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“What happens now?” said the girl.
“We wait,” Mickey told her. Francine had gone off to make the call to the mother, leaving Mickey alone with the girl for the first time since the kidnapping. She’d chosen a public callbox a good thirty miles away, just to cover herself—Francine was smart like that, Mickey thought, always planning ahead—so it was going to be a good hour or two before she was back. “These are really painful,” said the girl, nodding down to where the zip-ties bound her hands, “Can’t you loosen them a bit?” Francine had warned Mickey about this. “The minute I’m gone, the very minute it’s just the two of you in there, that little bitch is going to try it on,” she’d said. “She’s going to see you as the weak link—because you are—and she’s going to try and get you to put your guard down and then she’s going to kick you in the throat or break your nose with her elbow and then she’s going to make a run for it.” At this point Francine had put her hands either side of Mickey’s face, holding him like sandwich meat. She’d looked him straight in the eyes, the way she always did when she was trying to get something to stick. “Don’t fall for it,” she’d told him. “Nothing doing,” Mickey told the girl, “You’ll just have to put up with it.” The girl let herself slump back against the wall. She was twelve years old and small for her age, but something about her face made her look older, as though Mickey could see in her bones the woman she might become. He had the same look about him when he was a kid—like childhood was just an ill-fitting coat you had to wear until you grew into it. “She won’t pay,” the girl said. “I’m telling you. She doesn’t give a shit about me, never has. I’m just in the way.” Mickey wanted to say something, to reassure the girl—it was just his natural instinct; Francine always said it was his best trait, empathy—but then he remembered Francine’s words, her hands on his face, so he kept his mouth shut. The girl went on. “She only had a kid because she wanted a little doll to dress up and be like her. The second I started having my own opinion about things, it was like all the shine came off. I don’t even see her much anymore. It’s just tutors and nannies and housekeeping staff, and maybe on my birthday she gets her assistant to buy me something, like a phone or a Playstation or some jewelry I don’t ever wear. The only time we ever hang out is when they do a profile on her and the PR people tell her that she needs me to be in the photos. Apart from that, she doesn’t care that I’m alive.” She looked up, and Mickey could see that she was near to crying. “You know what that feels like? To know that you’re not wanted?” Her voice cracked on the last word and a sob came out of her. She put her bound hands up, hiding her face, but Mickey could see the heave and fall of her chest as she sobbed. The thing was, he did know. He’d been fourth of seven, all boys, but even sitting in the middle he was still the runt. No good for farm work, he’d been relegated to helping out round the house–but even that was never good enough. He had the shit beaten out of him every week for six years until, at age fifteen, he met Francine and they left it all behind. If Francine hadn’t found him that day at the grocery store, he didn’t know what he’d have done. So many nights he lay in bed after a beating and just wished he was dead. Then Francine came along and it was like the giant hand of God had reached down and plucked him out of his life and set him on another path. Not everyone had a Francine. The girl had stopped sobbing now, and was just staring straight ahead. Mickey recognised that look, had seen it before in the mirror. The look that said there was no point in hoping anymore. It was like he was seeing himself ten years ago, with all the pain and despair and desperation that entailed. “Even if she does pay,” said the girl. “What kind of life am I going to go back to? She’ll blame me for all this, I know she will. She’ll tell me that I owe her, that I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life paying her back, that I’d have been better off if you’d kept me.” Her blue eyes, reddened, looked up at Mickey. “I’m going to be trapped with her forever, with no way out.” A pang went through Mickey, reactivating an ache that had sat in his soul since he was nine years old. This girl had no Francine, but maybe he could be her hand of God. He walked over to the bed, sat down beside her, “There’s always a way,” he said, and he reached up his hands and tenderly, but surely, gripped her throat. ***** Francine came back an hour later. Mickey met her at the door. Her face was alive with anticipation, like she could smell success in the air. “She’s gonna pay,” she said. “The whole amount, no haggling. All we need to do is show her proof of life.” “Francine,” said Mickey, “We might have a little bit of a problem there.” © 2025 Steven Sheil About the author: Steven Sheil is a writer of crime, horror, and weird fiction. His work has previously been published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Black Static and The Ghastling. His short story The Art Of Cruel Embroidery was nominated for Best Short Story at the 2025 Edgar Awards. He lives in Nottingham, UK.
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I knocked on Jessie’s door at exactly two in the morning, ready to propose some bad business. It took him a while to answer. He didn’t ask who it was, just opened the door and asked what was up.
