Coleman Hayes fed another coin into one of the Greektown Casino’s slot machines. The lunchtime crowd was thin but committed, and the electronic boop-de-boop of the machines sounded like mall muzak playing at double speed.

Coleman’s phone buzzed as he punched the spin button. He watched the dial whirl as he fished in his pocket. Natasha’s text read: WE HAVE A WINNER. He could hear her voice in his head with her accent, chewing on the Ws like Juicy Fruit and growling out the R to make herself sound American. Coleman left a free play on the tab and made his way to the exit.

He stopped at the revolving door to put on his puffer and sunglasses, but stepped outside before he took the big-ass Russian hat Natasha had given him out of his pocket. The wind sliced down Monroe Avenue, flecking his cheeks with grit as he made his way to the Lincoln. 

He slid behind the wheel, checked the mirrors then reached under the seat for his piece, a blue snub-nose Taurus. The Nikon, already out of the case, lay on the passenger seat.

***

The winner was older than Coleman expected, little blue pill old, which made Coleman feel kinda bad for him there with his dick out as the Nikon strobed in his face. 

Jesus, if Natasha had tipped him that the cat was ready for the retirement home he’d have skipped the shock and awe stage. If the old guy had a stroke or some shit—okay, it wouldn’t make much difference, but it would spoil Coleman’s good mood.

“Hey!” the cat kept saying, pushing Natasha behind him like a true gentleman, cupping his junk with his other hand. “Hey!” 

Coleman kept snapping, making sure to get the props Natasha had laid out—fake fur-lined handcuffs; the rest of a dime bag and the mirror and credit card she’d chopped the coke up with; an eighteen-inch purple latex dildo with dangling rubber balls. She’d turned the TV on for the noise like Coleman told her, so the old guy’s “heys” were just about drowned out by the ladies on The Real, talking about “drugstore deals.”

Coleman let the camera hang on the strap around his neck and pulled the Taurus. He didn’t point it at the dude, just showed it to him and put it back in his pocket.

“I hate to do this to you, man,” Coleman said.

“The money is in coat,” Natasha said, nodding at a black wool trench on the floor in the corner as she reached around her back to do up her bra. “Seven thousand.”

“Lucky man,” Coleman said, as picked up the coat. “How much did you start with?”

“Two.”

“Put your pants on,” Coleman said. He pulled out the banded cash and fanned back twenty Benjamins with his thumb. He tugged the bills out of the stack and tucked them back in the guy’s coat. He folded the other fifty bills in half and wedged the roll into his pants pocket.

“What do you do for a living, Jack? Are you in the car business?”

“He’s a dentist,” Natasha said. “He tell me I have beautiful veneers.”

“Congratulations.” Coleman paused, smiled big, all natural, white enough to sell toothpaste. “Here’s the deal, man. We’re going to take this five thou off you and let you get back to your life. All you gotta do is walk away. Dice money anyway; you were just holding it for a minute. 

“Door number two: you call the police, tell ‘em the whole story, Russian bitch with one of those cat faces and Beverly Hills tits, skinny ass African-American gentleman with a shaved head and a Carlos Santana mustache.”
Coleman caught the cat’s eyes, made sure he got a good look at him.

“If that happens, I got an associate who makes sure everybody you know gets a gander at these pictures: your wife, your kids, the bitches down at the Country Club, that hot young hygienist you got working for you because she was the most qualified, all your patients. Five grand is what, two crowns? A week at the office?”

“My wallet’s in my pocket,” the guy said. “You want my watch?” He undid the clasp, a stainless-steel job, not a Timex, Coleman presumed, the dude still showing Coleman his hands so he’d know he couldn’t turn thin air into a .38 special.

“Keep it,” Coleman said, picking up the guy’s pants. “Save you making up a story for your wife. You can keep the wallet, too. I just need to make sure we’re on the same page.”

He flipped open the wallet with his left hand and snapped a photo of the guy’s license with his right before he tossed it on the bed. Before he could complete the motion, the guy snatched that almost two-foot purple dildo off the nightstand and swung the dangling balls around like a bolo, caught the stickup man on the point of the chin as pretty as Floyd Mayweather. 

The hotel room door was hanging open when Coleman came to and spat four teeth onto the carpet. He heard the water shut off, and Natasha came out of the bathroom with a washcloth pressed to her forehead.

“We will need new camera,” she announced.

​© 2026 Jay Randall

About the author:
Jay Randall is a writer-editor for a nonprofit organization in Virginia. His short stories have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder and the After Happy Hour Review.

“When I go, no one will find me,” Sunny said. 

They’d been watching a movie involving a woman who disappears herself from her life to start a different existence in a different place under a different name.

“What do you mean ‘when’ you go?” Tamra asked.

Steph gave a chuckle. “Something you want to tell us, Sunny?”
​
Amaria picked up the empty popcorn bowl and brought it to the kitchen. Silent. As she hand-washed the stoneware bowl, Amaria pictured Sunny responding with a shrug and a smirk as she did when she wanted you to think she knew something you wished you knew. 

The cat rubbed against Amaria’s leg. She scooped wet food into the cat’s dish. Conditioned to respond.

Twenty-four hours later, Sunny was gone.

She had threatened to walk out plenty of times. That night was the first time she mentioned it in front of other people, only she’d left out what she usually told Amaria when they were alone: “I can do so much better than you.” 
Eventually, Amaria would have Tamra and Steph over for another movie night and tell them Sunny was gone. They’d be sympathetic. Not surprised. Not after all the cutting criticism and bruising remarks they heard Sunny level at Amaria. They stopped laughing that off a long time ago. Tamra and Steph were wise enough to figure what went on between Sunny and Amaria in private was worse than what they witnessed. 

