in context), a Kolynos toothpaste smile glowing from her photograph over the sylph-like figure beneath, pledged to reduce the size of any woman, young or old, within "a matter of months, if not weeks."

No luck for men, Doris thought, carefully writing out the phone number would-be slimmers were bidden to call. Well, that was their lookout. It was more than bad enough for her, being fat when everything was rationed and in short supply, and the consequent ribbing, some harmless, some with nasty implications of who did she know on the black market, which was another joke altogether when you considered what her boy friend did, from her workmates at the South London johnnie factory where they spent ten hours a day churning out the latest latex-dipped rubbers for keeping down the city's baby population. While wishing it were true, they had hotly to deny to all and sundry that one in ten of these artefacts were deliberately punctured at source, often taking refuge in banter over the twenty-five free ones a week they were allowed, the common refrain from male and female employees alike being "Twenty-five a week? I should be so lucky!"

Doris, who rarely had use for more than one of her allocations, laboriously scratched out the requested letter to Mrs (she assumed) Ethel Courtney-Browne, and with only a tiny residual doubt popped ii into the red pillar box on her way to work. She didn't let on to anybody, least of all her young man who had recently started to hint that his dissatisfaction was growing in proportion to her ever-exanding girth. It was going to be the shock of the year for friend and foe alike.

Despite the vagaries of the Royal Mail, largely though not wholly the result of Adolf's bombs and rockets, Doris received her answer by first-class post within a couple of days. "Do come at once, before buying your summer frocks, " urged Mrs (I was right about that, Doris reflected) Courtney-Browne, since your sizes will have changed drastically after taking my course."

The letter went on to insist that Doris pay a personal visit at her earliest convenience, to an address in the East London borough of Stepney. A funny place for someone called Courtney-Browne, Doris pondered, she would have expected somewhere posher, before deciding that this was perhaps the lady's contribution to what everyone vaguely called The War Effort.

A fee was mentioned, almost as an afterthought. It was well within Doris' range, but she thought it good tactics to demur, and see if Mrs C-B might bring it down a bit. She wasn't too optimistic, London was full of fat girls, previously a consolation for Doris but now a worry, Mrs C-B was probably doing a roaring trade, but there was no harm in trying, as she had often heard her mother and father, now both dead in the Blitz, say both to her and each other, the tone varying according to the subject under discussion.

So Doris knocked out a response to this effect, wondering as she licked the stamp if she'd get a reply, polite or otherwise. There wasn't long to wait. Back one came from Mrs Courtney-Browne, extolling her treatment at greater length than before, full of sympathy for Doris' plight, she knew people hadn't always a lot of money in these difficult times, hence she would be willing to "stretch a point" and reduce the amount by ten per cent.

Here was where Doris did what she shouldn't have, not that she could have known, or that you could hardly blame her. It's worked once, she gloated, let's have another bash. Another appeal was dashed off to Stepney, expressing how obliged Doris was by Mrs Courtney-Browne's understanding, but unfortunately the price was still on the high side for a simple (Doris was pleased by this touch, confident its acknowledgement of their social class-divide would both flatter and soften up this obesity oracle) factory girl, and could a further reduction be considered?

Apparently it could, according to the reply, though not without a note of plangency. Nothing daunted, Doris decided to milk the cow one more time. But she was now countered by a stiffer tone: Very well, but I cannot go lower than this, as it is, my margins are stretched to their limits, and furthermore I should warn you that my customer list is fast filling, so I urge you to make your decision immediately.

Doris did. Five days later, after a final epistolary flurry, she was outside Mrs Courtney-Browne's fat-removing headquarters. What a dump, Doris thought, not a patch on mine, and that's no great shakes. Stepney was one of those areas best viewed in a London pea-souper fog at midnight. Much of the street had long ago been bombed-out and boarded up. Still, you couldn't blame her for cutting down on the overheads, a good sign, really, it should mean everything was channelled into the programme.

The avoirdupois miracle-monger was in keeping: vaguely Eastern in looks and dress, welcoming in an anxious sort of way. She nodded at a large sign on the community notice board affixed by the door: Wife and Dog Missing. Reward For Dog. "You can wager she was over-sized as well. Do come in, Doris, dear. I may call you Doris?" You got that the wrong way round, Doris glowered unresponsively to herself: typical.

"It's just up these stairs. Mind the third and fifth ones, they're a bit rickety. A lot of them, as well, but you can consider them stage one ."

Once inside what resembled a large store room, its walls' leprosity mitigated by multi-coloured charts and pictures of Before and After snaps of presumably satisfied clients, Doris was told to sit down, and offered a large glass of something red. "I always give my people this first. It relaxes them. Drink it down, dear, like a good girl."

A bad girl, more like. Still, anything to oblige. Doris swigged it down. She needed a bit of Dutch courage, having come with the intention of trying to beat the price down even now, take it or leave it, having enough savvy to know that people selling things in a place like this can rarely stand to see hard cash leaving the room without them.

The drink was Doris' last mistake, along with being here at all, and not talking it over with her boy friend, a police officer attached to New Scotland Yard who was involved in the raid planned for the very next night of the premises of Mrs Courtney-Browne, on whom they had had an eye for some time.

This was carried out without a hitch, except that by this time Doris Jones had been drugged by the red drink, bundled up in a tatty oriental rug, carried out by her associates, slung into a lorry, driven down to the nearby docks and put on a tramp steamer for Istanbul where she ended up in a brothel as Turkish delight for the large number of that city's natives whose tastes run to extra-large partners. They were often rough, her owners took most of her earnings, but at least no one there was laughing at her for being fat.

Powder Burn Flash # 62 - Cormac Brown

2008-01-22T10:36:00.000-08:00

If Twelve Were Nine

When it’s ninety-nine degrees in the shade, this is no time to wear green windbreakers, but they have to keep theirs on. Because this is when things tend to get confusing and confusion is bad in this business, because that’s when people get killed. As sunny and obnoxiously bright as it outside, it’s almost the exact opposite inside the hallways of this apartment building in Phoenix .

Aaron hates the way these jackets rustle and make noise, anybody with decent ears can hear them coming and he silently breaks off from the pack, like the wolf that knows that the rest of the pack are going on a futile hunt. No one notices as they are too pumped up and too distracted by the dimness.

They let loose clipped whispers in frustration-

“What are these, twenty-watt bulbs?”

“The building’s superintendent should be fired, the numbers are all jumbled up and-“

“Shhhh! There, two doors down.”

Two go to the left side of the door and two stay on the right. Two more come up with a heavy object and they hit the door-

…once

…twice and they pull clear, as the lock gives way and the door splinters open.

“Maricopa Sheriff’s Department! Get your hands up!”

To the left of the threshold, a pokes through high and another to the right comes juts through low. The apartment is barely brighter than the hallway, though now the green jackets with yellow lettering are visible on the male and female deputies for the city of Phoenix . With their guns out, they make their way across the dimness and search for suspects, yet they’re careful not to get in each other’s crossfire.

They quickly check the rather large living room and its adjacent closets. As they enter the kitchen, they come across a man who seems oblivious to them. He leisurely chews on a bowl of granola and as a gun points at him from across the table, he tilts his head, barely registering it.

“Put the spoon down, slowly. Put your hands up” Delia, the deputy in charge says slowly.

He complies, though he looks both surprised and baffled. Two more deputies have already broken off to search the bathroom and they yell “clear!” as they find it empty. Delia motions the man towards the kitchen floor. Two other deputies handcuff him and search him for weapons.

The man in the kitchen does not seem to match the suspect that they are looking for. He is average in size and the description of the suspect is more like an overweight boxer. The suspect has tattoos from the neck down like an American version of a Yakuza member and what skin this man has exposed from his tank top, suggest he has no ink on him at all. His hair color is different from the suspect’s, as is his face. He has on glasses and the suspect allegedly doesn’t wear any.

One more deputy breaks off to help the first two sweep the bedrooms. “Clear!” comes the first shout after about the first two minutes and the “all clear!” comes after three more minutes.

The prostrate man cranes his neck slowly and groans “did you check the apartment number?” One of the deputies runs to the front of the apartment and sees the number “twelve” on the door.

Embarrassed the second deputy mutters “shit” and uncuffs the prostrate man. The deputies rush out of there, fearing that they’ve already tipped off the real suspect and he might’ve fled.

The man gets up. He rubs his sore wrists, eats another spoonful of granola and gets a small backpack out from a cabinet. He quietly slides open the kitchen window, tosses the backpack out of the window and follows it, some seven feet down.

“Don’t be stupid! Slowly toss the backpack to your right!” Aaron yells at him. He does as he is told and Aaron stops just short, behind him.

“Put your hands on your head and spread your legs.”

Aaron keeps the gun trained on him as pats him down. He tells the other deputies that he has secured the suspect in the alley east of the building via his radio handset.

Aaron says “get down on your knees” and the man complies. “Now lay flat, facedown on the ground.”

Aaron handcuffs him and waits for the others. Delia comes out, followed by the other deputies and they all look as shocked as she is.

“What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?”

“No, check the picture of the suspect again, this is Barry Rose.”

Delia looks the picture over, then the man lying cuffed on the ground.

“They could be cousins. Where are the tats? The hair color is wrong, the weight is wrong, he’s got on glasses.”

Aaron hands a bandana over to one of the deputies and says “John, wet this up with that garden hose.”

John dampens it, wrings it out a little and hands it back to Aaron. Aaron rubs the wet bandana across the prostrate man’s back and like magic, tattoos appear.