“I need a favor,” I said. “Now? Christ, it’s the middle of the night.” “I know. But it’s important.” He stood there in the doorway, his thick arms crossed, belly pushed hard against his cut-off T-shirt. He was a good few inches taller than me. I realized he could kick the hell out of me if he felt like it. Right there on his dirty front porch. “Well, spit it out, dumbass,” he said. “Or I’m going back to sleep.” I swallowed and said, “I need your help.” “Doing what?” “Burying a body.” He rubbed his unruly beard and looked me in the eye for a good twenty seconds before he said, “Come inside.” I went in, and he closed the door behind us. ***** I got this problem; I’ve had it my whole life. I have no idea if people are lying to me or not. In fact, I have zero sense of what anyone thinks of me at all. Playing with other kids when I was little, I would think they were my friends. One time I got home and my dad asked why I was all scuffed up. I told him me and some kids were playing, and he realized they were beating me up. And I just took it cuz I thought that’s what friends did. My dad was pissed, but not at them. He beat me with a belt, saying the world was a tough place and I had to get my act together if I wanted to make it on my own someday. I tried not to cry and told him I’d do my best. Next day, I beat those kids up and got expelled. I never did learn how to figure out who my friends are. I met Jessie a few years back shooting pool in this dive bar near the freeway. We’ve had beers since then. Boosted a couple of cars for fun and profit. Shot guns late at night under the overpass where the sound of big-rigs above us drowned out the noise. I was starting to think he was my friend, a good friend. But I didn’t know for sure. And it was bugging me. So I asked Jessie’s roommate, who tends bar at this place I like, for some advice. He sells pills out of the bar bathroom on busy nights, and I’d seen him and Jessie fighting over money. I guessed they were tight, but I wasn’t really sure. I waited until the place was nearly empty one night and beckoned from my stool. Jessie’s roommate leaned across the bar, turned his ear toward me. “How do you know if someone’s a real friend?” I asked him. He sighed, poured us a couple of shots of whiskey, and said, “If you can call up someone at two in the morning and they agree to help you bury a body, that’s a real friend.” Sounded easy enough to me. ***** I’d been in Jessie’s place before. It was pretty messy, with a lot of empty beer bottles and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. He offered me a cigarette, and after I said no thanks, he lit one for himself. “So who’s the body?” There was no body. I just wanted to know if Jessie was a real friend or not. But I knew he’d have some questions. I’m not good at making up stuff on the spot so I had my story all planned out. “I was walking home from the bar and some guy was following me. When I asked him what his problem was, he pulled out a knife, told me to give him my wallet. I wasn’t giving my wallet to no one, so we wrestled over the knife and he fell on it and died.” Jessie nodded. “Why bury him?” “I’m on parole.” This was true. “Cops catch me with a dead body, I’m going back to prison for sure.” Also true, but not really a concern since there was no dead body. Jessie exhaled some smoke. “Yeah, I can help you bury him. But I’m gonna need a favor in return.” I shrugged and said sure. Why wouldn’t I? I was feeling pretty good as he led me through his grimy kitchen, out a side door, and into his garage. I had a real friend, something I’d never had before. Now I just had to tell him the truth and everything would be okay. He opened up one of those big chest freezers. I looked inside and saw his roommate, eyes wide, frozen stiff. “I got a body to bury, too,” said Jessie. “We can do ‘em both together.” I stared at his dead roommate for a bit and thought, what would a real friend do here? Which is how I ended up helping Jessie bury a frozen body in the middle of nowhere. I never did fess up about my little lie. And Jessie never even asked me about the other body, like maybe he knew it was bullshit. All that matters is I know Jessie’s a good friend, and he knows the same thing about me. I’d thank his roommate for the advice, but too late for that I guess. © 2025 Bob DeRosa About the author: Where Bob DeRosa comes from, nice guys finish first. His screenwriting credits include Classified, Killers, and White Collar. His short fiction has appeared in Escape Pod, Every Day Fiction, and 365 Tomorrows. When he’s not writing, Bob studies Kenpo karate and keeps his Little Free Library filled with good stuff. Come say hi at bobderosa.com My first happened to be on Halloween. It was easy, and not a little fun. Carter Young holed up in an old farm house, surrounded by fields of pick-your-own pumpkins. Smoke puffed from his chimney. No other houses close by. We’d be the only trick or treaters.
