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Happy Labor Day
2 weeks ago
Saturday, October 24, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 233 - Karl Koweski
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Thursday, October 22, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 232 - Des Nnochiri
INAPPROPRIATE CONTENT - DES NNOCHIRI
No question. Carla was going to be late.
If she hadn’t stepped into the living room...
But, of course, she had to. That’s where she’d left her purse.
And if she hadn’t spotted the crayons on the coffee table...
But, she couldn’t really miss them. After all, this was, like, only the three thousandth time she’d told...
“Ramon!”
The culprit slunk into the room, chocolate (God, he’d been eating Hersheys again!) smeared all over his face. A weird, goggle-eyed expression.
That’s when Carla noticed the drawing. It was done on the back of one of those flyers from the Shop-n-Save. Not in Ramon’s usual, semi-stick figure style, but in a manner that was... altogether more adult. And the subject matter...
“Honey?” she asked. “Why’d you draw this?”
In reply, Ramon, still silent, stared intently at his mom’s computer screen.
She’d gotten the laptop from her brother, Miguel, on her last birthday. He’d gotten it (so he said) as “a bonus” for a job he did in Reno. She didn’t press for details. Maybe she should have.
Her screensaver was on. She hit a key. Looked at her desktop with an expression almost as dopey as Ramon’s was...
And immediately dialed 911.
Now, two hours later, the two of them sat in an interrogation room, rehashing their story to the two detectives for, like, the three thousandth time.
How Ramon got access to her computer.
Easy: She’d been working the night shift. Babysitters cost money. Mrs. Jensen across the hall looked in, from time to time.
How Ramon had gotten onto those social networks.
Easy: She didn’t have any of that “child-proofing” software installed.
How he’d hooked up with The Grinder, a vicious serial killer who’d been baffling the cops with his hideous crimes for the better part of a decade.
Umm...
How much had The Grinder revealed to Ramon? His real name? His location?
It was too much to take in.
Struggling for a purchase, some kind of handle on this new reality.
“Can I call them at work? Tell them I’ll be late? My shift started, like, two hours ago.”
The best Carla could do.
It was too much to take in.
BIO: Desmond (Des) Nnochiri spent his early years traveling with his parents, and was educated in England, the USA, and the Republic of Ireland (Eire). He writes freelance now, and has taken his first steps into the world of screenwriting. He has contributed stories to A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and Powder Burn Flash. He has just started blogging, at Des Nnochiri's Write to Speak.
No question. Carla was going to be late.
If she hadn’t stepped into the living room...
But, of course, she had to. That’s where she’d left her purse.
And if she hadn’t spotted the crayons on the coffee table...
But, she couldn’t really miss them. After all, this was, like, only the three thousandth time she’d told...
“Ramon!”
The culprit slunk into the room, chocolate (God, he’d been eating Hersheys again!) smeared all over his face. A weird, goggle-eyed expression.
That’s when Carla noticed the drawing. It was done on the back of one of those flyers from the Shop-n-Save. Not in Ramon’s usual, semi-stick figure style, but in a manner that was... altogether more adult. And the subject matter...
“Honey?” she asked. “Why’d you draw this?”
In reply, Ramon, still silent, stared intently at his mom’s computer screen.
She’d gotten the laptop from her brother, Miguel, on her last birthday. He’d gotten it (so he said) as “a bonus” for a job he did in Reno. She didn’t press for details. Maybe she should have.
Her screensaver was on. She hit a key. Looked at her desktop with an expression almost as dopey as Ramon’s was...
And immediately dialed 911.
Now, two hours later, the two of them sat in an interrogation room, rehashing their story to the two detectives for, like, the three thousandth time.
How Ramon got access to her computer.
Easy: She’d been working the night shift. Babysitters cost money. Mrs. Jensen across the hall looked in, from time to time.
How Ramon had gotten onto those social networks.
Easy: She didn’t have any of that “child-proofing” software installed.
How he’d hooked up with The Grinder, a vicious serial killer who’d been baffling the cops with his hideous crimes for the better part of a decade.
Umm...
How much had The Grinder revealed to Ramon? His real name? His location?
It was too much to take in.
Struggling for a purchase, some kind of handle on this new reality.
“Can I call them at work? Tell them I’ll be late? My shift started, like, two hours ago.”
The best Carla could do.
It was too much to take in.
BIO: Desmond (Des) Nnochiri spent his early years traveling with his parents, and was educated in England, the USA, and the Republic of Ireland (Eire). He writes freelance now, and has taken his first steps into the world of screenwriting. He has contributed stories to A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and Powder Burn Flash. He has just started blogging, at Des Nnochiri's Write to Speak.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Interlude
Go RINGSIDE with Matthew Quinn Martin over at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.
Be careful not to piss Stick off and watch out for sharp tools. Trust me, you'll thank me later.
Be careful not to piss Stick off and watch out for sharp tools. Trust me, you'll thank me later.
A Twist Of Noir 231 - Chad Eagleton
NOT A SINGLE PENNY FOR YOUR EYES - CHAD EAGLETON
An Entry In Eric Beetner's FIST Contest
This was back in the ’80s, long after the farmland produced only sprouts of ticky-tacky boxes, when the construction of the Garden State Parkway made way for the opening of the Monmouth Mall, leaving this stretch of shoreline empty and broke. Back then, if you didn’t live in Jersey, the only thing you knew about Asbury Park came from the cover of Springsteen’s first album. But no one ever bought that record anyway. They all started with Born To Run.
Even Detective E.B. Brewer.
The night of his first homicide investigation, he parked next to the abandoned casino with its rows of empty windows, blank and glossy, like a morgue room line-up. He headed down the boardwalk to the second pier, the one with the hotdog joint his father took him to that day in mid-July, the day he realized his mother wasn’t ever coming home and the man she’d left with wasn’t an uncle he had never met. He nodded to the two patrolmen, blazed his flashlight down into the darkness below and climbed under the pier.
The old man lay on the edge of the water. His head, clotted blood at the temple, rested against one of the wooden posts while his lower half, from the knees down, bobbed in the greasy ebb and flow.