“Movie stars use makeup to cover their ink all the time. Anyone can lose fifty pounds, especially if they get liposuction to go with their plastic surgery and just because it says “Miss Clairol” on the box, doesn’t mean that a man can’t use it. As far as the glasses? Don’t tell me that you can’t tell Clark Kent from Superman.”

John and another deputy take Barry Rose away. Delia whispers “how did you know?”

Aaron whispers back, “I didn’t. I saw that all the apartment numbers on the door were in the wrong order and figured it out from there.”

Delia looks Aaron in the eye and says firmly “just the same, don’t break off like that without telling me. You’re lucky that nothing serious happened. Understood?”

Aaron nods and mumbles “yeah.”

Delia taps Aaron in the jaw with playful right cross and back slaps him.

“Well done.”

Bio: "Cormac Brown" is my pen name. I'm an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis , and I'm following in the footsteps of Hammett...minus the TB and working for the Pinkerton Agency. A couple of stories that I've stapled and stitched together can be found at http://cormacwrites.blogspot.com

Powder Burn Flash # 61 - Barry Baldwin

2008-01-05T12:30:00.000-08:00

Campus Capers

As so often with academic activities, the departmental Christmas party is late getting under way. That's because the faculty member deputed to do the arrangements has managed to forget the liquor permit. It's been said that you can't run a university without sherry, but without that papery presence on the dingy (no money in the budget again for repainting) wall of the main office, to take so much as a sip of alcohol is a turpitude somewhere between seducing the president's wife and seducing the president's dog. But, it's here at last, taped up alongside some faded notices, so the licensed hilarity can begin.

"Well, we sure did a great job on the decorations," one associate professor says to the secretary.

"We sure did," chime in others, like a Greek chorus.

"Didn't we just," replies the secretary, whose appeal for help with this chore had gone unheeded and who had had to do it all by herself, on top of e-mailing the head's seasonal greetings; after hours as well, and not one cent in overtime. This associate professor would be bottom of her typing priorities next term, were either of them still to be around.

A newly-appointed instructor is tentatively sipping a rum-and-coke. He knows, courtesy of his 1960s hippie father, that this concoction was popularised in that curious era by the Beatles. A real scholar would have traced it back to the 1945 song of that name warbled by the Andrews Sisters.

His parent would have done well to linger over one of those beverages, rather than the habitual swilling down of bourbon and pills, which had first cost him his left leg when he wobbled on his bicycle in front of a San Francisco bus, and later his demise, the manner of which gained him his fifteen minutes of fame without his being around to savour them. He was electrocuted while urinating near a power pole on the side of a highway. The coroner, finding it difficult to compose his features, pronounced on the evidence of the deceased's companions that he had peed on a flooded ground line, causing his prosthetic leg to act as a strong conductor.

This instructor is standing off by himself in one corner. Nobody was paying any attention to him before, but that's not why. He's been agonising for weeks over whether or not to buy the department head a present. If he does, will it look too obviously like sucking-up? But what if he doesn't, and everyone else does? He's tried asking people in a roundabout way what they've done in previous years, but they are no better at answering subtle questions than he is at posing them. He's considered a possible compromise, a joke present, something to demonstrate thought without ulterior motive: but what kind of rib-tickler do you give to somebody famous for having no sense of humour?

That's actually not quite fair to the department head who, strictly speaking, should these days be called The Chair, but not eveyone can bring themselves to address him thus with a straight face, despite a woodenness of character often compared to that particular piece of furniture - "O Chair" seems a locution more suited to the soon-to-be-eliminated Classics Department in the basement and its first-year Latin grammar drills. Right now, he is putting on his party hat. He's made it himself, with folded pages torn from an academic offprint. He does this every year. It's always made from the same offprint. He's only ever published the one article. "All this administration," he pleads, "gets in the way of the real thing."

Wearing this carefully contructed jester's cap, the head thrusts a styrofoam cup of punch, his own speciality, an obscure concoction, multi-hued like liquid Crayola reflecting in a puddle of sunlit gasoline, into the hand of the nearest graduate student. "Well, Merry Christmas," he says, as though reading from a teleprompter, "Have a good one."

This graduate student, present only for tactical reasons, is the lone Jewish one among them. Her name is Hagith Levant, evidently not a good enough clue for gentile men and scholars. Those few faculty members who do register the faux pas snigger cautiously behind their own drinks. They would like to register their sympathy and contempt, but without making it too obvious which sentiment is for whom. After all, they may have tenure, which emboldens them to ignore the head's punch, but there's nothing to stop her from dreaming up a sexual harassment charge against them, or him from assigning them an eight a.m. class in the winter term or putting them on the committee that is mulling over a proposal to install pay phones in faculty offices.

The other graduate students, who had been pointed as they arrived towards a crate of rum-less cokes, look uneasily at each other: are they seeing themselves as they will be in ten years time?

Hagith Levant, an atheist except when she goes home, is not genuinely upset, but decides to stage an indignant walk-out. She was leaving soon, in any event, for a more private engagement. She calculates that, should she need it, future memory of this episode will make a useful marker to call in: a late essay, for example, or getting out of a second section of bonehead freshman language laboratory supervisions.The instructor sidles out a few moments later. More sniggering, less concealed, from those who notice: what chance does he think he's got?

Even before this little melodrama, people have been generally standing around wondering what to say next. Except for two full professors, who now break the stagnant silence by squaring up to each other in a well-honed routine designed to clothe their decades-long feud in a diaphanous dress of duologue, emphasised by their brandishing like rapiers the Bavarian beer steins each always brings to these gatherings as a reminder to hoi polloi that they have had sabbaticals in Europe.

"So, you going to the MLA this year?"

"That slave auction? Not on your life. They wanted me to do a panel, of course, but I told them where to stick it. Why, are you?"

"I'm giving a paper, if that's your question."

"Well, maybe I will come after all. Just to give myself the pleasure of being there and not going to hear you."

The secretary, who had once tacked up a Time magazine profile of the MLA meetings which amongst other disparagements quoted a hotel desk clerk as saying he'd never known a conference with less screwing or more drinking, judges this a good moment to urge people's attention towards the hitherto neglected foodstuffs meticulously arranged in her in-trays and out-trays: nondescript sandwiches, sawdust shortbreads, and a crazily-angled Christmas cake, a tumid stylistic mix of Dickens and Dali, topped by plaster robins which she does not warn people to avoid. Who knows? In her previous post, the most important person there had not realised the artificiality of festive robins; it had required a hyper-Heimlich manoeuvre to expel the powdery beak from his throat."

Oh, look," says someone, "Entrees in the in-trays, isn't that cute?" This draws no response. Somebody else suggests dancing to the background drone of seasonal songs coming out of a now old-fashioned portable tape-deck perched on a chair. There is no response to this, either.

Worrying over the possible Hagith Levant repercussions, the head recalls the time she sat on the department's photo-copying machine and xeroxed herself. Political correctness hanging over them like stale gun smoke, no one ventures beyond "Well, that could have been interesting..."

It wasn't. Hagith Levant was "really into Absurdism," hadn't even taken off her coat. On another occasion, when pressed by an activist group with which she had been very briefly associated, to enhance one of their regular 'anti-Fascist' demonstrations by pouring sugar into the tank of the designated villain's car, she'd thrown in sachets of Nutrasweet instead.

At 4.55 on the nail, the secretary plays her intended ace, hoping to make everyone feel a louse by handing out carefully though not colourfully wrapped presents, knowing that she wouldn't get anything from them. But her ace is trumped, there's no time for even a mouse-squeak of guilt, thanks to the head who removes his party hat, consults (not for the first time) his watch, and announces as though bringing a seminar to a close, "Well, that's it for another year. We'd better get going before our vehicles freeze up. You know the administration switches the power off at five sharp, and it must be twenty below out there."

To himself he's also saying, in words that he would never frame in public, I wonder why that asshole instructor quit so early? I really needed to finalise his winter term schedule before the break. I should maybe think twice about having him back next year.

"Oughtn't we to clean up this mess first?" some fool asks.

"No, the secretary can do that."

She leaves alone, humming a snatch of 'Eleanor Rigby'. Her shopping-bag clinks with the left-over bottles. Blame for such appropriations can always be diverted to the Korean cleaners, one of whom will soon be puzzled by his discovery in a lecture room of a pair of panties. Even if his English were better, their HL monogram would mean nothing to him. He slips them into his pocket to take home as a present for his wife, an act that will cause him some trouble when the police find them in the course of their investigation into their owner's disappearance.

The instructor will also be under suspicion, but nothing will be found against him. In any case, the police have their hands full with the deaths of everyone else at the Christmas party, thanks to what had been mixed in with the refreshments. They would very much like to talk to the secretary, but no dice. She is tucked away somewhere in South America with Hagith Levant, whose treatment at the party and enforced Yuletide congress with the instructor has finally convinced her that men, epecially academic ones, are not for her.

Hardly is everyone in the ground, or in urns on mantlepieces, before the temporary secretary must cope with the fax machines spitting out multi-paged applications for the vacancies that thanks to the next round of budget cuts will be filled only at junior levels or not at all. She will be re-shuffled into the Computer Sciences' ever-growing steno pool. His fixed-term position means curtains for the instructor who after two years of expensive and futile job-hunting will choose in the last of his increasing moments of alcohol-fuelled despair to join his late colleagues, wherever they are.

Biographical Note: Born (1937) and educated in England; college-university lecturer in England/Australia/Canada. Now Emeritus Professor of Classics, University of Calgary, and Fellow of The Royal Society of Canada. Published 12 books and c. 600 articles on Greece, Rome, Byzantium, 18th-Century History & Literature, and Albanian History/Language/Literature. As freelance writer, have contributed many magazine and newspaper articles on many subjects in various countries. Did a 2-year stint as regular columnist for the British daily newspaper Morning Star. Currently write regular columns for (e.g.) Catholic Insight (Canada); Fortean Times (UK/USA); Presbyterian Record (Canada); Stitches (Canada); Verbatim (USA/UK).