Bascom drove that night. He parked his shiny Continental on the dirt lane beneath some trees with the last crisp leaves clinging to their branches. A soft breeze rattled a few onto the roof. He’d have the thing washed of farm dust and grime by noon tomorrow, he loved that baby so much. Beneath a waning moon, we made our way through the crops. I thought about that Charlie Brown cartoon, the first thing I watched when I bought my new color set just a couple days ago. Funny how the Christmas one last year was all about the warm fuzzies, but in this one, the memorable part is that Snoopy plays the World War One flying ace, shoots down the enemy, gets shot down himself, then goes bird-doggin’ through Paris. I like the cartoons, ’cause they’re easier than the funny papers. Me and Bascom marched through the field, dodging smashed and rotting pumpkins. I managed to twist an ankle. We got to the house, and Young was in his kitchen, a bottle and glass in hand. He saw us at the back door, and must’ve known what was happening. He poured himself a triple, and we let him finish it. “I’ll have the money after the Halloween rush,” he said, without much hope we’d let him off. “That’s what you said about the summer corn season,” Bascom told him. “Face it, farming ain’t your forte.” “Gambling’s gambling,” Young intoned. “Don’t matter if it’s cards or crops.” “You seem to lose either way,” I agreed. “We all do, sooner or later.” He picked up two glasses from the sink and rinsed them out under the tap. He poured shots for each of us. Bascom gestured with his glass and Young led us into the living room. An autumn blaze lit the fireplace and we sat in three old stuffed chairs. The warmth soothed the ache in my twisted ankle. “You know, I thought this place was going to be a cash cow. The building itself is historic, goes back to the 1700s. Was gonna fix it up, sell it for a mint to some history-loving rube from the city.” “Which reminds me,” Bascom said off-handedly. “Any cash hanging around?” Young waved his glass towards a cigar box on the mantle. Bascom nodded for me to check it out. I found almost two hundred in crumpled ones, fives, and tens. Getting in on the ground floor of the pumpkin business really wasn’t the happening thing these days. Young owed our boss upwards of ten grand from the past year. Cards, horses, dogs, he lost at them all. “When you leave, you should take a pumpkin,” Young said. He finished his drink. “They’re just gonna rot anyhow.” Bascom nodded, finished his own drink. He reached for the bottle on the floor by Young. I thought we were all going to have another round so I knocked back mine, too. But instead Bascom swung it hard enough to cave in Young’s skull. Young’s false teeth slipped halfway out of his mouth, and as he collapsed to the floor. I swear he looked just like one of his rotted pumpkins. The place was old, all right. You could smell the dry rot. We left the body on the floor and I used the poker to drag the burning logs onto the rug. We waited long enough to make sure the flames caught, and by the time we were approaching the car, the pumpkin-orange glow of the fire lit our way through the twisted vines. I picked a great big pumpkin for my stoop. It’s not so long since I used to trick-or-treat myself. I guess Young gave me a treat, too, not making a fuss. Anyhow, when I woke up the next morning, kids had splattered it all over the street. © 2025 J. Michael Taylor About the author: J.M. Taylor cooks up his sinister fantasies in Boston where he lives with his wife and son. He has appeared in Tough, Black Cat, and AHMM, among others. His books include Night of the Furies, from New Pulp Press, Dark Heat, from Genretarium, and No Score from Unnerving. When he’s not writing, he teaches under an assumed name. You can find him at jmtaylorcrimewriter.com and on Facebook at Night of the Furies. “What time’s his flight arrive?” Cindy asked.
“Six twenty-five,” I said. “Tomorrow morning?” “No, tonight, in an hour and a half.” “Then that’s eighteen twenty-five,” She said. “You wanna come or not?” “I’d rather not.” “You don't want to come pick up your brother that you haven’t seen in five years?” “Death follows that guy. I’m surprised he even has the balls to come back to Vancouver.” She was putting her toddler’s jacket on him. “Tell him I said hi,” and she scurried out the door. Frankie was flying back home after doing five years at Indian Head Penitentiary for some botched armed robbery. He left Vancouver when his boss’s twenty-eight-year-old wife had a heart attack, smoking meth the night he had an affair with her. Frankie figured twenty-eight was a little young for a heart attack, especially since she never drank, let alone did drugs. He fled to Regina. It didn’t take him long to find birds of his feather, and he was doing ARs. An innocent bystander got shot by Frankie's partner. The cops blasted the killer, and Frankie got five years. He called me a couple times a month, and I threw him a few bucks to catch a flight home on his release. He said, “I don’t want a big fuss, but it would be nice to see family.” I didn’t want to see him, but still, I was thinking of having a couple old buddies over to celebrate Frankie’s release. I dialed Remo, his closest friend. “Hey, Stacks,” Remo answered. ”What’s goin’ on?” “Frankie’s coming home tonight. You want to swing by and have drinks?” The phone was silent for a couple seconds. “I’ll have to take a raincheck; tonight won't work.” “You sure? Just a couple friends. Nothing big.” “I can’t. I’ve got the kids tonight.” On a weeknight? “You sure?” “Some other time. I gotta go.” That was abrupt. I dialed Stewie. “How’s things, Stacks?” “Same old, same old. I was calling to see if you want to come over tonight. I’m having a little get together for Frankie…” “Frankie’s back in town?” There was silence, and I could hear Stewie’s breathing get deep. “You tell that backstabber if I see him on the streets, he’s gettin’ it bad.” “Why the hostility?” “That punk’s done nothing but stir up trouble. There’s a price on his head. If he’s smart, he won't come back here.” “A price. For what?” “Don't play stupid.” “That thing with Angie? That was over five years ago.” “Nothing expires