The house felt bigger without Sunny. More light. More air.  Yet, sleeping without Sunny in the bed was more difficult than Amaria expected. When they’d spent nights apart recently, it felt like a reprieve to fall asleep without the need to fight through a layer of tension before her mind and body settled. The first night with Sunny truly gone, though, Amaria tossed and turned so much the cat hopped off the bed leaving a disconcerting warm indentation on Sunny’s pillow. 

The following evening, Amaria watched a Bollywood film that involved a love triangle, a gang war, an exploding helicopter, and people inexplicably breaking into song and dance. It covered pretty much every emotion she was feeling at the moment.

The cat jumped up on the couch, yawned, and rested her head and a paw on Amaria’s thigh. Amaria yawned and rested her hand on the cat. They closed their eyes and breathed together. Chests rising and falling. Warm blood pumping. 

Amaria would have made popcorn, but the bowl was gone. Shame. It was heavy, antique stoneware worth a good deal more than what she’d paid for it at a garage sale. Sunny would sneer and roll her eyes whenever someone complimented it. She’d done it the last time they were with Tamra and Steph. 

Inevitably, after Tamra and Steph had gone, Sunny picked a fight with Amaria. There was a slap. More than one. Then a thud as Amaria smacked the stoneware bowl into the side of Sunny’s head, connecting first with a steel-sharp cheekbone then with Sunny’s temple. More than once. Sunny went down with a mousy squeak, her fingers scratching the air. Then her mouth slacked and her fingers stopped scratching. Amaria froze. The unblemished bowl fell from her fingers and broke into pieces on the tile floor of the kitchen. The cat had studied her without judgment, lapped up some food, and walked out. 

Sometime before dawn, Amaria opened her eyes and recoiled at a mouse twitching, not quite dead, on Sunny’s pillow. The cat meowed, announcing her kill. Amaria swore. She might have cried. Then she took the mouse to the woods, dug a hole—another hole—and buried it where even the cat wouldn’t find it.

​© 2026 Leslie Elman

About the author:
​​Leslie Elman is an Edgar Award-nominated writer whose short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Vautrin, Stone’s Throw, and Mystery Magazine.

My Uncle Arman died while I was doing the “short-and-shitty,” two weeks short of my release date. 

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

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

“I need to borrow your car, Cameron.”

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

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

“Taking what?”

“Money-market certificates,” I said. 

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

***

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, sir. What did you say?”

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​© 2026 Robb White

About the author:
Robb White is a Derringer-nominated author of genre fiction, he has three series detectives. The Russian Heist (2019) was selected Best Novel in Thriller Magazine’s competition. Betray Me Not was selected for distinction by the Independent Fiction Alliance in 2022. Recent publications include a suspense thriller, Jersey Girl (2025), a crime novella, Easy Money (2025), and a prequel to the Thomas Haftmann, p. i. series: The Dearborn Terrorist Plot. 

We buried Nonno Gino today. Gave him one helluva sendoff. Mourners came from thirteen states. Others flew in from Italy. Even New York’s August weather, out of respect for the old man, showed up in perfect summer attire: sunny and warm; low humidity; and a gentle breeze to whisper him farewell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three voices in chorus identified the thug.

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

​© 2026 Nick Di Carlo

About the author:

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

    Does he know? That's the question that jabs Russell in the temple like the business end of an ice pick when he sees who the email is from. It seems a cordial invitation. Lunch, it says. Perhaps it’s just business. But racked between debilitating guilt and a desperate flicker of hope, Russell agonizes. What if it isn't?

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

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

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

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

    "Attracted to pretty things, are you?"

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

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

    "Are you implying I've been duped?"

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

    "It's generally not a good idea."

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

    "Something to drink," the client asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "Found it less attractive than on first viewing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Russell hears but can't reply.

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

    Russell's eyes are locked in horror.

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

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

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

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

​© 2026 Joe Kilgore

About the author:
Joe Kilgore is an award-winning author of novels, novellas, screenplays, and short stories. He lives and writes in Austin, Texas. You can learn more about Joe and his work at his website: https://joekilgore.com

Ratter ducked out of the rain. He joined Sam under the eaves of Dog Eared Books on Valencia. The place closed at ten, ages ago, but the entry still smelled like old books. Sam nodded at Ratter and took a sip from his corner store coffee. None of the fancier places were open.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

"Sure it is."

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

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

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

"What happens at one?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I call shotgun," said Ratter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​© 2026 Patrick Whitehurst

About the author: 
Patrick Whitehurst writes both fiction and non-fiction. As a former reporter, he developed a love for writing short and fast, which he uses to his advantage in the flash fiction realm. Find him online at patrickwhitehurst.com.

​Mina stood on the bridge, looking down at the river. Mist swirled around the banks, making it seem like the shore was moving rather than the water. During the day, it was muddy brown, but now, it was blacker than the night. It reminded her of a curtain, pulled after the final act of a play. “All the world’s a stage,” she whispered. She loved the sound of that line when she was a little girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2026 Brandon Barrows

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

​Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com

“Rock beats paper,” my baby brother Matthew used to say when we were kids and played ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ in the locked closet, the light bulb illuminating our skinny fingers, our bodies crammed together in the suffocating space. “No, paper beats rock,” I’d correct him like a good older sister, wrapping my hand over his tiny fist for the hundredth time, just like Mom taught us when she was alive and we were free to roam around.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess he forgot there are bigger rocks everywhere. 

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

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

But this time, he chose scissors.

​© 2026 R.S. Nelson

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