Here it is, folks!

Issue Four of

Find What You Love

&

Let It Kill You

I’ve always been superstitious of the number four. A neuroticism exacerbated by the fact that out here in Japan it means death and is considered very unlucky.

一　ニ 三　四

Let’s count together!

Ichi – Ni – San – Shi

One Two Three Four (Death)

I often awake at 4:44 in the morning.

Spooky right?

Anyhow, the penultimate issue of FWYL&LIKY is anything but unlucky.

We’ve got a bag full of stories and they’re all good. DEAD good.

This series has actually been one of my favorites so far and I really dug the mixture of genres and narratives that we got.

Charles Bukowski would have been proud I’m sure.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed the series too. If you liked someone’s story please reach out to them and let them know.

The next two issues I’m going to drop are going to be the Champagne For My Real Friends and Real Pain For My Sham Friends Series in May and then FUCK THE MAINSTREAM in July, so get your stories ready for those.

Anyway, without further ado, here’s Issue Four!

Cheers

Steve

The Last Trick

by

Meghan Leigh Paulk

I stand onstage, perfectly poised. Prepared for what comes next. My nerves jangle, but no one will see me tremble. I wear a slinky red gown, eschewing the spangles and lace favored by other performers.

“On the count of three!” I call to my assistant, Bertie, who stands at the stage’s opposite end. With a showy grimace, I warble, “Aim carefully, darling!”

“Don’t worry!” Bertie hollers back. “I only had two martinis at lunch!”

Nervous titters come from the crowd. They’re too on edge to even laugh. I have them right where I want them. Full of a-n-t-i-c-i-p-a-t-i-o-n.

A magician never reveals her secrets, but I’ll let you in on mine. I live to defy your expectations. You think I can’t levitate this table? Up it goes! You don’t believe I can slice Bertie up into nine pieces and then put him back together? Ta-da! You think I won’t stick this GIANT needle through my arm? Watch me! The adrenaline charge I get from an amazed audience is better than any drug.

“One!” I shout, starting the countdown to my masterpiece.

I discovered magic at age eight, while playing the damsel in distress in my older brother’s homemade Indiana Jones knockoff. I wriggled out of my ropes before the hero even arrived. Mom called me “Houdini.” Well, then I had to know who Houdini was. So I read up on him and I fell in love. With magic.

“Two!”

Tonight, I’ll perform my greatest feat. The Bullet Catch. The riskiest illusion in magic. Bernie fires a bullet directly at me and I catch it in my teeth. Many, many magicians have died attempting the trick. But I’ll succeed where those fools failed. Yes, the Bullet Catch purportedly carries a curse. Curses don’t scare me.

“Three!”

No risk, no rewar—

BANG

Bio:

Meghan Leigh Paulk is an attorney by day, crime writer by night, living in Austin, Texas. Her short stories have appeared in Punk Noir, Shotgun Honey, and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Her short story “It’s Half Your Fault” (EQMM July/August 2023) was nominated for the 2024 Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for best first short story by an American author.

Metastatic

by

Paul Radcliffe

Cancer is a mugger that waits in darkened hospital wards. It smiles to itself and gently reminds us of the conversations we had, the ones that reassured us that we have to die of something. We do, and we don’t have the choice. So we smoke. And we drink. And we hear about people who did the same, lived till they were ninety and never had a day’s illness in their lives.

And we believed it, as children believe in Santa.Which is why I drank for many years and also why I am slowly turning an unflattering shade of yellow. Eyes as well and-to complete the picture-my belly bulges outward and my liver-as I am told-has decided to spread the malignancy news to other organs. The banks have burst, so to speak. But I loved drinking and the doctors-ever cheerful-told me that that was the main reason I was in this hospital bed looking at a slice of cold toast while the lost soul in the next bed stares upward. No happy banter in the community of the unwell. The doctors were kind enough, I suppose, having no doubt seen it all before.They pointed out that being male was, well, a factor in my having metastatic liver cancer. They were kind enough not to mention the whisky, the beer and latterly-no point denying it-the equation that I needed to pour more and more down my neck to achieve the same effect. It is academic anyway now. The medics have delivered the bad news speech.

In the small hours, the cancer isn’t in the shadows. I loved drinking. It will kill me soon. And all those pub voices were right.

You have to die of something.

Bio:

Paul Radcliffe was born in Liverpool, lives in New Zealand and works in Emergency. He is not a great believer in happy endings, but glimpses them occasionally in his writing. He is fond of cats despite their repeated efforts at hypnosis. Although he is no academic, he hopes to produce a paper on Acronyms as Justification-A Pocket Guide for Defence Lawyers. It’s good to give something back. Whatever he writes about is underlined by a basic understanding. Nothing goes away.

The Madman, the Beggar, & Me

by

Ryan Fiennes

I step off the bus

wearing two shoes

that are more glue than leather,

carrying a typewriter under one arm

and a cardboard suitcase

under the other.

A new city, a new dawn.

There is only survival.

There is no other way.

There’s never been any other way.

Just ask the hustler who takes the last dime from the educated fool.

There is more knowledge

in the calloused hands

of the working man

than in all the suits in Washington.

Just ask the dust of the road & the leaves that fall from the fruitless trees,

that flutter into the gutter & land . . .

alongside the madman, the beggar, and me.

Bio:

Though primarily a writer of fiction, the poetry of Ryan Fiennes has been published by Trashlight Press, Literary Revelations Press, Sea Crow Press, and many other publishers, both in digital and traditional print.

The Snap Decision

by

Anthony Kane Evans

As usual, she’s ignoring me, and this six-month cruise, this so-called romance, seems to be moving in ever-decreasing circles. I check my life jacket in the mirror – it sits well – and throw myself over-board.

The liner looks more elegant now, it’s whiteness against the light blue of the sky, the turquoise of the sea; perhaps I wasn’t cut out to be on it in the first place, maybe I’m more the contemplative type, an arbiter of taste, even.

I recall why I’m here and laugh harshly.

“Take that,” I shout, not quite managing to get the fist out of the water.

Anthony Kane Evans has had around eighty short stories published in various UK, French, US, Canadian, Nigerian, Singaporean, and Australian literary journals, e-zines, and anthologies. Though born in Manchester, UK, he is currently to be found in Copenhagen, Denmark, where he has made several documentary films for the Danish Broadcasting Corporation.

Bluesky: @anthonykaneevans.bsky.social

Twitter: @AnthonyKaneEva1

Leo’s plan

by

Simon Firth

I met Leo one summer evening at a bar in Shinjuku. He was drinking alone, but insisted he’d been with friends; they abandoned me, he said. I told him my friends had left me long ago, or I’d left them. That’s how it goes, he said. He asked where I was staying. The Prince Hotel, I said (a lie), twenty minutes from here. Let’s walk there, Leo said, I’ve been sitting for too long.

We walked for hours. Leo said he’d lived here for years. He’d arrived as a bright-eyed literature student, determined to master the language and make something of himself. One evening, he met a man claiming to be the grandson of a member of Yukio Mishima’s private militia, who’d launched a failed, bloody coup to restore imperial rule. That uncompleted project is the great shame of this country, the man said. His grandfather stayed with Mishima to the end, right up until he drove the blade into his stomach at the Ichigaya garrison.

Leo was gripped by this uncompleted project. He left his wife and enlisted as a samurai at an academy in Saitama. For ten years he trained obsessively and immersed himself in Mishima’s works.

‘I concluded,’ Leo said, ‘that Mishima was insane, but not insane enough.’

He’d written a tract, The Last Restoration, scheduled to go online at nine tomorrow morning. It would coincide with the storming of the Ichigaya garrison, which would be livestreamed on YouTube.

‘But that’s over now,’ Leo said. ‘They abandoned me, the project…’

By chance we’d arrived back at the bar. Leo lit a cigarette and asked which hotel I was staying at. I said I couldn’t remember. I asked if he’d be recruiting again soon for his private militia.

‘Maybe,’ Leo said, as he walked off into the night.

Bio:

Simon Firth is a writer from Morecambe Bay.

Alpha-Gal, the Carnivore, and the Lone Star Tick

by

Jon Gluckman

My number one girl, my love, my entomologist wife got on this jag, making vegan meals. Like sweet potato and peanut curry, that looked like an intestinal discharge from a GI tract affliction. Like something scraped from my boots returning from the barn. I failed to see the point. Somewhere I read tomatoes scream when you cut them. And how many chickens had she whipped around like a cheerleader’s baton before chopping off their heads and then plucking them naked? God, did I love roast chicken. God, did I love my wife. The upshot, though, is something’s got to die for something to live. She’d changed. I wanted her back. The real Sarah. So I took her hunting.

“Stop crying,” I said, and shoved the Savage 11/110 Lady Hunter into her chest so she’d have to grab it. If looks could kill. And then we entered the forest.

The ticks were something awful. “Can’t see their usefulness,” I said to her. “Most things put upon this earth have a use.” Sarah just raised her eyebrows.

She must have pinched a dozen off my back, sitting on the mudroom bench, stripped to our skivvies, listening to them sizzle on the head of a match.

Two rabbits weren’t enough for dinner. So I told Sarah to defrost a steak. “None of that hippie garbage,” I said. I love steak.

“Put some butter and herbs in there. And bloody, too. Make it bloody,” I said.

I’d half of mine down. Sarah hadn’t touched hers. All she ate was the salad.

“Hear those tomatoes screaming from here,” I said, taking a huge swallow of milk, feeling its coolness roll down my throat.

Sarah made her eyebrows dance, and I nearly choked myself to death laughing.

Bio:

Retired English teacher Jon Gluckman writes in a small southern New Jersey town outside Philadelphia, PA, USA. He is grateful to share his life with his beautiful and brilliant wife, Barbara, and his two lovable, knuckleheaded rescue puppies, Arthur and Bella. He believes that despite the hardships, “Life is Good.”