with Anthony. He finds out Frankie’s back, it’ll be messy.” The phone went dead. I called Frankie’s cell to tell him not to catch the flight. No answer. He must be on the plane already. I rushed to the airport and stood in front of the arrival panel at the YVR terminal, calling Frankie’s cell phone, hanging up, and redialing. I looked at the time on my phone. The flight from Regina arrived fifteen minutes ago. I ran to the escalator, taking two steps at a time, down to the carousels. “Excuse me,” I said, squeezing between an elderly couple, blocking the way, sharing the same step. As I approached the bottom step, my foot twisted, and a sharp pain surged through my ankle. I stumbled to the floor. “Careful, son,” the elderly lady said as her husband offered to help me up. I hobbled off, fighting through the pain. I looked down the row of carousels and heard a large steel door slam shut behind me. I turned. People screamed. My heart thudded. The air deflated from my lungs. It wasn’t a door; it was a gunshot. Small-caliber. I plowed through the crowd of screaming people running from the direction of the shot. A couple who braved the incident leaned over a body. The man and woman stood up. I watched the pool of blood slowly widen from Frankie’s head. I felt my spirit spin, flushing away, as the blood flowed through the seams of the grimy floor tile. I looked down into my brother's open, frozen eyes. Light sparkled. Lifeless. I heard his voice whispering: I don't want a big fuss. © 2025 Allen Bell About the author: Allen Bell is a short story writer breaking into the crime fiction and the gritty noir genre. While working full-time, he obtained a Creative Writing Certificate from the University of Calgary. He's constantly on the lookout to knock on or break down doors that present an opportunity for him to get what he's looking for. He's not afraid to get busted up in the process; he's expecting it. When he's not practicing the craft, he spends his time studying the craft. He enjoys beta reading and diving deep into the murky waters of what makes a writer successful. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t advertise it to the world. I wouldn’t tell anyone—not even my mother—that I was going to do it. I wouldn’t frown at you the few times we’re in public together or tell you to keep your opinions to yourself.
Instead, I would study you, dissecting you like an insect under a microscope. Many things change in twenty years; we certainly have. I would have to relearn you, study your habits. Like the way you take your coffee: two sugars and one scoop of cream; the way you always leave it on the counter—unattended—while you go to the bathroom. Or the way you drink other things at night, before stumbling into your bedroom, slamming the door and then crying until you fall asleep. I would also check your medicine cabinet, to see what you’re taking these days, for those times when you can’t sleep. I could ask you, but that would only make you suspicious. “Since when you care?” you'd ask, your lips quivering, and I wouldn’t know how to reply. No, talking to you would be a mistake. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t keep a diary. Unlike you, I wouldn’t pour all my inner thoughts and feelings—too many feelings—into the pages of a leather-bound notebook. I wouldn’t write that I hate my life, that I can’t wait to leave it behind. Instead, I would post pictures of us on Facebook—even if they’re old—with captions worthy of a Hallmark card, saying things like how lucky I am to have a woman in my life who loves me and accepts me for who I am, even if we both know that’s not true. No, if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. I would tell you I had to go on a work trip. And on the day of my departure, I would call to you from outside until you walked out onto the porch, a question on your face. I’d yell “I love you,” and “I’ll miss you,” for all the neighbors to hear. I would blow you a kiss, ignoring your confused—and maybe hopeful—face. Then I would drive a few hours out of my way, rent a room in some roadside motel, and leave my phone in there, knowing it could be tracked. Then I’d drive back, park far away from the house and walk the rest of the way. I would find you deep in sleep, and wake you just long enough to feed you the rest of the pills. Then I would wait until your body got cold before walking back to the car, driving back to the motel, and dozing off while waiting to get the call. When it came, I would cry an Oscar-worthy performance, and talk to the police about the pills, and the diary, reiterating that no matter how much I loved you, you never felt it was enough. And when they asked me if I ever wanted to kill you, like it said in the diary, I would say that if I had truly wanted to kill you, I would have already done it many, many years ago. © 2025 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, Every Day Fiction, Twin Bird Review, and elsewhere. You can find more of her stories on her website: [email protected] I mean, Henderson said and did outrageous things all the time. Like when your uncle said, That curvy gal over there looks like a fridge. Henderson clapped back, I’d raid that fridge, to be honest. Or that Thanksgiving he made stuffing in a sheet pan, cut it into squares and everyone thought they were German chocolate brownies. You remember the great brownie disappointment? Everyone spit them out in disgust and he filmed them doing it. Yeah, he did that. So, when he came up with this weird way to rob people, we were like, it’s just Henderson being Henderson. Sure, it was illegal, but he thought he’d get away with it. No real physical harm, he said. Not in the traditional sense. It’s a good bet his victims are still traumatized. Imagine if he did that to you? Come up to you on the street holding the world’s biggest slithering water bug. Those giant ones they call Toe-Biters. Like roaches as long as your forefinger that actually bite. I know, right? Terrifying. So Henderson starts yapping at the Waffle House, saying he read that Toe-Biters lunge at people. The waitress hears this and says, Seriously, I’m so afraid of bugs, I think someone could rob me with a roach.
