Sun, 03 May 2026 13:46:51 -0400WeeblySun, 03 May 2026 15:53:20 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/the-money-market-coffin-by-robb-whiteMy Uncle Arman died while I was doing the “short-and-shitty,” two weeks short of my release date. 

The gig cost me five years of my life. I claimed to be a real estate developer from Escanaba, an expert on house-flipping. My target was the Lansing Housing Commission and my proposal intended for the state legislature involved converting whole neighborhoods of Brightmoor—a hideous, burned-out prairie desert—into the next Boca Raton, albeit without the adjacent turquoise water. 

I’d spent over a thousand grooming two members of the state legislature with influence over the Housing Commission. It came crashing down like a house of cards under strobe lighting when I miscalculated a row of figures on my spreadsheet. The result was an audit. Simple arithmetic. No complex mathematics, no tree structures, no embedded or rewrite rules, reverse mathematics, or termination of algorithm. Just simple math. Even my bone-headed brother could have done it. 

“I need to borrow your car, Cameron.”

“Got a hot date now that you’re a free man again?”

“I’m going to dig up that coffin,” I replied. “Uncle wrote me. He said he was taking it with him.”

“Taking what?”

“Money-market certificates,” I said. 

Uncle was batshit crazy toward the end. My brother looked at me as if I intended to do it with my own hands.

***

The drunk in the bar in the Cass Corridor was worth every penny of my prison salary. The sexton at Queen of Angels Cemetery wanted to make phone calls but my deputy was getting into his role and talked him down. The fake exhumation order looked convincing, even if not my best work.

The tow motor operator and groundskeeper barely had the coffin clear of the hole before I was jamming the beveled edge of my crowbar into the lip and popping the top. I was mentally prepared for unpleasantness. Prison helps with that.

The funeral home my mother used must have taught the stewmakers of the Mexican cartels. Having power of attorney during his last month would have allowed for a better outfit for the last rites. He shouldn’t have looked like that. He wasn’t dead long enough for the rictus grin, the hanks of hair fallen off the skull, the innards sloshing around with the swaying of the casket from the chain hoist. 

Even with gloves, I didn’t want to touch the notebook. The reek of formaldehyde was overpowering—another sign of that cheap outfit my mother hired. I had to ease it from his cadaverous grasp with the edge of my crowbar. The combination of urine release, gastrointestinal fluids, and bloody stool had blurred and erased his notations beyond any hope of legibility.

“I’m sorry, sir. What did you say?”

“I said, ‘there goes any chance I had of selling myself to talk shows as an idiot savant.’ Except for the idiot part. Put him back.” 

I walked off with my deputy in tow, whistling Puccini.

***

My brother took the "queen for a day” proffer from the prosecutor and turned state’s evidence in my mother’s trial. He thought using a fake Yahoo account to order Thallium for his dental equipment company was all the deception required. He got three years at the white-collar camp at FCI Milan. I tried to catch his eye when he was on the stand, but he hid behind a wad of tissues, sobbing.

Trial lawyers bore me silly. The same words. Smarmy winces at the jury box. Rinse and repeat. I entertained myself with numbers. Take the Mick, for example. Born on June 8th. Died on August 6th, after his liver transplant. Ignoring the fact he jumped the line because he was the great Mickey Mantle, 8s and 6s are everywhere. The eight month and the sixth month separated by sixty-six days in 1995. You can create a matrix of number systems out of those two integers beyond square roots, multiplications, inversions, and eigenvalues. While the dullards preened and droned on, making jurors blanche with the details of how my mother poisoned her only brother for his estate (which, by the way, would never have come to her as his only surviving relative since he bequeathed his two-plus-millions to math scholarships at U of Michigan), I built a castle of numbers in the air out of the Mick’s birth and death.

When the time comes, I’ll send my brother a letter advising him on the dos and don’ts of prison life. I’ll even throw in my hard-won experiences at three penitentiaries.

Mom got the full forty when the second toxicology report came back. They don’t test for exotic drugs like Thallium. She’ll die in the joint or, barring some soft-headed governor down the road, she’ll get compassionate release at eighty so the state doesn’t have to pick up her medical bills. 

Her con job might have worked if she’d let the Thallium in the saffron rice pudding she brought him do all the work. Bleed his bank account dry while he worked on his secret formula. Low risk, high reward. But she got greedy and hated having to shell out the monthly fee for that expensive clinic. Obtaining the services of a reputable mortician and using a better cutout than my thin-skinned brother would have been my other suggestions. When I saw the black lines on his fingernails, I knew. The assistant pathologist missed it when the putrid contents of the black bag rolled out. 

I plan on visiting her. As we used to say in the old neighborhood, we’re saazgaar now—compatible. 

Uncle Arman and I shared a love for numbers. Their pure, crystalline beauty. Everything messy in the universe boils down to numbers—a chemical number, a pattern of pixels, codes, data, information. Human beings are world lines, sine and cosine, particles and waves, fluctuations in the Higgs field. We appear and disappear like photons born in the bellies of stars only to die in our retinas without having traveled a single foot. Go figure.

​© 2026 Robb White

About the author:
Robb White is a Derringer-nominated author of genre fiction, he has three series detectives. The Russian Heist (2019) was selected Best Novel in Thriller Magazine’s competition. Betray Me Not was selected for distinction by the Independent Fiction Alliance in 2022. Recent publications include a suspense thriller, Jersey Girl (2025), a crime novella, Easy Money (2025), and a prequel to the Thomas Haftmann, p. i. series: The Dearborn Terrorist Plot. ]]>Mon, 20 Apr 2026 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/nonno-gino-bats-a-thousand-by-nick-di-carloWe buried Nonno Gino today. Gave him one helluva sendoff. Mourners came from thirteen states. Others flew in from Italy. Even New York’s August weather, out of respect for the old man, showed up in perfect summer attire: sunny and warm; low humidity; and a gentle breeze to whisper him farewell. 

