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I mean, Henderson said and did outrageous things all the time. Like when your uncle said, That curvy gal over there looks like a fridge. Henderson clapped back, I’d raid that fridge, to be honest. Or that Thanksgiving he made stuffing in a sheet pan, cut it into squares and everyone thought they were German chocolate brownies. You remember the great brownie disappointment? Everyone spit them out in disgust and he filmed them doing it. Yeah, he did that. So, when he came up with this weird way to rob people, we were like, it’s just Henderson being Henderson. Sure, it was illegal, but he thought he’d get away with it. No real physical harm, he said. Not in the traditional sense. It’s a good bet his victims are still traumatized. Imagine if he did that to you? Come up to you on the street holding the world’s biggest slithering water bug. Those giant ones they call Toe-Biters. Like roaches as long as your forefinger that actually bite. I know, right? Terrifying. So Henderson starts yapping at the Waffle House, saying he read that Toe-Biters lunge at people. The waitress hears this and says, Seriously, I’m so afraid of bugs, I think someone could rob me with a roach.
That’s how it all started. Henderson was way behind on his student loan payments. I know, right? He says, I bet I could do that. And I said, Bet. Henderson says, I’ll bet you twenty bucks it works. Next thing you know, he’s captured those sons of bitches by leaving a standing water trap outside with big bright lights on it. That’s how committed he was. He researched the shit out of those bugs. He practiced in front of the mirror, holding the wriggling thing between his fingers. Holding it up like a gun, Give me your purse! Give me your watch! Give me your rings! He killed the first roach with all that practicing. Man, I wish I’d been there to watch him rehearse. See if that bug fought back or lived up to its Toe-Biter name. So he texts me, Bring the fifty bucks you’re gonna owe me. And I say, the bet was twenty. He was always gaslighting me. We decided on a place to meet. An intersection where folks walk by and then turn sharply at the corner, giving him a place to spring from the shadows. Right across from the coffee shop on Fifteenth and Avenue K. I stand across the street and watch him; he’s got one hand in his pocket where he’s holding the Toe Biter, one hand holding his phone. He picks out a single female and sticks the bug right in her face and lets it lunge. She drops her purse, screeches, and runs. He gives me a thumbs up. Then he reloads his hand, replays this same scenario. I kid you not, I saw him get at least three purses that night. A bunch of his would-be victims ran away screaming, but he made a good haul. I walk over and say, Damn, you were right. Here’s your ten. And I look at his hand and see that the last nasty roach is dead. Henderson says, I got too excited. I say, Well now you know it’s possible. I see him at the Waffle House a week later, and he’s wearing this new leather jacket. Yeah, the one they buried him in. Anyway, he’s got a sideways smile that day, offers to buy my lunch, which he never does. I’ve made bank this week, he says. He was still at it, still holding people at bug-point, paying his bills with stolen cash and credit cards. I say, Someone’s gonna turn you in. He says, No one’s reported me because they’re embarrassed that they gave up their goods over an insect. Pride. For the first time in his life, he had a valid point. Then he says, Got a whole container of those little weapons at home now, only been bitten twice, but now I wear a glove. He tapped his forehead twice. Guess I was supposed to think he was a genius. Anyway, the day he last went back to the corner, he was riding high. He does the same ploy, they caught it on camera. Holds the bug right up to the face of this big woman. Built like a fridge big. You saw her mugshot, right? He jabbed the bug into her face twice and the bug lunged, went down her cleavage, which was ample. The bug got stuck there. She flew into a rage, wiggling the bug off her chest and onto the pavement. Then she pulled a .38 from her bag, fired five times. RIP bug. RIP Henderson. Henderson, man. Shoulda quit while he was ahead. © 2025 Karen Harrington About the author: Karen Harrington is an award-winning writer of novels and short stories. Her work has appeared in Best American Mystery & Suspense (2024), Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, and Mystery Tribune. Say hello on X @KA_Harrington
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“I want you to kill my husband.”