Powder Burn Flash # 60 - Cormac Brown

2008-01-01T11:59:00.000-08:00

"Aria"

As the wind whipped the snow into Jed Thane's face, he pulled his collar up around his neck and pushed the door open to the empty meat processing plant. Nothing kills your soul faster than being the only human being for ten square miles around with nothing but the cow carcasses, blood, flecks of gore, and the stench of the killing floor to keep you company.

Though tonight for Jed, alone is a relative term.

Seriously, I really need to go back to school. Waking up at nine in the evening and driving nine miles through ice and snow, just to clean up a slaughterhouse? Using a water hose that has almost twice the pressure of a fireman's hose, has lost its appeal to my inner-child. People with severe learning disabilities get better jobs than this without even trying.

Well, Terry isn't here, so I guess I'll be working by myself-ooof!

What the hell?!

"How are you doing, Thane?"

It's some madman with a baseball bat. He's angry and Jed wonders if has something to do with the steroids that the guy must obviously be on, because he is yoked. The guy is about three times Jed's size, he has a haircut that probably costs more than Jed makes in a week and leather jacket on that definitely costs more than he makes in a month.

Oh, Christ...that hurt. Who is this dickhead? Why is he calling me by my last name and what's up with the Louisville-

"No, no. There's no need to get up on my part, just make yourself comfortable right there on the floor. "

Ow, shit! That's okay, I don't need those ribs, I have a bunch more.

"Because that's going to be your new home, Thane. You think that would be able to help yourself to my girlfriend and I wouldn't find out about it?"

Gahhh! I guess I didn't need those teeth either. What the hell "girlfriend" is he going on about? Jesus, is this guy a drunk, or is he a crack head?

Jed mumbles through the blood and pain, "I don't know what you are talking about, man. I haven't been with a woman for months."

"Yeah, that's original. Let's see if this jogs your memory."

Shit! I can't breathe! How do I talk to this guy? He must be high out of his skull? What do I do? Just come up with something!

"See, I knew something was going on, but I didn't know just with whom it was until you went and got stupid, leaving your dry cleaning receipt...right under Joan's side of the bed."

C'mon man, think on your feet...your knees, whatever! Crap, that's it; I'll crawl towards one of the stations.

Jed manages to stop wheezing for a moment and he spits out "look at me. Do I look like I would need to have anything dry cleaned?"

C'mon, Barry Bonds. Just follow me a little further and we'll see how you swing that bat, then.

"Don't try to weasel your way out of this! I got your address off the receipt and I matched it to your trailer! I followed you out of your miserable trailer, all the way to over here!"

Oh, so that's why he's calling me by my last name. It must be my brother that is messing around with his girlfriend.

"Listen, Thane, listen. Can you hear that? The way that song just wafts through here? It's the fat lady and here comes her aria."

Jed crawls a little further. His assailant raises the bat and goes after him...for all of one step. The baseball wielding cuckold slips in blood and falls on his ass. He reaches for the bat, but it is too slippery with all viscera on the floor and it wouldn't make a difference, because it's too late. Jed grabs a boning knife and drives it downward through that two-thousand dollar jacket.

In a sickly combination of sputter and snarl, Jed sneers "I'm tone deaf and besides...I hate opera."

One minute later and the only thing left breathing in the building is Jed, albeit poorly.

He is in a tremendous amount of pain and he is sure that at best, three of his ribs are fractured.
He licks his mouth and his initial count is five teeth that are missing or chipped.

Hell, on top of trying to figure out a way of getting rid of this body and the car that brought it here, Jed still has to have at least half of this place clean before the 3 AM shift comes on, or he's fired.

All I can say is that after all this? My brother better sign his Mustang over to me.

The End

BIO: "Cormac Brown" is my pen name. I'm an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis , and I'm following in the footsteps of Hammett...minus the TB and working for the Pinkerton Agency. A couple of stories that I've stapled and stitched together can be found at http://cormacwrites.blogspot.com

Powder Burn Flash # 59 - Patricia J. Hale

2007-12-25T01:53:00.000-08:00

Fa La La La La

Ah, the holiday party with the family. Drove the car from the city, filled her up with low-cost unleaded from out here in the boonies. There was a light snow falling at dusk, a Christmas CD spinning and being the alcoholic in the family, I was bringing the wine.

When I reached Mom’s house it was late. Incidentally, I’d been a really bad girl this year, but Mom always loves me no matter what. Oh, who am I kidding? Mom doesn't know it, but I’m a bad girl every year.

I come in and it all slams at me with the squeal of pleasure from Mom, then she hugs me for way too long. The guilt begins with her whining “It’s been ages since you’ve come. I miss you so much when you’re away!” After she tears my coat off and I’ve barely bit into a Velveeta on Ritz cracker, I find myself the only one at the dining room buffet listening to the blow by blow of Grandpa Wilber’s constipation. When I escape from that to the kitchen my sister wants me to eat some dip that looks like vomit. I feign a need for the bathroom, but when I finish and open the door, there’s Cousin Sandra taking me aside like we're the dearest of friends. Her son has a kleptomania problem, can I talk to him? I stole half of her silverware in 2000; does she think I’m a role model?

Later, Mom makes us all watch a dumb movie about honoring your elderly parent (what COULD she be trying to tell us) and non-stop talks all the rest of the time about the weather (fascinating), her neighbors (she doesn’t have that many) and how fat my sister-in-law is (my brother refused to come). No transition before the next topic of her surgeries including those of a female and personal nature I REALLY didn’t want to hear about.

My head was spinning, that grog shit I’d drank making me sick and so fuck, I freaked out, OK? I pulled the Glock sucker out of my purse. I swear to God it was worth it just to see Aunt Mabel give me the “shame on you” look for a LEGITIMATELY bad thing. I starting shooting everything that moved until everyone was down. I honestly believe that included almost every person in the God damned party and most of my family. I even had to make the call to police myself. The nearest neighbors were 500 yards away and if they heard anything, probably thought it was those stupid Christmas crackers.

The ride in the police car was an out of body experience. I could hear Perry Como ringing in my ears and the plastic Santa and reindeers out front looked like they were suspended in air as I looked through the foggy window while we rode away. I still couldn’t believe I did it, so I hadn’t told the cops anything yet.

We arrive at a cute little police station and they get me into a dingy interrogation room with the one overhead light and the whole business.

“Yeah, I’m the one who did it.” I felt my hands shaking, the cold sweat starting. No point trying to come up with worthless alibi. They’d figure out soon enough. I was a junkie and already had a record.

The officer shook his head and rolled his eyes like I was the worst offender he’d ever picked up at on a very early Christmas morning. Give me a break.

Of course, maybe out here, I was. Well, Merry Fucking Christmas.

BIO: Patricia J. Hale has had stories here in Powder Burn Flash, Flashshot, Flash Pan Alley, MicroHorror, Fictional Musings and Apollo’s Lyre. She writes because she can’t stop herself. Her husband can’t stop her either. For her latest work see patriciahale.blogspot.com or reach her at patriciajhale@aol.com.

Powder Burn Flash # 58 - Clair Dickson

2007-12-23T15:20:00.000-08:00

Holiday Beating
A Bo Fexler Short Story

"Amy Wilson?" I asked into my cell phone, putting my feet up on the dining room chair opposite me. I stirred my soup, hoping it wouldn't cool too much while I was talking.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Bo Fexler, private investigator. I need to ask you some questions."

"I don't have anything to say."

It always astounds me when I get such hostile reactions based, I can only presume, on profession alone. "It's about Grace and Wendy."

"Oh. Why?"

"Wendy's family hired me. They're not satisfied with the story they've gotten so far."

"Oh. What did you want to know?"

"Were there any disagreements between Wendy and Grace?"

"No. Not that I can think of."

"Was there anything that happened during, or perhaps before book group that night?"

"No. Well, actually," she paused.

"What?"

"There was a disagreement before group started. Grace was really upset about people taking Christ out of Christmas. She went on this rant for a while. Her and, I think, Anne Wilson and maybe Amy. Grace was really angry about people refusing to say 'Merry Christmas.' She said it was very offensive to her. She celebrated Christmas and that's what people should say—'Merry Christmas.'"

"Was Wendy part of this discussion?"

"Um, not that I can think of."

"So, she wasn't aware of this conversation."

"We were all aware that it was going on. I had to force them to stop so we could get our discussion on the book started. We had to wait for it to stop."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Was there any sort of rivalry or grudge between the two women?"

"No. They got along just fine. There could have been something outside of book group, I suppose, but—" She pressed her lips together as she thought it over. "No, I don't think they met outside of book group. Some women don't, you know."

"Any political or religious differences that came up?"

"No. We try to avoid politics. That's always such a hot button. We try to stay focused on the book. As group leader, I try to steer us away from other issues and back to the book. Sometimes that's an issue because someone will insist that what they're saying really does tie into the book. But really, we want to make sure it's an enjoyable experience."

"And was the meeting that night?"

"Yeah."

"I can't think of anything that wasn't pleasant that evening."

"Thanks"

I set the phone aside and bent over my soup. After only two slurps that would have made my mother cringe—and chastise me-- my phone chirped.

"This is Bo," I said as a greeting.

"Oh—um, are you the one who's looking for information about the thing that happened at the book group?" The voice was soft, timid, and shaking.

"Yes. And you are?" I asked gently, trying to put her at ease.

"Betty Chalmers. Anne Wilson called me, told me that you were asking questions about it."