​The procession to the cemetery tied up traffic for miles. On the drive home in the undertaker’s limo, my dad said over and again, “Oh, if Papa could’ve seen this.”

“Oh, he’s looking down on us, smiling that sweet smile of his,” my mom said.

​I stared out the limo window, thinking how Nonno Gino’s final destination—the eternal one, not the hole in the ground with the massive headstone waiting to cover it—might be cause for debate. Most everybody knew, or thought they knew, what Grandpa did for a living, and I don’t mean running a construction company. Others wouldn’t suspect, ‘cause Grandpa was the most gentle, sweetest man to walk this earth. I never heard him raise his voice in anger. Maybe God—but definitely the other guy—knew what fires blazed inside the man that early in his life earned him the nickname “Bats.” Then, men spoke it with respect, reverence. Later in Nonno Gino’s life, people knew not to speak it at all. 

Afterwards, I stood outside Dad’s house, bidding visitors, “Saluti. Grazie di essere venuti,” and guiding them to the backyard where a feast had been set out on long linen-covered tables, with men and women in white jackets and black ties serving food onto china plates. The waitstaff circulated with trays of champagne in crystal flutes. In a corner of the yard, a combo played jazz. Nonno loved jazz, believed Coltrane was Apollo incarnate.

As afternoon faded into evening, and only family and Nonno’s closest friends remained, we pulled a few tables together. Servers brought trays of pasticcini—Italian pastries—strong coffee and the ubiquitous anisette. Storytelling began, recollections of how Nonno Gino had helped this person or that, or once saved a child from drowning in Lake George, or how he always knew just the right person if some difficult thing had to get done. 

“See how Judge Steward and Police Chief Gallegher came? Made no secret of it,” someone said. 

“They’re both gentlemen,” my mother said. “They played golf with Gino almost every weekend.”

“And the Monsignor,” Dad piped in. “The man loves his champagne.”

As darkness fell, my mom and the other wives went inside to their own gossip and secrets. 

At their leaving I sighed in relief that none of the women had asked, “So, Michael, when are you gonna get married? How old are you now?” 

I’d put off marriage for the Army, then college and graduate school. Recently, I’d found someone I thought just right for me, but I didn’t say anything to that crowd, afraid doing so might bring mal’occhio or other bad luck upon us.

In the darkness, the men gathered closer and spoke in low voices as they told of “Bats’” darker exploits. Tales of men who’d crossed Nonno Gino in some way, and soon either totally disappeared, or got dumped in some semi-public place where the carcass would send a message.

Eventually, only my dad and I sat at the table, each of us adrift with our thoughts and memories. Then, Dad said, “Mikey, why not stay the night?”

After I left home, they’d converted my bedroom into a guest room, and did a fine job of it, including an en suite—you know, an adjoining bathroom. 

I showered and settled into an armchair, sipping Dad’s fine single malt, remembering when as a high school senior, I’d stayed with my Nonna Chiara while Nonno Gino went away on business. Late that Saturday night, I heard some commotion downstairs, like someone had broken into the house. I rushed to Nonna’s room and warned her to stay quiet. I crept downstairs and saw four enormous goombahs turning over furniture, ripping paintings off the walls, smashing anything that would shatter. 

“What the fuck are ya doing?” I ran to tackle one of the intruders. I’d been in a few tussles, and could handle myself, or so I thought, but those mothers were gigantic, and one guy made quick work of me. 

One of them ran upstairs and dragged my Nonna down to us. I tried to help but got coldcocked. 

Throwing Nonna onto a chair, the goombah said, “You tell your batshit, lunatic, scumbag husband to mind his own fuckin’ business, or this ain’t nothing to what he’ll get.”

I drove Nonna to the hospital and explained she’d fallen down the stairs. Doctors said she’d be okay, so I took her home. I cleaned up a bit and waited until Nonno Gino came home next day.

Nonno looked around, said nothing. Just nodded his head. He made two phone calls, walked up to Nonna Chiara. 

He came down when the phone rang. “Give me an hour,” he said. Went upstairs to his wife again. When he returned, he said, “Let’s go.”

We drove to the waterfront, to a derelict warehouse. Inside, two of Nonno’s associates nodded, and pointed to the four naked thugs hanging by their wrists from a water pipe, their toes inches off the floor. 

One of Nonno’s men handed him a Louisville Slugger. Nonno removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and approaching the hanging men, he said softly, “One of you is gonna tell me who put hands on my wife.” He took a couple swings with the Louisville Slugger, like a batter in the on-deck circle. “I’m gonna go down the line, one-by-one until somebody talks.”

Three voices in chorus identified the thug.

Nonno began with the feet. Worked his way up, swing after swing, toes to head. Then, he worked on the next two, the bat whooshing through air, followed by bone-shattering thuds. Reaching the goon who had beaten me, he handed the bat to me.

​© 2026 Nick Di Carlo

About the author:

Nick Di Carlo has taught writing in universities, colleges, and in New York State’s Maximum Security Correctional Facilities. 
 
Of Di Carlo’s prison work, Lawrence R. Reis, Wolf Masks: Violence in Contemporary Poetry author noted: “The men in Dr. Di Carlo’s classes recognized many similarities between their experiences and his. Those experiences, often dark and sometimes violent, inform and power Dr. Di Carlo’s own writing.”


]]>Sun, 05 Apr 2026 15:02:14 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/indigestible-by-joe-kilgore    Does he know? That's the question that jabs Russell in the temple like the business end of an ice pick when he sees who the email is from. It seems a cordial invitation. Lunch, it says. Perhaps it’s just business. But racked between debilitating guilt and a desperate flicker of hope, Russell agonizes. What if it isn't?