Detective Brewer shined his flashlight on the bruised narrow face, sunken chin and bloodshot eyes. His lower dentures had come loose and hung over his thin, bottom lip, like a crab stuck crawling from its shell in search of a better home. The man’s work-shirt was faded and wrinkled, cinched beneath a cracked leather belt that bunched the fabric of the high-water pants tight around bony hips. He wore only one shoe.
Brewer swept the flashlight across the sand, the spare change and bottle shards, the cigarette butts and candy bar wrappers, finding only footprints for his trouble. Strange patterns as incomprehensible as the dance-step matt his father had spread across their bowed, wooden floor when he was fifteen and he had asked Wendy Joselow to homecoming and more surprising she had said yes.
He remembered that Footprints in the Sand card his mother had kept framed in the bathroom. He sighed and shook his head. God says he’s carrying you, but you can’t fucking miss the villains walking by your side.
Topside and the other patrolman, the same who responded to that liquor store robbery three months ago before he made detective, waited at the far end of the pier with the two kids who had found the body.
Brewer took their names and addresses. He took their answers, too, for all the good they’d do, and then sent them back to shore. He stood at the edge of the pier and looked out at the dark expanse and spotted the old man’s other shoe way out there on the water, heading to New York, where everyone thought things were better, but never were.
That was as far as Brewer ever made it on that first case and it bothered him.
Not out of pride. By retirement, his solution rate was respectable, but not even close to a hundred percent. And certainly not out of any sense of failure in his duty. He worked each case as best he could and challenged anyone to find errors in his judgment. Unlike television, Brewer never suffered any delusions that he could somehow make the world a better place. He knew there would always be villains, regardless of home life, poverty rate, and number of cops on the street.
It bothered him, because he felt like there was something he missed. Every couple of years he returned to the file with fresh eyes. He knew it wasn’t a clue. No, there was something else. Something...he learned six years after retirement.
Age had finally crept into his son’s hair and he wanted to make up for all those lost years when his father had been nothing but a bank. Both of them were long gone from Asbury Park. Brewer in a new city and his son in a new state. So, his son flew in from back west and they had beers well into the late night hours and listened, finally, to The Boss’ first album.
During the day, they drove to all the old places. Sometimes questions filled the car. Other times silence. Brewer knew his son just wanted new memories to replace those ones stained by childhood fit-throwing and the upturned nose of teenage conceit and that was okay.
Brewer’s day ended on the boardwalk and the second pier. The hotdog joint was long gone, replaced by some chain store that offered only an over-priced carbonated fruit-drink named The Jersey Devil in way of local color.
While his son waited in line, Brewer walked the pier. The stroll seemed longer than he remembered and took his breath. He fiddled with the loose change in his pocket, hoping for focus as he walked and tried to catch his breath, but couldn’t. He drove himself to the pier’s edge, hoping that the last, long rail would give him the time he needed.
It didn’t. His left arm turned numb as he reached out for the railing. He saw only water stretching out before him. Shimmery, blurry water.
His right hand touched the splintery wood and then even that was falling away as the change from his pocket clattered and scattered. Christ, he thought, don’t let me fall in and drift off to fucking New York.
E.B. Brewer didn’t fall in. He fell down as the coins plinked into the water. Slack-jawed on the pier. His left eye looking between the bowed slats, down, down below to the murky sliver of beach. The beach where he found the old man.
He realized then what the man had been trying to tell him, what they all had been trying to tell him during those long nights when sleep would not come and the bodies filled the hallway outside his bedroom like cords of wood. They had been trying to tell him about the fist.
The tiny fist you beat against your chest when you first slid free of the womb and found the world not at all to your liking. The fist your father gave you when you talked back. The fist with the gun that demanded your paycheck or your open mouth. The fist that raised another bottle to your lips even though the last one wetted your shirt more than your tongue. The fist you put through the wall that day your wife pushed you too far and left a hole no amount of spackle could ever fill. And this fist...this fist that closed over your heart and never let go. The fist that left you with your false teeth forever perched on your chin and not a single penny for your eyes.
BIO: Chad Eagleton lives in Indiana. He has been published in DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash, Pulp Pusher, Bad Things, Powder Burn Flash, A Twist of Noir, Darkest Before The Dawn (in collaboration with Keith Rawson) and Beat To A Pulp.
An Entry In Eric Beetner's FIST Contest
This was back in the ’80s, long after the farmland produced only sprouts of ticky-tacky boxes, when the construction of the Garden State Parkway made way for the opening of the Monmouth Mall, leaving this stretch of shoreline empty and broke. Back then, if you didn’t live in Jersey, the only thing you knew about Asbury Park came from the cover of Springsteen’s first album. But no one ever bought that record anyway. They all started with Born To Run.
Even Detective E.B. Brewer.
The night of his first homicide investigation, he parked next to the abandoned casino with its rows of empty windows, blank and glossy, like a morgue room line-up. He headed down the boardwalk to the second pier, the one with the hotdog joint his father took him to that day in mid-July, the day he realized his mother wasn’t ever coming home and the man she’d left with wasn’t an uncle he had never met. He nodded to the two patrolmen, blazed his flashlight down into the darkness below and climbed under the pier.
The old man lay on the edge of the water. His head, clotted blood at the temple, rested against one of the wooden posts while his lower half, from the knees down, bobbed in the greasy ebb and flow.
Detective Brewer shined his flashlight on the bruised narrow face, sunken chin and bloodshot eyes. His lower dentures had come loose and hung over his thin, bottom lip, like a crab stuck crawling from its shell in search of a better home. The man’s work-shirt was faded and wrinkled, cinched beneath a cracked leather belt that bunched the fabric of the high-water pants tight around bony hips. He wore only one shoe.
Brewer swept the flashlight across the sand, the spare change and bottle shards, the cigarette butts and candy bar wrappers, finding only footprints for his trouble. Strange patterns as incomprehensible as the dance-step matt his father had spread across their bowed, wooden floor when he was fifteen and he had asked Wendy Joselow to homecoming and more surprising she had said yes.
He remembered that Footprints in the Sand card his mother had kept framed in the bathroom. He sighed and shook his head. God says he’s carrying you, but you can’t fucking miss the villains walking by your side.
Topside and the other patrolman, the same who responded to that liquor store robbery three months ago before he made detective, waited at the far end of the pier with the two kids who had found the body.