My gaze traveled the long way around her curves and returned to her eyes. “What’s in it for me?” “Ten thousand. Small bills. Non-sequential.” Ten thousand would get Lemmy off my back. “Why me?” “No reason,” she said. “You just look like a guy could do something like this.” I had killed for less. I didn’t tell her that. “When?” “Tonight. Late. I’ll give you the key and the alarm code.” “When do I get paid?” “After.” I shook my head. “Give me something up front. A retainer, like.” “How much?” “A thousand,” I said. “I’ll look the place over tonight. Maybe I’ll do it and maybe I won’t. Either way I keep the grand.” She retrieved a wad of cash from her shoulder bag, counted out $1,000 in crumpled bills of various denominations, and shoved the remaining currency back into her bag. Then she handed me a door key and slip of paper with an address and an alarm code written on it. “I’ll be there, too,” she said. “Don’t make a mistake.” She turned and walked away, her hips swaying to a rhythm all their own. * * * “This ain’t all of it,” my bookie said as he counted the money I’d handed him. “I’ll get the rest.” Lemmy glared at me from behind his desk. I’d never seen him anywhere but behind his desk. “When?” “Tomorrow or the next day.” When he didn’t say anything, I added, “I always been good for it. You know that.” “Two days.” He shoved the money in his desk drawer. “You got two days.” * * * I had a snub-nose with the serial number filed off tucked into my pocket. I removed it before I stepped into the bedroom. I prodded one of the sleeping figures with the barrel of the gun until he threw back the cover and sat up. “Lemmy?” “What the fuck you doing in my bedroom, Jackson?” “I come to kill you, Lemmy.” “I always knew you’d welsh on a bet.” “It ain’t like that, Lemmy,” I said. “I been hired to kill you.” “Who hired you?” I didn’t reply, but I cut my eyes toward the lump in the bed next to him. “I always knew she was trouble.” I was finished talking so I squeezed the trigger three times. The woman in bed next to Lemmy rose up screaming. She wasn’t the woman who had hired me, and I put three slugs into her before she shut up. * * * On my way home I tossed the snub-nose into the lake. I was unarmed when I pushed my apartment door open and found myself facing the woman who had hired me. She asked, “Is it done?” “It’s done, but you wasn’t in bed with him.” She shrugged. “Plans change.” “You didn’t tell me you was married to Lemmy.” “You didn’t ask.” She pushed herself off my couch and indicated a bloated pillowcase she’d left behind. “Your money’s in there.” * * * Several hours later I was awoken when my apartment door crashed open and my bedroom quickly filled with police officers. I didn’t resist, and I was taken to the station wearing only my pajama bottoms and an undershirt. I learned later that the pillowcase had been taken from Lemmy’s house where its mate remained. The money had been taken from Lemmy’s safe, which had been left open. Lemmy’s wife had returned home that morning from an overnight spa trip to discover her husband’s body next to the body of a stripper from one of the downtown clubs. The cops never found the snub-nose. But they said I had means. I had motive. I had opportunity. Now I’m serving twenty to life. But at least I don’t owe Lemmy anything. © 2025 Michael Bracken About the author: Michael Bracken is an Edgar Award and Shamus Award nominee, with stories published in The Best American Mystery Stories and The Best Mystery Stories of the Year. He is also the editor or co-editor of three-dozen anthologies, including three Anthony Award nominees. INTRODUCTION
The Western Yellowjacket is native to temperate climates. Its activity is restrained by cold temperatures. Western Yellowjackets are predatory social wasps. In the spring, the fertilized queen settles in a subterranean hole to build a nest. She lays eggs and feeds the larvae until a colony is established. Yellowjackets are fiercely protective of their nests and both bite and sting. They bite to jab in their stingers. Since they do not lose their stinger, they can attack repeatedly and are potentially deadly to a person stung numerous times or to a person with an anaphylactic reaction to their venom. The purpose of this study is to test whether one can kill a person using Yellowjackets as the method. METHOD The Yellowjackets in this study established a colony in a gopher tunnel under Alstroemeria (Peruvian lilies) in Santa Cruz, California. The experiment was conducted on August 6, 2019, in mid-afternoon as a “bee” line of wasps flew in and out of the hole. The subject was a 70-year-old Caucasian male known to have a “bee-sting” allergy, one of his defenses for the aggressive use of pesticide, including glyphosate to kill weeds in his lawn. (He’d been informed numerous times of glyphosate’s harmful effect on butterflies and birds—even humans.) In the afternoon when the Yellowjackets were active, the subject was summoned from the sidewalk to view the Peruvian lilies. He was well exposed, dressed in walking shorts and a polo shirt. The scientist conducting this experiment, Arla Fairfield, PhD entomology, Montana State University, was swathed in a thick shirt, gloves, and sunhat with neck flap. When the subject stood within a foot of the hole, the scientist yanked up several Peruvian lilies, then moved quickly into a small protected area. The Yellowjackets immediately attacked. RESULTS The subject swatted at the wasps, increasing their agitation. He screamed and ran toward the sidewalk, Yellowjackets swarming. Half-way to his house on the corner, approximately fifty yards, he collapsed on the sidewalk. DISCUSSION To replicate this experiment, one must be patient and meticulous. Dr. Fairfield possessed both qualities, having counted Aceria tosichella (wheat curl mites)—tiny even through a microscope—for hours at a stretch. It helps if the human target is a particularly vulgar specimen. For example, before the experiment, the subject shuffled by on the sidewalk. When greeted with, “Good morning,” he responded, “Why don’t you pull your spent flowers? Your beds look so . . . done.” When it was explained that the flowers were being left to reseed, he said, “Humph.” He stood there eyeing the dried pods atop the Nigella damascene (love-in-a-mist). The flowers bloom pretty and blue, akin to bachelor buttons, but the rattling brown seed pods possess their own natural beauty, not a concept this idiot would understand. “You still have that illegal alien helping you?” he asked. “Carlos? Carlos is a descendent of Californios.” The subject gave a blank stare, unfamiliar, I guess, with basic California history. “I have a little gal helping me with my roses,” he said. His “little gal” is a full-grown woman. So, to summarize, the chosen human was obnoxious, racist, and sexist—a worthy subject. But the experiment. Unfortunately, the experiment had too many variables. Not enough controls. When the subject collapsed, a female neighbor turned the corner and called 911. She also dropped to her knees and administered mouth to mouth, the Yellowjackets having seemingly retired after chasing their victim an acceptable distance from the nest. As the neighbor had spotted Dr. Fairfield, the only logical next step was to assist in the aid to the subject. The ambulance arrived quickly and hauled him away. The neighbor dusted off her knees. “Poor guy,” she said. “I thought you hated him.” She blinked heavily. “That doesn’t mean I wanted him to be attacked by bees.” “Yellowjackets.” She gaped, then finally asked, “Did you get stung?” “I’m well covered when I work in the garden.” If this neighbor were particularly observant, she would know this information to be false. She gazed in the direction of the fading ambulance siren. “Do you think he’ll die?” “It’s possible.