"Go on."

"Well, she said I should call you since I was right there when it happened. So was Fran Pallini. I don't know if Fran's going to call you. And I don't know if we can really tell you what happened. It doesn't make any sense to me." She drew in a ragged breath.

I stirred my soup and tried not to breath in the phone lest she presume I was anywhere near as impatient as I was for her to get to the point.

"It still bothers me. Did you hear that Grace is medicated now? At least they let her out of jail. I mean, it's just not right to lock up a fifty-two year old woman just before Christmas."

"Do you remember what happened that night?"

"It happened when we were leaving. We were getting our coats on and heading outside. Grace and Wendy and myself had already walked outside. We were exchanging a few comments about the book we had been reading in our group. And they talked about holiday plans. Parties, recipes. I mean, all normal things that we talk about in our book group."

"What was the last thing that was said?"

"Before—before Grace went crazy?" She sounded close to tears. Perhaps there were even tears on her cheeks. This woman probably lived a life of knitted sweaters and grandchildren's photos and happy books discussed over coffee.

"Yes."

"The last thing I heard was that Wendy said 'Happy holidays.'"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I put my hand to my forehead.

"I—what? I'm pretty sure—wha?" she stammered. She started to cry.

"Sorry—it's not you. I think that well-intentioned greeting was what put Grace over the edge."

"You—you don't think she beat Wendy because Wendy said 'Happy Holidays'?"

"Well, yeah. Grace has gotten pretty militant about the whole Merry Christmas/ Happy Holidays thing. According to a friend of hers, she'd been boycotting any establishment that used Happy Holidays rather than Merry Christmas. She was running out of places to shop and dine. Anyway, I also found a police report where she vandalized a two of her neighbor's displays, attacking Santa and his reindeer. They let her off when she agreed to pay for the destruction. And because she's a fifty-two year old woman."

"Oh dear. I don't think that's very Christmasy at all."

"'Tis the season." My soup was cold, too.

BIO: Clair Dickson writes Bo Fexler short stories when she's not teaching alternative high school. Or sometimes when she is. She has over thirty short stories published. Visit www.bofexler.blogspot.com for links and more!

Powder Flash Burn # 57 - Sandra Seamans

2007-12-15T19:04:00.000-08:00

JINGLE ALL THE WAY

My partner, Irma, and I were mistletoeing all cozy-like on the office couch when the phone did a jingle-jangle.

"Buck Tuff, PI."

"Hey, Buck, I need a favor," said my buddy, Smiley.

Irma's unwrapping some damn fine holly jolly Christmas presents in my lap and answering is a bit of a struggle, but, "Sure, Smiley. What's up?"

"I got Santa Claus holding down a bar stool here at the club, and the old guy’s creating a bit of a problem. He’s just one of those Mall Santas, but Chickie's got it in her head that he's the real deal, so I can't just bounce him outta the joint. Can you come on down and maybe ease him out the door?"

"You want me to evict Santa from your club? You been hittin' the inventory, Smiley?"

"No, I ain't been drinkin', and its a wonder. When Chickie manages to get a thought in that blond head of hers, all it does is boogie around in her skull and cause me trouble. She's got all the girls refusin' to strip in front of Santa. Says it's naughty. Jeez, Buck, this is Smiley's House of Strippers. The customers got expectations."

"Gimme half an hour,” I managed to choke into the phone. Tossing Santa out of Smiley’s is gonna have to wait. Me and Irma have a little lap dancin' of our own to finish up first.

"I gotta head over to Smiley's," I told Irma a few sweaty minutes later.

"Why?"

"Because Santa Claus is checking his list down at Smiley’s and Chickie and the girls are on strike until he sleigh rides outta there."

"Smiley's definitely in trouble. I guess you'd better get over there and help Santa find his reindeer," laughed Irma. You gotta love what a good chuckle does for Irma's chest area.

Smiley's was packed fuller than a Christmas stocking. But the crowd wasn’t their usual jolly selves, what with the girls refusing to deck the poles with bodacious bodies.

"Hello, Buck," said Santa as I slid my backside onto the barstool next to his. "I see Irma gave you an early Christmas present."

I eyeballed the guy warily. "And you would know that, how?"

"Trade secret...not to mention that hickey wreath decorating your neck."

"And your trade would be?" I said, flipping my collar up.

"Santa Claus, of course."

"Of course. Stupid of me to have missed that, what with the red suit and all. So...what are you doin' at Smiley's? It ain't exactly a Santa hangout."

"Now that's a fact, but I had an interesting letter drop into my lap this afternoon. It wasn’t your every year request for a baby doll or a bicycle. As a matter of fact, it was such an unusual request, that I thought I'd check it out personally."

"Here?"

"Yeah, odd one, that. A gal named Chickie put in a request for a pair of jingle bell pasties."

"That's not an unusual request if you know Chickie."

"Now, there's the rub. I don't know Chickie. Thought I'd check out her act and see if she deserves a visit from Santa. I wanted to see for myself if she's naughty or nice."

"I can vouch for Chickie. She's very nice. A little flaky most of the time, but there ain't a mean bone in her body."

"Nice body?"

"What you might call voluptuous."

"Sounds delightful. Any chance I could catch her act?"

"Hate to say it, but she's refusin' to dance in front of Santa. Says it would be too naughty."

Santa sighed, "You know, there's a lot of drawbacks to being a jolly old elf."

He reached into the pocket of his red coat and pulled out a package, "Will you see that she gets this?"

"Anything to help out, Santa."

"You always were a good kid, Buck. Since I can't watch the show, I might as well shove off. Besides, the reindeer are doubled parked out back."

As Santa walked out of the club, Chickie came bouncing over. "Did Santa leave me a present?" she giggled.

I handed her the package, watching as she tore at the wrapping paper. Inside the box, laid out on a wad of dollar bills was a pair of holly red pasties with strands of golden bells. The customers jingled with glee as she walked through the crowd modeling her present.

Cheers echoed off the rafters when Chickie took center stage, rocking Smiley's House of Strippers with her own version of Jingle Bells. I wonder if Santa’s got an extra pair of those pasties he could drop in Irma’s stocking. Sure would make my Christmas.

THE END

Powder Burn Flash # 56 - John DuMond

2007-12-12T16:00:00.000-08:00

Christmas Bonus

"Fay-leece nobby-job" Larry said.

"Ho, ho, ho, motherfucker," Marvin said.

Marvin was dressed as Santa Claus. He had spent the day standing in front of a grocery store ringing a bell, collecting charity donations for the Congregation of Salvation. At the end of his shift he planned on liberating a portion of his take for personal use.

"How's your Christmas bonus shaping up?" Larry asked.

"Pretty good. Buncha loose change, but there's a lotta green in that bucket, too. How's your Christmas Eve been going?"

"Great. Got four X-box 360s out the door over at Discount City."

"All at once?"

"Three trips." Larry said. "One each on the first two trips, two on the last trip. I got a hundred bucks for each." Larry said.

"Good haul, but boosting's too risky for me. Especially this time of year. Shit, last time I got arrested, it was on Christmas Eve."

"No shit. What happened?" Larry said.

Marvin told Larry the story of how he got caught boosting a bunch of PS2 games over at Discount City a few years ago. He had stuffed them down his pants, and when he walked out the door, the alarm went off. The store detective was on him before he got two steps.

"Yeah, I begged him to cut me a break, what with it being Christmas Eve and all. But he wouldn't. Said he makes it a point to lock up everyone he catches on Christmas eve.

"A smartly dressed woman walked past Marvin and put some money into the little red donation bucket as she walked into the store.

"Thank you ma'am, and have a merry Christmas" Marvin said.

"Schadenfreude," Larry said.

"What's that?" Marvin asked.

"It means taking satisfaction in the misery of others," Larry said.

"I just call it being a fuckin' prick," Marvin said.

Larry noticed a lock on the donation bucket and asked Marvin whether he had the key.

"No," he said. "Fuckers don't trust us. But it's a cheap-ass lock. I figure I can pick it without much trouble."

When Marvin's shift was over, Larry went to his car to wait while Marvin collected his bucket and the stand that held it. He got into the passenger side of Larry's car, reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of lock picks. He lifted the lock and looked at it. "Fuck!" he said.

"What's up?" Larry asked.

"There's glue in it. They put glue in the goddamn lock."

"You're right, they don't trust you," Larry said. "Hey, I know. We'll get a set of bolt cutters and cut it off. Then we get a new lock just like it, put glue in the keyhole. They'd have to cut it off anyway, so they'll never notice the difference. Builder's Depot is still open, we can boost the stuff we need there."

Marvin agreed, as long as Larry did the boosting. On the ride over, Marvin thought about the glue in the lock. Those bastards over at the Congregation didn't trust him. That's why they bought the cheap locks, they had planned on just cutting them off at the end of the shift anyway. The thought of them treating him like a thief pissed him off.

When they arrived at the Builder's Depot, Marvin waited in the car while Larry went inside to pick up the items they'd need. He came out a few minutes later carrying a plastic bag. He got into the car and removed the items from the bag.

"Here you go. Cutters, a lock, and some glue to keep those thieving Santas in check."

Marvin took the cutters and cut the lock off the donation bucket. He examined the lock and said "Fuck!"

"What now?" Larry said.

"There's numbers engraved on the back of the lock. '4-1-5-7,' like they're trying to make sure it's the same lock when it's turned in."

Larry laughed and said "Damn, Marv they really don't trust you guys."

"No shit, Sherlock. Now what am I gonna do?"