Brewer took their names and addresses. He took their answers, too, for all the good they’d do, and then sent them back to shore. He stood at the edge of the pier and looked out at the dark expanse and spotted the old man’s other shoe way out there on the water, heading to New York, where everyone thought things were better, but never were.
That was as far as Brewer ever made it on that first case and it bothered him.
Not out of pride. By retirement, his solution rate was respectable, but not even close to a hundred percent. And certainly not out of any sense of failure in his duty. He worked each case as best he could and challenged anyone to find errors in his judgment. Unlike television, Brewer never suffered any delusions that he could somehow make the world a better place. He knew there would always be villains, regardless of home life, poverty rate, and number of cops on the street.
It bothered him, because he felt like there was something he missed. Every couple of years he returned to the file with fresh eyes. He knew it wasn’t a clue. No, there was something else. Something...he learned six years after retirement.
Age had finally crept into his son’s hair and he wanted to make up for all those lost years when his father had been nothing but a bank. Both of them were long gone from Asbury Park. Brewer in a new city and his son in a new state. So, his son flew in from back west and they had beers well into the late night hours and listened, finally, to The Boss’ first album.
During the day, they drove to all the old places. Sometimes questions filled the car. Other times silence. Brewer knew his son just wanted new memories to replace those ones stained by childhood fit-throwing and the upturned nose of teenage conceit and that was okay.
Brewer’s day ended on the boardwalk and the second pier. The hotdog joint was long gone, replaced by some chain store that offered only an over-priced carbonated fruit-drink named The Jersey Devil in way of local color.
While his son waited in line, Brewer walked the pier. The stroll seemed longer than he remembered and took his breath. He fiddled with the loose change in his pocket, hoping for focus as he walked and tried to catch his breath, but couldn’t. He drove himself to the pier’s edge, hoping that the last, long rail would give him the time he needed.
It didn’t. His left arm turned numb as he reached out for the railing. He saw only water stretching out before him. Shimmery, blurry water.
His right hand touched the splintery wood and then even that was falling away as the change from his pocket clattered and scattered. Christ, he thought, don’t let me fall in and drift off to fucking New York.
E.B. Brewer didn’t fall in. He fell down as the coins plinked into the water. Slack-jawed on the pier. His left eye looking between the bowed slats, down, down below to the murky sliver of beach. The beach where he found the old man.
He realized then what the man had been trying to tell him, what they all had been trying to tell him during those long nights when sleep would not come and the bodies filled the hallway outside his bedroom like cords of wood. They had been trying to tell him about the fist.
The tiny fist you beat against your chest when you first slid free of the womb and found the world not at all to your liking. The fist your father gave you when you talked back. The fist with the gun that demanded your paycheck or your open mouth. The fist that raised another bottle to your lips even though the last one wetted your shirt more than your tongue. The fist you put through the wall that day your wife pushed you too far and left a hole no amount of spackle could ever fill. And this fist...this fist that closed over your heart and never let go. The fist that left you with your false teeth forever perched on your chin and not a single penny for your eyes.
BIO: Chad Eagleton lives in Indiana. He has been published in DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash, Pulp Pusher, Bad Things, Powder Burn Flash, A Twist of Noir, Darkest Before The Dawn (in collaboration with Keith Rawson) and Beat To A Pulp.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 230 - Andy Henion
HOUSE CALL - ANDY HENION
Granny Povich, eighty-six, two fake hips, alone since the old man passed the day after Elvis, opens the door on a messy November night. Stares us down, all four-foot-nine of her, knowing our purpose and not giving a damn. Points her bony finger at me, since we go back a ways, and says, “You gonna take them muddy shoes off.” It’s not a question, and I comply and nod to Smelt and Burgess to do the same. Granny Povich turns her back on us and hobbles back to the kitchen counter.
“Batch in the oven,” I say, savoring the aroma. “Best cornbread muffins in the city.”
“Hmmph,” she grunts, whipping batter. “Five minutes. You boys might as well sit down, get you some.”
“First, clear the house.” At my order, Smelt and Burgess pull their weapons and disappear into the living room in their stocking feet.
I take a seat at the same oak table where I had bellied up as a boy. Sweep my jacket aside, revealing my piece. Granny Povich is pouring out batter from a glass bowl, her brown-spotted arms shaking from the modest weight. Finished, she wipes her hands on her apron and makes her way over, remaining standing behind a chair. Granny Povich may run a multimillion-dollar numbers operation but at heart she’s the consummate homemaker, compelled to serve the men around her.
She says, “Alec’s long gone.”
I nod, though I know it’s a lie. Some things have to be said.
“My only family, that kid.”
As close to pleading as Granny Povich will come.
She puts her hands on her hips, cocks an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you made house calls, Terrance. Heard you moved up.”
“If it’s gonna be done, Granny, it’s gonna be done by me. I owe you that much, at least.”
From upstairs, a scuffle, the sounds of furniture overturning, someone hitting the floor. I look to the ceiling and place the ruckus in the secret space next to Alec’s bedroom, a great place to play as a kid, hide as an adult. Granny Povich had it built for the latter purpose a few years after her husband passed and she got hot and heavy into the business.
She says, “You told them where to look.”
“He’s half of the equation,” I say. Then: “How bad is he?”
Granny Povich can only scowl, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes and mouth. Alec is her only grandchild and for all intents and purposes, her son. She raised him from an infant. But as an adult, the dipshit can’t stay clean.
The Alec my boys drag through the door is as cocky as ever, flashing those pearly whites even as dual lines of blood run from his nostrils. They shove him hard in the chair and stand guard like a couple of Rotts, waiting for sudden movement. “Sit,” I say, and when they don’t obey: “The fuck down.”
Alec tips his head back and pinches his nose. To the ceiling, he says, “Back to bite the hand that fed you, hey, Terry Boy?”
I wait until he lowers his gaze before responding. The dark circles around his eyes tell his story.
“I’m here out of respect for Granny. I’m here because you brought me here. I’m here because you’re an eternal fuckup.”
“You’re here,” he says, “because you’re Big Al’s bitch.”
A right jab from Smelt sends him backward in his chair, arms flailing, the back of his skull popping off the kitchen floor. Alec rolls to his side and holds his wounded head in his arms, moaning. Granny Povich sighs. “Just stay there, kid,” she says, and limps away to retrieve the cornbread from the oven. I stare at Alec’s huddled form for a moment, then reach out and uncover the butter dish.