    Everything around him is white. The glare of the sun. The light bouncing off the bleached storefronts. The milky cobblestones on the street underfoot. His suit. The linen suit that virtually every businessman in Retiro de Santos wears to ward off the noonday heat. As he approaches the cafe, Russell dabs the sweat from his upper lip with his white handkerchief. Is he sweating from the heat or apprehension? The question remains. Does he know? 

    Russell tells the hostess he is there to meet someone. When he gives her the name, she nods and leads the way. The patio is curiously empty, Russell thinks, but his observation is cut short when he spots the man who invited him to lunch, his client, seated at a table beneath the shadow of a banyan tree.

    "Good of you to join me," Russell's client says.

    "A pleasure to be invited. It's quite lovely here."

    "Attracted to pretty things, are you?"

    Russell's breath catches in his throat. His wavering provides the opportunity for his client to continue. "The concierge at our hotel recommended it."    

    Still on edge, Russell blurts, "Hotel personnel are sometimes rewarded by local establishments for sending business their way."

    "Are you implying I've been duped?"

    "Not at all," Russell responds apologetically. "I'm sure no one would try to take advantage of you."

    "It's generally not a good idea."

    Unsure how to continue, Russell gives a quick, obedient nod of the head, and smiles.

    "Something to drink," the client asks.

    "Uh...I'll have what you're having."

    The client raises his hand, holding up two fingers. Glancing over his shoulder, Russell sees the waiter responding. He feels the need to make small talk, but anxiety muddles his judgement and again he says something he immediately wishes he hadn't.

    "We should go slowly, though. Cold cocktails and hot days can be a lethal combination."

    "Perhaps. But I have learned to discipline the things that give me pleasure."

    "Oh, of course. No advice intended. Just a friendly observation I've had to repeat to myself often."

    "Yes. You are quite a friendly fellow, aren't you? That's what my wife says."

    Russell takes an urgent sip of water. "And how is your lovely wife? I assumed she would be joining us."

    "She was feeling under the weather. Fatigue from travel, you understand."

    "Of course. Too much sun...or local color." 

    "That's one way of putting it," the client says, as the waiter returns and puts the drinks in front of them. "I hope you don't mind, but I've taken the liberty of ordering in advance. Their signature dish."

    "If you like it, I'm sure I will," Russell replies. 

    "That seems to be the case, doesn't it?" Russell's perspiration returns. Again, he is hesitant to respond. His client fills the void.

    "I've decided not to acquire the property you showed us. I thought it appropriate to deliver that little disappointment with the pleasantry of a mollifying meal."

    "That's very kind of you," Russell responds. "Most would have simply called and given me their decision over the phone. Though, I must admit my hopes were up when your wife expressed a desire to see the property a second time."

    "Frankly, it was the occasion of that second visit that solidified my decision."

    "Found it less attractive than on first viewing?"

    "Quite the contrary. She was effusive about the experience. But we both know her excitement was brought about by something altogether unrelated to the property. Need I be specific?"

    Russell's facade collapses, he instantly puts both hands on the table. "Please, let me explain."

    "No need. Recriminations and excuses are tiresome. I've heard them before. You don't think this is her first time, do you?"

    "Please understand. I meant no disrespect to you. The passion of the moment. Her astonishing beauty. I was helpless."

    "Yes, on occasion I've found that my wife is irresistible. But she is my wife."

    Before Russell can continue groveling, the waiter arrives and sets plates in front of them. 

    "Ah, lunch," the client says. "Tell me what you think."

    "Sir, I truly regret what happened, It was never my intention to—"

    "No. Not about that. Tell me what you think of the fish?"

Russel is beside himself. Unsure of how to react, he picks up his fork and samples a small piece of flesh. "Hmm. Makes the lips tingle."

    "That strange feeling in your mouth is the beginning of your central nervous system shutting down."

    Russell tries to speak, but only manages, "Wha..."

    "Next, you will become dizzy. But you won't fall because severe paralysis will immediately set in. You'll be unable to move."

    Russell hears but can't reply.

    "You'll soon lose all feeling in your face. It's possible you may vomit, but you'll remain fully conscious. At least until the poison reaches your diaphragm. At which time you'll die of asphyxia."

    Russell's eyes are locked in horror.

    "I mislead you. This cafe is actually owned by a man who owed me quite a sum. To repay, he suggested a special preparation of the blowfish. Now his debt is paid in full. And soon, yours will be."

    Russell is rigid. His face wrapped in a virtual death mask.

    As the client rises to leave, he says, "I realize etiquette dictates you stand as we part, but you needn't attempt it. What would be the point?"

    The movement of the sun has left the table no longer in shade. Intense light blinds Russell's spellbound eyes. He hears the tinkle of glasses, the rattle of plates, and noises from the street nearby, but is incapable of soliciting help. For Russell, now and forever, there is only white.

​© 2026 Joe Kilgore

About the author:
Joe Kilgore is an award-winning author of novels, novellas, screenplays, and short stories. He lives and writes in Austin, Texas. You can learn more about Joe and his work at his website: https://joekilgore.com
]]>Mon, 16 Mar 2026 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/a-sure-cinch-by-patrick-whitehurstRatter ducked out of the rain. He joined Sam under the eaves of Dog Eared Books on Valencia. The place closed at ten, ages ago, but the entry still smelled like old books. Sam nodded at Ratter and took a sip from his corner store coffee. None of the fancier places were open.

"Got your text. What's so important we meet in the middle of the night?" Sam asked.

Ratter rubbed his hands together and gnawed on a toothpick. The thin mustache over his pale lips twitched. "A sure cinch," he replied.

Sam took a breath, counted to three. "A what?"


"A sure cinch. An easy score. Loading truck is parked near the de Young."

"A sure thing? Think that's what you mean."

