Once he began sawing the barrel off his pump-action 20 gauge, Cody was committed. With a final stroke, the barrel clattered onto the kitchen floor. He hacked off the wooden stock as well, leaving only a fist-sized nub for a grip.

He considered extracting the sportsman’s plug that limited the number of cartridges he could load to three, but shook his head and reached for his coffee mug. His plan was to scare them with noise, like a roaring silverback gorilla, not to kill anybody. Anyway, the last time he’d fussed with the hunter’s dowel, the spring inside the chamber had shot out like a cheap snake-in-a-can gag and he’d spent an hour hunting for it. He winced at the coffee he’d made from re-using grounds a third time and regretted not stealing the Folger’s from the breakroom at Lowe’s on his way out. 

He hadn’t worked in seven days. He hadn’t requested leave or called in sick. He just came home one night with wobbly ankles screaming from another eight-hour shift walking the concrete floors, took four ibuprofen, and knew he was done. Everybody who worked there walked with a limp, some near the end of their shifts, some all the time. He swept a stack of bills he couldn’t pay off the counter, sending them tumbling to the floor. If laboring forty hours a week couldn’t buy a man food and shelter, it was time to try something new. He hazarded another sip of coffee before dumping it. The mug featured a picture of him and Dana taken at Rye Beach two summers ago. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept it, but he rinsed it out and carefully laid it in the drying rack before leaving.

He wore a surgical mask and black hoodie under a long coat to hide the gun. He left his Civic in the Target parking lot and walked to the adjacent Lowe’s. He used the side entrance through the garden center, scattering sparrows and gold finches trapped inside. The cavernous store was always filled with birds, more so after cold snaps like today.

He penetrated the swinging doors into the main building and headed for the contractor cash register. Nobody was there. Panicked, he adjusted his mask and doubled his pace toward the returns desk.

“That you, Cody?” He turned and saw Jim grinning at him. Jim was a retired contractor who’d lost too many fingers to a bandsaw and come to run Lowes’ lumberyard. “Where you been, man?” Jim slapped him on the back, jostling him enough to expose the shotgun for a moment. Jim stepped back with his palms out. “Whoa, son…”

Cody found himself encircled by rough-looking customers in Carhartts and boots. “Back! Up! Now!” he boomed, racking the shotgun with a menacing schlotch! He spun toward a sudden movement and pumped it again. This time, he caught a flash of yellow and figured he’d spooked a bird. The sound of the shotgun pumping did its job and the ring of men took a collective step back. Beyond them, Cody saw a supervisor glance over his shoulder as he fled, a phone already to his ear. Someone moved to his left, and Cody turned in time to catch a man gingerly lifting a 2x4 from his cart.

“Nope,” Cody scolded and pumped the 20 once more. The man backed away as another bird swooped by in Cody’s peripheral vision.

“Cody, stop this,” Jim said, holding out his three-fingered hand for the gun.

With a sneer, Cody pointed his shotgun at the rafters and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He stared at it for the second it took Jim to strip it from his hands. He snatched for it, but Jim had already wound up and the little nub of a stock spun him around when it slammed into Cody’s temple. Lying prone as men leapt on his back, Cody looked toward the contractor register where Jeanine was hustling back, apparently from a bathroom break as she rubbed wet hands on her apron. Between him and the register lay a line of three yellow shotgun shells. The Man hadn’t had to do anything to take him down; Cody had emptied his gun for them, just like he’d done in every fight before.

​© 2025 Zakariah Johnson

About the author:

Zakariah Johnson plucks banjos and pens horror, thrillers, and crime fiction on the banks of the Piscataqua. 

Tyree told everyone the “boat” was the best thing he ever bought himself. He said it to friends, family, and customers at the auto shop. He said it often to his parole officer, and she was glad to hear it because a man his age needed hobbies.

    Whenever he had a spare moment on a warm day, Tyree drove down to the Robin River Marina and pulled that heavy kayak off his truck. He’d slip into the water next to the rusted old johnboats tied at the docks and start paddling up against the current. 

    He liked Robin River more than any other water in the state because it was still wilderness along the western bank. The eastern bank was mostly bluffs, with vacation cabins or mansions sitting up on the hills, their big living room windows facing the river. There were some docks along the eastern shore where rich people parked their yachts under security floodlights. But the western side was flat and marshy. After a good rain, Tyree could navigate his way in there, chasing carp or catfish, maybe a gar if he was lucky. 

    But Tyree didn’t always go out fishing. Often as not, he left his rod and tackle in the truck and went out with just a big, black trash bag. He’d spend hours collecting litter out of the western marshes, trying to do some good in the world. 

One evening in late July, Tyree was out paddling through the marshes, between sunken tree stumps and fallen timbers, pulling litter from the water, packing it in his bag. He lost all track of time out there, until eventually he happened to spot an orphaned black bag, similar to his own, leaning against a stump. 

He encountered bags like this frequently, stuffed with trash, probably carried and lost by other do-gooders cleaning up the river. He paddled over to the bag and reached out, clasping the red ribbon tied around its top. 