She puts the muffins on a plate and brings them over, steam rising from the pile. She says, “Those are my customers, Terrance, and you know it. Hell, you recruited them before you jumped ship.”
“Were your customers,” I say. “And you were warned multiple times, but your kid here still shows up to collect from our people, using Big Al’s name to boot. And now you both will pay for his stupidity.”
Granny sets the plate on the table. Smelt and Burgess glance at me, and I nod. They each being scarfing down a muffin, grunting their approval as if they haven’t eaten in days. I watch Granny fold her arms and purse her lips.
“Well, go on, then,” she says. “Make an old woman happy one last time.”
As my childhood friend groans on the floor, I butter a muffin and take a bite. It’s good stuff, though not as tasty as I remember. Maybe Granny Povich is losing her touch. Still, the old broad will be dead soon, at my hand, and I show her one last sign of respect by cleaning my plate.
That’s when my fingers and toes go numb.
I’m suddenly aware of Smelt and Burgess fumbling for their guns like a couple of drunkards. I hear their heads hit the table a few beats before my own muscles turns to mush. My cheek smacks the crumb-filled plate.
From there, I have a perfect view of Alec, who stands and draws out a switchblade. Sneering, he clicks it open and pulls Smelt’s head up by the hair. Smelt’s eyes are bulging, pleading—the only part of his body working. It’s a horrible feeling, knowing what’s coming but unable to move. Unable to defend yourself.
“Let’s take ’em downstairs,” says Granny Povich. “You’re not making a mess in my kitchen.”
BIO: Andy's short fiction appears in Plots With Guns, Thieves Jargon, Pindeldyboz, Hobart and other publications. He lives in Michigan.
Granny Povich, eighty-six, two fake hips, alone since the old man passed the day after Elvis, opens the door on a messy November night. Stares us down, all four-foot-nine of her, knowing our purpose and not giving a damn. Points her bony finger at me, since we go back a ways, and says, “You gonna take them muddy shoes off.” It’s not a question, and I comply and nod to Smelt and Burgess to do the same. Granny Povich turns her back on us and hobbles back to the kitchen counter.
“Batch in the oven,” I say, savoring the aroma. “Best cornbread muffins in the city.”
“Hmmph,” she grunts, whipping batter. “Five minutes. You boys might as well sit down, get you some.”
“First, clear the house.” At my order, Smelt and Burgess pull their weapons and disappear into the living room in their stocking feet.
I take a seat at the same oak table where I had bellied up as a boy. Sweep my jacket aside, revealing my piece. Granny Povich is pouring out batter from a glass bowl, her brown-spotted arms shaking from the modest weight. Finished, she wipes her hands on her apron and makes her way over, remaining standing behind a chair. Granny Povich may run a multimillion-dollar numbers operation but at heart she’s the consummate homemaker, compelled to serve the men around her.
She says, “Alec’s long gone.”
I nod, though I know it’s a lie. Some things have to be said.
“My only family, that kid.”
As close to pleading as Granny Povich will come.
She puts her hands on her hips, cocks an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you made house calls, Terrance. Heard you moved up.”
“If it’s gonna be done, Granny, it’s gonna be done by me. I owe you that much, at least.”
From upstairs, a scuffle, the sounds of furniture overturning, someone hitting the floor. I look to the ceiling and place the ruckus in the secret space next to Alec’s bedroom, a great place to play as a kid, hide as an adult. Granny Povich had it built for the latter purpose a few years after her husband passed and she got hot and heavy into the business.
She says, “You told them where to look.”
“He’s half of the equation,” I say. Then: “How bad is he?”
Granny Povich can only scowl, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes and mouth. Alec is her only grandchild and for all intents and purposes, her son. She raised him from an infant. But as an adult, the dipshit can’t stay clean.
The Alec my boys drag through the door is as cocky as ever, flashing those pearly whites even as dual lines of blood run from his nostrils. They shove him hard in the chair and stand guard like a couple of Rotts, waiting for sudden movement. “Sit,” I say, and when they don’t obey: “The fuck down.”
Alec tips his head back and pinches his nose. To the ceiling, he says, “Back to bite the hand that fed you, hey, Terry Boy?”
I wait until he lowers his gaze before responding. The dark circles around his eyes tell his story.
“I’m here out of respect for Granny. I’m here because you brought me here. I’m here because you’re an eternal fuckup.”
“You’re here,” he says, “because you’re Big Al’s bitch.”
A right jab from Smelt sends him backward in his chair, arms flailing, the back of his skull popping off the kitchen floor. Alec rolls to his side and holds his wounded head in his arms, moaning. Granny Povich sighs. “Just stay there, kid,” she says, and limps away to retrieve the cornbread from the oven. I stare at Alec’s huddled form for a moment, then reach out and uncover the butter dish.
She puts the muffins on a plate and brings them over, steam rising from the pile. She says, “Those are my customers, Terrance, and you know it. Hell, you recruited them before you jumped ship.”
“Were your customers,” I say. “And you were warned multiple times, but your kid here still shows up to collect from our people, using Big Al’s name to boot. And now you both will pay for his stupidity.”
Granny sets the plate on the table. Smelt and Burgess glance at me, and I nod. They each being scarfing down a muffin, grunting their approval as if they haven’t eaten in days. I watch Granny fold her arms and purse her lips.
“Well, go on, then,” she says. “Make an old woman happy one last time.”
As my childhood friend groans on the floor, I butter a muffin and take a bite. It’s good stuff, though not as tasty as I remember. Maybe Granny Povich is losing her touch. Still, the old broad will be dead soon, at my hand, and I show her one last sign of respect by cleaning my plate.
That’s when my fingers and toes go numb.
I’m suddenly aware of Smelt and Burgess fumbling for their guns like a couple of drunkards. I hear their heads hit the table a few beats before my own muscles turns to mush. My cheek smacks the crumb-filled plate.
From there, I have a perfect view of Alec, who stands and draws out a switchblade. Sneering, he clicks it open and pulls Smelt’s head up by the hair. Smelt’s eyes are bulging, pleading—the only part of his body working. It’s a horrible feeling, knowing what’s coming but unable to move. Unable to defend yourself.