The Ghost in the House

by

Epiphany Ferrell

The ghost in the house wants Count Chocula for breakfast. I pour the milk, the cereal becomes soggy. I bolt it down when my husband enters the room. He knows about the ghost, of course he does, but he doesn’t like it. Her. The rest of the box goes stale in the cupboard.

The ghost in the house wants a pony. I get another cat instead. It pisses in the corner, and my husband blames the ghost. The cat sits under our window and yowls. She’ll have kittens in the root cellar in a few weeks, one pale and spectral that’ll wind itself around my legs, threatening to trip me.

The ghost in the house wants a story. I read aloud book after book when the children are at school, when my husband is asleep at night. I read until I’m hoarse. None satisfy.

The ghost in the house wants a lullaby. I sing while I wash the dishes, songs from my own childhood. Songs from memory. Songs I thought I’d forgotten.

The ghost in the house touches my face at night with small hands, whispers in my ear one word with its milky breath.

Bio:

Epiphany Ferrell’s stories appear in The Best Horror of the Year, vol. 17, Samhain Screams, Hiding Under the Leaves and elsewhere, with flash stories in Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction,Ghost Parachute, Wigleaf and other places. She lives perilously close to the Shawnee Hills Wine Trail in southern Illinois. Wine may have facilitated this story.

Not What I Expected

by

Harris Coverley

i.

Freud called it “death drive“. Žižek insists that Freud really meant it as a kind of “drive to life“, but I say Freud’s meaning is pretty clear.

ii.

Ernest Becker insisted everything a human being does is a means to escape the thought of death and establish transcendence of the fact of its inevitability, even though that’s impossible.

iii.

For me, it’s cake. Used to be beer. Before that, burritos. But now: cake and biscuits. Yeah, legally they distinguish cakes and biscuits (cakes go hard as they age, biscuits go soft —that’s what the courts ruled), but for all intents and purposes the latter is the incestuous sibling of the former.

Can’t stop eating them. Lunch, teatime, midnight. Heartburn and all.

The doctor says I’m on my last arse, but I can’t quit. It’s an impulse, more base than sexual lust. In fact, cake blocks you from sex: no girl wants that damp hot pile of blubber flobbing on her all night long. Try catching your breath as well with half a Black Forest Gateau lodged in your oesophagus.

iv.

I guess I had what you could call a “vision”: it all dripped out of me. All the cholesterol clinging to the walls of the arteries since the age of seven or so. Out of the fingers, from underneath the nails. Drained across the floor and formed into a baconic humanoid of pure creamy fats, seven foot six and a mouth like a hammock.

He pointed at my body with a hand all of thumbs. “You gonna eat that?“

“Yes,” I replied, no thought required.

Then I woke up even though I’d not been asleep.

v.

Need a doughnut now after all that. And one of those sweet tomato soups they’ve got. And something for much later of course.

[END]

Bio:

Harris Coverley has had more than a hundred and thirty short stories and over two hundred poems published in journals around the world. A former Rhysling and Dwarf Stars Award nominee, he lives in Manchester, England.”

Welcome friends to Issue Three of

Find What You Love

and

Let It Kill You

For me, what makes a great short story, or any great piece of media for that matter, is the length of time it stays with you.

This series has been one of my favorites so far because so many of the stories have entered my life and refused to leave. I am now introducing them to you in the hopes they’ll start squatting in the recesses of your mind too.

Madeleine Armstrong’s story was especially resistant to exorcism today when I was walking my dog Boo in the woods and fell spraining my ankle thus becoming her unfortunate protagonist.

Currently have my foot up on the coffee table with a bag of frozen special fried rice on it. Classy huh?

Anyway here are a handful of stories to give you a head full of ghosts.

Enjoy

Steve

Tiger Girl

by

Alice Kinerk

Nobody loved her, that was the problem. Her parents loved arguing, her brothers loved fart jokes, and her classmates loved making fun of her ratty, unbrushed hair. On a field trip one day, she went to the zoo. There she happened by the tiger enclosure, locking eyes with a regal orange striped cat, his shoulders tall as hers, his teeth long as her fingers. Each time she stepped left he stepped left, each time she stepped right he stepped right, back and forth across the long glass wall, never breaking eye contact, not even once. And the tiger didn’t do this with any of the other children, only her, which was funny. The chaperone laughed. Looks like you found a friend. Because you don’t tell a child, Looks like that tiger wants to eat you. And therefore she grew up believing her soulmate was a tiger, and she pined for him, her secret love, and visited him whenever she could. Childhood ended, her brothers moved out, her parents divorced, and still she believed. She spent the summer before her senior year selling popcorn at the zoo. She stopped by the tiger enclosure every day. She made him promises. He made her promises too. Then one August evening she came across a set of keys abandoned in the employee break room. With trembling hands she unlocked her beloved’s prison. She slipped inside, lay down next to him as he lounged atop a bed of palm fronds. She whispered in his fuzzy ear I am yours at last. He placed a heavy paw across her chest. They folded themselves gratefully into one another, no longer separated by a shatterproof wall of glass. He growled huskily, nuzzling at her neck. Let’s spend eternity together, he told her. And so they did.

Bio:

When she isn’t poking at the keyboard of her laptop, Alice Kinerk enjoys reading, cooking new-to-her recipes, and jogging the quiet country roads near her house. She has published work in Colorado Review, North American Review, Terrain.org, and elsewhere. Read more at alicekinerk.com.

ForMication, with an M

by

David Hagerty

At age fourteen, Damon discovered bike racing was more alluring than girls. He rode that passion from the amateur ranks in the U.S. to the pro peloton in Europe. But talent and training could only take him so far, so he looked for an edge. His team’s soigneur, Maurice, said he knew just the thing. Supplements helped riders recover. Maurice was from France, where people grew up biking, so Damon let him inject a small vial of clear liquid into the little fat he had left.

After that first shot, Damon felt the benefits within hours. It made him faster, stronger, sharper. So he started weekly doses. Soon, he was placing, then winning. For months, he rode that adrenaline surge to victory.

Then the worms emerged. They were small and immobile, like maggots, bubbling up from some road rash after a crash. Damon ignored them, figured they’d go away. Instead, they crawled under his skin, causing an unbearable itch. Once they moved to his hair, Damon looked for a cure.

The team doctor examined the scabs on his arms, the claw marks on his legs, then leaned against a cabinet that locked away the good medicines.

“Formication,” he said.

“But I haven’t had sex in months.”

“ForMication, with an M. It means you’re hallucinating.”

“If they’re not real, can’t you get rid of them?”

“The only way is to stop taking those drugs.”

“The supplements?”

“Is that what you call them?”

Damon ignored the doctor until at his next race he overcooked a corner and skidded out on his hip. The road rash stung, but the worms that emerged were worse, dancing from the wound with jubilation. After remounting his bike, they so distracted him he never saw the next turn or the cliff just past it.

Bio:

David Hagerty has published more than 50 short stories online and in print, including five in prior editions of Punk Noir. The most recent of these was “The Power Avengers” in March 2025.

Find What You Love

& Let it Kill You

by

John Madrid

She had been dying for years before anyone noticed.
Not the dying of organs or blood gone wrong — something slower, beginning in the hands.
She painted.

Before the city woke she walked six blocks to a studio she couldn’t afford and painted what
the day gave her. Not the room. Never the room. The slice of light that hit the wall wrong.
The cracks that made shapes like the bedrooms she’d outgrown as a child. Some mornings she faced the mirror and said, I’m great. Too loud for the apartment. Too loud for a woman with nothing in the fridge and rent three weeks late. She said it because if she stopped she’d have to sit down, and sitting down would finish what the painting had
started.
Her husband said she was sick with it. He wasn’t wrong. There were days she forgot to eat. Days the brush ferrules bit into blisters and she didn’t let go. She mixed colours no one had asked for: ochres that smelled of wet clay, blues so deep they hummed. Canvases leaned against every wall like evidence of a crime she kept
returning to. She lived on cigarettes and tap water and the small terror of an empty page. And still, when
the light hit right, she felt it-clean and certain-as a dog feels weather. In the bones.
By the end her hands were ruined. Knotted, useless as driftwood. She couldn’t hold a brush. So she sat in the studio with its cracked light, closed her eyes, and painted anyway. The
colours were still there, burning behind her lids. It was enough.
It had always been enough.

Bio:

John Madrid is a writer based in North London. His work tends to live in the space where obsession meets self-destruction. You can find more of his writing at johnmadrid.substack.com.

For the Love of Writing

by

Sandra J. Cady

Jennifer discovered late in life that writing was her everything. Her grandchildren loved the short story she wrote for them and asked her to sign their copies which she stapled and gifted with her heart filled with joy. Next came valuable lessons from her college creative writing professor, who’d been mentored by Elmore Leonard. Joining the local library writing critique group, she gained further skills. Jennifer penned only mysteries, having read them since third grade. She attended book conferences to make contacts and further immerse herself in the world of writing.

​Tom, Jennifer’s husband of forty years, became increasingly distant as her success grew. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we won a big lotto and you could quit writing? Tom asked her.

​“You really don’t get it, do you,” Jennifer answered. “We could win big but I’d never stop writing,”

She resisted Tom’s efforts to take vacations and join retiree groups. He met a friendly widow and disappeared from her life within a matter of months. Jennifer didn’t care. Without Tom around, she had more time. Family grew distant as she refused invites to gatherings. What mattered was the thing she loved most—writing.

Jennifer resented her agent’s and publisher’s insistence she get out more to market her books. “I’m a creator now,” Jennifer declared to all. More stories with different twists, red herrings, and plot reversals drove her days. Writing was her muse and master.