Larry told Marvin that they could engrave the numbers on the new lock, but they'd need an engraver, and Larry wasn't providing one. Marvin figured he could either buy one with some of the donation money, or he could swipe it from the store. He'd be damned if he was wasting his hard-earned money on an engraver, and decided on five-finger discount.

Marvin left Larry in the car and walked into the store. He still wore the Santa suit, beard and all. After all, who'd suspect that Kris Kringle would shoplift?

It took him a few minutes to find the engravers in aisle 7. He picked out one in a box that looked small enough to conceal. He looked left, no one there. He looked right, no one there either. He bellied up to the shelf and stuck the box down his pants. Then he walked out of the aisle and headed for the exit. As he walked out the door, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Excuse me sir, I'm with store security," said the voice attached to the hand on Marvin's shoulder. "Did you forget to pay for that item in your pants."

Marvin broke loose from the store detective's grip and ran for it. He got almost ten feet before he was tackled and handcuffed.

********************************************************************

Larry watched as Marvin got snagged by the store dick. As Marvin was being led in handcuffs back into the store, Larry yelled out "Hey, you're not going to arrest Santa on Christmas eve, are you?"

The store detective smiled and yelled back "Haven't you heard, there is no Santa Claus."

After they disappeared into the store, Larry looked at the donation bucket on the front seat of his car. He reached in and took out the greenbacks, left the coins. He tossed the bucket out the driver's side window into a nearby shopping cart.

"Like hell there's no Santa," he said as he started the car and drove off.

Bio: John DuMond lives in Albany, NY. His short stories have appeared in Jake Magazine, Flashing in the Gutters, and Defenestration. He blogs at http://armedrobbery.blogspot.com.

Powder Burn Flash # 55 - Pam Ward

2007-12-03T09:28:00.000-08:00

Taking Candy From A Baby

He said it’d be easy. Like taking candy from a baby.

We were in a Seven Eleven near Santa Monica and the beach. I was stuffing a Sara Lee cheesecake under my skirt, inside the reliable knapsack of my panties. John spotted me in the oblong mirror and winked. He’d already palmed a Hustler, which took real finesse since the sex mag’s were stacked behind the counter.

We were thirteen and already burnt out on school and stole regularly to offset our boredom.

Joining John at the bus bench, I began panhandling the squares.

“I lost my bus fare, can you spare any change?” My lipgloss and pleated, Catholic school skirt worked wonders on that mean hungry street. I didn’t go to Catholic school but none of those fools knew that. I went to Emerson Junior high, this flesh colored shack, filled with sleazy teachers who were always being hauled off by cops and a riotous bell that rang all the time like someone trying to break in a bank. The principal thought uniforms would bring some swank to the place but all it brought was crazies who honked at our thighs and lots of eyes gawking at kids wearing navy.

My after school routine was always the same. I panhandled before the metro bus came. In twenty minutes I’d rake in three or four bills and then I’d go buy a Blowpop or a cheap pack of gum and take eight or nine bucks worth of stuff.

It was four o’clock and school, that thief of the sun, was finally over for good. I sat down and shared my cheesecake with John who gorged like a pigeon in your trash. His tongue licked the cream off his fingers with speed. I was impressed. I liked his cranberry lips. In two seconds we were kissing like a wild sex scene as cars whizzed past our knees. He had big football arms and a strong Kung Fu grip. I was a homely chick with thick glasses and prairie home braids. I could easily pass for eight.

“Listen,” John said. “I know how to make some money.”

John’s friends snickered in their palms. They were scamming me for something but I didn’t know what so I figured I’d at least listen to their scheme.

“How?” I said licking the cream off my lips.

“I work the ticket line at school. Tomorrow’s the dance. The box will be brimming with cash.”

I was interested. I sat up on the bench.

“We could make a couple of hundred easy,” he said.

I squinted at his face. If he was conning, he was good. His crystal eyes looked ocean blue and serene. He looked like a Catholic school priest.

“Why do you need me?” I asked, nonchalant.

“’Cause, no one suspects a pretty girl.”

One friend held his hand over his mouth trying to stifle a smile.

John kissed me again, “you’re so beautiful,” he said, sucking the side of my neck. His friend almost fell off the bench.

“All you have to do is show up at nine and I’ll give you an envelope of cash.”

So the next day, I wore a stretchy tube top. I saw John at the door and did exactly what we planned. He handed me a wad and told me to meet him out back. I smiled shoving the cash inside my bra, tapping it twice to let him know it was safe.

When I walked out my mom was still at the curb. I told her I was only going to peek in the door. She hadn’t even turned off the car.

The next thing I knew, I was back at the pad, counting fives and tens on my bed.

John waited but I didn’t go to school for a week. I ditched every day and baked out in the sun, buying candy and snow cones at the beach. I came back tanned and relaxed. As soon as I walked in I ran into John.

“The principal caught me,” I said looking down at my feet. “He suspended me for a week.”

A sad covered John’s innocent face. He swallowed the con, hook, line and sinker. I swear he looked just like a baby.

Powder Burn Flash # 54 - Sandra Seamans

2007-11-28T16:21:00.000-08:00

CEMETERY COLD
by Sandra Seamans

Widmore Cemetery. I can feel the chilling thoughts of the dead creeping out of their graves and into the frigid air of a full moon midnight. You know the kind of night -- frost on the pumpkins, cold shimmering off granite headstones and ice in the blood.

While I was being released from prison this afternoon, they buried my childhood friend, Arnie Tate, somewhere in all this bleakness. Missing the funeral services didn’t bother me none. Arnie killed our friendship years ago.

I've managed to hang onto a few good memories. Me and Arnie riding our bikes out to Skidder's Pond, skinny dipping with the Anderson twins, sampling our first taste of a girl's body. Those were the growing up days. Days full of sunshine and wonderment. Good memories that I pushed aside to nurse the bruise of memories Arnie smashed into my skull. Arnie, my friend, whose appetite for sampling shredded my life.

For twenty years, I fondled those fetid memories, savoring the hatred knocking about in my brain. Prison years, spent honing my revenge on those Polaroid moments of my wife, in bed with my best friend. Arnie, screaming "sorry" as I shouldered the shotgun. Arnie, tripping as he tried to pull on his jeans. Arnie, running out of the house as I pulled the trigger. Arnie, leaving me alone to watch Cora Sue’s blood splatter across the soiled sheets.

Never once during my trial did I point a finger in Arnie's direction. My silence convicting me. What else could I do? Arnie was married to my kid sister, Emmy. I couldn't destroy Arnie without killing my sister’s happiness. Family is all the truth a man can count on in this world. Family is what roots a man, gives him hope, keeps him steady when he’s facing the storms of life.

Arnie never understood that the only reason he wasn't dead, was Emmy. I couldn't believe it when he came traipsing up to the prison, trying to beg my forgiveness. Telling me, he'd found Jesus. Jesus. Hell, every convict in a prison cell finds Jesus. He's the patron saint of parole board hearings. I held my temper, something prison life has taught me well, along with patience. I told Arnie that if he'd really found Jesus, he ought to be begging Emmy's forgiveness, not mine.

Arnie's grave ain't hard to find. The glare of the moonlight shining the way to a pile of hard scrabble dirt hidden by a crazy quilt of wilted florist's flowers. I ain't the only one who's come out for a midnight stroll in this cold bit of hell. Emmy's here, waiting for me, knowing I’d come when no one else was around. I wrap her in my arms, trying to warm us both.

“What Arnie did was wrong, Jesse,” said Emmy, breaking the silence that hung between us.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“You should have told me.”

“Yeah, right, Emmy. You were pregnant with Billy. Was I supposed to risk your baby just to even things up with Arnie?”

“No, I guess not. You know, I put up with Arnie’s skirting around for twenty years, Jesse. Him bedding every woman in the county, me forgiving him. When he got down on his knees and confessed that he'd slept with Cora Sue, well, I just couldn’t find it in me to forgive him anymore.”

“I guess it’s good he’s dead then.”

“I suppose so. I do find it comforting though, that Arnie found Jesus before he won that hunting trip. At least God could forgive him, even if we couldn’t," said Emmy. "Do you remember your friend, Carl, the prison guard who almost got killed in the prison riot? He came to the funeral today. Such a kind man, paying to have Arnie’s body shipped home. I tried to thank him, but he just shrugged it off. Said he owed you one, for saving his life."

Emmy took my hand as we walked toward the cemetery gate. “Don’t you find it strange that a friend of yours owned the hunting lodge where Arnie was killed?”

“Life’s pretty strange, all on its own, without trying to make sense of how the pieces fall together. There's just no way of knowing up front, how the twists in your life are gonna play out.”

END

BIO: Sandra's stories can be found in "The Ex Factor Anthology", Mouth Full of Bullets, and Crime and Suspense.

Powder Burn # 53 - Adam McFarlane

2007-11-20T20:31:00.000-08:00

IS YOUR HUSBAND HOME?

He stepped over empty milk bottles onto the welcome mat.

Knock, knock.

A woman opened the door. Blonde curls spiraled down her white T-shirt and spools held rolls of hair against her head. Smoke scattered off the tip of her cigarette into the wind.

“Good afternoon!” He brushed a hat from his scalp. “Is your husband home?”

“Not yet. Can I help you?”

“My name’s Wallace. And I’m going around the neighborhood to show families how they can save hours every day with a simple little gizmo from the Midwestern Machine Company. Want to see a free demonstration?”

She backed away from the door. Reaching behind her head to pull out a curler, she said, “Why not?”

Inside, an oatmeal davenport faced the picture window. Pewter lampshades stood on glass end tables. A cream sideboard sat against an empty stucco walls.

He unrobed the vacuum from its canvas bag, found an electrical outlet, then plugged it in. She stood beside him, removing her last curlers.