“Let’s take ’em downstairs,” says Granny Povich. “You’re not making a mess in my kitchen.”
BIO: Andy's short fiction appears in Plots With Guns, Thieves Jargon, Pindeldyboz, Hobart and other publications. He lives in Michigan.
Interlude
Hey, you know that rookie writer Alan Griffiths?
Yeah, well, he's got another story out there for your eyes and he's continuing to make non-believers out of us.
I know that sounds like it should be believers but not when he says he's a rookie. Every story that I've ever seen from Alan, whether it's crossed my e-mail inbox or someone else's website, has been crafted to perfection, like he's been doing this for years.
And MONKEY MAN is no different.
Check it out now over at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.
Yeah, well, he's got another story out there for your eyes and he's continuing to make non-believers out of us.
I know that sounds like it should be believers but not when he says he's a rookie. Every story that I've ever seen from Alan, whether it's crossed my e-mail inbox or someone else's website, has been crafted to perfection, like he's been doing this for years.
And MONKEY MAN is no different.
Check it out now over at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Interlude
But wait! There's more!
Michael J. Solender is the first one out of the (body) chute over at Erin Cole's Listen To The Voices, as she hosts 13 Days Of Horror.
That's thirteen days of one spinetingling, bone-chilling story after another and so on until Halloween.
And who the hell doesn't like spinetingling, bone-chilling stories? And who the hell doesn't love Halloween?
Mr. Solender's story, titled ORANGE DOT, will give you the creeps. As someone that has a daily walk starting at three in the morning, I've seen some strange things and experienced some chilling things but never have I seen what Michael describes here.
At least not yet.
So go check the story and Erin's entire site out and come back there again tomorrow for another tale of terror as 13 Days Of Horror is just getting started.
Michael J. Solender is the first one out of the (body) chute over at Erin Cole's Listen To The Voices, as she hosts 13 Days Of Horror.
That's thirteen days of one spinetingling, bone-chilling story after another and so on until Halloween.
And who the hell doesn't like spinetingling, bone-chilling stories? And who the hell doesn't love Halloween?
Mr. Solender's story, titled ORANGE DOT, will give you the creeps. As someone that has a daily walk starting at three in the morning, I've seen some strange things and experienced some chilling things but never have I seen what Michael describes here.
At least not yet.
So go check the story and Erin's entire site out and come back there again tomorrow for another tale of terror as 13 Days Of Horror is just getting started.
Interlude
Michael J. Solender's got another great story out there for you to read if you haven't done so already.
ICY FIST at The Flash Fiction Offensive is a nice little tale of revenge that takes place over the course of eighteen years.
Michael, of course, handles this with aplomb (I always wanted to use that word).
Go check it out.
ICY FIST at The Flash Fiction Offensive is a nice little tale of revenge that takes place over the course of eighteen years.
Michael, of course, handles this with aplomb (I always wanted to use that word).
Go check it out.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 229 - Cameron Ashley
BROUGHTON’S RULES - CAMERON ASHLEY
An Entry In Eric Beetner’s FIST Contest
Coach took a final swig of the beer Pete bought him.
‘Surprised they have Jolene on the jukebox. Weird choice for a bar full of tough guys and, man, these guys look fuckin’ tough. Are noses busted crooked and cauliflower ears an entry pre-requisite? Jesus.’
Pete sipped his beer, waited for Coach to get on with it.
Coach got the hint.
‘Okay, well, Steve and Dean sure hated each other. I’ve forgotten why exactly they hated each other but, really, it don’t matter a monkey fuck in the over-arching scheme of shit anyhow. Particularly now. But there are some facts I want you to know. Facts that got lost in the storm of misinformation that followed once the shit went down and the story got broke.’
Pete lit a smoke, leaned on the bar and got himself comfy. ‘Okay. You want another beer?’
‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks. Okay. God love ’em, but that pair was a major disruption to the other kids, kids good at learnin’ and all that Three Rs shit. Only Rs Steve and Dean knew were Roundhouse and Rasslin. The media called it a cage, but it weren’t really no cage. I think of a cage, I think mid-eighties NWA, y’know? Tully Blanchard and Magnum T.A. grindin’ each other’s faces into beef chuck. Our cage was a section of locker-room fenced off with chicken wire. Sure we called it The Cage, but that was mostly for atmospherics, thing was fuckin’ harmless.’
‘It was a pretty sorry-ass piece of construction.’
‘Fuckin’ Monty the woodshop teacher built it.’
‘Monty? Guy’s missing three digits on his right hand and two on his left.’
‘Exactly. Problem was nobody had the sack to tell him not to build it. We were worried about discrimination and shit. He’s one whiny no-fingered motherfucker, that Monty.’
‘Right.’
‘And, yeah, better they throw some fists in The Cage than out on the street, I thought. Them two boys, all amped up on testosterone, new muscles popping out on their bodies all manly-like, who knows what they coulda done to each other mixin’ it up out there unsupervised.’
‘Who knows?’
‘Yep. Anyhow, reckon that’s about it for the facts.’
‘That right?’
‘Yep. But, for the record; I didn’t have nothin’ to do with no teachers placing bets. I’m a fuckin’ coach and they was both my boys and I didn’t show no favoritism even when Bruce pressed me for odds. Fuck Bruce. Geography’s a lame-ass subject and Bruce sucks a big pink pecker teachin’ it. He got jack shit outta me. Tim Hilton, the assistant principal, played bookmaker and, boy, was the staff riled up and ready for a pay-off come fight day. That’s what you get when you pay teachers jack shit.’
‘Timmy Hilton. Excitable guy.’
‘I know, right? Look, truth is, that fuckin’ fight excited all East Longfield High. More than even when Jenny Graham won the Texas High School Women’s Powerlifting Championship.’
‘That big filly who made the papers?’
‘Yeah. So, school spirit was at an all-time high and we even managed to get a couple of science geeks, feuding over Jap cartoon trading cards or somethin’ equally retarded, to fight, too. You saw the photos? Those two nerds could fuckin’ go.’
Pete nodded. They were scrappy, for sure.
Coach’s beer arrived. Coach rubbed some frost off the glass.