Ratter wore a black trench coat with the collar turned up. His curly brown hair hung in wet spirals to his shoulders. On his feet were a pair of glossy black Doc Martens. Not good for running, but handy for violence, particularly if they were steel toed. Sam himself wore a black sweatshirt under a large green flannel with a pair of gray corduroys and black slip-on canvas shoes. Good for comfort. Not much else.

"It's a cinch though, a cinch and a sure thing," Ratter said. "A sure cinch."

"Sure it is."

"Got a car coming. It's unguarded for the next hour according to my guy on the inside. And get this, Sam. There's nothing but a single busted security camera back there!"

Sam sipped his coffee and pondered the rain. The neon closed sign reflected in the puddle at his feet. "What's in the loading truck?"

"Coins. Lots of rare coins. Know a guy who works there. He said something about error pennies, copper pennies, Morgan silver dollars, worth a mint I'm told. Just sitting there until one a.m.. Gonna put them on exhibit or something."

"What happens at one?"

"That's when the crew comes back from break, I guess. I don't know."

"Lot of security in the Park," Sam said. "Got a reliable ride?" Sam’s own vehicle, a beat up old Volvo, was in the shop.

"I need your help moving the stuff. That's it. You'll get a cut of the sales when I finagle a buyer."

Sam drank. Coffee burned as it went down. Ratter pulled his phone from his back pocket. Water dripped from his nose. "Ride's here."

A white Chrysler Pacifica hummed into view. Rain dribbled off the minivan as it pulled to the corner. Weather didn't seem to affect the LiDAR or the cameras mounted on the roof.

Sam stepped back, fading into the shadows. His back pressed against the cold door of the bookstore.

"I call shotgun," said Ratter.

"The fuck is this? You called a Waymo?"

"Hell yeah," Ratter said. "Ever been in one?"

"These things keep a record, Ratter. You're out of your goddamn mind."

"What are you, a caveman? Nothing to worry about! You'll see!" Ratter made his way to the silent vehicle. "Got the minivan so there's more room for the loot."

"Goodnight, Ratter." Sam started walking toward Guerrero Street. Like Ratter he turned his collar up to obscure his face.

Ratter shouted after him. "C’mon, brother. You'll regret this! You'll see, Sam!"

Sam winced at the use of his name so close to the autonomous transport. The Waymo swallowed its human and disappeared into the drizzling night.

"Regret it already," Sam said. “Even the coffee’s stupid.”

A week later, when the Chronicle reported no new leads in the coin heist and Sam found himself short on rent, he wished he’d had more faith.

​© 2026 Patrick Whitehurst

About the author: 
Patrick Whitehurst writes both fiction and non-fiction. As a former reporter, he developed a love for writing short and fast, which he uses to his advantage in the flash fiction realm. Find him online at patrickwhitehurst.com.
]]>Mon, 02 Mar 2026 05:00:00 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/the-longest-way-home-by-brandon-barrows​Mina stood on the bridge, looking down at the river. Mist swirled around the banks, making it seem like the shore was moving rather than the water. During the day, it was muddy brown, but now, it was blacker than the night. It reminded her of a curtain, pulled after the final act of a play. “All the world’s a stage,” she whispered. She loved the sound of that line when she was a little girl.

The whoop of a siren made her jump. She turned on her heel, pressing her back against the railing. The police cruiser’s passenger window rolled down. “Everything okay, ma’am?”

The officer’s face was blank as his eyes scanned her, trying to fit her into some familiar box.

A light drizzle started to fall as she said, “Yes, I’m fine, thanks,” and began walking towards the near side of the bridge.

“You should get home,” the officer called after her. “It’s a nasty night.” He rolled up the window but the cruiser didn’t start moving until Mina was safely off the bridge.

Home, Mina thought bitterly. “Home” was a town in Vermont called Sharon, not the three paint-peeling rooms where she slept.

At the next corner, Mina pulled the envelope from her coat pocket and dropped it into the mailbox. It was so old-fashioned it seemed almost foreign. Writing so much by hand was awkward and left her fingers cramped, but an email or a text was too impersonal for something like this. Cramps were nothing, though. She put up with a lot worse over the last four years—the drunken rages, the slaps that became beatings. Besides, she had to let Mom and Dad know about Ben, the grandson they’d never even met. When everything was said and done, he would end up with them. She walked on through the night.

The next cross-street was busy, even close to midnight. Cars and trucks and the occasional bus zoomed past, sending up dirty spray that splashed the sidewalk. The movement, the red and gold lights through the rain and mist, was mesmerizing. She stood a moment watching, wondering how many cars there were in the city. Unlike her, they were all going somewhere, every day, every hour.

“Miss,” a soft voice near her elbow said. “It isn’t safe to stand so close to the edge.”

Mina looked down and met the eyes of an elderly woman not even five feet tall. She reminded Mina of her great-grandmother, who was so tiny Mina called her “Little Grammy” when she was a child. A lump formed in her throat and her eyes burned.

“You’re right. Thank you, ma’am,” she said. At the light, the two of them crossed together.

The drugstore on the next block was still open. Mina blinked as she passed into the brightly lit store. “Can I help you?” a clerk called out.

Mina went to the counter and asked for the strongest sleeping pills they sold without a prescription. “And a bottle of your cheapest vodka, please.”

The man gave her a strange look for a moment, but only asked to see her ID. She presented it, paid, and put both box and bottle into her pocket.

“Have a nice night, ma’am,” the clerk told her, but got no answer.

Mina unlocked the faded green door of her building, and climbed creaking stairs to the third floor. Inside the apartment, she shed her coat, and went into the kitchen. Opening the box of pills, she popped each one from its foil pocket, making a pile on the scarred plastic table. With the base of the vodka bottle, she ground the pile into a fine powder. She cracked the seal on the bottle, took a deep swig, set it down. Scooping the white powder into her hand, she slowly poured it into the neck of the bottle, careful not to lose any, then recapped and shook it. The liquid was a little cloudy now, but it didn’t matter.