That’s how it all started. Henderson was way behind on his student loan payments. I know, right? He says, I bet I could do that. And I said, Bet. Henderson says, I’ll bet you twenty bucks it works. Next thing you know, he’s captured those sons of bitches by leaving a standing water trap outside with big bright lights on it. That’s how committed he was. He researched the shit out of those bugs. He practiced in front of the mirror, holding the wriggling thing between his fingers. Holding it up like a gun, Give me your purse! Give me your watch! Give me your rings! He killed the first roach with all that practicing. Man, I wish I’d been there to watch him rehearse. See if that bug fought back or lived up to its Toe-Biter name. So he texts me, Bring the fifty bucks you’re gonna owe me. And I say, the bet was twenty. He was always gaslighting me. We decided on a place to meet. An intersection where folks walk by and then turn sharply at the corner, giving him a place to spring from the shadows. Right across from the coffee shop on Fifteenth and Avenue K. I stand across the street and watch him; he’s got one hand in his pocket where he’s holding the Toe Biter, one hand holding his phone. He picks out a single female and sticks the bug right in her face and lets it lunge. She drops her purse, screeches, and runs. He gives me a thumbs up. Then he reloads his hand, replays this same scenario. I kid you not, I saw him get at least three purses that night. A bunch of his would-be victims ran away screaming, but he made a good haul. I walk over and say, Damn, you were right. Here’s your ten. And I look at his hand and see that the last nasty roach is dead. Henderson says, I got too excited. I say, Well now you know it’s possible. I see him at the Waffle House a week later, and he’s wearing this new leather jacket. Yeah, the one they buried him in. Anyway, he’s got a sideways smile that day, offers to buy my lunch, which he never does. I’ve made bank this week, he says. He was still at it, still holding people at bug-point, paying his bills with stolen cash and credit cards. I say, Someone’s gonna turn you in. He says, No one’s reported me because they’re embarrassed that they gave up their goods over an insect. Pride. For the first time in his life, he had a valid point. Then he says, Got a whole container of those little weapons at home now, only been bitten twice, but now I wear a glove. He tapped his forehead twice. Guess I was supposed to think he was a genius. Anyway, the day he last went back to the corner, he was riding high. He does the same ploy, they caught it on camera. Holds the bug right up to the face of this big woman. Built like a fridge big. You saw her mugshot, right? He jabbed the bug into her face twice and the bug lunged, went down her cleavage, which was ample. The bug got stuck there. She flew into a rage, wiggling the bug off her chest and onto the pavement. Then she pulled a .38 from her bag, fired five times. RIP bug. RIP Henderson. Henderson, man. Shoulda quit while he was ahead. © 2025 Karen Harrington About the author: Karen Harrington is an award-winning writer of novels and short stories. Her work has appeared in Best American Mystery & Suspense (2024), Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, and Mystery Tribune. Say hello on X @KA_Harrington “I want you to kill my husband.”
My gaze traveled the long way around her curves and returned to her eyes. “What’s in it for me?” “Ten thousand. Small bills. Non-sequential.” Ten thousand would get Lemmy off my back. “Why me?” “No reason,” she said. “You just look like a guy could do something like this.” I had killed for less. I didn’t tell her that. “When?” “Tonight. Late. I’ll give you the key and the alarm code.” “When do I get paid?” “After.” I shook my head. “Give me something up front. A retainer, like.” “How much?” “A thousand,” I said. “I’ll look the place over tonight. Maybe I’ll do it and maybe I won’t. Either way I keep the grand.” She retrieved a wad of cash from her shoulder bag, counted out $1,000 in crumpled bills of various denominations, and shoved the remaining currency back into her bag. Then she handed me a door key and slip of paper with an address and an alarm code written on it. “I’ll be there, too,” she said. “Don’t make a mistake.” She turned and walked away, her hips swaying to a rhythm all their own. * * * “This ain’t all of it,” my bookie said as he counted the money I’d handed him. “I’ll get the rest.” Lemmy glared at me from behind his desk. I’d never seen him anywhere but behind his desk. “When?” “Tomorrow or the next day.” When he didn’t say anything, I added, “I always been good for it. You know that.” “Two days.” He shoved the money in his desk drawer. “You got two days.” * * * I had a snub-nose with the serial number filed off tucked into my pocket. I removed it before I stepped into the bedroom. I prodded one of the sleeping figures with the barrel of the gun until he threw back the cover and sat up. “Lemmy?” “What the fuck you doing in my bedroom, Jackson?” “I come to kill you, Lemmy.” “I always knew you’d welsh on a bet.” “It ain’t like that, Lemmy,” I said. “I been hired to kill you.” “Who hired you?” I didn’t reply, but I cut my eyes toward the lump in the bed next to him. “I always knew she was trouble.” I was finished talking so I squeezed the trigger three times. The woman in bed next to Lemmy rose up screaming. She wasn’t the woman who had hired me, and I put three