‘Obviously, there weren’t supposed to be no weapons in there and, hindsight being fifty-fifty, I shoulda patted Steve and Dean down. I didn’t ’cause I was concerned about inappropriate touching - teachers don’t have no business runnin’ their hands over fit teenage bodies unless it’s strictly hetero, after school hours and in exchange for better grades.’
‘Didn’t think you and Elsie McTitty was about grades, Coach.’
‘It’s fuckin’ McTierney, Pete. Jesus. Anyhow, Steve was scared of Dean and with good fuckin’ reason.’
Pete grunted.
‘Yeah. Now, obviously this here revelation don’t absolve me or nothin’, but Steve saw some of your fights on YouTube and, well, he decided that the badass apple probably didn’t fall too far from the badass tree. Forewarned being forearmed an’ all that, Steve forearmed his chickenshit self with a box cutter and that was that.’
Pete took a final sip.
‘Well, thank you for your candor and honesty there, Coach.’
‘Ahh, fuck, it’s the least I can do. It’s all such a mammoth fuck-up, Pete. It was an accident, a terrible, terrible accident. You don’t know how bad I feel. I know I ain’t been takin’ your calls, and I’m real sorry, but we coulda -’
‘Coach, I know you’re a fight fan, but I don’t know if you’re a fight buff. You a fight buff?’
‘Uh. I guess that would depend on what constitutes being a buff.’
‘I mean, like, history, I guess. You know much about fight history?’
‘Like Cassius Clay and shit?’
‘No. I mean like back, like waaaaaayyy back. Back when things weren’t so civilized, back when men fought bare-fisted for pride and beer money and the knowledge and security that, above all, they were men.’
‘Uh.’
‘Okay, well, what we do in this here bar is fight under Broughton’s rules. You hearda Broughton’s rules?’
‘Uh.’
‘Well, under Broughton’s, all’s fair except low blows and strangulation. Fight only ends when one man can’t crawl up to a line scrawled down the middle of the ring either cause he’s unconscious or beat dead.’
‘C’mon, Pete...’
Pete peeled his shirt off, revealing a massive torso and arms sized like that gator-eating anaconda they found in the Florida Glades. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stubby piece of pink chalk. He rolled it along the bar towards Coach, clenched his fists so tight his knuckles popped, and started shadow-boxing.
‘Go draw a line back there. And stop looking so worried, Coach. Just close your eyes and think of Tully Blanchard.’
At the rear of the bar, tough guys shifted tables and chairs and smiled gap-toothed, split-lip smiles.
BIO: Fight fan Cameron Ashley lives in Brunswick, Melbourne, belting out stories of tough cats and chicks doing tough shit. Currently plotting more Shibata stories for this site, jamming with Jimmy Callaway and also has a yarn upcoming at Darkest Before the Dawn called Ain’t No Burlesque.
An Entry In Eric Beetner’s FIST Contest
Coach took a final swig of the beer Pete bought him.
‘Surprised they have Jolene on the jukebox. Weird choice for a bar full of tough guys and, man, these guys look fuckin’ tough. Are noses busted crooked and cauliflower ears an entry pre-requisite? Jesus.’
Pete sipped his beer, waited for Coach to get on with it.
Coach got the hint.
‘Okay, well, Steve and Dean sure hated each other. I’ve forgotten why exactly they hated each other but, really, it don’t matter a monkey fuck in the over-arching scheme of shit anyhow. Particularly now. But there are some facts I want you to know. Facts that got lost in the storm of misinformation that followed once the shit went down and the story got broke.’
Pete lit a smoke, leaned on the bar and got himself comfy. ‘Okay. You want another beer?’
‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks. Okay. God love ’em, but that pair was a major disruption to the other kids, kids good at learnin’ and all that Three Rs shit. Only Rs Steve and Dean knew were Roundhouse and Rasslin. The media called it a cage, but it weren’t really no cage. I think of a cage, I think mid-eighties NWA, y’know? Tully Blanchard and Magnum T.A. grindin’ each other’s faces into beef chuck. Our cage was a section of locker-room fenced off with chicken wire. Sure we called it The Cage, but that was mostly for atmospherics, thing was fuckin’ harmless.’
‘It was a pretty sorry-ass piece of construction.’
‘Fuckin’ Monty the woodshop teacher built it.’
‘Monty? Guy’s missing three digits on his right hand and two on his left.’
‘Exactly. Problem was nobody had the sack to tell him not to build it. We were worried about discrimination and shit. He’s one whiny no-fingered motherfucker, that Monty.’
‘Right.’
‘And, yeah, better they throw some fists in The Cage than out on the street, I thought. Them two boys, all amped up on testosterone, new muscles popping out on their bodies all manly-like, who knows what they coulda done to each other mixin’ it up out there unsupervised.’
‘Who knows?’
‘Yep. Anyhow, reckon that’s about it for the facts.’
‘That right?’
‘Yep. But, for the record; I didn’t have nothin’ to do with no teachers placing bets. I’m a fuckin’ coach and they was both my boys and I didn’t show no favoritism even when Bruce pressed me for odds. Fuck Bruce. Geography’s a lame-ass subject and Bruce sucks a big pink pecker teachin’ it. He got jack shit outta me. Tim Hilton, the assistant principal, played bookmaker and, boy, was the staff riled up and ready for a pay-off come fight day. That’s what you get when you pay teachers jack shit.’
‘Timmy Hilton. Excitable guy.’
‘I know, right? Look, truth is, that fuckin’ fight excited all East Longfield High. More than even when Jenny Graham won the Texas High School Women’s Powerlifting Championship.’
‘That big filly who made the papers?’
‘Yeah. So, school spirit was at an all-time high and we even managed to get a couple of science geeks, feuding over Jap cartoon trading cards or somethin’ equally retarded, to fight, too. You saw the photos? Those two nerds could fuckin’ go.’
Pete nodded. They were scrappy, for sure.
Coach’s beer arrived. Coach rubbed some frost off the glass.
‘Obviously, there weren’t supposed to be no weapons in there and, hindsight being fifty-fifty, I shoulda patted Steve and Dean down. I didn’t ’cause I was concerned about inappropriate touching - teachers don’t have no business runnin’ their hands over fit teenage bodies unless it’s strictly hetero, after school hours and in exchange for better grades.’
‘Didn’t think you and Elsie McTitty was about grades, Coach.’