Mina moved through the living room quietly, careful not to disturb the little boy asleep on the sofa. In the bedroom, she shook the sleeping man awake. “Here, I got your bottle, just like you asked.”

© 2026 Brandon Barrows

About the author: 
Brandon Barrows is the author of more than a dozen books, his most recent Sinners Ride from 13 Days Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories for which he is a Mustang Award winner and a two-time Derringer Award nominee.

​Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com]]>Mon, 16 Feb 2026 05:00:00 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/rock-paper-scissors-by-rs-nelson“Rock beats paper,” my baby brother Matthew used to say when we were kids and played ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ in the locked closet, the light bulb illuminating our skinny fingers, our bodies crammed together in the suffocating space. “No, paper beats rock,” I’d correct him like a good older sister, wrapping my hand over his tiny fist for the hundredth time, just like Mom taught us when she was alive and we were free to roam around.   

Growing up, I was tempted to run away, but I thought of Matthew, alone… with Dad. That stopped me every time. When Matthew finally turned eighteen, we both left the house. We got jobs, found an apartment, and for a while it was great, starting anew, just the two of us. But Matthew couldn’t leave the past behind. After he found out that Dad had a new family, he spent hours hiding behind the bushes of Dad’s new house, watching him laugh and play with his new kids.

I begged Matthew to stop and come home with me, but he wouldn’t listen. 

Once, when Dad was having dinner, Matthew grabbed the big rock by the front door, the one hiding the house key, and hurled it at the bay window. Dad might have let it go if his new kids hadn’t been playing near the window when the shattered glass flew into the living room, covering their heads, their faces, their tiny hands.

When the judge served him his sentence, Matthew remembered that paper beats rock. He tried to appeal, arguing insanity, but since he didn’t tell his lawyer or the judge or anyone else about the long hours we spent in that closet, hearing our stomachs roar, tasting the cracks on our lips, smelling our soiled bodies, the judge denied his appeal.

Dad was in court that day, probably to ensure we wouldn’t say a word. Or maybe because he really wanted to see Matthew locked up, along with his secrets, kept far away from his new life. If Dad had only known his son, he wouldn’t have been afraid. Matthew was always good at keeping secrets; I know because he didn’t tell anyone I was next to him when he threw the rock.
Maybe that was why I found the courage to appeal to what was left of Dad’s humanity, begging him to drop the charges against Matthew, before it was too late. In reply, he gave me his arrogant smile, the same one he used to show us who was in control. 

When I left the courtroom, I thought about Matthew, locked up again, alone, and then I thought about Dad’s new kids.

The more I thought about them, the more furiously the rage bubbled under my skin. So that night, I grabbed Dad’s house key from under the rock and stabbed his face in the family portrait, slashing the canvas with the scissors again and again, until I couldn’t move my arm anymore. When I left, cold sweat dripped down my back and my hand bore the marks of the steel blades, but laughter grew inside my head, spreading like the roots of a tree.

Dad didn’t call the police this time, but he stayed locked at home and got rid of the key and the rock by the door.

I guess he forgot there are bigger rocks everywhere. 

When Dad went jogging in the canyon one morning, I followed him. He was fast, but I was faster. Rock might not beat paper, but it can certainly beat you senseless. It might even break open a head, making it look like someone tripped and had a terrible accident.

When I went to visit Matthew in jail, we played “Rock, Paper, Scissors” in silence, as an homage to the things we endured, and overcame. As always, I chose paper to wrap around his rock.

But this time, he chose scissors.

​© 2026 R.S. Nelson

About the author:
R.S. Nelson is a Latina writer who lives and finds inspiration in Southern California. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, SciFiSat, Every Writer, Twin Bird Review, the podcast Tales to Terrify, and elsewhere. You can find more of her stories on her website: rsnelsonwriter@wordpress.com

]]>Mon, 02 Feb 2026 05:00:00 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/grass-by-jp-gallagherMarko brought the catcher around the side of the house to where the lawn bag stood under the open window. He shook out the clippings, covering up the duffel bag that had been dropped into the bottom. He bundled the top, felt its weight, and brought it around front by the garage. He rang the doorbell twice and waited. He hit it once more. He lingered on the front step a moment, then gathered up the bag and set it in the bed of the truck. He harnessed the mower and locked the trailer gate.

Marko scanned the neighborhood as he turned the ignition. The street was wide, and only eight houses in view, all on one-acre lots. Horses stood quietly in the yard of the corner house, glancing now and then towards the main road.

​There were no neighbors out. In fact, Marko couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone in the yards or the driveways. The turquoise ranch directly across the street might have been vacant or owned by shut-ins. A white Jeep always stood in the driveway of the neighboring farmhouse, but no one ever came out to drive it. A green Ford that he didn't recognize was parked at the far end of the street, but no one was in it. Nothing to attract any cop who didn’t get called there.

The only thing that felt out of place was Marko’s pickup truck and its trailer, half-filled with landscaping equipment. No one on the street would have been likely to hire out their lawnmowing, including the house he sat in front of, a white-and-blue ranch with cracked gutters and overgrown boxwoods blocking the front window. The neighbors might have thought that the old man’s nephew, who came by on occasion, had decided he had better keep the yard from becoming overgrown if he wanted to make any money selling it when the old man died. So Marko never did any more than he had to—no weeding, no trimming bushes, no edging. He worked haphazardly with the weedwhacker. The whole yard took seven or eight minutes. That’s all the old man needed to drop the duffel out the window into the lawn bag anyways.

Today the duffel was heavier. By a few pounds, at least. Duffy hadn’t said there was going to be more, but Marko had felt it when he lifted the bag. 