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He wasn’t all bad.” “He complained on Nextdoor that you didn’t pick up your newspapers fast enough, attracting thieves to the neighborhood.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t personal. He griped when people didn’t bring in their garbage cans on collection day, too.” “If he isn’t all bad, what’s good about him?” “He grows beautiful roses.” This gave me pause. His Double Delight were exquisite. Even if he made them march in uniform rows alongside his manicured lawn. How many times had I leaned over his picket fence to inhale their intoxicating fragrance? “You know,” the neighbor said, “he once told me he was going to leave them to you.” “What?” “Yeah,” she said. “It’s true. For all his cranky pants, he’d talk my ear off if he saw me walking by. He has a couple of kids, somewhere, but he told me they wouldn’t take care of his roses—that you were the only person he’d trust with them.” “Me?” “Oh, you know,” the neighbor twiddled thin fingers in the air, “he said it as a backhanded compliment—you’d tend them in your weird way and they’d be mottled, but at least you’d appreciate them.” At this point, the scientist took her leave, telling the neighbor that she did not feel well, a statement of fact. In the end, the subject did die. However, in conclusion, this experiment was not a success. It delivered the desired result but failed to produce an adjunct sense of satisfaction. © 2025 Vinnie Hansen About the author: Still sane(ish) after 27 years of teaching high school English, Vinnie Hansen has retired and plays keyboards with ukulele groups in Santa Cruz, California, where she lives with her husband and the requisite cat. She also writes fiction. A Claymore and a Silver Falchion finalist, Vinnie is the author of the Carol Sabala mystery series, the novels LOSTART STREET, ONE GUN, and the upcoming CRIME WRITER, as well as over seventy published short works. “Someone died in this house.”
Rachel stared at the old woman on her doorstep. “Sorry?” “Someone died here,” the old woman said. She looked up at the house and then backed away, as if afraid to be close to it for too long. “Wait a second...” The old woman shook her head and turned to leave. She hobbled down to the road at the end of the new development and went towards an old stone cottage at the entrance to the park. *** “How was the move?” Rachel’s husband said over the phone later that evening. “Fine, no dramas.” “Sorry again I couldn’t be there.” “I know, it’s okay.” “What do you make of the place?” “Oh, it’s great. A totally blank canvas.” She told him about her plans for the various rooms, sparing no details. He listened patiently, though she could tell he wasn’t really interested. She wrapped it up and was about to say goodbye when she remembered the old woman. “Oh, I had a visitor today.” She told him what the old woman had said. Instead of the laugh she expected, there was silence on the other end of the line. “David?” “Sorry, I just saw something on the TV.” “Did you hear what I said?” “Yeah.” “It can’t be true, can it?” “Of course not.” *** The old woman was back the next morning. Rachel leant against the doorframe. “I told my husband what you said yesterday. He said it’s impossible. This is a new build. No one lived here before us.” The old woman shook her head. “Another woman lived here.” “I think you’re confused.” “I’m not confused, dear. I saw her. And the man who used to visit.” “Okay,” Rachel said gently. She started to close the door. “I’d better get back to unpacking, so…” “Wait,” the old woman said, thrusting her face forward. “I saw him one night. The man. He carried something heavy into the park and then came back empty handed. I never saw him or the woman again. Don’t you see? She’s in the park somewhere. Dead.” “I’m closing the door now,” Rachel said, struggling to control her voice. “Don’t come here again.” “You’re about five months along, aren’t you?” the old woman asked just as the door closed. Rachel leant back against the wall, her left hand resting on her belly. She waited for her breathing to return to normal, then straightened up and looked through the peephole. The old woman was still there, moving her lips and counting on her fingers. *** “Don’t let her bother you,” David said, the sound of the TV in his hotel room filtering down the line. “She’s crazy.” “I know, but… look, when are you going to be back, David? I don’t like being here alone.” “I’ll be back tomorrow evening, promise. Just try and forget about it, alright? Stress isn’t good for either of you.” “I know.” “Why don’t you go down to town tomorrow? Have a fancy lunch or something, treat yourself.” She smiled. “It’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.” *** Rachel glanced at the old cottage on her way out to the car the next morning. The yellow curtains in the upper window twitched closed. She shivered, almost feeling the old woman’s mad eyes on her. She got in the car and drove past the empty, half-finished houses of the new development. SOLD signs stood proudly in a few front lawns, but there were no other people yet. Just her and the old woman. She felt better once she got to town. She ate at a bougie French bistro, and then wandered the high-street. It was lined with quirky, independent shops, so unlike the joyless procession of chain-stores in her hometown. She came to a shop selling specialist wines and spirits and went in. “Help you with anything, miss?” the owner said, looking up from his newspaper. “Yes, I’m looking for a Deanston.” “Very good, we have several here.” “Do you have the twenty-five-year-old? It’s my husband’s favourite. I understand it’s quite hard to find.” The owner’s eyes lit up. “One moment, miss.” He disappeared into a back room and returned a few minutes later with a box. “You’re in luck,” he said, placing the box on the counter and smiling. “A young woman ordered this for her fiancée a couple of months ago and never came to collect it. I was going to hold on to it for her, but, she’s had enough time, hasn’t she?” Rachel forced a smile, trying to ignore the queasy sensation gripping her stomach. “What a coincidence,” she said. *** The town was ruined for her after that. She stared straight ahead on the drive home, hands tight on the wheel, struggling to cordon off the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her mind. It was the old woman’s madness rubbing off on her. That was all. An old woman’s madness and the general brain-fog of pregnancy. It was stupid. She turned into the development and cruised slowly down the lifeless streets. She turned left into her road and noticed with a start that David’s silver car was parked in the driveway. Then she noticed David himself walking up from the direction of the old cottage. “How was town?” he said, once she was out of the car. “Good,” she said, struggling to compose herself. “You’re back early.” “Yes. I managed to cancel some meetings and get away.” “Where have you just come from?” “The park. Have you seen it yet? It’s lovely.” He reached down and put a hand on her belly. “I think this kid is going to have a lot of fun there.” She smiled thinly. “Come on. Let’s get inside.” She followed him to the front door, her limbs feeling limp. While he fiddled with the key, she looked up at the yellow curtains in the old cottage. This time they didn’t move. Something told her they would never move again. © 2025 Gavin Kent About the author: Gavin Kent is a writer of mystery fiction. He was born in the UK, but currently lives in South Korea. 3 AM. The trailer is dark. Where are her pills? I know she’s still prescribed the Oxy. She’s moved her stash from the bathroom. Go back to the kitchen. Maybe they’re in the fridge. I know she’s kept pills there before, right beside the butter.