She’d ignored recent heart palpations and pain. When she collapsed at her desk after adding a superb paragraph to her latest novel, her dying thought was I didn’t have time to finish my lovely work.

Bio:

Sandra J. Cady is a former Detroit police officer and past owner of a private investigation agency. Her bachelor’s degree is in criminal justice and her master’s degree is in administration. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and The Short Mystery Fiction Society. Her latest short story, High School Reunion, appears in the mystery anthology, Crimeucopia: The Not So Frail Detective Agency, published by Murderous Ink Press and released in December 2025. This anthology is a finalist for the 2026 Derringer Awards. Sandra’s story, High School Reunion, has been noted by reviewers and submitted for the Shamus and Derringer awards. Her detective novel, A Game of Luck, published by Black Rose Writing will be released on April 30,2026 and is now in preorder on numerous book selling sites. Her second novel, The Return of Bonnie Rutkowski, P.I., is in publishing review. Sandra also has a short blurb on what the song, Philadelphia Freedom, means to her in the introduction to Better Off Dead, Volume 1, published by Down and Out Books in August 2025.

Fucking Roberta

by

Laura Bogner

I’m late for my audition. Again. Shit like this happens every time I see Roberta. I should know better, but I’m bound to die by my dick’s bad choices.

“Have another drink with me.” Roberta grabs my elbow. I have to go home and memorize lines. I’m reaching for my keys on the table. “Come on.” She bats those brown eyes, twirling the stem of her empty wine glass. Her stiletto tips somehow managed to make it obscene. “We have so much we need to catch up on.” Her negotiation skills would make a lawyer sweat. Three drinks later, I’ve let Roberta convince me to let her give me a hand job under a cloth napkin in the leather booth of Musso and Frank.

“Oh, to be young again,” I say to myself in the mirror of the bathroom on the Paramount lot. I’m so hungover, I’m green, trying to squeeze the rest of my lines out of my pickled brain—but I’ve got nothing. Nada. Zip. And then that smug son of a bitch, Ellison—what a contrived piece of shit name is that? He comes barging out of the stall and sees me and goes.

“They have you reading for the lead?” He says, like, he can’t believe a guy like me could possibly be reading for the lead. It must have been the adrenaline from my audition, or maybe it was that double shot of espresso I pounded from the coffee cart on my way in. I want to kill him

“Yeah, I’m reading for it,” I say all tough, channeling De Niro. “And when I’m done with that, I’m going back to my apartment to fuck Roberta.” And wouldn’t you know, that pretentious little prick ‘Ellison’ puts up his hands and backs out of the room.

Bio:

Laura Bogner is a writer and visual artist. She lives in Joshua Tree with her husband and dog. Her writing has been featured in Punk Noir Magazine, Urban Pigs Press, Rock and a Hard Place Magazine, Space Cowboy Podcast and Adad Zine. She has read with Red Light Lit, La Matadora Gallery, SkyLight Books and performed in Live From Joshua Tree. When she’s not writing, or making art, she teaches yoga classes daily on Zoom for students from her yoga studio in Los Angeles that closed during the pandemic. Laura is always looking for inspiration for a good story lurking in plain sight everywhere she goes.

Regret

by

Madeleine Armstrong

Shaun liked a drink. Not just a drink: the whole bar. So it was a shock to everyone – not least Shaun himself – when he packed in the booze and took up hiking.

​That weekend it was Pen y Fan. The car park at the bottom was quiet, just the way he liked it, despite the late winter sunshine.

​By the time Shaun reached the ridge, though, a thick mist swirled like the head of a newly-poured Guinness, swallowing the view. Shaun’s anorak snapped in a sudden biting wind, and he regretted not bringing a warmer coat. A thin but persistent rain speckled his glasses, making it even harder to see the rocks that loomed out of the greyness ahead.

​Shaun’s hiking boot caught the edge of a boulder and he tumbled over, knees and bare hands hitting scree.

​He laughed, embarrassed, even though nobody was around to see.

​When he tried to get up, his ankle gave way and he collapsed back onto the ground.

​Shaun touched the ankle gingerly. It was agony.

​He crawled through the mist, legs scraping the sodden ground, damp seeping through his walking trousers. He took shelter behind the rock that had tripped him, fumbling his phone out of his jacket pocket with freezing fingers.

​No service.

​“Shit.” He huddled into his inadequate anorak, telling himself that somebody would be along soon.

​The mist was darkening into night and his body was numb from the cold and rain when he realised nobody was coming.

​He considered dragging himself back towards the car park but, in the blackness, he feared he might fall from the ridge.

He wished he had a torch. He wished he had some food. More than anything, he wished he had a hip flask full of whisky.

Bio:

Madeleine Armstrong is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author who has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including BULL, Bunker Squirrel, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Micromance, Mythic Picnic, Punk Noir, Temple in a City, Trash Cat, Underbelly, Urban Pigs and WestWord. She’s a journalist and runner, and lives in London. Twitter/X @Madeleine_write; Bluesky @madeleinewrite.bsky.social

My Human

by

S. B. Watson

My human and his human were always arguing. It never bothered me. As long as my kitty bowl was kept full, I was happy. If they got loud, I could always slink under the sofa and sleep. And my bowl was always full. You see, my human loved me, better than he loved his human.

They argued over ‘snow’ when it wasn’t winter. They argued about ‘Mary Jane’—why they cared about the female’s flat-bottomed shoes I’ll never understand. They argued about ‘horse’, though they lived in a cheap apartment and could barely afford the canned food for my kitty bowl, let alone a big equine.

But, as long as my bowl was full, my human loved me, and I loved him.

The day the female scratched my human, with one of the claws from the kitchen, they’d argued about death. I have nine lives, so I’d assumed my human did too—apparently, he didn’t. The female left quickly after that. I was surprised, of course, but regained my calm soon after, and went to bask in the sun coming through the patio door.

Two days later, my bowl still hadn’t been filled. I didn’t panic—felines don’t do that. I licked the dried blood from the floor and chased the flies around my human’s body.

After three days, the blood was gone, and my bowl still wasn’t filled.

I admit, I did think twice before gnawing the skin from his nose and licking the jelly from his eyes. But he loved me, and fed me, in life—why shouldn’t he feed me in death?

Bio:

S. B. Watson lives near the coastline of rainy Oregon with his wife, five children, three cats, and one (rather large) dog. When he’s not writing in his private library, he may be found playing bluegrass guitar, studying chess and other games, helping his wife in their garden, smoking rare and exotic tobaccos in old-fashioned pipes, or simply reading. His works have appeared in Punk Noir, Mystery Tribune, and Mystery Magazine, as well as publications by Black Beacon Books, Murderous Ink Press, Camden Park Press, and others. He was a 2025 Shamus Award finalist.

Wonderland

by

Scott MacLeod

Kids dig shiny stuff. Animals like it too. Gets their attention. But they had nothing on Wade.

The object of Wade’s affection shone brightly. Like the sun. Center of his universe. Blinding. Dazzling.

Were diamonds his bag? Jewels? Crystal? That kind of glitter? Nah.

Wade was in love. Head over heels.

Francie’s divorce request caught Wade, and only Wade, by surprise.

He’d never strayed from his true love.

She couldn’t deny that.

You see, he was in love. Deeply so. But not with Francie.

Wade couldn’t pass by a reflective surface. Without a peek. That was his thing.

Anything that transmitted back to him a big ole dose of vitamin Wade.

He hadn’t mistreated her. Hadn’t treated her at all.

Off to the home gym at 5 each morning. Then hair and skin regimen. Day trading all day. That’s what he called it. Mostly surfing conspiracy theories and self care. Then TV. His shows. While he scanned his sports bets.

No action under the covers. Besides sniffing his own fumes.

His friends, now exes as well, had noticed the same. Dropped from his life as they’d left his radar.

When Francie dropped the bomb, he had only one thought.

“Must be hard for you,” he said.

Francie told him the truth. “I’ve been a widow for some time now.”

Wade didn’t understand. As usual.

“You disappeared long ago.”

“Disappeared?”

She knew she was talking to herself but continued.

“Into the mirror. As good as dead.”

“Dead. I’m far from it.” Wade legitimately confused. Spying himself in the burnished door of the Sub-Zero behind her head. He’d never looked better.

Bio:

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack at

https://scottmacleod1.substack.com

on Instagram @scottmacleod478, on X @ScottMacLe59594 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334

Riding Shotgun

by

Steven Lemprière

Breaking, cleaning, then reassembling the gun, the solvent’s pungency made Luke’s eyes water and, strangely, induced an urge to piss. The motel room offered little in the way of creature comforts, but it had a bathroom. After pointing and zipping, Luke turned toward the washbasin and saw a familiar reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. Not yet sixteen, a girl with wide eyes, nameless and partially clothed, stared over his shoulder. She never spoke. Her presence was accusatory enough.

It was a job, like many others. A high-value target. What Luke hadn’t known was the mark’s predilection for underage girls. She’d burst through the bedroom door; screaming after he’d wasted her abuser. Spinning around, he’d hurriedly let off a second shell in self-defence before realising he’d shot a child. Collateral damage, his client flippantly commented. But for Luke, she’d twice been a victim that night, only to become his ghostly companion.

Other targets, many since, vanished into a fog. Forgotten faces, but hers… she lingered. She’d appear genie-like in the steam of his morning coffee, or outside a cab’s blacked-out window, and, like tonight, in a bathroom mirror. She’d even sit across from him at diners, observing him eat, and she had his back, riding shotgun whenever he executed his trade, a sigh escaping her lips, one only heard by Luke as someone reached their expiry date.

Tonight, she sat at the end of the bed, watching Luke pour a generous slug of rye into a plastic glass. The girl’s gaze was weary, echoing his own. There wasn’t any trace of malice in her eyes, just a profound, inescapable sorrow. Luke simply nodded. “I know, kid,” he whispered to the empty room, to the imperceptible burden he bore. “I know,” his last words before putting the gun to his head.