When he stomped on the button, the vacuum gave a loud, buzzing whine.

She jolted and grabbed his arm.

“Sorry.” He shouted. “The contraption’s a little loud, but that’s because of all the sucking power. I should have warned you.”

Nodding, she unclenched her grip on him. Then smiled.

He pulled the vacuum back and forth a couple times then turned it off. “See? It’s all right. Now, say you got a real mess on the floor?”

“Yeah?”

“In my hand I’ve got a can of coffee grounds and if it’s okay, I’m going to sprinkle a little on your carpet?”

“Okay?”

“You’ll see: the Midwestern Machine Company vacuum takes it all away. You have the company guarantee on that.”

He cast a cloud of black grains onto the carpet. After it settled, he turned on the vacuum and ran it over the dark shape. Each sweep with the vacuum left a clean swath. “Good as new.”

She nodded. “I see that.”

“You like to give it a try?”

She shook her head. “No thanks.”

He smiled. “No, go on. It’s easy.”

When she held the handle, he saw her wedding ring. Its diamond looked like a square drop of water clung between metal pins.

“Okay?” He tapped the power button with his toe and when she jumped from the noise, he touched her arm and smiled.

She stretched her arm out and flexed back, drawing the vacuum over a patch of carpet.

“There you go,” he said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze with his hand then resting it there. “You got it.”

He watched her push and pull the vacuum again, his hand on her shoulder. She drew the vacuum upright and stood still. His toe tapped the vacuum off.

“Can I get you a drink?” She nodded to the sideboard.

“I’d love one.”

She walked to the sideboard and she stirred together two mai tais. Tropical juices seeped into rum, melting the ice cubes in the glass. Handing one to him she said, “Please. Call me Myrna. “

“Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it.” He took a sip and winced.

“Where you from? Skokie? Cedar Rapids?” she asked, sitting beside him and touching his arm.

“Midwestern Machine Company. Don’t really have a home if the closest thing is my car or the nearest general delivery window.”

“Oh, you must be lonely.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “A little.”

He reached over and hugged her. He smelled her soap and talcum powder scents.

Rubbing his cheek against hers, his lips brushed hers. Her lips pressed back.

“Do you want to go somewhere more comfortable?”

He nodded.

She took his hand and lead him down the hall to the bedroom. Once inside, she took his head in her hands and kissed him hard. Then she pulled his jacket off and started unbuttoning his shirt.

He pulled at her T-shirt, untucking it and lifting it away.

They were still undressing when they slid onto the bed.

Later, they rested in a snarl of blankets.

She rolled over, curving her spine to bend away from him and wrapping her arms and legs against her stomach.

“I’m a whore.”

“Please. Don’t say that.”

She flinched when he put his hand on her shoulder.

When she started to cry silently, the bed shook. The room was quiet except for her panting breath. “I was just so lonely, I took you in here.”

She stopped crying. Then she uncurled and snuggled up to him. “I’m sorry.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“At work.”

“Do you have kids?”

“She’s at Girl Scout camp.” She let him comb her hair with his fingers and dot her face with his kisses. “I should be cleaning the house while it’s empty. Instead, I want to just hold onto you.”

He touched her neck. A strawberry-speckled mark slashed her skin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d leave a mark.”

She giggled. “Just like teenagers.”

“Will makeup hide it? Or maybe, could you cover it up with a bandage and say you cut yourself?”

“Don’t worry. Who’s going to notice?” She reached for her cigarette case and matches, then lit up. The match dropped into a teacup on the carpet. The cup was filled with blackheaded matchsticks. “What are you looking at?”

He smiled. “You.”

Rolling her eyes, she shook her head,

“You’re beautiful.”

She covered her eyes with a hand. “No, I’m not.”

“Your skin, it’s so beautiful.”

He reached out to touch her cheek, but she knocked his hand away.

“Stop,” she said then rolled over, turning her back to him. “This can’t be the first time you’ve done this. I’m not anything special to you.”

He looked out the bedroom window. Flowers wilted in the backyard garden and socks hung pinned halfway across a clothesline.

“When does your husband get home?”

“Tomorrow, probably late.”

“Tomorrow? Where is he?”

She bunched the sheet tightly around herself. “Working. He’s a traveling salesman.”

BIO: Last year, Adam was a judge for the PWA's Shamus award for best short story. This year, he was a panelist at Bouchercon. He eats, drinks, and is merry in the Twin Cities. Check out his website at www.adammcfarlane.com

We interrupt this program for

2007-11-12T22:08:00.000-08:00

an important message.......

Greetings all.Over the past year I have recieved many submissions that were longer than the guideline for my flash fiction site - Powder Burn Flash.

So, after much thought I decided to open an additional venue for writers wishing to explore their stories more indepth. Tonight I have opened Darkest Before the Dawn. This site is open to short story submissions up 10,000 words in length.

Powder Burn Flash # 52 - Barry Baldwin

2007-11-07T16:45:00.000-08:00

The Final Reel

Picture night was Tuesday. In a nissen hut left over from the war, price fourpence. It was run by a middle-aged bloke with some dreary girl supposed to be his daughter, though our gang leader Frank Blunt swore she was really his tart. This bloke drove around all the local villages with projector and reels bunged in the back of an old van. He always wore a penguin suit and bow tie. "Keeping up standards," he said when Frank Blunt once asked him why; we had no idea what he meant.The daughter-tart would try to flog us chocolate bars and crisps. Most of us brought our own, or had run out of pocket-money by Tuesday, and she had no sex-appeal by which to lure us, so her sales never amounted to much. The same stuff probably went round the villages week after week. I once lashed out on a bag of broken crisps; they tasted like fried sawdust.

The programme never varied. First, a newsreel, Movietone or Pathé, usually months old, showing some Royal opening a factory or Britain stunning the world with a new invention or the latest daring Paris fashions. We talked and jeered through them, except when there was a football or cricket clip. Then a stupid Disney cartoon. After that, a short Western with Tom Mix or Bill Boyd sorting out the villains, though they were too tame: nobody was ever killed in them. But at least they beat the ones with the singing cowboys, Gene Autry or Tex Ritter or Roy Rogers and Trigger the effing wonder Horse as Frank Blunt shouted out under the cover of darkness.

Between the Western and the big picture, there came the most popular item: the serial. The bloke was crafty. He knew we wouldn't miss an episode, so we'd be there every week even if we weren't bothered about the main film. The one I'll never forget was called The Scorpion. It was named after the villain, who for unknown reasons always went around in a black cape and mask with his left hand and arm held across his face. He never actually did much, except kidnap some millionaire's daughter for ransom or threaten to blow up half London if his latest demands were not met. He was regularly outwitted by a posh-talking hero with hair-oil and a cravat, helped by some twat of a boy assistant whom we always heckled.

After months and months, we were all there for the last episode. I'd had to steal the fourpence from my mother's purse. By now, it was clear to the thickest that the Scorpion was in fact the smiling know-it-all doctor to whom the hero always turned for help with bullet wounds or antidotes to poisons. When his picture was flashed up with the others in the opening credits, the other kids booed loudly, drowning out Frank Blunt's attempt at a rival cheer.

The Scorpion was finally cornered and unmasked on a roof-top somewhere in London - a lot of the serial seemed to take place on roof-tops there, very exotic to most of the audience who had never been to London, or on many roof-tops either. Right to the end, he had the arm and hand over his face. Just before this, he had captured the boy assistant and was about to order his associates to throw him off the roof, something I wish we'd have seen, if the hero didn't move back. But they got the arm down and the mask off, and the evil doctor got a final round of boos when carted away by some bobbies who'd materialised out of nowhere.

Not much of an ending, really. Frank Blunt swore there was a special adult version which showed the Scorpion being hung in his full outfit, and he would get his dad to buy a print and show it us. Nobody had much faith in this, especially since the Scorpion had never bumped anyone off. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't hope it was true, but of course no such special version ever appeared.

Anyway, Frank Blunt had been scooped. When the lights came on for the usual reel change between serial and big picture, a figure dashed through the hall got up to look like the Scorpion. We gave the bloke a good cheer for this gimmick. Except that it wasn't the bloke at all, since they found him dead in the projection room. The girl was soon arrested and in the dock for murder. From what the newspapers and the village bobby let on, he'd been knocked out and suffocated by the bow-tie stuck down his throat. Most sensationally, they'd found his wedding-tackle cut off and left on the projector.

It turned out that the girl was both his daughter and his tart, and she'd had enough. This was her lawyer's defence. We'd once heard a grown-up reckon she was this, but that sort of idea was too advanced for even Frank Blunt to take in. In those days, though, that didn't cut the ice the way it would now, and the judge was keen on the black wig and the "...Hanged by the neck until you are dead" speech, so the girl was sentenced to an eight am date with Albert Pierpoint the executioner. Along with Frank Blunt's speculations about what she wore on the gallows, there was a bit of sympathy for her in the gang hut, not a lot, since that was the end of our Tuesday pictures.

Powder Burn Flash # 51 - Barry Baldwin

2007-11-05T11:59:00.000-08:00

GOD REST YE MERRY

"This Christmas is mine," said Mary Caster in a Don't Argue voice. "I deserve it, pregnant right through the hottest summer ever and looking like hell in those maternity tents. So, clothes, clothes, clothes, now the kid is off the tit and I've got a figure again."

"Yes, dear," replied Joe, his mock meekness concealing the real thing.

"Personally I'd settle for a roll in the hay. It's been a long time between drinks..."

"We'll see." Mary's tone implied that they wouldn't.

Joe thought he must be the first husband in history whose wife had gone straight from honeymoon hysterics through pregnancy panicking to post-partum blues.