Normally Duffy would have said something. He would have given some sort of slick explanation, like college was back in session in Laramie and the kids needed supplies, or the stock market was down and the lawyers and doctors downtown were stressed out of their heads, asking for tons of product. Or there were fires and people couldn’t drive down to Fort Collins to get it. But the bag felt even heavier than it had those times.


His second phone vibrated on the seat beside him. He picked it up. It was Duffy.

“You’re done?”

“I just finished.”

“A cut only?”

“Yes. A lot of clippings. A lot to bring back.” 

“What do you mean a lot?”

“I mean it’s a heavy bag.”

“How heavy?”

“Two, three times as much.”

Duffy was silent.

“That’s not what you expected?”

“No. Herschel dropped it off a half an hour ago. Same size as usual.”

“Let me take a look,” Marko said.

Marko put down the phone, got out and walked to the back of the truck. He found the lawn bag and turned it on its side and started to sweep out the clippings with his arm. He pulled the duffel bag out of the bottom and unzipped it. It contained two old phonebooks. 

Marko returned to the truck’s cab, pulled his Glock 47 out of the glove compartment, and tucked the gun into his waistband before walking towards the house. Nothing moved in the windows. He didn’t ring the bell. He jammed open the door and stuck the nose of the gun into the dim living room.

He was struck by a stale smell. As his eyes adjusted he saw a body lying crumpled on the floor in the living room. Marko had not seen the old man more than a few times, but he recognized the man. He looked over the ragged, lifeless features: the bony nose, the recessed cheekbones, the hollow at the chin.

Before he could approach, a sharp squeak broke the silence of the house. He moved through the kitchen towards it. A lanky figure with something under his arm crashed through the storm door towards the old man’s Buick in the carport. Marko stretched for the window above the kitchen sink. He heard the stuttering burst of the engine just as the glass shattered and bullet holes appeared on the windshield.

The car was running but didn’t budge an inch. Marko slipped out the storm door, with the gun trained on the driver’s seat, but no one moved in the car. He opened the passenger side door and pulled out a brown paper shopping bag that sat in the seat next to the man, now dead. Marko didn’t look at him for long, just long enough to see the nose, the cheeks, the little hollow—an unmistakable family resemblance to the man laying in the living room.

Marko stepped back. No breeze disturbed the quiet of the street. He checked the brown paper bag and tucked it under his arm to try to cover the blood spatter. He walked down the driveway. The horses were still ambling about near the corner. The green Ford stood empty—perhaps ownerless—at the other end of the street. Before he got to the truck an elderly neighbor came out onto the porch of her ramshackle bungalow. She eyed Marko and made a gesture of disgusted confusion. He got in and again broke the silence with the roar of his truck's engine.  

© 2026 J.P. Gallagher

About the author:
J.P. Gallagher is a short-story writer living in the Denver area.  His work draws on the landscapes and traditions of the American West to tell contemporary, hard-boiled crime stories.  ]]>Mon, 19 Jan 2026 05:00:00 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/the-blue-lincoln-by-ed-ridgley“Here, Detective, take this rose home to your wife,” said Baxter.

“I don’t make it a habit to accept anything from serial killers.”

“The only thing I kill–serially, as you put it–is bugs. This is from my prize roses.”

“No, thank you. Tell me again, where were you on Friday night?”

“What time exactly?”

“Between the hours of 8 and 10pm.”

“I was right here. All day, in fact.”

“Why did you ask what time then?”

“Sorry, I was focused on my flowers. Why are you asking?”

“Your friend, Daniel, is missing.”

“I wouldn’t call him a friend, really.”

“Why is that? Did you two have a falling out?”

“You could say that.”

“What about?”

“He grows roses as well, but you probably already know that.”

“Yeah.”

“And you probably already know that he stole a hybrid tea I was growing.”

“Tell me more.”

“It’s a special hybrid I grew, a cross of the Blue Moon and the Mr. Lincoln.”

“Blue Moon and Mr. Lincoln?”

“Yes, names of hybrid tea roses, Detective. You know, you and I are not all that different.”

“We are very different.”

“No, no, we’re the same. You and I are both experts at what we do. You are an expert investigator. So am I.”

“An expert investigator?”

“Yes. All roses are subject to predators like bugs or disease. Beetles are the serial killers of roses. So is mildew and other diseases. Anything can take out a rose.”

“Quite the philosopher, aren’t you?”

“Anyway, each prize rose is given a name. The Blue Moon is a lavender rose, and the Mr. Lincoln is a red rose, both very fragrant. I was going to call mine the Blue Lincoln. Your wife will love it.”

“I’ll buy one at a florist.”

“You could, but wouldn’t you rather get it straight from the inventor?”

“In my book, God is the inventor.”

“I guess you could call me a god. I would not take offense.”

“I know you had something to do with Daniel’s disappearance.”

“Daniel had a habit of disappearing without any help from anyone, including me.”

“I haven’t heard that.”

“Ask his wife.”

“He was divorced.”

“His ex-wife then. I didn’t know he got divorced. A man can die a thousand deaths from a divorce.”

“Spare me the philosophy lesson.”

“Know what the secret to a good marriage is?”

“You’re going to tell me the secret to a good marriage?”

“Bring her a rose every day. My wife never tired of it.”

“Your wife died under mysterious circumstances.”

“It’s not mysterious at all. I have poisons here for the bugs. She handled that part and got it in her system. I really should sue the manufacturer.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“I’m still in mourning.”

“Daniel and your wife were having an affair.”

“Apparently he had a secret with roses as well as women.”

“What was his secret?”

“He never told me. I tried to get it out of him.”

“What is your secret?”

“To women? I thought it was roses. To roses? Simple, really, and it’s crack for them. They crave it.”

“What is it?”

“Bone meal.”