Bio:

Steven Lemprière’s work appears in Punk Noir Magazine, The Literary Garage, Instant Noodles, Suddenly and without warning, Flash Fiction Magazine, and other publications. Short-listed for the New Writers Prize at the Cúirt International Festival of Literature, he lives between Ireland and South-West France.

It’s Friday the 13th and Welcome to Issue Two of

Find What You Love

and

Let It Kill You

This Friday’s issue is a good example of why I enjoy being an editor and throwing out these writing themes.

We’ve got 8 well-written, original stories by 8 very talented authors. I dug them all and hope you do too.

Enjoy!

Steve

Scored Zero

by

Wil A. Emerson

As an introduction, my name is Howard. Thank my mother. I have two activities that give meaning to my life. Call me a hiker or a biker. That said, I ride my Honda CB300R. 2019, to Mt. Hood, lock it up, climb until I feel dizzy. Do the descent, ride home.

I hate people; I love fresh air and the outdoors. That said, I am alone and actually love solitude, no interruptions. Which has become troublesome because I’m at a point where a girlfriend who enjoys the outdoors as much as I do could be a benefit. That said, there’s not a long list of reasons why I should seek that kind of friendship.

Truth be told, though, I’m a loner with a boner. My history: I’ve scored zero on the relationship gig. That said, Wednesday, I officially declared I would change my ways. So, I posted a note on a message board at Ho-Jo’s a coffee shop where I grab double expressos. People there are incessant talkers. The chatter drives me crazy, so I don’t linger.

My note was sweet. That might sound trite. But it was to the point. It read: Do you like to ride motorcycles? Like hiking Mt. Hood? I’ll provide thrills. 503-269-2828.

I received three calls Wednesday evening. The first one asked what kind of bike I drove. Did it matter? I hung up. The second caller asked if she could bring two kids. Never. The third asked if she could bring flake. That threw me off. I told her I’d give her some flack. Laughed, too.

We raced the wind, pushed the lever, stopped for a breather. She pulled out the flake. I realized it was cocaine after I went face down the cliff side. The obituary read: Never reached Mt. Hood.

Bio:

Wil A. Emerson is a registered nurse turned full time writer. A big leap but past experiences have led to a fortilla of interesting characters. Wil’s a traveler but writes while in Raleigh where a lofty skyline helps her muse take those characters into deadly situations. Her stories have been featured in national and international publications. Look for her novels on Amazon. Summer Wayside,the newest release, introduces Allen and a quest for independence that doesn’t come easy.

www.wilemerson.com

The Taproom

by

John A. Tures

The airport passengers, already on edge just days after 9/11, started freaking out when they saw their wing of Dulles Airport cordoned off by the men in Hazmat suits unfurling the yellow caution tape.

Those inside the barrier were ordered back. Those on the other side of the artificial boundary fled for the exits. With several deaths across America and far more hospitalized, everyone in America knew what was happening.

Anthrax.

Some inside the lock-down cried into cell phones, while others offered desperate prayers. One of those lethal letters slipped through the Dulles Post Office and made its way here.

The older guy from the National Reconnaissance Office who had been giving me a lead for my defense contract work pointed to his right. “I see the Sam Adams Taproom is inside the quarantine zone. It’s 5 o’clock.”

“And they’re still serving!” beamed a young blonde who told me on the shuttle that she was with the National Weather Service. “You in?”

“Of course!”

The party was on.

After the second round, the Nebraska Congressman who joined us inside the taproom stood up. “Wait! Won’t drinking beer now just…kill us…faster?”

The rest of us at the table gaped at him.

“Oh, right,” I laughed. “Who wants to linger for weeks, maybe months, dying of a painful, uncurable disease? Get me another Utopia!”

“Third round is on me!” the old codger from the NRO called out, signaling for the waitress.

Amid the international terrorism, domestic chaos, and weaponized anthrax, there was a 2001 Sam Adams Utopia MMII in my hand, the greatest and possibly last beer I would enjoy. I clinked glasses with the weather service blonde with the honey porter. Drink what you love, even if it kills you.

Bio:

Dr. John A. Tures began writing for the El Paso Herald-Post in high school. He writes a weekly column for newspapers and magazines (https://muckrack.com/john-tures/articles) and published short story mysteries and thrillers. His book Branded about dangerous academic research into a deadly product placement scheme and media manipulation was just published by Huntsville Independent Press (https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/branded-john-a-tures/1148820539). You can read the first two chapters of this book of corporate espionage, media manipulation and academic intrigue here for free (https://dl.bookfunnel.com/nfdmpqmn91). He thanks family and friends for listening to his stories. His author site is here: https://www.johntures.com/about-the-author/

Frank

by

Drew Gummerson

Hello. What’s this?

Stepping into the alleyway to piss Frank saw big eyes staring up at him.

Whattayadoin’ here? C’mon!

It wasn’t a dog but a mutt, hair matted, bedraggled.

They didn’t allow pets in his bedsit but Frank took him in under his jacket, put down a plate of beans. It was all he had.

Ever since Mildred had got eaten by that shark Frank had been lonely. And he blamed himself. It’d been his idea to break into the aquarium, indulge in some midnight skinny-dipping. Misadventurethe papers said after the press release failed to reveal any witnesses. What would’ve been the point of saying he’d been there?

He called the dog Dred. After Judge Dredd if anyone asked but only he knew the truth. Dred after Mildred. Mildred was no name for a boy.

Frank and Dred became inseparable, a great team. And Dred was a magnet for women. One after another they’d come up to them in the park and maybe one in ten would come back to the bedsit with Frank.

Then came Rita. She sold hoop earrings from a concession down at the beach. Frank was working then, on a hotdog stand. They’d meet after work, walk along the beach holding hands, Dred weaving in and out of their legs.

Until one day it happened. Dred took off. Spooked by a seagull? One second he was there, one second he was in the water, heading out.

You gotta save him, said Rita but Frank was already there. T-shirt off, shorts off, pants off, he was in.

Why he’d stripped he didn’t know, not until he got to Dred. It was Mildred, the ghost of Mildred. And what was she saying? That it was ok. I forgive you. It was love. This is love.

Bio:

Drew Gummerson is the writer of The Lodger, Me and Mickie James, Seven Nights at the Flamingo Hotel, and most recently, Saltburn. He is a Lambda Award finalist, Leicestershire Short Story Prize winner. His stories have been featured on BBC Radio 4, in various anthologies.

Oxy Moron

by

JD Clapp

Father Michaels, a close family friend, ushered me into his rectory office. After some pleasantries, I got to the root of my problem and asked for his counsel.

“Son, you’re risking everything, so you don’t have to face your demons,” Father Michaels said, his face grim.

“Father, my only demon is oxycodone…I’m not hiding from anything. I…just… love how it makes me feel…more spiritual and alive. But they suspect at work. I’m worried.”

He signed, raised a cynical eyebrow.

“Thomas Anthony Donovan, you’re a surgeon, the dean of the most prestigious medical school in Boston and an addict… Think of the scandal. Think of your family, your colleagues. For the love of Christ, think of your patients… You need to get into treatment,” he said.

I knew he was right. What the hell did I expect him to say? It’s not a sin if nobody gets hurt?

Ashamed, I looked down at my wingtips. He rummaged through a desk drawer, produced a folder and pushed it toward me.

“We can check you in here. Say you’re exhausted and having some health issues related to stress…You look like hell right now. People won’t question anything. You’ll get clean and go back to your life. I’ll help you.”

​I took the folder and nodded.

​“I know you’re right. I’ll call them after I get out of surgery this afternoon. I’m going to do this. Thanks father.”

​“God Bless, son.”

Walking toward the hospital, down Boylston, I took deep pull of spring air. I felt hope and renewal.

Two blocks down, I stopped at Dunkin Donuts. I took my last two pills from my pocket and stood next to the trash bin. Smiling, I chewed the pills and tossed the folder into the bin.

Now, let’s go give this lady a new liver.

Bio:

Based in San Diego, CA, JD Clapp writes fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction with a gritty slant.

Shop Till You Drop

by

Elizabeth Dearborn

She’d wear the gold and silver sandals with the 3” heels to the wedding. So what if they threatened to make her eat floor? Anyway, she had a new sequined purse, she was getting new boobs and an eyelift, and she’d make Vincent sorry he dumped her to marry that slut Theresa.

​“Mom, don’t go if you don’t want,” Rachel said at brunch the next day.

​“I do want. He’ll see what his money can do for me! Let’s go shopping!”

​Two months before the wedding, she checked into a discount medical clinic somewhere in the islands. Blepharoplasty, silicone implants — and a butt lift to reward herself for not killing Vincent. To complement her new face and body, Philippe colored her hair blue-black, just like Elvis. After a few days’ rest, she felt well enough to look at vacation homes. Obviously she would need to purchase all new furniture and hire household staff.

​She wandered through the town, stopping to buy trinkets here and there, collapsing onto a park bench after a few minutes of walking. Not great! She’d just sit here until she caught her breath, then wait until her Uber arrived. The airline didn’t permit O2 concentrators aboard and she was too vain to carry a nebulizer. This place really is a shopper’s paradise, she thought. At least, I have the money now to enjoy it …

​“Wake up, lady! You waiting for an Uber?”

​“What? Oh. Yes.” She stumbled to her feet.

Name, destination, confirmation number, payment method, all checked. The driver helped her into the back seat and piled the shopping bags in. With a long ride ahead, he figured she’d want to chat. But he heard only her ragged breathing until it stopped, her midnight eyes staring straight ahead, her blood-red lips still open.