The bag rolled over and the body that was hidden beneath it floated to the surface. Tyree sat stunned while the bag floated on, deeper into the marsh. It looked to be a man’s body, shirtless but still wearing jeans, floating facedown. The skin was mottled and bloated and hung loosely. Must be recently dead, thought Tyree. It was hot, and he should’ve decomposed more if he was dead a long while. 

    Worst of all, the man had little slits in his flesh all up and down his back, all of them the same size. Tyree didn’t try to count them. 

    His first instinct was to paddle as fast as he could back to the marina, grab his phone out of the truck and call the police. But something nagged at him, made him pause. Something the public defender said all those years back, right before he took the plea deal. 

No, he wasn’t the one who shot the attendant at that check cashing place—that was one of the other guys in his crew. But Tyree got caught. That was the difference, the lawyer said. Prosecutors don’t want the right answer; they want the quick answer. 

An old ex-con, out paddling at dusk, next to a body stabbed all to hell—what’s a prosecutor gonna think is the quick answer here? Didn’t even matter if it all came out right in the end—he’d still probably get arrested, and the shop wouldn’t keep him on after that. 

No, he wouldn’t call the police himself. But he also couldn’t let the guy float there. Nobody ever came to that side of the river. If the poor guy was ever gonna get some justice, someone needed to find him on the eastern bank. Tyree pulled off his life vest and strapped it onto the corpse. 

It was slow going out in the middle of the river, towing the deceased with a braided dock line. The vest kept the body from sinking and dragging too much, but it didn’t make the dead man any lighter. Tyree’s only bit of luck was that he was headed downstream and could let the current help him tow the body. 

Tyree tried to reassure himself as he hauled his morbid cargo. Someone was bound to find the corpse on the eastern bank, probably the very next morning. Once he pulled that vest off, no one would have any reason to think Tyree was anywhere near the body. Only he would know, and he would know that he’d done the right thing, saving a murdered man from anonymity. 

After a long, tough paddle, Tyree reached the eastern bank, beneath one of the big houses on the bluffs. He slid his kayak against the mud until it came to a firm stop, turned and watched the body bumped gently against the shore. All Tyree needed was to collect the vest and he’d be gone.

He climbed from the kayak, boots squelching in the mud, and hadn’t even stood fully erect when the floodlights flashed on. The white lights were aimed right at the riverbank—right at him—from the big house, where lamps flared on and voices shouted to one another. 

It was bright as noon and only now could Tyree see he’d landed close to a private dock with a small river yacht—the sort of thing rich people protect with motion sensors and floodlights.

Sirens, too, apparently. Lots of sirens blaring out over the water. 

​© 2025 Jesse Bethea

About the author:

Jesse Bethea is an award-winning journalist, author and videographer living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and three cats. 

I’m hungry for a story. Hipsters flock to Charlie’s Grill, a retro greasy spoon, on weekends. But by 10:30 on a Monday, I’m alone at the counter except for the smell of bacon. The previous customers were singularly boring. 

Banging pots, the hiss of the grill, a crude joke in Spanish. Nothing of interest emanates from the pass through. 

The waitperson, Kailey, checks on the mom, dad, and kid in a booth to my left. They yielded zilch—their noses stuck in their phones. 

I’ve hoovered up the juicy crime stories in the San Francisco Chronicle and fold it near my right forearm. The newspaper now serves only as a prop. 

Kailey breezes by, plucks up the coffee pot, aims her baby blues my way. “Refill?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Through the years, I’ve overheard enough spicy tidbits at the last minute to make it hard to abandon a spot. 

Kailey pours and hustles back to the family. 

At the entrance, a man leans on his cane to hold the glass door for a woman—presumably his wife. She scampers in, then presses back against the door so he can hobble through. They stop dramatically, casing the joint before taking up residence at the farthest booth to my right, the man facing my direction. Silver hair spirals from a small pink circle at the crown of the woman’s head. 
When Kailey glides over there with the menus, I scooch one stool nearer to them. They decline coffee.

Suspicious. 

Kailey leaves to “give them a minute.” 

“What are we doing here?” the man asks.

“Having breakfast.” A crisp response. 

He dispels my initial thought of dementia when he replies, “You know that’s not what I meant. We should be taking care of—”

She shushes him.

Why does “taking care of” require shushing?

She tosses her head in my direction and whispers, “She could be listening.”

“What?” He glances my way. I study the newspaper.

“Turn up your hearing aid,” she says.

“If I do, all I’ll hear is clanking silverware.”

She sighs. “What are you having?”

“Pancakes?” 

“What do you think you’ll put on those pancakes?” 

“Syrup.”

I risk turning my body slightly.

“You can’t have syrup,” she says. “That’s the same as sugar. A killer.”

His droopy cheeks droop more. “I wish Sarah was here.”

“Sarah is here.”

“Pfft.” He spins a knobby hand. “You know I don’t mean you.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood.” She slaps down her menu. “I’m having scrambled eggs.” She picks up her paper napkin bundle of silverware. 

“Lighten the mood?” he echoes. “Someone is dead.”

Sarah shushes him again. My ears prick like a bunny’s. My neck cranes their direction until a vertebra pops. 

“Listen, Fred: what do you think Sarah could do?” In spite of her previous shushing, her voice rises. She flips both palms upward and fork, spoon, and knife clatter to the Formica table. “She’s two thousand miles away.” She twists and strangles the napkin with both hands.  