slugs into her before she shut up. * * * On my way home I tossed the snub-nose into the lake. I was unarmed when I pushed my apartment door open and found myself facing the woman who had hired me. She asked, “Is it done?” “It’s done, but you wasn’t in bed with him.” She shrugged. “Plans change.” “You didn’t tell me you was married to Lemmy.” “You didn’t ask.” She pushed herself off my couch and indicated a bloated pillowcase she’d left behind. “Your money’s in there.” * * * Several hours later I was awoken when my apartment door crashed open and my bedroom quickly filled with police officers. I didn’t resist, and I was taken to the station wearing only my pajama bottoms and an undershirt. I learned later that the pillowcase had been taken from Lemmy’s house where its mate remained. The money had been taken from Lemmy’s safe, which had been left open. Lemmy’s wife had returned home that morning from an overnight spa trip to discover her husband’s body next to the body of a stripper from one of the downtown clubs. The cops never found the snub-nose. But they said I had means. I had motive. I had opportunity. Now I’m serving twenty to life. But at least I don’t owe Lemmy anything. © 2025 Michael Bracken About the author: Michael Bracken is an Edgar Award and Shamus Award nominee, with stories published in The Best American Mystery Stories and The Best Mystery Stories of the Year. He is also the editor or co-editor of three-dozen anthologies, including three Anthony Award nominees. INTRODUCTION
The Western Yellowjacket is native to temperate climates. Its activity is restrained by cold temperatures. Western Yellowjackets are predatory social wasps. In the spring, the fertilized queen settles in a subterranean hole to build a nest. She lays eggs and feeds the larvae until a colony is established. Yellowjackets are fiercely protective of their nests and both bite and sting. They bite to jab in their stingers. Since they do not lose their stinger, they can attack repeatedly and are potentially deadly to a person stung numerous times or to a person with an anaphylactic reaction to their venom. The purpose of this study is to test whether one can kill a person using Yellowjackets as the method. METHOD The Yellowjackets in this study established a colony in a gopher tunnel under Alstroemeria (Peruvian lilies) in Santa Cruz, California. The experiment was conducted on August 6, 2019, in mid-afternoon as a “bee” line of wasps flew in and out of the hole. The subject was a 70-year-old Caucasian male known to have a “bee-sting” allergy, one of his defenses for the aggressive use of pesticide, including glyphosate to kill weeds in his lawn. (He’d been informed numerous times of glyphosate’s harmful effect on butterflies and birds—even humans.) In the afternoon when the Yellowjackets were active, the subject was summoned from the sidewalk to view the Peruvian lilies. He was well exposed, dressed in walking shorts and a polo shirt. The scientist conducting this experiment, Arla Fairfield, PhD entomology, Montana State University, was swathed in a thick shirt, gloves, and sunhat with neck flap. When the subject stood within a foot of the hole, the scientist yanked up several Peruvian lilies, then moved quickly into a small protected area. The Yellowjackets immediately attacked. RESULTS The subject swatted at the wasps, increasing their agitation. He screamed and ran toward the sidewalk, Yellowjackets swarming. Half-way to his house on the corner, approximately fifty yards, he collapsed on the sidewalk. DISCUSSION To replicate this experiment, one must be patient and meticulous. Dr. Fairfield possessed both qualities, having counted Aceria tosichella (wheat curl mites)—tiny even through a microscope—for hours at a stretch. It helps if the human target is a particularly vulgar specimen. For example, before the experiment, the subject shuffled by on the sidewalk. When greeted with, “Good morning,” he responded, “Why don’t you pull your spent flowers? Your beds look so . . . done.” When it was explained that the flowers were being left to reseed, he said, “Humph.” He stood there eyeing the dried pods atop the Nigella damascene (love-in-a-mist). The flowers bloom pretty and blue, akin to bachelor buttons, but the rattling brown seed pods possess their own natural beauty, not a concept this idiot would understand. “You still have that illegal alien helping you?” he asked. “Carlos? Carlos is a descendent of Californios.” The subject gave a blank stare, unfamiliar, I guess, with basic California history. “I have a little gal helping me with my roses,” he said. His “little gal” is a full-grown woman. So, to summarize, the chosen human was obnoxious, racist, and sexist—a worthy subject. But the experiment. Unfortunately, the experiment had too many variables. Not enough controls. When the subject collapsed, a female neighbor turned the corner and called 911. She also dropped to her knees and administered mouth to mouth, the Yellowjackets having seemingly retired after chasing their victim an acceptable distance from the nest. As the neighbor had spotted Dr. Fairfield, the only logical next step was to assist in the aid to the subject. The ambulance arrived quickly and hauled him away. The neighbor dusted off her knees. “Poor guy,” she said. “I thought you hated him.” She blinked heavily. “That doesn’t mean I wanted him to be attacked by bees.” “Yellowjackets.” She gaped, then finally asked, “Did you get stung?” “I’m well covered when I work in the garden.” If this neighbor were particularly observant, she would know this information to be false. She gazed in the direction of the fading ambulance siren. “Do you think he’ll die?” “It’s possible.