Grandma’s had cancer for ten years. I grew up with her. Started ripping her off a year ago. She caught and beat me bloody with a bat. Said she wouldn’t watch it happen again, like she’d watched her daughter become someone else. Kicked me out. Mom? She walked down the wrong alley looking for the wrong guy to fuck for a top-up of skag. They found her newly dead, slumped against a Dumpster with her throat slashed and one eye dangling free of its socket like a baby knocked from a stroller. But really she’d been dead for years. A plastic cup I knock over bounces on dirty lino. I cower like a stricken cat, feel my eyes bulging. Strain my ears. The old trailer whines if a mouse drops a turd in the closet, but I hear nothing. Heavy sleeper, Grandma. Check the pantry. Next to the beans. No. Where is that fucking bottle Jesus fucking Oxy Christ. I know why Mom walked down her last alley, know the willingness to do whatever I’m told to possess my sweet Oxy. Every day I circle our podunk nothing town delivering for the man, cursing the rich kids who buy the pills with money instead of their lives. The circle is starting the dive into a spiral. Goddammit. It’s nowhere. No beautiful glossy white bottle. The old whore is off the pills. They know she’s good as dead. Or she swallowed them all herself. Greedy bitch. Some days I hand out fifteen pills on foot for payment. Last night, after I’d crisscrossed the town twice, my dealer held the bag with my one pill high, low, high again. I followed like a dog. He said, “On your knees.” I fell. He told me to beg. I sniveled. Didn’t see him walk away. He’d already dropped the pill—I wept with joy after scraping it up off the dirty street—I would shave down and quarter to make last. But I can’t. I can’t make the pill last anymore. I woke up thinking, I’m his. Entirely. What he makes me do will only get worse. Then I remembered the woman who gave me a roof. Grandma was still sick. But the pills are nowhere. My hands don’t listen to me. I’m weak, like a dying dog. When did I eat last? I feel my heartbeat, feel the tears reminding me my life isn’t mine anymore. “Reggie,” she says from the darkness. Her soft voice is the rumble of old paper. The light kicks on. Grandma in her muumuu, the gun pointed right at me. She’s old as dust. Her skin’s translucent. She’s so close to death but I know I look worse. Something left I can control. One way out. Deliverance. I see it clearly. It’s so fucking Oxy Jesus obvious. She’ll do it. I’ll make her. I grab a glinting knife off the counter and start toward her. Her finger’s already squeezing the trigger. © 2025 Hubble Stark About the author: Originally from Mississippi, Hubble Stark holds an MFA from the University of Montana and writes crime and literary fiction from his home in the Northern Rockies. Shoot him a line at [email protected]. I arrived early for a 1:00 pm drop on the corner of Tanglewood and Lamont. The intersection was congested, the late Friday lunch crowd scurrying like rats from one restaurant to another. The search for an empty two-top was on.