“She’d back me up about calling the police.” Fred lays down his menu. “I’ll get eggs, too.”

“Not fried,” she says.

He folds his arms over his blue cable-knit sweater. “I’m getting bacon.”

Silently relenting, Sarah smooths her mangled napkin on the table. A red line must have been reached. 

Kailey drops off the check to the family and circles to take the couple’s order. When the waitress leaves and reaches a safe distance, Sarah says, “Sarah doesn’t have money to hire us a lawyer.”

“Why would we need a lawyer?”

My thought exactly.

Kailey’s shouted delivery of the order drowns out the start of Sarah’s response. I hear only “–coming with an eviction notice. No one will believe it was an accident.”

“Look at us.” Fred points an arthritic finger at her, at himself, and then back at Sarah. “No one would think we killed him.”

Sarah’s back straightens an inch. She swats Fred’s finger, not playfully. “We were going to lose our home--motive.” She lowers her voice. I strain to hear. “We were present--opportunity.”

“But he slipped,” Fred protests. 

Sarah corrals her fork, spoon, and knife. Rewraps them for no reason.

“Well… ” Sarah twists around—and I wonder if she’s caught me whipping back to gaze at my newspaper. “Was that woman on that stool when we entered?”

The door smacks shut behind the departing family.

“What?” says Fred. “I really don’t think we should be out eating breakfast. Why are we doing this?”

Sarah leans far over the table to speak into Fred’s hearing aid, then plops back to her booth bench.

“You know that doesn’t work,” he says, starchily. “It’s like wind on a microphone.” His volume climbs. “I heard rug. And water? What the hell are you saying? Pulled what?”

“What I’m saying,” her voice ratchets up to match his, “is that—”

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Motive. Opportunity. Just when we might have reached means, Sarah is saved by the bell. 

I slide a fiver on the counter—enough to cover the coffee, tax, and tip—and swing around. This old lady is a dangerous criminal. A murderer. 

But my eyes don’t validate my ears. Sarah’s neck bends and her shoulders slump, fragile blades poking at her blouse. 

 “Shhhh, shhh, shhhh.” Fred quiets her in a gentle tone. “It’s okay.” His gnarled hand palms his wife’s. “It was an accident.” His head nods assent to his statement. “We’ll call the police.” His thumb tenderly caresses her wrist. “That’s our story. He slipped.”

As I stride toward the door, I decide that will be my story, too. Nothing I want to report. It’s colorful hearsay, that’s all. 

​© 2025 Vinnie Hansen

About the author:

The day after high school graduation, Vinnie Hansen fled the howling winds of South Dakota and headed for the California coast. There the subversive clutches of college dragged her into the insanity of writing. A Silver Falchion and two-time Claymore Award finalist, she’s the author of the Carol Sabala mystery series, the novels Lostart Street and One Gun, as well as over seventy published short stories. Vinnie lives in Santa Cruz with her husband and the requisite cat.

The fire worked slowly, devouring the manor with an insatiable hunger. Golden flames climbed the beams, tearing them apart as they transformed the grand estate into blackened ruins. Smoke poured into the night, where the cold held firm, sharp and merciless. Daniel stood in the open, a shadow against the blaze. His shoulders were rigid, his face illuminated by the shifting light of the flames. He didn’t flinch as the embers floated past him, nor did he step back from the heat pressing against his skin.

In his hand, the pistol hung heavy.

The gates behind him, locked tight, marked the edge of his world. He waited, the fire at his back, his eyes fixed on the empty road ahead.
***
Javier gripped the wheel tightly as the car tore down the winding road, gravel rattling under the tires, headlights sweeping across trees and shadows. His chest tightened with every mile, the low sputter of the engine doing nothing to drown out the thoughts assailing his mind.

Then he saw it.

The glow hit first: bright and unnatural. The air turned bitter, the stench of burning wood and something worse clinging to him as he approached.
The car skidded to a halt.

The house—his house—was gone. The structure that had once towered over the hills, that had held his life within its walls, was now a collapsing skeleton. Flames chewed through what remained, and ash engulfed the sky.

But his eyes weren’t on the house for long.

A figure stood at the edge of the blaze, still as a statue, the fire casting long shadows around him.

Daniel.

Javier’s stomach twisted. He lowered the window just enough to let his voice carry. “You’ve lost your mind.”

Daniel didn’t move.

The gun in his hand caught the light, its dark metal reflecting the fire. Slowly, he turned his head, his expression unreadable. “Get out of the car.”

The words cut through the crackle of the fire.

Javier stayed where he was, gripping the wheel. “Is this what you wanted?” His voice was low, tight with disbelief. “To burn it all down? To make some point?”

Daniel stepped closer, his boots crunching over gravel.

“You think this fixes anything?” Javier’s voice rose, trembling as he pointed toward the burning wreckage. “My God, Daniel. She was in there.”

That stopped him.

Daniel’s head tilted, his brow furrowing. “What?”

“Angel,” Javier said, his voice breaking. “My wife. She was still inside! You’ve killed her!”