Bio:

Elizabeth Dearborn lives near the Canadian border with her disabled veteran husband. Her fiction has been published in Flashshot, Burst literary ezine, the Drabbledark anthology, the final B.O.U.L.D. anthology, and Punk Noir, and is forthcoming in Yellow Mama.

THAT

by

Cindy Rosmus

“No more,” the AI voice says. “of ‘THAT.’”

A male voice with an Aussie accent.

“You’ve exhausted your limit.”

SWEETEE-SEZ, it calls itself. This secret time-travel whiz. Geek squad for lovesick dopes, hot for even just minutes of “THAT.” Past, or future. Everyone’s “THAT” is different. Yet,the same.

“I’ll pay extra.”

“You all do . . .” It sighed. “For . . . ‘THAT.’”

Desperate, you grit your teeth. “All I’ve got.”

‘Cos this trip will kill you.

This jaunt back to the ‘80s, through a banned music video. A tragic fire.

Pyrotechnics gone bad.

The rock god you adore. . .

A hole that tears through time. Atoms split walls, rearrange matter, so you’ll fly backwards, arms and legs flailing. Like last time.

Quantum physics? Only SWEETEE-SEZ knows.

Who cares?

S’long as you land next to “THAT.”

Onstage. HIM, at his hottest!

Surrounded by flames. Real ones! Sweaty, electrifying, long hair ensnaring you, back through time. Up close, eyes like soft tar, wanting you. During his band’s most killer tune, with a zillion bitches screaming his name, he’ll suddenly stop singing.

THAT’s what you want.

But . . . Last time the flames went crazy.

Wasn’t that just for show?

“The fire is real!” SWEETIE-SEZ warned you. “You could. . .”

This time you’re ready. . .

Backwards, arms and legs flailing . . .

Then splat, onto the stage.

No time, you realize, for THAT.

This time, he’s pushed out of place. Gorgeous, eyes wide. Like a glowing fire god. The smell of burning hair makes you reel.

Yours.

The crowd screams. Horrified, he backs away, as flames envelop, and char your body. Despite excruciating pain, your minds still clear.

He’s safe.

And that, your mind tells you, is THAT.

Bio:

Cindy Rosmus is a diehard Jersey girl who talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in places like Shotgun Honey, Megazine, Dark Dossier, Danse Macabre, The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, Punk Noir, Rock and a Hard Place and Gemini. Her story “Toast, Jello, Tea” was nominated for both the 2025 Pushcart and Best Small Fictions prize. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama and has published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.

The Birthday Present

by

Roy Dorman

William DuPont is a realtor dealing in high-end properties in New York City.

After twenty years of plastering a fake smile on his face every morning he’s grown to hate his job.

But he does have something in his life he looks forward to: He gives himself a birthday present every year.

He kills somebody.

The seven people he’s killed were not completely random, though before William had decided their deaths would be that year’s present, he hadn’t known them.

New York City has a large number of undesirable characters to choose from. William’s presents were mostly small-time hoods. The world was not poorer for their absence.

***

Today is William’s birthday. He’s going to be fifty. That’s a big one.

William has taken the day off to prepare for his present.

He wished he had a special mark to celebrate this one, but he’s had to settle for a punk who shook down small store owners in the Bronx for “protection” money.

William had tailed him most of the day, and at 10:30 PM he followed him into an alley.

William had a silencer-equipped Glock and wasn’t afraid to enter a dark alley with a crook. He’d done it before.

Coming up behind him, he said, “It’s my birthday. Say ‘Happy Birthday.’”

Some said, “Please don’t kill me.” And some said, “Fuck you, asshole.” Other responses were along those lines.

William shot his present and turned to leave the alley.

“Hey, watcha doin’ shootin’ one of my best customers?”

William turned to face a well-dressed man who was pointing a Sig Sauer at hm.

“Happy Birthday,” Ritchie Connors said, as he shot William in the chest.

William smiled and a trickle of blood escaped his lips.

“Thanks,” he said, falling to the pavement.

Bio:

Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for over 70 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer. He has had flash fiction and poetry published in Black Petals, Bewildering Stories, One Sentence Poems, Yellow Mama, Drunk Monkeys, Literally Stories, Dark Dossier, The Rye Whiskey Review, Near To The Knuckle, Theme of Absence, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, The Yard, and a number of other online and print journals. Unweaving a Tangled Web, published by Hekate Publishing, is his first novel.

Mickey

by

Whiskey Leavins

“Can I fix you a drink, Hon?” Just the idea of bourbon made me feel better. The sound of her voice even more so.

“Babe, it’s like you read my mind.” I dropped my briefcase by the door. Looking at her was overwhelming. As usual. Four years on and her beauty never got old. I was always aware that I was punching above my weight.

A hug and a smooch. “You head to the patio, relax. I’ll bring it out.” A drink meant a manhattan. Light vermouth.

I slumped into a patio chair, exhausted but smiling. Santa Lacrimosa summers are glorious. Sunny, mid-seventies. I watched the squirrels, hummingbirds. The Santa Lacrimosa Mountains in the distance. Mickey emerged with two drinks. We clinked glasses and sipped.

“Want to tell me about your day?”

“Meh, the usual. I’d rather sit here and look at you,” I bobbed my eyebrows.

Whenever we walked into restaurants, heads turned for her. At her most casual, Mickey was a stunner. Raven hair, red lips, model’s cheekbones. And legs. Good god, the legs. Now, in a low-cut, short sundress, she waggled her upper body, a playful smile on her face. How lucky was I?

We sat in silence, close enough to hold hands. Absorbing the healing properties of the back deck, finishing the drinks.

A tiredness washed over me. Probably the bourbon, I thought. Then a pain starting in my shoulders dripped down my chest. I waited, assuming it would pass. It didn’t. Breathing became a struggle.

“I don’t feel so good.”

Mickey said softly, tenderly, “I know, Hon. It was the drink.”

“What?”

“It was a hard decision. Which bourbon to pair with it.”

“What?”

“I went with the Elijah Craig Single Barrel. I know you love it. Least I could do.”

Bio:

Whiskey Leavins, a humorist with a crime-writing problem, has lived a nomadic life in multiple cities and states both north and south of the Rio Grande. Now he loves life in Santa Cruz, California and has no plans to leave. He is the author of the Santa Lacrimosa humorous crime series which features murderous clown factions, turkey-worshiping cults, and brawling street performers, and was referred to by one Goodreads reviewer as “A one-man genre.” Like his main character, Detective Rock Cobbler, Leavins appreciates a good dive bar and a bit of bourbon.

Welcome to Issue One of Find What You Love and Let It Kill You.

This month we’ve got some Bukowski inspired prose mixed in with our usual fare of crime and transgressive tales, so you’re in for a real treat.

Find What You Love and Let It Kill You.

That quote opens my crime novel Say Goodbye When I’m Gone and I also have it tattooed across my upper chest. It’s an important phrase and one I try to remind myself of often because it’s how I want to live my life. After all, if you haven’t found something worth dying for, what are you living for? That’s a quote too although I’m not sure who said it…

Although, I doubt it’ll kill me (I hope not anyway) Punk Noir is one of my loves, that’s why today in between my eldest daughter’s junior high school graduation ceremony and changing my youngest daughter’s diapers, I sat down to put together this awesome issue of 7 stories by 7 talent writers.

It’s real mixed bag that I dug A LOT and hope you do too.

If you haven’t found something you love enough to kill you, perhaps go look for it after reading this issue.

Enjoy and all the best,

Steve

Everywhere

by

David Milner

Across the open space of a park, she is there. In the confines of his studio apartment her presence lingers. The rustle of nylon as she crossed her legs he hears as a prelude to the longest chord change of clothes hitting the floor. His reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink he barely recognises. She is the smell of soap. He can’t stomach the same foods they used to like and share. His diet of toast, crisps and biscuits augments his intake of vodka, coffee and anything he can lay his hands on to smoke. Rice makes the inside of his mouth itch. The thought of pancakes reduces him to tears.

She’s everywhere but in his bed. He’s given up sleeping there. He hides on the sofa, or under a duvet on the floor where he dreams of her watching the sun go down in someone else’s arms.

“Are you feeling alright?” His mum asked over the phone.

“Just a head cold, is all. I’m fine.”

He stopped phoning. Stopped working. His funds diminishing, his days stumbling into weeks he’s no longer counting.

He ventures outdoors mostly to air his clothes as the fabrics are beginning to stink. At night he loiters at the entrance of the underground station. Drinking from a can of strong lager because vodka is getting too expensive. People only seem to notice him when he coughs.

“Forgive my tubercular symphony.” He laughs, for the hell of it, he laughs.

There are those who say he is wallowing in self-pity. But what can they tell him? This love is real; let it eat him alive from the inside.

He lifts his can to a crescent moon. She is never coming back. Let there be no escape from his goddess divine.

End

Bio:

David Milner’s stories have appeared in print and online at Punk Noir, Duality Books, Spillwords Press, Impspired Magazine. His plays include, I’m Still Here, performed live on Resonance 104.4FM Radio, and Shinwell: An Extra Break For Breakfast, published by Impspired Books. He adapted and directed his story, Into the Breach, as a short film for the Rise of The Resistance festival, screened at Bloomsbury Theatre and Wellcome Collection. A founder member of the punk band Vee V V (Edils Records), David finds his stories when he’s out and about, or they find him. He lives in South London.

Five Copper Bullets

by

Devin Misko

Late August rain pelts Los Angeles; a scarcity miracle that drowns brush wildfires. Dust-laden Santa Ana runoff gurgles in storm drains, pours out into the Pacific. Florian’s dining room curtains billow like rural ghosts.

He stares at his tidy backyard as a breeze faint with char enters through the open windows. A cigarette burns near his fingers while his mind rattles with devious manifestations and puzzle pieces. The week-long bender is bullish.