The limousine stopped outside the Casters' house, an Eighties conversion from some old stables. Without turning his head, the driver said, "I was wondering if you'd be taking a cab back after? That way, I could get off home. I've got three brothers in from the East and..."

"Forget it," grunted his employer from the back. "Getting a cab on Christmas Eve is a mega-hassle. Call your brothers on the car phone. You'll be okay here, it's not a cold night."

The driver might have argued, but his employer had already switched targets. "Have you got the damn presents, Liz?" He was still churning over the bum who'd almost forced his way into the limo, whining for change. "Look, fella," he'd said, resisting the urge to signal the driver to show him the gun that was always ready, "We've just been to a hundred buck plate charity raiser for guys like you. What more do you want?"

"Yes, Gabe. Rolex for him, fancy perfume for her."

"Nothing for the damn kid?"Her laugh was partly genuine. "Damn kid? And you the President of Toys For Tots! No, of course not. He's only a tiny baby. He doesn't know it's Christmas. Mary won't be expecting us to bring him anything."

"Well, I hope you're right. From what Joe says, she's absolutely stuck on the little sucker."

"Joe has to say that."

They penetrated what was now the Casters' family room. The driver had been left in the car, the snowboots in the hall. Presents were exchanged to contrapuntal Oh, You Shouldn't Haves.

"Smell this perfume, Joe."

"Great. That'll cover a multitude. See this watch. Real gold, Gabe?"

"The best plastic can buy. Help you start getting to the office on time."

Gabe looked at Mary and Joe's other presents. "Jeez, you guys did well. Got the goods on Santa, or what?"

"No, she's got the goods on me. It's mostly hers. Still, I'll say it before she does. She deserves it, after the year she's had."

"Yeah, well, people deserve to get what they deserve."

"That reminds me, where is the little monster?"

"Isn't that him over there?" Gabe's tone would have sounded almost wistful to anyone who had been listening.

Finger over mouth, Mary led them to where a blue bundle lay supine in an otherwise empty playpen.

"See, he's fine. Now come and have a drink, or the food'll be ready before we are. Christmas, who invented it?" Mary glanced at the bundle whose chubby hands were now exploring a red bow tied around its neck.

"I tell you, we're only doing this for its sake."

"What's Christmas without children?" Three of the four knew that it was actually Gabe's child; none of them were sure if the fourth did.

"That's right," said Liz, who had discreetly aborted Joe's child on the very day blue bundle was born, "that's what it's all about. Come on, Mother Mary, where's that drink?"

When the driver burst into the room with gun in hand, just as the local churches were starting to ring out midnight, mad as hell and not going to take it any more, he wasn't sure if he was glad or sorry to find the job already done for him, thanks to the punch which had been lethally spiked by that fourth person.

Powder Burn Flash # 50 - Glenn Gray

2007-10-27T18:19:00.000-07:00

JOHNNY BOY

Everything seemed pretty damn good. What didn't make sense to Johnny Boy though, until lately, was why this fucking stripper going by the name of Quilt took so long to give him the time of day.

Johnny Boy ratcheted out a front lat spread, his girth filling the mirror on the wall of his studio apartment in Bensonhurst. Wing-span like a goddamn pterodactyl. He held it a minute, started to tremor then relaxed, shook his hands out at his sides.

He adjusted his bulge in the tight knitting of the jockstrap. Yeah, he was still pretty damn solid, even at forty-nine. The abs were rock, still could see the washboard, six little knobs poking through a thin layer of fat. The couple strands of gray hair above the ears you could hardly even notice.

Had he gotten hitched he probably wouldn't have looked so good. He'd have a beer gut and a turkey-waddle chin. Probably get his ass kicked in a bar brawl. And no friggin' way could he be working the door at a titty bar. No way a wife would deal with that shit.

Johnny Boy grunted through sixty close grip push-ups, turned over and did twenty crunches, puffing out hard. He sprung up off the hardwood floor and turned the radio a little louder, getting in the mood for work. The disco beat cranked and he did a goofy dance move, rocking his pelvis. He caught a glimpse of his hairy ass in the mirror and laughed.

He slid into a choreographed posing routine to the beat; a performance that earned him third place in the heavyweight class at the Mr. East Coast eighteen years earlier. He eyed the trophy standing majestically on the top of the television and felt as if he were back on stage. Shredded to the hilt. He still had every move down. Every transition just right, like a goddamn ballet.

He muscled into the black tux, black cummerbund and black bow-tie, pulling and stretching. He stared at the mirror and raked a palmful of gel through the buzz cut.

The fuck could've been wrong with her anyway?

Not seeing the obvious.

A short time later he was in the Trans-Am. The T-tops were off, the cool air massaging his ears and face. He cruised the pot-hole ridden Belt Parkway toward Long Island, the road smoothing out a bit as he merged east onto Sunrise Highway, ending up at the Raven's Nest Tavern in North Bellmore.

He did the rounds of hellos and howyoudoins then planted himself at the door, checking ID cards and shaking hands with the regular assholes. He stood on the top step, way up high just inside the door, leaning on the thick chrome railing. He could see everything from there.

Quilt got in around seven, sporting a workout getup; black spandex pants that showed off her gorgeous bubble-ass, a baggy t-shirt draped over smooth mountains of silicone, a headband and ponytail. And those eyes -- the eyes glared at him, signaled to him as she strutted past.

He could swear she was giving him a secret code lately. Finally seeing it like he did. Like she wanted to marry him when she was done with this stripping gig, finally coming around.

He imagined them living together, nice new apartment, right in Bay Ridge, him cutting squares of fresh cantaloupe in the morning. There'd be awesome views of the Verrazano Bridge -- sun blasting through a huge bay window. She'd grind the coffee beans in her nightie. They'd sit at the kitchen table and eat, go workout, then come home and fuck all afternoon.

Of course, by then he'd have a different job, something other than the strip joint. Quilt wouldn't dance no more. Maybe she'd do interior decorating for some rich clients. He'd do construction or something, a good union job with a solid pension. Straight seven to three.

So tonight, like all the other nights, Johnny Boy watched. Making sure these fucking losers in suits didn't get too close. Grabbing Quilt and trying to cop an ass feel. He watched her work the smoke-filled room, doing it just to make cash, not caring about the parade of gawking sleazebags.

Occasionally, she'd look over and wink. He was sure now they finally had the connection. When she hung upside down off the pole, she glanced over his way and he could see that sexy-as-shit smile. He knew she was dancing for him. It was Johnny Boy's show now, baby.

Their little secret.

So, Johnny Boy thought it a little friggin' weird when he escorted Quilt to her car after work. When she said, "Thanks JB," and he pulled her close for a kiss and she pushed him away. Both her palms on his chest, pushing, Quilt saying, "The fuck you doing?"

What the fuck? He was sure she was keeping up their little game, in case somebody was spying. Sure, that was it. Everyone knew the doormen weren't supposed to bang the dancers -- against club rules.

She smelled so good though.

Just a whiff sent his mind reeling

Johnny Boy thought it was way too much though when she hammered his chest, clenched fists, hitting hard, now kicking him too, saying, "The fuck off, you freak!"

He reined her in, thick fingers circling her tiny neck, just to get better control, making her see the light, the kind of life they had in store -- husband and wife.

The cantaloupe.

The coffee.

She wouldn't listen.

He leaned in, his chest flattening the balloon-like tits.

Johnny Boy thought the knot in his stomach was a cramp, maybe low on potassium or something. The pain was funny though, took his breath. Funny enough that he let go of Quilt and had to step back and sit down on the pebbly blacktop.

And then Quilt saying, "The fuck didn't you just stop. Fucking choking me, asshole."

Johnny Boy looked up at Quilt, her purse hanging open, on a cell phone now, frantically punching in numbers, saying, "Shoulda stopped. Shoulda just stopped."

Johnny Boy then felt the thing protruding from his gut -- a smooth wooden knife handle. It jutted out just above the cummerbund, off the middle, at a little bit of an angle. Sticky warmth spread from its base, soaking the white shirt.

The pain got worse and Johnny Boy had to lie down, his head getting light, thinking of all the dirt and crunched glass that was getting in his hair and on his tux. From the ground, Quilt looked like a giant, the glow from the streetlight behind her head making him squint. He turned his head away and touched the wood handle again, then rubbed his abs, wondering if the washboard would ever be the same.

END

Glenn Gray is a Radiologist in private practice. His stories have appeared in Thuglit, Blazing Adventures Magazine, DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash, Bewildering Stories, Underground Voices and Out Of The Gutter 3. Reach him at gggray@gmail.com.

Powder Burn Flash # 49 - Patricia J. Hale

2007-10-02T16:19:00.000-07:00

Things To Do

-buy potted plants, soy milk, orange juice, eggs, rat poison
-make Steven’s “breakfast”
-get shovel from basement
-locate old sheet (one with blue flowers)
-wait until evening, then unscrew porch light bulb
-dig hole out back
-take “garbage” out to hole
-fill in hole and top with potted plants
-soak sheet to get out grass stains
-wash sheet
-finish ironing

Bio: Patricia J. Hale has had stories published in Flashshot, Flash Pan Alley, and Fictional Musings. She writes because she can’t stop herself. Her husband can’t stop her either. See patriciahale.blogspot.com or reach her at patriciajhale@aol.com. Especially with paying gigs.

Powder Flash Burn # 48 - Christopher Grant

2007-10-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

MISSED FORTUNE

Dex was thinking of Claudia, his wife, when they pulled up to the house. He was thinking about how she was leaving him, not for another guy but for another life. A better one, she told him. He wondered what she would think of what he was doing right now. Dex hadn't had a job in over a year, legit or otherwise. Claudia was right to leave him.