The words landed hard. Daniel froze, his grip on the gun loosening for just a moment.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there,” Javier continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

“She was!” Javier’s shout ripped through the night. His chest heaved, the words spilling out in uneven bursts. “You burned her alive. You killed her, Daniel. You—” His voice quivered.

Daniel’s shoulders slumped. He looked back at the flames, his mouth opening as if to argue. But no words came.

When he finally turned back to Javier, his eyes were wet, glinting in the firelight. “She never loved you,” he said. “She didn’t care about you. She didn’t care about anyone. Just the money. The two of you, you’ve taken everything from me—everything.”

Javier clenched his jaw, his fingers pale against the wheel. “And what did that get you?” His voice dropped, shaking with grief. “What did any of this get you?”

Daniel faltered, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. He looked at the pistol in his hand as if seeing it for the first time.

“You took everything,” he muttered, the words so soft they nearly disappeared in the roar of the fire.

Javier’s eyes flicked to the pistol, then back to Daniel. His foot shifted toward the gas pedal.

The first shot shattered the side mirror.

The second tore through the windshield, scattering glass.

The third silenced everything.

© 2025 River J. Myers
​
About the author:

River J. Myers is a Phoenix-based writer and librarian exploring contemporary fiction and dark epic fantasy. They hold a BA in Creative Writing and an MA in English Education, and are currently pursuing their MLIS at Louisiana State University. Their work has appeared in WILDsound, with forthcoming publications in Eunoia Review and other venues. Between pages, they can be found hunting down Phoenix's best local eats and watching Eagles games.

We weren’t junkies; we were artists. While the quiet homes in Buffalo Grove silently snoozed through the exciting dark, we rode the night, lived each possible moment. We’d wring the world dry of all its beauty, write love songs to the streetlamps and sing to the sewers, our heads buzzing on benzedrine, tea, or alcohol. We slept through the day and its meaningless labors. Sure, call us lazy, but we were too busy living to hold a job. And we worked. Typed until our knuckles were stiff, pushed our typewriters to their mechanical limits, scrawled prophecy on every scrap of paper we could find, painted city sidewalks like chapel ceilings. 

    But yes, every lifestyle, even this lifestyle, costs money. Ernie was the one who came up with the idea, and I think he had this guilt about him because he’d been funding us for so long. He had this check coming in every month from his publisher, but they folded, and the money stopped coming. It’s like he thought it was his job to provide for us. 

    It was his idea to rob the soda fountain. He said it’d be their fault because they were kids and they shouldn’t have been spending their parents’ money like that. He said it was a temple to fallen gods, the hollowed ruins of American idealism, this pitiful, chromium place where our next generation comes to blow the spoils of the consumer class. 

    The guns were easy enough to find, and the plan was simple: drive to the suburbs, go inside the place, demand the till, have everyone empty their pockets into a sack, and run like hell to the car. We’d be back in the city before their pathetic cops would have any idea what was going on. 

    What we didn’t consider was juvenile strength and the intensity of young love. The place was packed with kids. It was some kind of surreal, sock hop nightmare. All these Mirandas and their Bradleys sipping malteds out of tall glasses with two straws. There were lots of letter jackets draped over shoulders, smooth words, and puppy-eyed wonder. Then, in walked this band of sleepless speed-fiends in our ragged white t-shirts. I hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days. I was tired, spacy, and very much in the wrong state of mind. As soon as the boys saw the guns, they crowded us, hoping to save their Miranda’s life, be a hero, take out their pubescent frustrations on Ernie, me, and the whole crew. I got out of there. Bolted through the door and took off down some alley, but I could hear the gunshots. I could hear the screams and the sirens as I hid between a couple trash cans. 

    Ernie and some poor girl were dead before the cops came, but we were the only ones who got arrested. I got picked up almost immediately. Whoever owned the house, owned those trash cans, came running out their back door with a bat and a loud whoop for violence. I went to the ground and waited for bruises and handcuffs. Those boys killed Ernie, but they’re heroes for it, big shiny jocks, wardens of America’s peace. Ernie was a junkie. That’s what the papers said. Ernie and his friends were just a pack of dirty junkies hoping to score their next fix. Bastards. He was an artist. We were artists.

​© 2025 Timothy Tarkelly

​About the author:
Timothy Tarkelly is a poet and author from Southeast Kansas. When he's not writing, he teaches High School English and Speech to students with much more potential than he will ever have. 

Lila liked being a security guard at the museum. Roving the galleries in the silent isolation of the wee hours, having Rembrandt and Van Gogh, Renoir and Picasso all to herself, keeping them safe. The characters in the paintings had become friends of sorts, their stares sightless yet soulful. It was too bad that her days working here were numbered.

She shrugged off her coat, heavy with the tools and pieces she’d need for the job zipped into the lining. She hung it up in her locker and entered the security room, coffee cup in hand. 

Mac was draping his cardigan on the back of his chair in front of the bank of CCTV screens. A slideshow of empty galleries and corridors flashed by in grainy greys. 

“Hey, Mac,” she said. “I got you a mocha latte.”

“Aw, Lila. You’re sweet but you don’t have to keep doing that.”

“I got a whole bunch of gift cards from people after my son died. Have to use ‘em up somehow.”

