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.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 104 - Sandra Seamans
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
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.
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
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
Monday, September 1, 2008
Powder Flash Burn # 102 - Stephen D. Rogers
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.
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.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Powder Burn Flash #101 - James C. Clar
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.
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.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 100!!!! - Robert Aquino Dollesin
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.
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.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 99 - Cormac Brown
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/
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/
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