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He wasn’t all bad.” “He complained on Nextdoor that you didn’t pick up your newspapers fast enough, attracting thieves to the neighborhood.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t personal. He griped when people didn’t bring in their garbage cans on collection day, too.” “If he isn’t all bad, what’s good about him?” “He grows beautiful roses.” This gave me pause. His Double Delight were exquisite. Even if he made them march in uniform rows alongside his manicured lawn. How many times had I leaned over his picket fence to inhale their intoxicating fragrance? “You know,” the neighbor said, “he once told me he was going to leave them to you.” “What?” “Yeah,” she said. “It’s true. For all his cranky pants, he’d talk my ear off if he saw me walking by. He has a couple of kids, somewhere, but he told me they wouldn’t take care of his roses—that you were the only person he’d trust with them.” “Me?” “Oh, you know,” the neighbor twiddled thin fingers in the air, “he said it as a backhanded compliment—you’d tend them in your weird way and they’d be mottled, but at least you’d appreciate them.” At this point, the scientist took her leave, telling the neighbor that she did not feel well, a statement of fact. In the end, the subject did die. However, in conclusion, this experiment was not a success. It delivered the desired result but failed to produce an adjunct sense of satisfaction. © 2025 Vinnie Hansen About the author: Still sane(ish) after 27 years of teaching high school English, Vinnie Hansen has retired and plays keyboards with ukulele groups in Santa Cruz, California, where she lives with her husband and the requisite cat. She also writes fiction. A Claymore and a Silver Falchion finalist, Vinnie is the author of the Carol Sabala mystery series, the novels LOSTART STREET, ONE GUN, and the upcoming CRIME WRITER, as well as over seventy published short works. “Someone died in this house.”
Rachel stared at the old woman on her doorstep. “Sorry?” “Someone died here,” the old woman said. She looked up at the house and then backed away, as if afraid to be close to it for too long. “Wait a second...” The old woman shook her head and turned to leave. She hobbled down to the road at the end of the new development and went towards an old stone cottage at the entrance to the park. *** “How was the move?” Rachel’s husband said over the phone later that evening. “Fine, no dramas.” “Sorry again I couldn’t be there.” “I know, it’s okay.” “What do you make of the place?” “Oh, it’s great. A totally blank canvas.” She told him about her plans for the various rooms, sparing no details. He listened patiently, though she could tell he wasn’t really interested. She wrapped it up and was about to say goodbye when she remembered the old woman. “Oh, I had a visitor today.” She told him what the old woman had said. Instead of the laugh she expected, there was silence on the other end of the line. “David?” “Sorry, I just saw something on the TV.” “Did you hear what I said?” “Yeah.” “It can’t be true, can it?” “Of course not.” *** The old woman was back the next morning. Rachel leant against the doorframe. “I told my husband what you said yesterday. He said it’s impossible. This is a new build. No one lived here before us.” The old woman shook her head. “Another woman lived here.” “I think you’re confused.” “I’m not confused, dear. I saw her. And the man who used to visit.” “Okay,” Rachel said gently. She started to close the door. “I’d better get back to unpacking, so…” “Wait,” the old woman said, thrusting her face forward. “I saw him one night. The man. He carried something heavy into the park and then came back empty handed. I never saw him or the woman again. Don’t you see? She’s in the park somewhere. Dead.” “I’m closing the door now,” Rachel said, struggling to control her voice. “Don’t come here again.” “You’re about five months along, aren’t you?” the old woman asked just as the door closed. Rachel leant back against the wall, her left hand resting on her belly. She waited for her breathing to return to normal, then straightened up and looked through the peephole. The old woman was still there, moving her lips and counting on her fingers. *** “Don’t let her bother you,” David said, the sound of the TV in his hotel room filtering down the line. “She’s crazy.” “I know, but… look, when are you going to be back, David? I don’t like being here alone.” “I’ll be back tomorrow evening, promise. Just try and forget about it, alright? Stress isn’t good for either of you.” “I know.” “Why don’t you go down to town tomorrow? Have a fancy lunch or something, treat yourself.” She smiled. “It’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.” *** Rachel glanced at the old cottage on her way out to the car the next morning. The yellow curtains in the upper window twitched closed. She shivered, almost feeling the old woman’s mad eyes on her. She got in the car and drove past the empty, half-finished houses of the new development. SOLD signs stood proudly in a few front lawns, but there were no other people yet. Just her and the old woman. She felt better once she got to town. She ate at a bougie French bistro, and