Mac, three years from retirement, was happy to let Lila do the walk-arounds as he sat at the desk, reading a fantasy novel between glances at the screens. That suited Lila. She’d been able to case the place with ease, determine the security cameras’ blind spots, time her operation with exactitude.

Her heart slammed suddenly. She slumped into a chair, short of breath.

“You all right?” Mac said. 

She waved her hand. “Low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten much.”

“That’s no good. How come?”

She hesitated, trying to swallow the words but they burst out of her. “My son overdosed six months ago today.”

“Aw, jeez. I’m sorry. He was an artist, you said.”

“Yeah, a struggling artist.” 

How he’d struggled. Adrian was singled out at art college as having exceptional promise, landed representation at a gallery soon after, but an establishment critic panned his first solo exhibition. He failed to sell, and the gallery dropped him. He couldn’t gain traction again. Galleries kept saying he was too dark, too demonic. His paintings became bigger and wilder, more ominous, with each rejection. He painted on walls and got evicted. He painted on buildings and got arrested.

Then she got the call every parent dreads. Accidental or intentional? She’d never know.

Mac sipped the coffee and grimaced. “Needs sugar,” he said. “I’ll get some from the breakroom.”

Crap, she thought. She should’ve gone heavier with the sugar. “Sorry. I must’ve forgotten. It’s been a weird day.” She heaved herself to her feet. “I’ll start on the first round. Walking will get my mind off things.”

Nerves jangling, Lila had to force herself to slow to her usual stroll. After the first floor, she doubled back to the security room. Mac was already snoring, head cricked at an unnatural angle, jaw drooping. The antihistamine capsules she’d emptied in his coffee had worked like a dream. She allowed herself a faint smile. 

She moved quickly to her locker and pulled on her coat. Took the stairs to the second floor and stopped on a stairwell out of camera view. She removed the roll of canvas from the coat lining, the wooden stretcher pieces, the stapler. She snapped together the stretcher and stapled the canvas onto it, as she’d practiced. Then she assembled the sides of the ornate gilt frame into a rectangle and fit the canvas inside it, bending small nails she’d hammered into each flank to hold it. After donning a Salvador Dali mask, turning her coat inside out and flipping up her hood, she tucked the artwork under her coat and entered the gallery. 

The open spot on the wall lay between a Kandinsky and a Klimt was occupied by a humidity gauge. She hammered in a nail and hung Adrian’s canvas over the device. Then she took out the label card she’d stolen, now filled in with the authoritative description she’d written after studying the pretentious writing style of museums. She had it printed so the font matched. She peeled off the backing and pressed it onto the wall beside the vibrant abstract.

Lila stood back and took a deep breath. She’d be caught, arrested on some charge or other, but she didn’t care. She felt Adrian’s smile. That was all that mattered.

​© 2025 Christina Hoag

​About the author:

Christina Hoag's short crime fiction has appeared in Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, and is forthcoming in anthologies from Crimeucopia and Black Beacon. A former journalist and foreign correspondent, she lives in Los Angeles where she has taught creative writing in a maximum-security prison. https:/christinahoag.com.

     A stranger ripped open Jenna’s passenger door, pointed an automatic at her and ordered, “Stay still.” His other hand held a bulging cloth bag. A second man with a bag of his own slid through the rear door. The gunman threw himself into the front. “Now go. Go!”
     The sequence took seconds. When Jenna understood what was happening, instinct was already in control, the accelerator to the floor, her car racing.
    “Take Battery,” the gunman said. Battery Street followed the lake out of town.
     The speed-limit was twenty-five throughout the city, but, aware of the gun, Jenna kept the Kia at fifty, weaving through traffic, breezing through traffic-lights. Angry, frightened drivers leaned on horns, but her passengers were impressed.
     “You handle a car real good. You always drive like this?” the gunman asked.
     Heart thumping, her eyes strayed to the gun still on her. “Not always.”
    The rear passenger laughed. “Maybe she’s a racer, Ronny—like that Danica chick.”
     “She’s retired,” Jenna said without thinking.
     “Well, we aren’t,” Ronny answered. “Not for a while, so slow down—and no more running lights.”
      “Lucky as hell,” the backseat rider said.
     Jenna checked her mirrors. They were on the highway linking the city with several suburbs. Cops often set speed-traps along here, but not today. Maybe it was luck—but what kind?
     “What’s your name?” Ronny asked.
     She hesitated, decided it didn’t matter. “Jenna.”
     “Nice,” the rear passenger said. “Pretty. Got a boyfriend?”
     “Cut that, Nick,” Ronny growled.
     “No boyfriend,” Jenna answered.
     “See? She don’t mind,” Nick crowed. “Reason I ask—”
     Ronny twisted, shooting Nick a warning look.
     “Okay, okay,” Nick relented. “Forget it. But still—man, the way you drive!”
    “Yeah,” Ronny agreed. “We could use a driver good as you. Josh deserves prison, losing his guts and taking off.” He sighed disgustedly. “Lucky we spotted you at the curb, Jenna. Were you headin’ to work or what?”
     She shook her head. “I don’t have a job.”
     Nick grinned. “Unemployed, huh? Maybe it’s fate.”
   Miles from the city now, the road wound through trees, past scattered houses. Jenna’s adrenaline had faded, leaving only fear. Ronny’s gun had a presence of its own.
     Finally, Ronny said, “Here, on the left.”
   The road was dirt, nearly hidden by brush. Jenna turned off, wincing as branches scraped the Kia. The track ended in a clearing with tiny, ruined cabins and a half-tumbled sign reading “Motel.”
     The car stopped. Nick hopped out, hefting his bag.
    “Listen.” Ronny leaned in, twisted the key from the ignition. “I meant it about a driver.” He looked towards where Nick seemed to struggle with the nearest cabin’s door.
    “I’m sorry we got you into this, Jenna, but we aren’t bad guys,” he said. His tone was friendly, but he still held the gun.  “And we make nice money. More than any job you’ll find. Think about it, okay?” He pocketed the keyring. “Gimme your phone, too.”
     Jenna dug the cellphone from her purse and handed it over, noting several missed calls on the screen. Losing it sucked, but Ronny was satisfied and took the gun off her for the first time since forcing his way into the Kia. He climbed from the car, joining Nick in wrestling the stuck cabin door.
   Jenna’s gaze drifted from the men to Ronny’s bag, forgotten in the passenger foot-well. Luck again?
     Remembering the pistol’s black eye and the reason for today, she sighed in relief, extracted the emergency key from her wallet, and started the engine. Backing down the road as quickly as she dared, she left the heisters in a cloud of dust and confusion.