“Good luck without a reservation,” I mumbled. I leaned against a brick wall, lit a cigarette and stole a drag. And another. Just enough time for small pleasures. Cool menthol excited my taste buds. Sweet smoke burned my lungs and billowed out my nostrils like a dragon in a kid’s storybook. Only problem was I quit smoking two weeks ago. Oh, well. At five past, a cook from Antonio’s, our crew's favorite haunt, lumbered out. He had dark curly hair and wore a white apron marred with grease and marinara. He placed a plastic trash bag on the sidewalk and shuffled off. The bag had a large bouquet sprouting from it: roses, lilies, baby’s breath. It was easily a forty dollar arrangement. Perfect for the missus. What a waste. I adjusted the white rose in the lapel of my black suit and sauntered over to the bag like I had all the time in the world. I didn't. Three blocks away, on Hanover Street, a blue car was waiting for my 1:15 delivery. The cops had eyes on Antonio's, so my boss, Tony “Boots,” concocted an elaborate plan: flowers, black suits and multiple drop sites. Theatrics. “Everyone on the team has been hand-picked,” Tony had said. Challenge was, he left out some important things about his plan. And he did it on purpose. “You won’t know everyone involved,” he had said. “And you’ll only know your piece of the puzzle. That way you can’t screw me over or go to the cops.” I wanted to tell Tony where to shove his plan, but I decided against it. I was broke, not stupid. Afterall, Tony was an established hood with a nasty reputation. Even his nickname, Tony “Boots,” had an ugly backstory. It wasn’t just that he always wore designer dress boots. Leather to the ankle, with the zipper on the side. No, he really got the name because if you crossed him, he’d give you the proverbial boot. That could mean a hard kick to the ribs or a one-way jaunt down the Scarborough River. It all depended on how bad you screwed up. Sounds cliché, but that was Tony. Needless to say, I wasn't a fan of Tony’s methods. Especially since I was the mule du jour and the cargo was probably a brick of cocaine, or worse, a guy’s head. “Keep it simple,” was my motto. Less things can go wrong that way. But I was in debt. Horses, cards, dice—you name it. And working it off with Tony was the fastest way to get out from under him. No one wanted to be under Tony. He weighed over two-twenty and looked like a professional wrestler. Besides, planning wasn’t my strong suit. I was a doer. My left hand slipped to my side; I snatched the trash bag and headed south, my heels clicking on the pavement like passing seconds. Before long, an aquamarine coupe filled my view. I walked up to it, deposited the bag in the open trunk as planned, and turned to go. Easy as an after dinner stroll. A few more gigs like this and I’d be flush again. But I didn’t get very far before the driver rushed out. “Hey!” he hollered. “Wait a second.” He had a wiry build and stood a few inches taller than me. He wore a black suit that looked two sizes too small and a white rose in his lapel. I didn’t recognize his face, but we were dressed the same. Exactly as Tony had planned. “Why’d you dump trash in my car?” he said, his face scrunched up like a prune. I stopped and stared at him, my mouth gaping. I’ll be honest, it wasn’t my best look. Then on the opposite side of Hanover Street, I spotted another blue coupe. Its driver was leaning against the passenger door. His name was Mickey, like the mouse. He also wore a black suit, only it fit better, and a white rose through his lapel. I had worked with him a few years back on some small-time shenanigans that didn’t pay off. He waved me over. I grabbed the trash bag from the open trunk. “Sorry, buddy. Wrong car,” I said. “Stop!” the wiry guy replied, flashing a silver badge. He drew a .38 revolver from underneath his jacket. “Police.” My eyes darted left and right. There was nowhere to go or hide. I dropped the bag. It landed on the sidewalk with a thud. Busted. I flicked my cigarette to the curb. Sweat drained from my brow. “What are the odds?” I muttered. Across the street, Mickey slid into his car. I bit the inside of my cheek as he slowly drove away. The undercover cop tossed me his cuffs. “Put these on.” I did. He opened the trash bag with one hand and peered in. “Coke,” he said with a sneer. “Unless you cut a deal, you’re going away for a long time.” Then he grabbed the bouquet, put it up to his nose, and took a deep breath. “Flowers? Nice touch, pal. You shouldn’t have.” I shook my head. “What can I say? I never know when to quit.” © 2025 James Patrick Focarile About the author: James Patrick Focarile is an award-winning writer and Derringer Finalist who resides in the Northwest U.S.A. He holds an undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and an M.F.A. from Brooklyn College. His work has appeared in the following: Shotgun Honey, Mystery Tribune, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Close To The Bone, Thrill Ride Magazine, and more. For more info, visit: JamesPatrickFocarile.com In my twelfth summer, the old man splits. Leaves Mom shattered. Leaves me a little looney, pazzo Uncle Santo says. So, he steps in. “Vengo con me,” he says and drives me to his Texaco station and puts me to work.
For the first few days, he walks me through the things I’ll be doing, watches me and when he’s sure I’ve got it down, he says, “Okay, kid. Don’t screw it up.” For twenty bucks each week, I pump gas, change oil, sweep floors and answer the payphone on the wall when Chickenhead calls in the bets for the horse tracks and numbers game. This last thing is the part I better not screw up. A hot muggy August Tuesday, week of the full moon, Santo’s on vacation. I’m in charge, I’m king of the friggin’ hill. The last thing Uncle Santo says before he takes off is, “Don’t let those dumbass neighborhood guys get in here to work on their cars.” So, don’t you know, Val Teta and a couple of his goons come in. Teta wears a pale pink polo shirt and skin-tight black slacks. He shows off the new tattoo of a panther’s head he got the night before at the carnival, and he tells me he’s gotta work on his T-Bird and needs to put it on the lift. I’m sitting on the edge of the desk in the office, sipping a Coke when he tells me. “No way,” I say. “You do that, and when he comes back, Santo’s gonna