Dana walks into the room, her face disgusted at the silver serving tray lined with blow. She brandishes Florian’s Colt .38 casually. It was his father’s, a beat cop during bootlegger times. The old man was buried somewhere in Forest Lawn, his secondary piece the only tangible connection remaining. Dana slides it to the center of the table as if it’s a place setting. He begins to inquire about the gesture’s meaning, but his tongue is a swollen mute.

She doesn’t wait for his chakras to align. “This way is much faster. Less tortuous for all parties involved.”

His fingers fumble the gun before picking it up, the steel cold, almost foreign. Its heft belies the compact size.

“My daddy left me this,” he murmurs through a swinging jaw, retelling tired familial history.

Her glare undercuts burgeoning machismo. “You should go join him. Sooner rather than later.”

Florian levels the gun at his wife, pushes thick words forth. “Holds six rounds. Effective in close quarters. Maybe we both pay him a visit.”

“You don’t have the guts,” she spits, pulling a fist from her pocket. Opens it. There are five copper bullets in her palm. “Damn fool.”

Raindrops crater the pool surface as light fog unfolds over the patio. Florian puts the black-hole barrel to his temple. His lips crease to a sanitarium smile.

“I trust you, love.”

Bio:

Devin Misko resides in Memphis, Tennessee. He has an adult son. His stories are dedicated to his late mother. He has been published in Shotgun Honey and Punk Noir Press.

Duty of Care

by

Sophia Rose

“I like my coffee like my men—ground up and in my freezer.”

I smiled before anyone else could decide whether to laugh. Marion’s joke still hovered in the air—black, strong, in my bed—and mine arrived like a dead body cooling on a linoleum floor. Conversation died fast. A good joke should go down smooth—mine had bones in it.

“Sophia,” Marion said finally, shaking their head, “you are the most gruesome medical professional alive.”

Hardly. Darkness implies imagination. This job requires endurance. Paramedics don’t invent horror—we inventory it. We zip it, lift it, stabilise it, pretend it doesn’t follow us home. You learn which parts of yourself to cauterise. You learn which urges to feed so the rest stay quiet.

I excused myself from brunch, patted backs, drove to my shift. Green uniform. Cheap tea. gazing at my smoke screen pretty reflection. I laughed again—too loud—for a joke that meant it, the mirror fogging up like it didn’t want to see me either.

Accidents blur. Overdoses repeat themselves. Abuse never does. Women folded inward, apologising for being broken. Children already fluent in fear. Everyone promising it was the last time. It never is. Social services does paperwork. I stop the bleeding. Someone has to come back later. someone mustlove the work enough to finish it.

The call crackled in: Mother and child locked in a closet. Male offender present. Police en route.

I thought of my cellar. Of the hum—steady, loyal. Two chest freezers holding their temperature like a vow. 0°C to -20°C. Preservation is key.

“Find something you love”, Charles Bukowski said “and let it kill you”.

After my work is done, perhaps I will make one of my freezers my own final resting place tonight.

Bio:

Sophia Wiseman-Rose was born in Richmond, London and is currently living in central London (UK). Her fiction has previously appeared in Black Petals magazine, Yellow Mama webzine, and on the Scare You To Sleep podcast.

The Swim

by

Laurie Brown

She had lived in the stone cottage at the foot of the lake most of her adult life. It was her haven, her solace, her nemesis. More than the house with its drafty windows and creaking floors, it was the lake with its cold, crystal waters and constant breezes both pleasant and bracing that kept her there for the better part of fifty years. The lake called to her like a lover she couldn’t ignore, like a drug.

She swam there every day. Some days, it was a quick plunge. Others, she spent floating for hours, cavorting like an otter. Today she would swim to the island in the middle of the lake as she did every year on her birthday. Above her dark clouds massed, yearning to spill their contents. The wind picked up and blew icy spray across her time-ravaged body. A wry smile flickered across her face and with careful steps she waded in. The woman dipped her right hand into the cold water and made the sign of the cross, not because she was religious—she was far beyond the help of any church—but as a sign of supplication and enduring devotion. When the water reached her thighs she dove. As soon as she broke the surface her body responded with the sure, strong strokes of a confident swimmer.

Halfway to the island pain flared, running up her arm, followed by tightness in her chest. Her breath caught. She ignored it and swam for the island. Her traitorous left arm hung limply by her side. Sweat gathered along her brow and blurred her vision. The woman stopped and let the water guide her one last time. Today would be a final baptism, marking an eternal union. Her spirit buoyed as her body sank.

Bio:

Laurie Brown is an active member of Inked Voices, Sisters in Crime, and the Authors Guild. Her debut middle-grade novel DON’T FRET FRIDA comes out in September 2026.

The Urbexer Decides

by

Robb White

That day he’d climbed to the roof of the sweater factory, he was hooked. He remembered hanging on to the sumac branch thirty high above the ground by one hand, concrete rubble below, pretending to be a monkey scratching himself. His friends watched from below, cheering and laughing, one hoped he’d fall.

Rory’s followers were few but loyal. Other urbexers praised his skills hanging by his fingers from a crumbling rooftop—regardless of the carping a couple did no matter what contortions he had to perform or risks he took weaseling his body through busted drainage pipes reeking of dried fecal matter or animal carcasses or finger-walking from one ledge to another. He stepped across exposed I-beams in upper floors of abandoned factories and hotels so many times that when a newfollower typed BIG YAWN in the comments, he told his cameraman Scotty he was going to give that bozo something to remember.

His fingertips were numb through his climbing gloves—another bad sign. The nerves in his forearm were burning. He didn’t need pain making a life-or-death decision, but he had to decide soon, make a move, or send Scotty for help. He’d been stuck on that ledge, immobilized because he’d misjudged the distance to the next handhold and the torque necessary once he released his grip. Scotty’s head appeared again from the window granary below. Rory told him to keep the camera in position. He wanted the move captured, memorialized, even if . . .

He blanked out that thought. First things first. Decide. Make the jump, make the jump, do it—

The longer he waited, the worse the odds. Ninety feet to the frozen ground. He wouldn’t bounce.

That day at the sweater factory: they cheered, they watched me do it.

Fuck it . . .

-END-

Bio:

Robb White lives in Northeastern Ohio. 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. His recent publications include a collection of noir tales: Fade to Black: Noir Stories of Grifters, Drifters, and Unlovable Losers (2024), a suspense thriller, Jersey Girl (2025), and a crime novella, Easy Money (2025).

If That’s All There Is

by

Carlotta Dale

When I was a young’un, folks used to call caffeine and nicotine the Breakfast of Champions. I don’t hear that much anymore. Too many people eating yoghurt and blueberries. If they added a hefty tot of Scotch, well, then we’d have something to talk about.

But they don’t, so we don’t, and they think I’m an old ornery cuss, anyway.

I am old. And grumpy. Take that as a given. I’m—almost—the geezer you see shuffling down the sidewalk, so bent over he’s staring at his sneakers.

Things won’t come to that, not after the cirrhosis verdict.

But while I’m waiting for the inevitable, I’m having a drink.

On the jukebox, Peggy Lee is asking, “Is That All There is?”—at least she doesn’t oversing, although she sounds kinda forced—but let’s talk that over for a minute.

No, I wasn’t having a ball, or dancing, but those are peripheral, right?

Breaking out the booze is the whole damn point.

I’m housed in an assisted living place—not much assistance, frankly—but the saving grace is the bar downstairs. The assisted living management had lobbied hard for its removal, but the bar was on a long lease. So nuts to them, sez I.

Codgers are welcome in bars: we may not drink much—the social security doesn’t stretch far—but we don’t take up much room and we don’t cause trouble.

So, the bar. Beats wandering the aisles at Rite-Aid.

I’ve heard that Bukowski himself used to hang out here, but hell, half the dives in L.A. say that. Guy got around. Fans tell me I resemble him, to which I say, “kindred spirits.”

A lake of whiskey. That’s how I envision the afterlife. Great big party, right? Unless it’s a circle in hell. Either way, can’t happen soon enough.

Bio:

Carlotta Dale lives in Los Angeles, a city she adores from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in a house that’s essentially an oversized cabinet of curiosities. She still uses adverbs—sparingly—and her novelette, The Parrots Come Again, is available on Amazon. Dale has had short stories published in Punk Noir Magazine, Pistol Jim Press, Literary Garage, Alien Buddha Press, Bristol Noir, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, and Mythic Picnic. She can be found on Twitter @carlottadale38 and on BlueSky @carlottadale.bsky.social.

Love and Let Die

by

Nathan Pettigrew

On my fiftieth birthday, I truly believed my father might be a vampire. At seventy, his health put mine to shame. I had hypertension, severe eczema, all kinds of shit while the old man lived his best days on a pot of coffee and two packs of Winstons.

He used to sentence killers to death for a living, but even after retirement, the old man didn’t slow down. He accelerated, smoking three packs before hitting the hay.

I never worried about getting sick because of him. I had his genes, after all, and followed in his footsteps, inhaling two packs between waking up and crashing.

Though, I preferred Marlboros.

On my fifty-first birthday, my PCP sent me to specialist who diagnosed me with Stage 4 lung cancer. I didn’t tell the old man, thinking he might be ashamed.

We got along best whenever we smoked together, and in those moments, he taught me everything I knew. Who and who not to rob without getting caught, and where to launder my fortune.

Turned out, local crime boss Victor Searcy ended up in the same assisted living facility as my father and somehow recognized him despite going senile.

Cops told me that Victor shot my father in the neck while he was taking his last drag of a Winston. Doing what he loved most until his final breath.

Guaranteed to join him within the calendar year, I saw no reason to not die from what I loved doing most. I upped my game to three packs of Marlboros daily, even from dusk ‘till dawn.

Like father, like son, as they say, but we definitely weren’t vampires.