then wandered the high-street. It was lined with quirky, independent shops, so unlike the joyless procession of chain-stores in her hometown. She came to a shop selling specialist wines and spirits and went in. “Help you with anything, miss?” the owner said, looking up from his newspaper. “Yes, I’m looking for a Deanston.” “Very good, we have several here.” “Do you have the twenty-five-year-old? It’s my husband’s favourite. I understand it’s quite hard to find.” The owner’s eyes lit up. “One moment, miss.” He disappeared into a back room and returned a few minutes later with a box. “You’re in luck,” he said, placing the box on the counter and smiling. “A young woman ordered this for her fiancée a couple of months ago and never came to collect it. I was going to hold on to it for her, but, she’s had enough time, hasn’t she?” Rachel forced a smile, trying to ignore the queasy sensation gripping her stomach. “What a coincidence,” she said. *** The town was ruined for her after that. She stared straight ahead on the drive home, hands tight on the wheel, struggling to cordon off the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her mind. It was the old woman’s madness rubbing off on her. That was all. An old woman’s madness and the general brain-fog of pregnancy. It was stupid. She turned into the development and cruised slowly down the lifeless streets. She turned left into her road and noticed with a start that David’s silver car was parked in the driveway. Then she noticed David himself walking up from the direction of the old cottage. “How was town?” he said, once she was out of the car. “Good,” she said, struggling to compose herself. “You’re back early.” “Yes. I managed to cancel some meetings and get away.” “Where have you just come from?” “The park. Have you seen it yet? It’s lovely.” He reached down and put a hand on her belly. “I think this kid is going to have a lot of fun there.” She smiled thinly. “Come on. Let’s get inside.” She followed him to the front door, her limbs feeling limp. While he fiddled with the key, she looked up at the yellow curtains in the old cottage. This time they didn’t move. Something told her they would never move again. © 2025 Gavin Kent About the author: Gavin Kent is a writer of mystery fiction. He was born in the UK, but currently lives in South Korea. 3 AM. The trailer is dark. Where are her pills? I know she’s still prescribed the Oxy. She’s moved her stash from the bathroom. Go back to the kitchen. Maybe they’re in the fridge. I know she’s kept pills there before, right beside the butter.
Grandma’s had cancer for ten years. I grew up with her. Started ripping her off a year ago. She caught and beat me bloody with a bat. Said she wouldn’t watch it happen again, like she’d watched her daughter become someone else. Kicked me out. Mom? She walked down the wrong alley looking for the wrong guy to fuck for a top-up of skag. They found her newly dead, slumped against a Dumpster with her throat slashed and one eye dangling free of its socket like a baby knocked from a stroller. But really she’d been dead for years. A plastic cup I knock over bounces on dirty lino. I cower like a stricken cat, feel my eyes bulging. Strain my ears. The old trailer whines if a mouse drops a turd in the closet, but I hear nothing. Heavy sleeper, Grandma. Check the pantry. Next to the beans. No. Where is that fucking bottle Jesus fucking Oxy Christ. I know why Mom walked down her last alley, know the willingness to do whatever I’m told to possess my sweet Oxy. Every day I circle our podunk nothing town delivering for the man, cursing the rich kids who buy the pills with money instead of their lives. The circle is starting the dive into a spiral. Goddammit. It’s nowhere. No beautiful glossy white bottle. The old whore is off the pills. They know she’s good as dead. Or she swallowed them all herself. Greedy bitch. Some days I hand out fifteen pills on foot for payment. Last night, after I’d crisscrossed the town twice, my dealer held the bag with my one pill high, low, high again. I followed like a dog. He said, “On your knees.” I fell. He told me to beg. I sniveled. Didn’t see him walk away. He’d already dropped the pill—I wept with joy after scraping it up off the dirty street—I would shave down and quarter to make last. But I can’t. I can’t make the pill last anymore. I woke up thinking, I’m his. Entirely. What he makes me do will only get worse. Then I remembered the woman who gave me a roof. Grandma was still sick. But the pills are nowhere. My hands don’t listen to me. I’m weak, like a dying dog. When did I eat last? I feel my heartbeat, feel the tears reminding me my life isn’t mine anymore. “Reggie,” she says from the darkness. Her soft voice is the rumble of old paper. The light kicks on. Grandma in her muumuu, the gun pointed right at me. She’s old as dust. Her skin’s translucent. She’s so close to death but I know I look worse. Something left I can control. One way out. Deliverance. I see it clearly. It’s so fucking Oxy Jesus obvious. She’ll do it. I’ll make her. I grab a glinting knife off the counter and start toward her. Her finger’s already squeezing the trigger. © 2025 Hubble Stark About the author: Originally from Mississippi, Hubble Stark holds an MFA from the University of Montana and writes crime and literary fiction from his home in the Northern Rockies. Shoot him a line at [email protected]. |
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