kill you and then me.” Val Teta’s about eighteen and taller than me, so he thinks he can push me around. But I’m more scared of Uncle Santo than of Val Teta, so I tell him to screw off. He slaps me, open hand, once, twice, and as he pulls back for a third swipe, I kick at him and my foot hits his chest, leaving an oily smudge on that pretty pink polo shirt. That’s when he clocks me with a right cross above my left eye. Since I’m already on the floor, I grab the Louisville Slugger Santo stashes under his desk, and I come up swinging. I catch Teta on his left shoulder, and he winces. “You think that’s bad, wait till Santo gets home. You’re dead meat.” Val Teta and his cronies leave. I get another icy Coke from the machine and press the bottle against my eye. That’s how my day starts. That’s when Chickenhead calls. Chickenhead is a total lunatic. I mean, how else does a guy get a name like Chickenhead? I don’t know why anybody trusts him. I answer the phone and Chickenhead spits out the bets. “Three horse, fifth race, Saratoga.” Then the numbers guys think will come up for the day. It’s like having a machine gun go off in my ear. Rattle, rattle, tat, tat. I scribble onto a receipt pad while Chickenhead yells over and again, “Ya gettin’ that, kid? Ya got that?” I say, “Gahdammit, Chickenhead, I’ve got it.” “Say it back. Say it back.” I say it back. Get this funny feeling and turn around. A cop stands behind me. For how long? Scared shitless, I picture Uncle Santo in jail and him murdering me when he gets out. “Did you park that Chevy convertible on the street?” the cop asks. A customer left his ’63 SS for an oil change and wash. Every few minutes, I’d move the car from one spot to another, moonstruck from driving the coolest car on the road. “Yeah,” I say. “Had to move it off the lift for the next oil change.” “It’s too close to the hydrant. Better move it.” The cop leaves. Chickenhead’s still on the phone freaking out. “Who’s that? Who? You sure you got that, kid?” “I got it. We done?” Chickenhead hangs up. I move the Impala SS, still scared shitless, waiting to get busted, waiting for Uncle Santo to murder me, waiting, sweating, waiting… For the rest of the day, nothing happens. The next day, too. Customers come in. I pump their gas, check their oil, wash their windshields. In the next few days, I do a couple of oil changes. Val Teta doesn’t come back. The cop doesn’t come back. Saturday night, I close the station at five and pedal my Columbia home, wishing it was a metallic blue Impala SS convertible. By Sunday, I’m not thinking about Val Teta, not thinking about the cop. I’m wishing I had a girlfriend to drive around in my Impala convertible. But Monday’s another day. I wake up, and I’m scared near to death. I gotta tell Uncle Santo what happened. I’ll skip the Val Teta part. Who gives a shit about Val Teta and his prissy pink polo shirt? I walk into the Texaco station. Uncle Santo sits behind the desk. The cop sits in another chair, sipping coffee. What the hell? My knees feel rubbery. “Hey,” I say. “How was the vacation?” I think my voice is shaky. Can’t imagine what I look like ‘cause the two men look at me and laugh like lunatics. “How’d the kid hold up?” Uncle Santo asks the cop. “He never heard me come in. Chickenhead was being Chickenhead. For a second, I thought the kid would shit his pants.” “But he didn’t, did he?” “Nope. He did fine.” I shrug and open the cash register and take out a dime to buy a Coke. I sit on the edge of the desk and drink my Coke, just one of the guys. I think maybe I will tell Uncle Santo how I kicked Val Teta’s ass. © 2025 Nick Di Carlo About the author: When short story/flash fiction writer Nick Di Carlo was asked why he chose to teach in New York State's maximum security penitentiaries, he replied, "I'm making up for all the times I never got caught in my former lives." In this life, the O.G. Di Carlo lives on the cusp of the California desert and encourages aspiring fiction writers over age fifty to tell their stories. He was my first, the one with the scarf.
I edged gently off the bed. It wasn’t light but I could see my way around. I’d never been in a hotel before. Unless you count the hotel bar. Strange being so high up. I stood for a moment gazing out the window at a building opposite, a great grid of other windows, feeling briefly one of their elevated caste. I took panties, but no more, from the stockings, skirts and stays slung over a chair back. He paid for the night. As he fell asleep he joked I’d never leave because I’d want to marry him. I said he’d still have to pay, I wasn’t tricked so easily. He told me I’d be surprised, his greatest trick was making girls disappear. I did want to disappear—before dawn could betray the face in the mirror. A handcloth lay on the edge of the sink; nearby, a shaving brush and blade on a marble ledge. I wiped away ruined makeup and drank water from a glass. The small window, open a crack, gave faint sounds of hooves and farther off, a motor’s growl. Back in the room, he sprawled like an Olympian sated by a nymph. He was handsome, which I guess was fortunate. I’d almost given up. My roommate got picked up in an automobile and she tried swinging a deal for the two of us, but no dice. When the music hall let out a block away, business improved, but not for me. I wondered what the show had been. I heard snippets—about believing him or not, how he did it, that he was a veritable master, by George. Chortles about doing what he could do with a woman, at the office or at home. The street had nearly emptied when someone emerged from a lane alongside the hall, turning east with a confident step. He neared, stopped, and studied me. I’d placed myself partly in shadow, where my heavy makeup might look natural. Where one hand, tucked in my skirt, would escape notice. If something in you doesn’t want to show your face—your real face, the only thing that is really yours in this grasping world—and all they can see is where you’ve lost fingers to a fabric cutter, then employers will tell you they prefer girls more approachable, more capable. So I got no work in sales, in offices, in restaurants. And no suitors sought my hand. But in the dark magic of the night, masked in powder and paint, it was different. “My dear thing,” he said in a suave midwestern voice, like Clark Gable. “Are you