​© 2026 Ed Ridgley

About the author:
Ed Ridgley (https://linktr.ee/edridgley) won a New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest in 2010, the cartoon showing a bar scene with a bartender, a detective, and a ballerina. His caption (the bartender’s words) said “The guy you’re looking for waltzed out of here an hour ago.” And he won the Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s Mysterious Photograph Contest, July/August 2023 edition. Ed hiked to Everest Base Camp in Nepal in 2018 and thus crossed off number one on his bucket list.

]]>Sun, 04 Jan 2026 15:45:20 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/the-windfall-by-robb-t-white“I swear, bitch, if you did something to him, I’m out of here!”

“He was like that when I come out here to make coffee,” Stephanie said. “Swear on a bible.”

John Lyndhurst lay on a couch with faded nap, a rictus grin on his face. A lifelong smoker, his face was crisscrossed with wrinkles, tiny fissures that captured shadows. A noisy man in life, his repose in death was unnerving.

“He dead?” 

“Has to be.”

The man hadn’t moved since Stephanie called her friend Patti over, a fifteen-minute drive. From time to time, she nudged his shoe with her foot to be sure.

“Why the holy hell didn’t you call nine-one-one?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Well, hell, you want me to do it?” She reached in her purse for her cell phone.

“Hang on,” Stephanie said, placing a hand on Patti’s phone before she could unlock it. “I’m thinking we can turn this into some good luck for us.”

“How?”

“Grab his legs,” Stephanie ordered. “I’ve got his bank book.”

“Hang on,” Patti said. “What’s my cut?”

“Twenty-five percent.”

“Fifty.”

“Thirty.”

“Forty-five.”

“Forty.”

“Done,” Patti said.

Stephanie moved the coffee table, sending Styrofoam cups, a gin bottle, beer cans, and pill bottles scattering across the hardwood floor. She rolled him off the couch by tugging his shoulders. 

Patti lost her hold three times before they got him propped in the car.

“Let me catch my breath,” Patti said, holding the steering wheel like a lifeline.

“Cut out the smokes, bitch, and you’ll have air.”

Patti ignored her. “How much . . . are . . . you—we asking to withdraw?”

“I’m going for five.”

“That all?”

The check with its forged signature was sucked into the tube system with its pneumatic whoosh in the plastic carrier. Patti continued her playacting, fluffing his collar while her knuckles whitened from the effort to keep John’s head stable.

The transaction was taking too long. Patti’s fingers ached from the tension of holding John’s head steady, without making it look like she was trying to strangle the passenger in front of her. When the teller asked John twice if he wanted large denomination bills, she immediately tried to make her right hand prop his jaw playfully. Tunnel vision whisked away every other sense; she didn’t hear the teller or Stephanie speaking words, but the sound of fear got through. 

“Mister Lyndhurst, did you sign this check? Sir? Sir?”

Stephanie couldn’t take another second of the tension; she hit the gas, burning rubber out of the parking lot. 

They drove aimlessly. “It’s your goddamn fault,” she blurted, breaking the silence. 

Patti leaned over the seat. John’s body, now canted at an unnatural angle into the foot well, seemed bent in half. She yanked up his shirt to move him and noted blood pooling in his lower back and buttocks. 

“My fault?”

“You were massaging his head off his neck back there! She got suspicious!”

That started a screaming match that resulted in a litany of filth and profanities ringing around the hunched man, oblivious to the world. 

They were on Lake Road going west, at the same spot where highway construction had widened the road, owing to subsidence. The yellow guard rail on John’s side of the vehicle had been removed, replaced by concrete bollards at the lip of the sandstone cliffs overlooking Lake Erie. Driving put Stephanie at a disadvantage. Her anger boiling over, she reached around to slap Patti’s face and lost control of the vehicle. She overcorrected without taking her foot off the gas. The car slewed from one side of the road to the other and back again, whiplashing them both, dislodging Patti from her perch in back.  

The car shot over the side without any time for Stephanie to brake. Inertia threw seatbeltless Patti upward against the roof. Not as airborne as her partner, Stephanie tried to use that moment of weightlessness to regain control of the car. Gravity, however, overruled everything and took full control. 

The car plunged over the dense canopy of stunted trees clinging to the side of the cliff face, skidding along the treetops for what seemed an eternity. A flash of the lake’s blue expanse was recorded in the eyes and neocortexes of the living passengers. 

They both lay unconscious, silent, bleeding from deep lacerations, matching their passenger in stillness. 

* * *

The women were saved by turkey buzzards, the last guests to answer the dinner bell. Their spiraling circle over the car grew by dozens until an amateur photographer stopped to take a photo of the revolving cone of large-winged birds circling the shoreline. While he increased the shutter speed of his expensive camera to get the right blur for the bokeh effect he wanted, a spear of sunlight glinting from below through the trees startled him. 

A car aerial.

The paramedics who brought them up rushed Patti into intensive care immediately. Half her face had turned septic and the skin had to be removed down to the subcutaneous layer. Maggots had burrowed into the wound and eaten enough dead flesh to save her life. Reconstructive surgery paid for by a GoFundMe project while she served her time in the women’s prison in Marysville. She left Northtown and rumor said she wound up on Kensington Avenue, Philadelphia’s notorious neighborhood for streets packed with dope-fiends bent over in their fentanyl and xylazine nods. 

Stephanie, being the “mastermind of the fraud perpetrated on an aging man,” to quote the prosecutor, received a five-year sentence in the Trumbull Correctional Institute. She became a devout Christian inside and a recluse after her release for good behavior during her third year. When she heart gave out, at 47, six firemen had to cut a hole through the wall to extract her body. Her weight was estimated at eight hundred pounds.

Neither woman ever spoke to the other after their rescue.