‘It’s fuckin’ McTierney, Pete. Jesus. Anyhow, Steve was scared of Dean and with good fuckin’ reason.’
Pete grunted.
‘Yeah. Now, obviously this here revelation don’t absolve me or nothin’, but Steve saw some of your fights on YouTube and, well, he decided that the badass apple probably didn’t fall too far from the badass tree. Forewarned being forearmed an’ all that, Steve forearmed his chickenshit self with a box cutter and that was that.’
Pete took a final sip.
‘Well, thank you for your candor and honesty there, Coach.’
‘Ahh, fuck, it’s the least I can do. It’s all such a mammoth fuck-up, Pete. It was an accident, a terrible, terrible accident. You don’t know how bad I feel. I know I ain’t been takin’ your calls, and I’m real sorry, but we coulda -’
‘Coach, I know you’re a fight fan, but I don’t know if you’re a fight buff. You a fight buff?’
‘Uh. I guess that would depend on what constitutes being a buff.’
‘I mean, like, history, I guess. You know much about fight history?’
‘Like Cassius Clay and shit?’
‘No. I mean like back, like waaaaaayyy back. Back when things weren’t so civilized, back when men fought bare-fisted for pride and beer money and the knowledge and security that, above all, they were men.’
‘Uh.’
‘Okay, well, what we do in this here bar is fight under Broughton’s rules. You hearda Broughton’s rules?’
‘Uh.’
‘Well, under Broughton’s, all’s fair except low blows and strangulation. Fight only ends when one man can’t crawl up to a line scrawled down the middle of the ring either cause he’s unconscious or beat dead.’
‘C’mon, Pete...’
Pete peeled his shirt off, revealing a massive torso and arms sized like that gator-eating anaconda they found in the Florida Glades. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stubby piece of pink chalk. He rolled it along the bar towards Coach, clenched his fists so tight his knuckles popped, and started shadow-boxing.
‘Go draw a line back there. And stop looking so worried, Coach. Just close your eyes and think of Tully Blanchard.’
At the rear of the bar, tough guys shifted tables and chairs and smiled gap-toothed, split-lip smiles.
BIO: Fight fan Cameron Ashley lives in Brunswick, Melbourne, belting out stories of tough cats and chicks doing tough shit. Currently plotting more Shibata stories for this site, jamming with Jimmy Callaway and also has a yarn upcoming at Darkest Before the Dawn called Ain’t No Burlesque.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 228 - Keith Rawson
PENIS ENVY - KEITH RAWSON
An Entry In Eric Beetner's FIST Contest
Cal knew this black guy from the gym had to be the one sending pictures of his cock to Sandy. He knew because he’d been keeping tabs on cocks when he headed into the shower room after finishing up his daily work out for weeks now. At first it felt a little weird standing in the shower stall and staring at other dudes’ dicks. Cal was subtle about it at first, peeking little glimpses out of the corner of his eye; the occasional longer glance when he would bend over to wash his feet and legs. But over the last week, he’d become obsessed and blatantly glowered at other guys’ junk. He could tell he was making some of them more than a little nervous. Not that he blamed them; if he had some dude staring at his junk in the shower, he’d walk up to him and twist his pin fucking head right off their goddamn shoulders and shove it right up their ass.
But nobody in the shower was going to do that to Cal, no matter how creepy he was making them feel. Everybody at the gym knew who Cal was; everybody knew he was the dude who benched 700 lbs 3 times; he was the dude who could squat thrust close to half a ton; he was the dude with a neck like a bull and shoulders like a rhino and he just happens to be screwing the hottest chick at the gym.
Ain’t nobody fucks with Cal Matlin!
Except the motherfucker who sent pictures of his cock to Sandy.
Sandy got the picture message while they were at dinner and she—as usual—had her face buried in the screen of her little fucking Blackberry, texting away to all her little whore friends instead of paying attention to what he was saying. Cal remembered he was talking about helping this little guy pull 250 lbs of weight off his chest when suddenly Sandy stopped breathing and her perfect, sunbed-tanned face went pale green. Cal thought she was choking on a piece of her chicken breast. He shrugged out of his chair, nearly upending the table, rushed behind her to get a good grip on her for a Heimlich, and got a great big eye full of a giant cock.
“What the hell? Who the fuck sent that to you?” he asked, his tiny hands balling into fists.
“I...I don’t know...I don’t know...” she stammered, nearly in tears.
Cal snatched the crackberry out of her hands and scanned the number the picture text had come from. Their waiter had rushed over to their table, pad and pen on hand. Cal yanked both out of his trembling hands and scribbled the number down, closed the picture and started scrolling through Sandy’s contact list. Nothing but girls from the gym and a couple of fags she knew from the salon she worked at. He slammed the phone down on the table, pulled Sandy out of her chair and flipped three twenties out of his wallet to cover their bill. Sandy slipped the phone into her purse even though Cal had nearly broken the goddamn thing in half.
Sandy picked up a new phone the next day (god forbid she go even a day without one) and the jack-off at the AT&T store was able to transfer all her info onto the new phone, including the photo.
Fucking bitch.
He wouldn’t have even known about it, but Cal started scrolling through her photos when she was taking a shower. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t gotten rid of it and when she got out, pink and glistening with a towel wrapped around her hair, he showed her how pissed he was about the snapshot by bruising a couple of her ribs.
Yeah, she could swear up and down she didn’t know who sent it, but Cal knew she was getting snaked out by this big motherfucker!
He made up for dishing out the beating with a pair of diamond studded earrings he gripped from some little treadmill-loving cocksucker’s locker, and of course he made her swear up and down that she wouldn’t fuck around on him anymore.
And then he started his hunt for the giant cock.
He spotted the guy a week ago. He was a squatty dude and he was soaping up his chest, goofing with his boys about their workout and he was swinging his log of timber around like he didn’t have a fucking care in the world. It was as if he was hypnotized. Cal couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Cal started coordinating his routine with the Giant Johnson dude so they’d hit the shower at the same time. By the third day, he was sure it was the same cock from the picture text.
He was waiting for him now out in the parking lot. Cal would’ve taken him in the showers, but he wanted to stay in good standing with the gym, and fighting was strictly forbidden, so he’d fuck up old Long Dong Silver out on the blacktop. He came strolling along with his gym bag and two of his boys. He recognized both of them from around the floor. They were strong dudes but he figured he could take them in a pinch. Cal stormed up to them and shoved the fireplug hard in the chest.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?” the big cock dude asked, dropping his bag.