entertaining this evening?” A silk scarf hung carelessly around his neck, so I named a steep price and called him Baby. He paused and something grim showed in his pursed lips. I thought I’d blown it. But he lifted his hand to my hair, brushed my ear with his fingertips, and showed me a silver dollar. “Will this do for a deposit?” It did. He introduced himself as Marvello—as you must have guessed, a magician. He was the opening act for a big RKO flick about Houdini. But he didn’t act at all like a Houdini; he acted like a Carnegie or a Rockefeller. I don’t know what a magician makes but he must have spent most of it on that hotel room. He stirred and grunted. I regarded his open wardrobe trunk. On one side, tight rows of shelves held a dozen bottles with Latin names on them. P. Lycopoda. Ergotia. Last night he’d translated some: flash powders (explosions, smoke), hand powders (sleight of hand and palming tricks), colorants (alchemical transformations), opium (countless uses, apparently), convulsives (I didn’t ask), etc. They were his équipement de guerre. All you needed to make the world your oyster. That and champagne. He’d winked, gesturing to the ice bucket. “I didn’t know magic was so real,” I said appreciatively, after a couple of glasses. “Nothing is real, my dear. It’s all tricks.” Leaning close, he purred, “Life isn’t real. Death isn’t real. Only you are real. There’s only you.” I wasn’t sure if he meant himself, or me. He began unbuttoning my blouse and it didn’t matter. Idly now, I tugged at a tiny drawer on the other side of the trunk. Cufflinks, tie pins, buttons, a needle and thread. Another drawer with newspaper clippings. Reviews of his act. A notice of a missing woman—someone he knew perhaps. I rifled, curious. Another missing woman, a different one. Disappeared. Suddenly my heart started thudding. I closed the drawer and turned to my clothes. “Don’t get dressed,” he said. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, smiling. “It’s still night, remember? Until I give the word.” “I’m cold,” I said. “Come here, then.” “All right.” My throat was dry again. I coughed and my thoughts tumbled. “I’ll just get some water.” When I came back his eyes were open and on me–and feral. I kept my damaged hand behind my back. “You don’t have to hide it,” he said, no longer smiling. “This is when you show me everything, girl. This is the reveal.” He extended his arm as if we were on stage. I slipped slowly into the bed next to him. Immediately he twisted on top of me, hands on my shoulders, pushing down hard. One hand went to my neck. “The thing about magic,” he breathed, using his other hand to push down my panties, “is someone is always the dupe. The one who sees the girl is gone. It’s all about controlling who sees. The flash. The powder.” He smirked. “Only you know if she was ever there.” His fingers crushed my neck. I lost breath and my chest heaved. I freed the hand from my back and drew the razor right across his throat. As I said, he was the first. © 2025 Glenn Willmott About the author: Glenn Willmott is a pulp magazine lover and fiction writer who studies modernity and wonder at Queen’s University in Canada. It's the oldest profession, and somehow it's become the family business.
My mother was a dancer. The kind of dancer that men like my father, a trucker from Santa Cruz, paid good money to spend time with. He had fun, she got her $50 and eighteen years with me. When she left forever, I cried. What will happen to you? I asked. She shrugged. There are some things you don't need to know. I pulled my hair up in a tight ponytail and lined my lips in matte pink lipstick. I had a variety of shades lined up on my mahogany vanity. Gloss? No, that would be too forward. You get by on your looks and you'll never really work a day in your life, my mother always said. It was all she ever said, before making a few bucks on her back. I never wanted to be like her. All I had when I dropped out of school was my looks. My golden hair, my blue eyes, my curves. Men looked at me. Men wanted me. The cell on my vanity rang. Unknown number. This happened a lot; men who wanted to stay anonymous. “Hello, Lavender speaking.” Silence. I pulled the phone back. It was still connected. I put it to my ear. “Hello?” A click, and the call dropped. The job started innocuously enough. A few dates with rich men. A few sugar daddies. Eventually it became a lucrative business. And, like Mom said, I was getting by on my looks. That is, until I met James. James McGuffin. Art critic. He'd get me into his shows to hang on his arm, making his coworkers jealous. The phone rang again. Unknown number. “This is Lavender.” Silence again. My lip upturned into a smirk. Men could be so funny, my mother always told me so. “There's no need to be shy, dear.” The call disconnected. I slipped the phone into my handbag. Work functions like James’s required a suit, shorter heels, and straight hair with only the hint of a curl at the edge of the ponytail. I knew this role. I air-kissed towards the mirror. I looked just on the edge of tart, but still professional. A rap hit my front door. Must have been my pizza. With one last wink to the mirror, I snatched cash off my side table as I grabbed the handle. A homely older woman in a floral dress stood on the stoop. Her mousey-brown hair fell limp at her shoulders and her round spectacles took up the majority of her narrow face. A traditional, stiff housewife. “Are you Lizzie?” she asked in the tiniest squeak of a voice. Lizzie. That was a name I hadn't used since I was back with Mom. Lavender had seemed more seductive, something that rolled off the tongue better. It was a hooker’s name. My Mom liked it. “Yeah,” I said, leaning my hip against the doorframe. “That's me. Who are you?” She tossed back her shoulders and lifted her chin. I suppose that's when I should have realized something was wrong. Meek ladies like that don't stand up to women like me. We're in different leagues, different calibers. Different aisles of the lingerie section. But this lady? She firmed up her stance like she was about to take a punch. “I'm James McGuffin’s wife,” she announced. Well, shit. That was always a bummer. Definitely not the first time I had to explain my services to someone, and probably wouldn't be the last. I opened my mouth to speak when the thought struck