Dex still couldn't get over the fact that Ryan had found this girl, that she was sixteen years old and that she wanted them to rob her parents' house. He couldn't believe that they had a week to do it and he couldn't believe that Ryan wanted to screw this girl and that he didn't understand the concept of statutory rape.

As he opened the door and slammed it shut, he watched the girl come bouncing (literally) from out of the house and jump into Ryan's arms, pushing his hair out of his face and french kissing him. Dex just rolled his eyes.

She grabbed Ryan by the hand and led them through the doorway and into a small foyer and then into the living room which was illuminated softly. A fire was going in the fireplace and that's when Dex saw them. The portraits.

There were dozens of them and Dex immediately thought them all unnecessary. And yet, he stood there, transfixed by the one above the fireplace. It was a man and a woman and a street scene behind them. They were oblivious to everything going on around them, enjoying this moment with each other.

For the second time, Dex thought about Claudia. Was it too late to stop her?

The girl led the both of them through the dining room, pointing to where the silverwear was and telling them that the vases on the upper shelf of the china cabinet were priceless. Through an arched doorway, they were now in the kitchen. She hopped up onto the counter, pulling a drawer open once she was seated. She swung her legs back and forth and told them to look inside the drawer.

A metal box sat in the center of the drawer, a keyhole on top of it.

She reached inside the collar of her shirt and produced a key on a chain. She took it off her neck, handed the chain to Dex. She told him to open the box. He fit the key, turned it and the box emitted a click noise. Ryan lifted the top and smiled at what he found inside.

Ryan lifted his hand and with it came a Rolex, a necklace and a pair of earrings. The girl told them that they were 24 Karat, probably worth a couple thousand dollars. Dex didn't know from gold and had no idea if what she said was true or not.

She opened a couple other drawers and the key Dex held opened the boxes inside, too, finding cash, finding jewels. The girl told him that there were furs upstairs, that there were suits that would look good on the both of them. She licked her lips in Ryan's direction.

Dex went back to the living room and his gaze fell once again upon the painting over the fireplace. He barely noticed when the girl and Ryan came tearing out of the kitchen and ran upstairs. He didn't want to know what was going to happen, though he had a good idea. He rolled his eyes for the second time this night.

Dex headed back for the kitchen and took a handful of cash and a handful of jewels. Again, he thought about Claudia. Would this do the trick? Could he keep her with this pile of cash and these stones? He heard a thump from the ceiling and he just shook his head. Two more thumps and he ran for the stairs. Ryan just didn't get it.

Dex opened the first door he came to and found nothingness. He reached around the side of the doorway and found the light switch on the side and found nothingness in the light.

He continued down the hallway, throwing open doors and finding nothing until finally, he found her. She was half-naked, her teenaged breasts uncovered. She was crying and Dex tried not to look at her. He asked where Ryan was and she gulped and looked at the side of the bed. Her shirt was on the floor, bloody and under Ryan's head. Ryan was staring at the ceiling. He had a hole in the middle of his forehead.

The girl sobbed uncontrollably and Dex asked her what happened. She mumbled that she didn't think it would go this far, that Ryan had shoved his hands up her shirt and down her shorts and that she had grabbed a gun and shot him in the head.

Dex felt this was going to be the dumbest thing he'd ever done. He grabbed the cash in his own pockets, grabbed the jewels and started to stuff them in Ryan's pockets. As he did this, he told the girl to go put a shirt on. Don't shower, he cautioned her. Call your parents, get them home now. Call the cops, get them here now.

Dex stood as he finished his task and was happy to see she had followed his orders about putting a new shirt on. She had her cell phone in her hand and was starting to dial. Dex told her again what she should tell her parents, tell the cops. She had taken a shower and was getting ready for bed when a man opened the door on her bedroom. He attacked her, she got away, got a gun and shot him.

Dex started to leave and she grabbed his arm, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. Not the french kiss she'd given Ryan a little while ago. A kiss that said thank you for saving me.

And he left.

BIO: Christopher Grant is a writer of all kinds of fiction, not the least of which is the kind your reading right now, crime fiction. His blog is The-Not-So-Quiet American, where you can find links to other stories as well as his take on various other issues.

Powder Burn Flash # 47 - Scott Shewan

2007-09-28T14:50:00.000-07:00

Howl

On nights like this, it was difficult to not howl at the moon. Full. Thick. Heavy. Impossible to look away from. Hanging in the air like a car wreck.

Logan made his rounds at the junkyard. Down the rust colored trails cut through mountains of fridges, toasters, dishwashers.

Logan stopped and stared up at the moon. It's funny how some things can flood you with random memories. First time you cut class, shoplifted, got locked in the trunk of an '86 Caprice Classic.

******************************
CRACK

THUNK

A bullet ripped into the trunk, the heat and speed peeled the metal inward. The bullet flew through, inches from Logan's head, landed in an empty jerry can sending sparks and tiny steel slivers everywhere.

First though: Oh fuck I'm dead.

But the bullet missed his head.

Second thought: Oh fuck, I'm going to get exploded.

But the gas can was empty.

Thank fuck. What a shitty way to go. Being tied up in the trunk of a shitbox sure was a motherfucker.

-You dead bro?

Bro? Who the fuck was this frat boy? What advanced psychological technique is asking if someone you just shot at is dead?

No I'm not you fucker. Ha ha. You missed.

Well thanks for the heads up, victim in the trunk. You fell for my plan thus proving I am a genius. Time to get shot and die.

Is that how he thought it would play out?

Logan struggled with the ropes. Unfortunately the rope was tearing the shit out of his forearms. Skin raw all the way up to his elbows. Persistance. Needed to get out. Claustrophobia handing him a beating. Being shot at sucked dicks. And, oh yeah, his Browning wasn't going to jump out of his waistband and into the palm of his hand by force of will.

So he wrestled. The pain made him grit his teeth. He bled and sweat. And bled some more. The rope loosened.

-Bro, I asked you a question.

Seriously, this guy was a fucking douche bag.

A little give. More blood. More give. More blood. The blood lubricated his escape from bondage. One last push.

THUD

The rope slid off faster than Logan thought. So fast in that he inadvertently stomped the inside of the trunk at about 60 km an hour.

Oh fuck.

Logan grabbed the Browning from his waist band and crouched in a corner of the trunk in the fetal position. The bullet hole looked like a full moon the way the street light seeped in. In his own little microcosm.

CRACK
CRACK
CRACK

THUNK
THUNK
THUNK

Three bullets ripped into the trunk. Had he been lying in the spot he was a second earlier he would've gotten one in the brain holder, one in the lung, and most likely, if he was lining up the angles properly, one right in his ball sack.

Thank fuck for that.

He stretched out and reached for the emergency release.

Had to bide his time. Hoped this fuck would slip up before he pumped more lead into the trunk.

-Bro, you're dead now right?

Logan would've rolled his eyes had he not trained them on the bullet holes. He waited, staring at the street light seeping in.

Rustling outside. Pacing maybe? Darkness overtook the trunk. The bullet holes stopped letting any light in. Logan flicked the latch and shoved his body upwards, blasting off. His shoulder connected with the inside of the trunk and sent the trunk lid sailing upwards.

Then he felt it. A connection. Rusted metal on soft flesh. Logan got out in a hurry. His kidnapper was on the ground cupping his bleeding forehead. Logan trained the gun on him.

-Up.

He looks up at Logan.

-Oh fuck.

-Indeed. Get up and get in the fucking car.

Logan motioned him towards the car with business end of his gun.

-In. I'm driving. Give me the keys or I'll shoot you in half.

He handed over the keys.

After failed attempts to plead for his life, the once-predator panicked as he took in his new surroundings. Junkyard. Late, late night. No one for miles.

-So what the fuck did I do to you?

-Cause man you fucked my girl. You put your greasy weasel in my Amy.

Logan laughed.

-I guarantee that my "gentleman's situation" was nowhere near an Amy. It's attached to my body and I'm pretty sure that I'd know who I was putting my greasy weasel in.

-Fuck you bro. I know you did it ok. She fucking told me!

-She did, did she? Your old lady use any other names?

-No she doesn't. But whatever bro. Not the fucking point. She fucking told me! Fuck! Why would she lie? She fucking told me ok? She said, she fucking said 'I fucked Herman, I let Herman fuck the shit out of me'"

-I'm sorry, Herman? Is that what I heard?

-Yeah. Herman. Herman. Herman. Got that? She fucking said she fucked you!

-At some point did it ever strike you that I don't look like an 84 year old man?

-What?

-My fucking name's not Herman, you shit.

-What?

-Herman. My. Name. Is. Not. Herman. Although now I wish I were, your old lady sounds like she'd be a great roll in the hay.

-You're lying! Fuck you! Go to hell you fucking bastard.

-Hell? Look around college man. Where the fuck do you think you are?

Logan cocked his hand back and laid him the fuck out with handle of the gun. The nameless attacker mumbled a pearl necklace of curses as he collapsed face first into the trunk. Logan gave the rest of his limp body the helping hand it needed.

**************************

Logan looked away from the moon and continued his rounds. Past random piles of cutlery. Past stationary bikes and rowing machines. Past the crushed cars. Past a '54 Impala. Past a '96 Civic. Past a '91 Elantra. Past an '86 Caprice Classic.

It looked this Herman asshole was off the hook.

BIO: Scott Shewan was born and raised in Montreal where he still lives and continues to speak English despite the wishes of the Provincial Government. He is currently working on his first book, Crowbar, which he will never finish and no one will ever read. He also has a blog ( sshewan.blogspot.com) that no one reads as well. He is tall and wants to be your friend.