​© 2026 Robb T. White

About the author:
Robb White lives in Northeastern Ohio. A Derringer-nominated author, he has three series detectives: Thomas Haftmann, Raimo Jarvi, and Jade Hui. Fade to Black is a collection of noir tales, and Jersey Girl is his latest thriller. A forthcoming crime novella is Easy Money from Brick Tower Press.
]]>Tue, 23 Dec 2025 14:46:23 GMThttps://www.guiltycrimemag.com/flash/obituary-by-mike-mchone“You don’t mind?” Greg asked.
     “Not at all.”
     “It’s just that I gotta make sure someone’ll cover me at work—” 
     “I get it.”
     “—and making the drive up there for the service. Plus, you were always good with words.”
     “It’s no problem.”
     “Thanks, Dan… Strange, isn’t it? Him dying like that, I mean.” 
     “Yeah,” he said. “Goes to show you never really know a person.”

     That night, Dan Walker sat in his home office and stared at his keyboard as if it was a hypnotist’s watch. Minutes passed. Words didn’t. He knew exactly who his father was, how the man died, and so on, but the ways and means of condensing the old man’s life, and death, into a paragraph or two eluded him.
     However, at a minute past ten, after he’d spent the better part of an hour at the mercy of his laptop, he told himself to just state the facts. “Treat it like a report,” he said. “Say exactly what happened.”
     He typed…

     Jerome Wilker, 71, died on October 15, 202—

     He stopped.
     He deleted it. 
     He typed…

     Jerome Wilker, 71, loving father—

     Delete.
     His hands hovered above the keyboard like spirits.
     “Say exactly what happened.” He laughed, then told himself, “Why the hell not?”

     On Saturday night, a complete bastard named Jerome Walker pressed a .44 Magnum against his temple while he lay in bed and shot himself.   
     At least, that’s how it was intended to look.

     Words, then, poured like whiskey.

     It was easy to kill him, especially when you take into account the son of a bitch drank himself into a blackout every evening for the past fifty years. It also helped that he was an outdoorsman with a shit-ton of handguns and rifles lying around the house, some of which were always loaded (like him). 
    It also doesn’t hurt that I’m the county sheriff with a key to his house.

     He typed faster.

     It was so simple, I still can’t believe I got away with it. 
     I dropped by his farmhouse at five that afternoon. “Wanna shoot?” I asked. He was drunk already, but said, “Sure,” and we went out back, put some empty beer bottles on the fence, and squeezed off a few rounds, him with his .38, me with my 9mm. We did it for about an hour, then I told him good night, lied and said I loved him, and left. A little ways down the road, I pulled to the side, parked, snuck back, and hung around outside, peeking through the windows every so often. The jackass could never keep a curtain closed if his life depended on it. 
     Which it did. 
     Haha. 
     It didn’t take long for him to stumble to bed and pass out. I crept in, took the .44 from his dresser, and blew his brains out. 
     Easy peasy.
     It certainly looked like a suicide. No note, but that doesn’t mean anything. Most suicides don’t have them, at least from my experience. 
     Also, when they ran the gunshot residue test, there was plenty of gunpowder on his hand, so there was nothing suspicious. Then it was off to the crematorium. 
     Once more with feeling: easy peasy.
     The hardest part was waiting. Not outside, no. I mean, waiting most my life to give him what he deserved. All those years, all those beatings, me, Greg, and Mom endured. Every bruised chin and black eye. 
     To be fair, he did teach me a valuable lesson. He took me hunting once and told me, “When you hunt, the most important thing you’ll carry is patience.”
     Fuckin’ A, Dad. 

     He smirked.

     Jerome worked at Fathom Steel until he retired at 49. Of course, he retired at such a young age because Mom dropped dead of a heart attack that same year and he got a hefty life insurance payout.  
     His is survived by two sons, Greg, who moved to Knoxville to work for a tech startup as soon as he turned 18 to get away from the old man, and Dan, who joined the army at 18, came back at 30, joined the Sheriff’s Department, worked his way up through the ranks, and bided his time until the perfect moment.
     He was preceded in death by billions of better people.
     He will not be missed.
     Thanks again for the lesson, Dad, and the house. Can’t wait to sell it.
     Or burn it down.

     He stopped.
     He deleted everything. 
     After a short eternity, he typed…

     Jerome Wilker, 71, passed away Saturday, November 15. Cremation has already taken place.
     Jerome worked as a foreman at Fathom Steel. In his free time he loved hunting and shooting.
     He was preceded in death by his wife Shirley and is survived by sons Greg and Dan.
     He will be missed.

     Dan hit save and emailed it to his brother. 
     He stopped himself from throwing his laptop against the wall and went to bed.

     “This looks good.”
     “It’s not too short?”
     “No, he wouldn’t want it too wordy anyway. You know how he was,” Greg said. “You send it to the newspaper?”
     “Not yet. I wanted you to take a look first. I’ll send it now.”
     “Gotcha. Well, I’ll let you go. I’ll be landing in Detroit Metro at eight. You still picking me up?”
     “Absolutely.”
     They said goodbye, and hung up.

     That night, at home by himself, Dan poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels and like his father (like himself), didn’t stop until he was completely drunk and started to roam his house like a vagrant. 
     He still wasn’t used to being alone in the house since Suzanne left with the kids the week before.
     Hours later, just before the sun rose on the day of his father’s memorial service, he stood in the doorway of his home office and eyed the laptop. 
     “Why the hell not?” 
     He didn’t stop himself that time. 

© 2025 Mike McHone
​
​About the author:

Mike McHone's fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder, Mystery Tribune, Rock and a Hard Place, the Anthony Award-nominated anthology Under the Thumb: Stories of Police Oppression, Edited by SA Cosby, and elsewhere. A former journalist, his articles, op-eds, and humor pieces have appeared in the Detroit News, the AV Club, Playboy, and numerous other outlets. He is the 2020 recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Hugh Holton Award and has placed twice on Ellery Queen’s Annual Readers List. He lives in Detroit.
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