me: How did she know my name? She pulled a gun from seemingly nowhere. The lights from the hallway glimmered in her dark pupils. Murder, Mom would have said. She had murder in her eyes. She took a step forward and I took one back. She shut the door behind me. “Jesus,” she sneered. “You two even wear the same shade of lipstick. Guess hookers are all the same.” My back hit the vanity, and my hands curled around my purse. My phone. I could feel it between the layers of Coach leather. “Yeah, no, I don't think so, Lizzie, hand it over,” she flexed an outstretched palm. “No police.” I swallowed, and my heart sank as I fished the device out. I looked down for a second at the table. My lipstick. My hairbrush. My still-hot curling iron. “You don't know why I'm here, do you?” she mused. I didn't. She knew my name, she knew my address, and I knew nothing about her except who her husband was. I was in deep shit. “I guess you're here to tell me to stay away from your man,” I replied, turning around. “I've heard it before.” Mom always told me to be cool with the wives. Never let them see you break. Wives got mad in this job. Especially the floral-wearing, God-fearing, traditionalist types. They'd never pulled a gun before. This was new. Mom never told me how to handle this. The woman’s lip quivered up in a sneer. “Your mother already messed with my man. In a truck stop in Santa Cruz twenty years ago.” The Santa Cruz trucker. Oh, God. Nausea rushed up my throat. “No,” I breathed. “No, he's not.” “Yes,” she hissed, taking a step forward. “He's my husband. And you're going to stay away from my family.” I met him at an art show. He said he heard about me. He wanted to get to know me better. I bought champagne, and we discussed prices. He ran his hands along my thighs. James McGuffin. My father. I swung the curling iron forward, the hot barrel slamming into the side of the woman's cheek. It sizzled, she screamed, and the gun fell with a clatter onto the carpet. I dove for it, and curled my lacquered fingertips around the trigger. There are some things you don't need to know, my mother said. She was right. © 2025 MJ Huntsgood About the author: MJ Huntsgood is a speculative thriller and horror author who enjoys exploring the use of perspective and deep POV in her work to find the nightmare not just in a situation, but within ourselves. She lives in Washington DC with her 5 plants, 2 cats and trophy husband. Again this morning, Hannah wakes up dead. She might have been surprised if she had the courage to feel anything, just as it’s been every day for the last thirteen months and twenty-six days. The claustrophobic cell is awash in blues and grimy greys. A persistent institutional hum intensifies her dense fugue.
Her first thought: Where is my boy? Her brain crackles with tangled memories. Gone. Her son is gone. Metal clanging on metal punctuates the horrific reminder. Hannah cannot breathe. A gruff voice over the loudspeaker bellows the start of another endless day. Hannah struggles to rise against the monstrous weight that pins her rigid body to the unforgiving mattress. *** It happened so abruptly, although not unexpectedly if anyone had been paying attention. If anyone cared enough to notice or offer Hannah help. For three years, she and Jackson tried to conceive. Every bloody month was a reminder that Hannah wasn’t fit to add her genetic code to the Munroe family’s lineage. She desperately wanted to be pregnant and prove to Jackson’s mother that they could make their unlikely coupling work. Two weeks before their first appointment at the swanky fertility clinic, Hannah’s pale yellow pee produced a blue plus sign on the white plastic stick. She and Jackson spooned all night, his gentle hand on her soft belly. Seldom had Hannah felt healthier or more optimistic. Jackson’s mother created a short list of baby names: Mason, Marshall, Maxwell, certain Hannah was carrying another Munroe son. After nineteen hours of focused labor, Mackenzie slipped into the world weighing seven pounds, ten ounces. He was perfect. Perfection lasted two weeks, until Jackson vanished into the world outside their home. His thirst for fatherhood satiated, his long days left him too tired to wake for midnight feedings. Then the crying started. Not Mackenzie. Hannah. She cried every day. Exhausted, she couldn’t sleep. Food tasted like cardboard that she pushed down her throat because a good mother breastfeeds. Her milk dried up. Headaches corrupted her thinking. Her body ached. She shrank until only her shadow remained. Before her body atomized like dust in the wind, Hannah settled on the long, blue sofa with Mackenzie’s tiny, warm body nestled against her chest. She kissed his downy head and closed her eyes. He never cried. *** Since that awful day, Hannah remained as silent as the grave. Unable to answer the unanswerable questions hurled at her by Jackson, his mother, the police, her lawyer, her shrink. How did it happen? Why did it happen? How does she have the gall to go on living? Hannah rolled her leaden body onto her left side. As slow-moving as a week of rain and tears, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Her bare feet recoiled from the cold cement floor, and she sucked in a sharp, deep breath. In that moment, a single word escaped her brain, slipped across her lips, and ruptured her months-long silence. “Mackenzie.” The sound of his name shocked Hannah’s heart, transmitting a whisper of life to her dead limbs. She looked out the barred window of her cell as if for the first time. Light scattered the mist in the gray morning sky. She crossed her arms and embraced the memory of her precious son. The monstrous weight of grief shifted and resettled on her chest. Her grief will always be with her. Now she must learn to sit with it. Express it. Learn from it. © 2025 Diana L. Gustafson About the author: Diana L. Gustafson is a Canadian academic and emerging creative author with an MFA from The University of British Columbia. She received an honourable mention in an Off Topic Publishing fiction contest and has a modest record of published fiction and creative non-fiction. She has an embarrassingly large collection of eccentric corrective lenses, but none are rose-coloured, a testament to her commitment to social justice issues. |
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