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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.
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“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. |
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