     “Where’ve you been?” Jenna’s husband, Scott, demanded hours later. “You left me hanging back there!
     “Shit,” he spat, not waiting for a reply. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I was in line, wearing the wig and fake nose, the note about the bomb all ready, and these gun-waving yahoos burst into the bank and cleaned the place out. I couldn’t believe it.
     “What’s that bag, by the way?”
     The fear distant now, Jenna could grin as she told him, “Luck.”
    Good, bad, or something else entirely—it all depended on how you looked at it.

About the author:
​Brandon Barrows is the author of several crime and mystery novels. His most recent is And Of Course, There Was the Girl from Full Speed Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories and is a three-time Mustang Award finalist and a two-time Derringer Award nominee. Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com and on Twitter @BrandonBarrows

Scene: The exterior of Detroit City Hall. Members of the media are gathered. Detective Richard Dryer approaches a podium just outside the front entrance.

Dryer: “Good afternoon. I wanted to issue an update regarding the kidnapping of Mavis Jacobson, the twenty year old daughter of Michigan real estate developer Wilford Jacobson. As you know, Ms. Jacobson was abducted from the family estate yesterday morning. Earlier today, Mr. Jacobson and his wife received a ransom note demanding five million dollars in exchange for the return of his daughter.”

(Cameras flash.)

Dryer: “The experts in the crime lab examined the note and have determined its legitimacy. If the kidnappers are listening, the Jacobsons have agreed to your terms. They will pay the requested amount and are begging you not to hurt their daughter. They ask that once the money has been transferred to the off-shore account you indicated in the note, you return Mavis, safe, sound, and unharmed… I will now take your questions.” 

Reporter 1: “Detective, how did the Jacobsons receive the ransom note?”

Dryer: “It came through standard US Mail.”

Reporter 1: “Can you trace where the letter was mailed from?”

Dryer: “The crime lab is working on that as we speak, and investigators are coordinating with officials from the Postal Service, but as of now, we can’t pinpoint an exact location.”

Reporter 2: “Detective, can you share any details of the note itself?”

Dryer: “Yes, I can. The note was brief, to the point, handwritten, in pencil, possibly a number two graphite pencil, on a standard eight and a half by eleven, twenty pound, white piece of paper.”

Reporter 2: “Thank you, sir, but I meant the actual contents of the letter.”

Dryer: “I see. Well, after I gave the note a cursory glance, I could tell immediately the kidnappers had very little regard for their readers, and their writing skills were substandard at best.”

Reporter 1: “Would you mind elaborating on that, Detective?”

Dryer: (Pulls a copy of the note from his jacket pocket.) “Yes. This is the opening sentence. ‘We have been planning to do this for years.’”

(Groans from the crowd.)

Dryer: “‘Have been planning.’ If they had taken their audience into consideration, they could’ve worded it, ‘We’ve planned to do this for years,’ or something along those lines, but they did not. Their disregard for basic grammar is borderline sociopathic.” 

Reporter 3: “Sir, you stated the note was handwritten. Can you give us any details on that?”

Dryer: “Let me be frank. In my twenty-seven years on the force, this is the worst penmanship I’ve ever seen. It’s illegible, almost indecipherable. Chicken scratch doesn’t begin to describe it. It looks as if it could’ve been scrawled on the walls of a sanitarium in human excrement.”

Reporter 3: “Sir, don’t you think that’s a little overdramatic?”

Dryer: “I do, and I certainly hope the writer of this story remembers to take it out before he submits it for publication.”

Reporter 2: “Sir, getting back to the contents of the note, sources have mentioned an excessive amount of exclamation points. Can you comment on that?”

Dryer: “Handwriting experts have concluded the kidnappers utilized at least four, maybe five, exclamation points in their one page note.”

(Gasps.)

Reporter 2: “Maybe five, sir?”