Bio:

Nathan Pettigrew was born and raised an hour south of New Orleans. He is the author of Tales from Terrebonne, forthcoming in 2026 from Rock and a Hard Place Press, and Managing Editor of Mythic Picnic.

“If you want to know who your friends are, get yourself a jail sentence.”

Another Bukowski quote above to kick this writing challenge off.

I gave my newborn baby daughter the name of a friend who I know for a fact would hide me from the law and angry crowds of pitchfork wielding villagers if things ever came to that.

That’s the best kind of friend in my book.

What I’m saying is —

Friends do come and go. The good ones stick around. The fake ones fade fast. In the writing scene this fact of life can be a tad more extreme I sometimes feel.

Chino Moreno put it best on Cypress Hill’s Rock Superstar,

We’ve got a lot of sharks out there… try’na take a bite of somethin’.

What’s hot… lot of chameleons out there… try’na change up,
Anytime somethin’ new comes along…

Everybody wants a bite
Don’t happen overnight.

And so, the month of MAY is dedicated to all the shams, all the fakes and all the fraudsters. The users and the manipulators.

“Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends.”

Word Limit: 300 words

Submissions Open: April 1st until April 25th

Submit below

punknoirmag@yahoo.com

Stephen J. Golds

Stephen J. Golds was born in North London, U.K, but has lived in Japan for most of his life. He speaks the language pretty well and makes great takoyaki.

He writes primarily in the noir and dirty realism genres and is the editor-in-chief of Punk Noir Press. Some of his writing influences are Charles Bukowski, John Fante, James M. Cain, Tobias Wolff, Sarah Kane and Jim Thompson.

He enjoys spending time with his daughters, reading books, traveling the world, boxing and listening to old Soul LPs. His books are Say Goodbye When I’m Gone, I’ll Pray When I’m Dying, Always the Dead, and Shadows Slow Dancing in Derelict Rooms. His poetry collections are Poems for Ghosts in Empty Tenement Windows I Thought I Saw Once, and Half-Empty Doorways and Other Injuries. He also has a short story and poetry collection titled Love Like Bleeding Out With an Empty Gun in Your Hand.

Stephen J. Golds Website

Damn, it’s already nearing the midpoint of February. Where does all the time go? I don’t know.

My apologies for being absent as of late. I’m sure you know how it is. Work and life and everything in between.

My wife will be giving birth at any moment (My 3rd daughter. Very chuffed) but I’d like to try a theme in March if I can.

The theme is as the title suggests

“Find What You Love and Let It Kill You”

Bukowski wrote that line in a letter to Sherri Martinelli, I believe, correct if I’m wrong.

Anyhow, Bukowski was the one writer who inspired this North London dropout that didn’t know his alphabet until the age of 11 to start writing, and although my fiction has been severely lacking somewhat lately, I’m still in the ring, albeit in the corner for now.

I digress, take the title and the theme and do what you all do best — make it your own.

Word Limit: 300 words

Submissions Open: Now until February 25th

Stephen J. Golds

Stephen J. Golds was born in North London, U.K, but has lived in Japan for most of his life. He speaks the language pretty well and makes great takoyaki.

He writes primarily in the noir and dirty realism genres and is the editor-in-chief of Punk Noir Press. Some of his writing influences are Charles Bukowski, John Fante, James M. Cain, Tobias Wolff, Sarah Kane and Jim Thompson.

He enjoys spending time with his daughters, reading books, traveling the world, boxing and listening to old Soul LPs. His books are Say Goodbye When I’m Gone, I’ll Pray When I’m Dying, Always the Dead, and Shadows Slow Dancing in Derelict Rooms. His poetry collections are Poems for Ghosts in Empty Tenement Windows I Thought I Saw Once, and Half-Empty Doorways and Other Injuries. He also has a short story and poetry collection titled Love Like Bleeding Out With an Empty Gun in Your Hand.

Stephen J. Golds Website

Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmasto all you Punk Noiristas out in the world today and welcome to Issue 3 of PUNK NOIR’s twisted little series of one punch knock outs that have thus far rendered many readers punch drunk and deliciously disorientated. Yep, today’s flurry of punches is truly a great gift from good old Saint Nick so please do enjoy as it is the last.

—Issue Three—

Featuring: Zachary Wilhide, Terena Elizabeth Bell, Nathan Pettigrew, Dr. John A. Tures, William Draycott, David M. Simon, Keith Roysdon, Scott MacLeod, Lawrence Kithcart, and Edward Barnfield

As he felt the shiv go into his belly, Sammie remembered that she’d said her husband liked getting his hands dirty.

Zachary Wilhide is a writer and artist who lives in Virginia Beach, VA with his wife and cats. He has previously had stories published in Spelk Fiction, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama Webzine, and Shotgun Honey, among others. His art currently resides at https://www.deviantart.com/whytedevil.”

Herbert opened the front door to find everything missing — his sofa, his tv, his wife.

Terena Elizabeth Bell is a fiction writer. Her debut short story collection, Tell Me What You See (Whiskey Tit), was named one of the “best books of the century (so far)” by New York Society Library. Get one of her stories delivered to your inbox every month by subscribing here: patreon.com/terenaelizabethbell.

One shot to the head put my partner in a grave, and me in a cell for life, leaving me forever jealous and wishing I could trade fates with the duplicitous bitch who made it to hell first.

Nathan Pettigrew was born and raised an hour south of New Orleans. He is the author of Tales from Terrebonne, forthcoming in 2026 from Rock and a Hard Place Press, and Managing Editor of Mythic Picnic.

If the well-heeled ladies of the town had been just a little nicer to their stylist, perhaps their hairs wouldn’t have kept showing up so inconveniently at various crime scenes.

Dr. John A. Tures began writing for the El Paso Herald-Post in high school. He wrote for his college paper at Trinity University in San Antonio and at Marquette University. He earned his doctorate at Florida State University, analyzed data in Washington DC, and is now a Professor at LaGrange College.

It all began — as far as I, or the police could tell — exactly as it ended: without prejudice.

As an Uncle Buck impersonator, William Draycott has more success than most. When in public he is often mistaken as a writer with words in The Yard Lab, Free Flash Fiction, The Cranked Anvil, Scaffold Literary Magazine, Dark Holme Publishing, and Prosetrics, much to their chagrin.

The bullet tore through her chest before she could say her name, and for one brief moment I wished I had waited just a few more seconds before pulling the trigger.

David M. Simon is an ad agency creative director by day, writer and illustrator by night (and weekends). He writes for both adults and kids. His short stories have appeared in several anthologies.

The Bullock Boys called themselves the Bullet Boys when they were running guns, so it was a foregone conclusion they’d die in a hail of ironic bullets when the feds caught up with them.

Keith Roysdon is a Tennessee writer whose 1984-set high school crime novel THAT OCTOBER was published in June 2025. His crime novel SEVEN ANGELS will be published in 2026.

Ed used most of his bullet money to buy a fancy carnation to look sharp at the funeral, after all, it only took one.

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack at

https://scottmacleod1.substack.com

I never fancied myself a painter, but here I am, doing my best Pollack in the snow, red paint scattered on white canvas, all for money I’ll never spend and promises that died as soon as they left her tongue.

Lawrence Kithcart lives in Monroe, NC with his wife and kids and animals. His work has appeared in Punk Noir and Trash Cat Lit. He tries to read a short story a day and writes when he can steal time.

His wife was at the party, his kids, and all of the skips from across the five boroughs, but the only real surprise was when his younger brother – three days fresh from a six-year stretch – stepped up and fired the first bullet.

Edward Barnfield is a writer and researcher living in the Middle East. His stories have appeared in Rock and a Hard Place Press, The Molotov Cocktail, Third Street Review, Punk Noir, Third Flatiron, Galley Beggar Press, Shooter Literary and Triangulation, among others. He’s on Bluesky @edbarnfield.bsky.social.

From the editor:

I’m going on Winter Leave now folks but just wanted to say ‘thank you’ from the bottom of my rotten scarred heart for all the love you’ve shown PN this year. Trying not to piss and moan too much but I’ve been through a bit of a war these last 18 months with my health which has completely sucked all of the oxygen out of my own writing endeavors for the time being but this scrappy little magazine and the support you lovely people have all shown has kept me in the game.

A Massive thanks also to M. E. Proctor and B. F. Jones for guest editing kick ass themes.

Thank you to all our readers

&

Wishing You All the Best for 2026

~ Stephen

Welcome Punks, Poets and Perps to Issue 2 of my small crimes experiment — can a crime story be told in a single sentence? Yes. The answer is Yes. Enjoy!

~ S

— Issue Two —

Featuring: Jessica Russo, Fred Shrum, III, Merlin Flower, Erin Britton, Madeleine Armstrong, Pam Ebel, Irv O. Neil, Tammy Blakley, Gavin Turner and Roy Dorman…

You wanted an open relationship, I gave an open casket.

Jessica Russo is an elementary teacher that writes darkly comic short fiction. Her motto is less is more when it comes to writing.

He finally found his daughter in the woods with a bloody knife and a dead man.

Fred Shrum, III is the author of “Psalms of the Street Sweeper” and “Tourist Trap”. He is the EIC of Skyway Journal. Find him on Twitter @fshrum

“Not deep as it looks, just jump,” she said with a wry smile.

Merlin Flower is an independent artist and writer.

“Nature made me do it,” said the cuckoo to the now emptynester.

Erin Britton (@EzzBrit) is the current cozy crime correspondent for Crime Fiction Lover and former editor of NB Magazine. Her reviews and articles have also appeared in Prairie Schooner, Independent Book Review, San Francisco Book Review, Split Lip, and The Coil, among others. When not reviewing books, she’s a freelance editor and proofreader.

I’ve captured the fucking flag and the boss is on the forest floor, red paint exploded at his temple like blood, the last time that prick’s gonna pass me over for promotion.