“You know what’s up, dude!” Cal made a grab for the guy’s pants; he wanted a closer look at it before he kicked the guy’s ass.
He didn’t get the chance.
The first punch was to his left ear.
The world went white and hazy.
The next three dropped him to the blacktop. He felt his front teeth hit the back of his throat; the cartilage of his nose splintered, blood squirting across his cheeks, down his chin.
Yet he still tried reaching for the guy’s waistband.
Even when the three of them started stomping his ribs, his stomach, and bile rose up his throat, he still...tried making the grab...
He just had to see it for himself.
BIO: Keith Rawson is a little known pulp writer who lives in the alkaline desert wastelands of southern Arizona with his wife and very energetic three-year-old daughter. His stories have appeared in such publications as Plots with Guns, Pulp Pusher, CrimeWav.com, Bad Things, Powder Burn Flash, A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp and many others. You can find him most nights dicking around on either Twitter or Facebook, or stroking his already over-inflated ego at his blog Bloody Knuckles, Callused Fingertips.
An Entry In Eric Beetner's FIST Contest
Cal knew this black guy from the gym had to be the one sending pictures of his cock to Sandy. He knew because he’d been keeping tabs on cocks when he headed into the shower room after finishing up his daily work out for weeks now. At first it felt a little weird standing in the shower stall and staring at other dudes’ dicks. Cal was subtle about it at first, peeking little glimpses out of the corner of his eye; the occasional longer glance when he would bend over to wash his feet and legs. But over the last week, he’d become obsessed and blatantly glowered at other guys’ junk. He could tell he was making some of them more than a little nervous. Not that he blamed them; if he had some dude staring at his junk in the shower, he’d walk up to him and twist his pin fucking head right off their goddamn shoulders and shove it right up their ass.
But nobody in the shower was going to do that to Cal, no matter how creepy he was making them feel. Everybody at the gym knew who Cal was; everybody knew he was the dude who benched 700 lbs 3 times; he was the dude who could squat thrust close to half a ton; he was the dude with a neck like a bull and shoulders like a rhino and he just happens to be screwing the hottest chick at the gym.
Ain’t nobody fucks with Cal Matlin!
Except the motherfucker who sent pictures of his cock to Sandy.
Sandy got the picture message while they were at dinner and she—as usual—had her face buried in the screen of her little fucking Blackberry, texting away to all her little whore friends instead of paying attention to what he was saying. Cal remembered he was talking about helping this little guy pull 250 lbs of weight off his chest when suddenly Sandy stopped breathing and her perfect, sunbed-tanned face went pale green. Cal thought she was choking on a piece of her chicken breast. He shrugged out of his chair, nearly upending the table, rushed behind her to get a good grip on her for a Heimlich, and got a great big eye full of a giant cock.
“What the hell? Who the fuck sent that to you?” he asked, his tiny hands balling into fists.
“I...I don’t know...I don’t know...” she stammered, nearly in tears.
Cal snatched the crackberry out of her hands and scanned the number the picture text had come from. Their waiter had rushed over to their table, pad and pen on hand. Cal yanked both out of his trembling hands and scribbled the number down, closed the picture and started scrolling through Sandy’s contact list. Nothing but girls from the gym and a couple of fags she knew from the salon she worked at. He slammed the phone down on the table, pulled Sandy out of her chair and flipped three twenties out of his wallet to cover their bill. Sandy slipped the phone into her purse even though Cal had nearly broken the goddamn thing in half.
Sandy picked up a new phone the next day (god forbid she go even a day without one) and the jack-off at the AT&T store was able to transfer all her info onto the new phone, including the photo.
Fucking bitch.
He wouldn’t have even known about it, but Cal started scrolling through her photos when she was taking a shower. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t gotten rid of it and when she got out, pink and glistening with a towel wrapped around her hair, he showed her how pissed he was about the snapshot by bruising a couple of her ribs.
Yeah, she could swear up and down she didn’t know who sent it, but Cal knew she was getting snaked out by this big motherfucker!
He made up for dishing out the beating with a pair of diamond studded earrings he gripped from some little treadmill-loving cocksucker’s locker, and of course he made her swear up and down that she wouldn’t fuck around on him anymore.
And then he started his hunt for the giant cock.
He spotted the guy a week ago. He was a squatty dude and he was soaping up his chest, goofing with his boys about their workout and he was swinging his log of timber around like he didn’t have a fucking care in the world. It was as if he was hypnotized. Cal couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Cal started coordinating his routine with the Giant Johnson dude so they’d hit the shower at the same time. By the third day, he was sure it was the same cock from the picture text.
He was waiting for him now out in the parking lot. Cal would’ve taken him in the showers, but he wanted to stay in good standing with the gym, and fighting was strictly forbidden, so he’d fuck up old Long Dong Silver out on the blacktop. He came strolling along with his gym bag and two of his boys. He recognized both of them from around the floor. They were strong dudes but he figured he could take them in a pinch. Cal stormed up to them and shoved the fireplug hard in the chest.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?” the big cock dude asked, dropping his bag.
“You know what’s up, dude!” Cal made a grab for the guy’s pants; he wanted a closer look at it before he kicked the guy’s ass.
He didn’t get the chance.
The first punch was to his left ear.
The world went white and hazy.
The next three dropped him to the blacktop. He felt his front teeth hit the back of his throat; the cartilage of his nose splintered, blood squirting across his cheeks, down his chin.
Yet he still tried reaching for the guy’s waistband.
Even when the three of them started stomping his ribs, his stomach, and bile rose up his throat, he still...tried making the grab...
He just had to see it for himself.
BIO: Keith Rawson is a little known pulp writer who lives in the alkaline desert wastelands of southern Arizona with his wife and very energetic three-year-old daughter. His stories have appeared in such publications as Plots with Guns, Pulp Pusher, CrimeWav.com, Bad Things, Powder Burn Flash, A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp and many others. You can find him most nights dicking around on either Twitter or Facebook, or stroking his already over-inflated ego at his blog Bloody Knuckles, Callused Fingertips.
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