Dryer: “The fifth could’ve been a colon or semicolon. It’s still under examination, but the boys in the lab are working around the clock to figure it out.”

Reporter 1: “There’s been a rumor concerning a quotation. Can you give us insight on that?”

Dryer: “I’d hoped that wouldn’t come up.” (Sighs.) “At the bottom of the page, the kidnappers wrote, ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,’ and attributed it to Michael Jordan. Analysts notified us late last night the quote actually belongs to none other than Wayne Gretzky.” 

(Gasps. One reporter faints. Another screams.)

Dryer: “It’s a shame when innocent bystanders get caught up in something like this. On behalf of the Detroit Police Department, I would like to apologize to the families of Mr. Jordan and Mr. Gretzky. God willing, we can move past this and soon put the wreckage behind us.”

Reporter 2: “Detective Dryer, is there anything else you can share regarding the ransom?”

Dryer: “I would like to, but unfortunately, we’re rapidly approaching the word limit of this story, and I can’t necessarily go into details at this time.”

Reporter 3: “And there’s no way around that, sir?”

Dryer: “No. This publication only allows flash fiction stories up to 1,000 words, and there’s nothing I can do. I don’t have to tell you the headaches and setbacks a cop has to face when red tape gets in the way of an investigation. Maybe the writer of this piece could’ve utilized less adjectives, chosen his words a bit more carefully, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. It is—as they say, whoever they are—what it is.”

Reporter 3: “Don’t you mean, ‘Whomever they are?’”

Dryer: “Go fuck yourself.”

Reporter 1: “Sir, do you have any clue how this will end?”

Dryer: “I would assume with the words ‘The End’, but as far as the kidnapping and ransom goes, I have no clue. It’s in God’s hands now, and all we can do is sit back, hope for the best, and pray Mavis gets home safe. But if she doesn’t, it’s really no big deal. This is fiction and none of this shit is really happening anyway.”

Reporter 2: “Detective—”

Dryer: “I’m sorry, everyone, but we’re out of time. Thank you for your attention. Have a good day.”

THE END 

Dryer: “See? Told you.”

THE END, FOR REAL THIS TIME

​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.

     One. She had a peculiar sense of humor. Stand-up shows and sitcoms made her yawn, glance at her watch, and close her eyes. She laughed at certain noises, like a car’s siren or a frog’s croaking. Once, she turned hysterical and erupted in laughter when a kid popped his balloon in the park. Embarrassed, she ran away to the bus stop and left the park. I never understood the absurd, looking at her with bewilderment and smiling just because she did.
     Two. She used to bake cakes for weddings, birthdays, and gender parties. The cream was the best part, melting in my mouth, making me want to devour it until the plate was empty and I woke up from a sugary trance. Her waffles and pancakes were mediocre though.
     Three. She chose butter for baking more diligently than she chose men. Well, a man. Andy wasn’t a bad one; he was just a bit odd. All he did in his free time was hate-watch soap operas. In general, he saw more than a thousand episodes while drinking vanilla coke and arguing with an invisible director and a screenwriter. Andy and she met at the Laundromat. She used to watch washing machines sometimes—her remake of trainspotting. He walked into the place; they chit-chatted and fell in love.
     Four. She always claimed she had that phobia of long words, but we both knew she was afraid of the numbers 13 and 666—as much as she was of black cats. When we were teenagers, I made unsuccessful attempts to ridicule this fear. Once, I changed the date on her phone and watched her eyes turn bleak. She found out I did it and locked herself in the bathroom for three hours, resentful. Perhaps our grandma had scared her when we were kids, told her that planes fell on people’s heads on Fridays the 13th, or my sister saw that movie.
     Five. She loved me. She loved me when I was sick and whiny, leaving empty, dirty mugs all over the house, clearing my throat nonstop, shaking my leg, and singing along to the radio with my squeaky voice. She loved me when I rolled my eyes at her laughter, refused to eat her dry waffles, called Andy a desperate housewife, and told her that a large pack of toothpicks contained exactly 666.
I don’t do this anymore, and I never will.

     “What are you doing?” Tony asks, reading another soap opera review.
     “Writing facts about myself. I started something like a blog, you know.”
    “Wild,” he says, chewing on the cake I baked. “You’re adding too much flour.”
He coughed, and I barked with laughter.
     I look at the date, and I know Friday the 13th is going to be in three months. It’s not going to be outstanding; there was only one important Friday the 13th. My twin sister should’ve been afraid of darkness, thick rains, and lampposts being out of order, just like my car—not plain numbers and grandma’s superstitions. She should’ve been careful that day; she should’ve took her headphones off and run away from me.
     The collision was an accident, I convinced myself. I didn’t want to hit her that night and watch, observe her fall, her cranium splitting into two parts.
     Two parts that no longer exist.

​About the author:
Nora Ray is a writer who explores the dark sides of human relationships in her fiction.

     “My brother thinks another day in agony is better than an eternity in hell.” Liam said, stabbing his finger with the ritual blade. He dripped red syrupy blood into a vial then signed the contract: Seller agrees to sell, convey, assign and transfer to The Devil, Lucifer, Old Scratch, who shall herein be referred to as the buyer . . .
     “I gave Collin good value for the rights to his soul,” Devlin said while going through the shipping invoices Liam had delivered from the Philadelphia shipyard—the last of his requirements for membership in the concentric ring of the modern version of the K&A gang. Even though it was dangerous to keep around, Devlin always demanded a physical invoice. “I have physical proof.”
     “Fuck your contracts.”
     “A physical contract binds in this world,” Devlin said, opening a concealed wall safe and depositing the contract on top of a row of rolled lambskin. “—and the next.” Once he’d secured the safe—its location finally revealed—he returned to the blotchy corpse of some nameless junkie and fed a metal catheter into the abdomen.
     In the world above, Kensie kids wearing whatever costumes they could cobble together or steal maneuvered around alley junkies to trick-or-treat at the local pubs and shops below the El, defiantly claiming their childhood in the impoverished feudal kingdom—a setting that fed on the unwashed masses but fueled the business of the O’Reilly funeral home. 
     “I do feel for your brother. Even sent flowers,” Devlin said. “We’ll all burn in the fiery lake together.”
     The rest of the crew rubbed Liam’s shoulders and shook his hand—congratulations or commiseration—but Liam couldn’t bear to look in the vacant cavernous eyes of the gray men. Serving Devlin and satisfying their contracts sucked the life out of them; however, in his time operating with the crew—loading stolen cars at the pier to sell them overseas and employing his acumen on a safe or two—Liam had witnessed lingering, yet promising, hints of defiance. And on this, he counted.
     “Old ladies believe in the devil.”
     “Oh, really now?” Devlin said, giggling with glee. “Please attend, boy-o. Hey, lads. The devil’s a con to make you all eat your vegetables, and I won’t come after you if you go.” 
     Not one man twitched, and Devlin pulled up the cover over the cadaver then cracked open a Guinness. “They all signed when they were young bucks, afraid of naught, but then they felt old age creeping up and sought a higher power.”
     “I can’t believe you all buy into this shite!” Liam said, playing with the engraved knife he’d used to draw his blood.
     “I do lay it on a bit thick,” Devlin said. “Halloween. Blood. But that’s what makes it such a convincing story.” Liam couldn’t deny the effects—when a man believed he was damned anyway, nothing restrained him—and what young man wouldn’t jump at the chance to sell magic beans to a fool for a shitload of cash?
     “Well, every good story needs a twist,” Liam said, pressing the ceremonial knife to Devlin’s throat. “My brother’s contract.”
     “The men in this room will cut you down—all souls pledged.”
     Liam’s hand trembled, and he struggled to hold it firm while he scanned the room, looking for a way out. The other soldiers surrounded him, and he backed up into one of the embalming tables, disturbing the peace of one of the corpses. “He’s not the devil! He’s just a good storyteller. The contracts are shite.”
     “Aye, Liam,” he said, giggling under the blade. “But they can’t take that chance. Can your brother? He was diagnosed at the same time you told me you wanted to move up in the gang. They gave him a year. You’ve been patient. If you’re any kind of a man, you’d put two in his head.”
     “I’ll put you in the ground first,” Liam said, trying to steady his hand.
     “I’m just codding ya! Relax.”
     “Just let him go.” 
     “I can’t. I may be the boss on Earth, but in Hell, I’m only the devil’s man—and that’s where your brother’s heading.”
     Liam pressed the blade to his neck but knew if he sliced the artery, the other gang members would cut him down. Even in death, Liam held power over them as long as they believed he held their contracts. 
But maybe that was the answer. 
     “Don’t you see?” Liam said then released the blade. “He’s never going to let you go.”
     Devlin cackled, and his feline grin curved from his lips to his cheekbones, chilling Liam with the look of amusement in those predatorial eyes. “All contracts are binding,” he said.
     “Lads,” Liam said. “Not one of you will defy him, but like Lucifer rose up with his fellow angels, together we can rise up.”
     “You don’t have the stones,” Devlin said.
     “No,” he said. “But I’ve got the digits—best safe man in Kensington. And that’s where you keep the contracts, right?”
     “Feck off,” Devlin said, defiant until the end. “Those contracts are binding, as God is my—”
     “Oh, boss, if you’ve taught me anything, it’s that it has to be on paper to be real.”
     “Enough of this shite,” Devlin said. “Cut him down.” 
     None of the gang stepped up. Instead, they waited while Liam knelt before the safe, and seeing the winds change, Devlin reached for his piece; Joey Ryan grabbed his shoulder and disarmed him while Liam popped the safe. 
     “Here they are, lads,” Liam said. “Let’s have us a fire upstairs in that lovely stone hearth. And when the devil comes calling, ask him for proof of ownership.”
     That night, Liam sat next to his brother’s hospital bed and watched scenes of the cops pulling Devlin’s body out of the Delaware. Then, he switched off the TV and plunged the syringe into the IV, freeing him from the devil’s man.

About the author:
​
​T. Fox Dunham lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania with his wife, Allison. He’s a cancer survivor, modern bard, herbalist, baker and historian. His first book, The Street Martyr, was published by Gutter Books, and is in production by Throughline Films. He’s contributed to official Stargate canon with a story published in the Stargate Anthology Points of Origin from Fandemonium Books. More information at tfoxdunham.com & Twitter: @TFoxDunham