Madeleine Armstrong has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published by Bunker Squirrel, Flash Fiction Magazine, Fussub, Hooghly Review, and WestWord. She’s a journalist and runner, and lives in London with her husband, son and two cats.

Since you can’t stand my voice anymore I won’t tell you the gun pointed at the back of your head is loaded.

Pam Ebel is a teller of stories in many genres. They have appeared in Shotgun Honey. I have several stories in the 2020 and 2021 BOULD AWARDS ANTHOLOGY available on Amazon.

I finished strangling Maisie with the teal scarf she’d vamped me into buying her after Sunday brunch in Koreatown.

Irv O. Neil is a longtime freelance writer and magazine editor. His first story for Punk Noir was “The Clown Inside Her” in October 2025. His neo-noir novel Fate of a Stripper, and his slice-of-life stories about New York City, are available as Kindle ebooks on Amazon.

The last man who called me darling, and didn’t mean it, is with all the others who tried that shit with me at the bottom of the bayou feeding the crabs.

Award winning author Tammy Blakley lives in the Pacific Northwest. She completed her first manuscript with no formal training and a total lack of adult supervision. She has previously published stories in Punk Noir Magazine, Urban Pigs Magazine, Pistol Jim Press and Stone’s Throw. Find her on Twitter @tammy_blakley and Bluesky @tammywritesbooks.bsky.social

Turns out diamonds don’t have best friends, and neither did the bullets that just left Detective Kowalski’s gun.

Gavin Turner is a BOTN nominated writer from the UK. His short fiction and poems are published with JAKE, Punk Noir, Voidspace, Dark Horses and Roi Faineant press. He has released two poetry collections, The Round Journey (2022) and A Mouthful of Space Dust (2023). You can reach him @GTurnerwriter on twitter.

Father Edward Connor’s prison life is about to get a lot more interesting, as Jimmy Simms, one of the boys he’d molested years ago, has just been sent up for murder.

Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for over 70 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer.

Welcome to issue one of One Shot Kill.

Every Friday (Japan Time) I’m going to be bringing you a batch of one hit wonders, one liners and one punch knock outs.

Lines that snap, crackle and POP!

Wit. Lyrical flair. Dark intentioned sentences that are a whole story caged within a scalpel bladed single line.

Punk Noir definitely has some of the most talented contributors out there. Bar none.

Enjoy folks!

Steve – the Ed

– Issue One –

S.D.W. Hamilton, Aimee Kluck, Cindy Rosmus, Steven Lemprière, Elizabeth Dearborn, Kyle Grubb, Ed Ridgley, Offer Kuban, Amy Grech, Autumn Bauman…

Her bullet pierced his heart, but it was the truth she whispered as he died that broke it.

S.D.W. Hamilton is a writer from the North Coast of Northern Ireland.

His debut novel, Blood on The Broadcast, a crime and mystery thriller set in Belfast, released in February 2024.

On their 70th anniversary (platinum), Joe and Maureen Grimes, wracked with aches and pains in a world gone mad, lay in bed and sipped champagne (Dom Perignon) laced with a fatal dose of morphine.

Aimee Kluck has always been writing and telling stories. She recently took the plunge to publish her tales. Her interest lies in how ordinary people get caught up in extraordinary events and must make decisions that will affect their lives, families, friends and communities.

Picturing her decapitated was fun, but hearing her blonde head clunk down the stairs was music to my ears.

Cindy Rosmus originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama and has published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.

Loyalty, a one-way street in Frankie’s roadmap, saw a .38, and not alchemy, transform the lead in his partner’s gut to gold.

Steven Lemprière’s work appears or is forthcoming in Punk Noir Magazine, The Literary Garage, Suddenly and without warning. A creative writing course undertaken while a patient at an Irish psychiatric hospital, saw him, shortly after his discharge, short-listed for the New Writers Prize at the Cúirt International Festival of Literature.

The office glutton always helped herself to anything in the fridge with my name on it, so I filled my personalized water bottle with antifreeze and left for vacation.

Elizabeth Dearborn lives near the Canadian border with her disabled veteran husband. Her fiction has been published in Flashshot, Burst literary ezine, the Drabbledark anthology, the final B.O.U.L.D. anthology, Punk Noir, and elsewhere.

From the sweetness of your kiss, to the small hairs on your thighs, I knew I simply had to feed you, to my fruit flies.

Kyle Grubb is a consulting engineer and part-time writer of adult fiction from Coventry, UK, with my most recent publishing credit being a short story featured in Air and Nothingness Press’ Upon a Thrice Time anthology.

At the author event for my book debut, How to Defeat a Bully, I saw his ghost in the audience, the meat cleaver still parting his hair.

Ed Ridgley (https://linktr.ee/edridgley) is the author of “Dream On” in Janie’s Got a Gun, Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Aerosmith anthology. He won AHMM’s Mysterious Photograph Contest, July/August, 2023, edition.

Now and again, when I’m deep in my drink, you rush back into my mind’s eye with the same calamity of that subway train I’d bumped you in front of.

Offer Kuban is a Canadian author, who works in healthcare by day. He loves multiple genres, including Sci-Fi and Fantasy, but also dabbles in the shadows of Crime & retro-Noir. He also hosts and produces “The Speakeasy: Conversations with the Writing Community” podcast. Twitter: @OfferKuban

Cannibal, hungry for more..inquire within.

Amy Grech, she/her/hers, has sold over 100 stories to various anthologies and magazines. Alien Buddha Press published her poetry chapbook, A Shadow of Your Former Self. Her last name is pronounced, Greck.

Detective Frank whispered his first question to the killer, “Now, where did I put the bleach?”

Autumn Bauman writes time-capsule fantasy and science fiction. She is also the creator of Fablesmithy, a book production company for indie authors.

Deacon hadn’t accepted a job in three months. Didn’t need to. The last one netted eighty grand for him and four times that for The Boss.

Still, The Boss kept calling.

Deacon wasn’t answering, though. He’d earned a certain autonomy over the previous decade and there would always be jobs.

His phone rang.

He worried he’d manifested another call from The Boss, but it was a random number from his hometown in the Carolinas, where he hadn’t set foot in decades. He answered because he always answered, even though 90% of the time the voice on the other end was a robot or a scammer.

This is Deacon.

The man on the other end said Deacon’s legal name.

You’ve got him, Deacon perked up.

The man was seeking donations to help the people of Western North Carolina, but Deacon could smell that his spiel was bullshit from jump street. Normally he would have hung up, but this one hit close. Hurricane Helene had decimated the region where he’d grown up and where his father still lived. He’d briefly considered going back, but imagined himself showing up, the generator humming, his old man on the porch with a whiskey, saying, the fuck you doing here?

As Deacon played along with the scammer, the noise in the background of the call crystalized into something familiar: the train announcements at Union Station, a half a mile away.

Deacon couldn’t believe it.

I’m out right now, Deacon said. But I’d love to talk more when I get home. Call me back in ten minutes?

The scammer agreed and Deacon hung up.

Deacon finished his beer and hopped the patio rail and into the jet-black Viper parked feet away. He soared onto I-70 and took the first exit into downtown. He parked in a fifteen-minute spot in front of Union Station. Seven minutes after hanging up he was walking through the entrance. He headed straight for The Cooper Lounge, the swanky cocktail bar that hovered in a loft above the station floor.

No surprise, the Lounge was dead. A couple sat side by side in a booth. An old man at the bar nursed a martini. Deacon nodded at the bartender who poured him a scotch neat.

Deacon walked over to the railing and peered down at the station’s bustle. So many people rushing somewhere, and Deacon with nowhere to be.

His phone rang.

Deacon.

Like I was saying before, the scammer said. The victims of Hurricane Helene have gone through hell—

Absolutely, Deacon said, scanning. Those people have suffered tremendously.

They truly have, the scammer continued.

Deacon listened to the scammer drone on until, finally, he spotted him. At a table by the window, laptop open in front of him, mouth moving in sync with what Deacon heard on the phone.

Give me one second, Deacon said. I’ll get you that payment information.

Deacon finished his scotch and placed the glass at the end of the bar. He walked the twenty-eight steps down to the station floor lobby in nineteen seconds.

Go ahead with the card number when you’re ready, the scammer said.

Then Deacon was standing over him.

The scammer looked up at Deacon, confused, then back at his laptop. Deacon slid into the bench seat across from him.

Can I help you, the scammer said.

Deacon held up his phone. I’m Deacon. You called the wrong number today.

The scammer started to stand but froze when Deacon placed the silenced Beretta on the table.

Sit down. Shut up, Deacon said.

Look, the scammer said, sitting. I’m divorced, I’ve got three kids, my … bitch wife …

No, no, Deacon said. You’re not going to sob story me.

What do you want? The scammer said.

Break your phone.

What?

You don’t hear so good, do you? Break your phone, before I break your leg.

Fuck you, the scammer said.

Deacon smiled at the scammer’s shit eating grin then kicked him under the table, just a hair below the kneecap. The scammer doubled over in pain.

Break your phone, Deacon said.

The scammer, writhing in agony, lifted his phone above the table and slammed it down until the face was shattered.

Give me your laptop, Deacon said.

The scammer pushed it over.

Deacon snapped it in two then smashed the screen on the table’s edge.

He paused a moment to look around and make sure no one was watching. The scammer shook from fear. No one seemed to be paying any attention.

What he really wanted to do was fire two bullets into the scammer’s stomach and calmly exit the station, jump in the Viper and hit 1-70 until he reached the cabin outside Vail, but he couldn’t have that on the cameras.

Get the fuck out of here, Deacon said.

He watched the scammer limp away and disappear into the crowd. He pocketed the ID just in case, but couldn’t imagine seeing the scammer again, though who could know?

Most other criminals were very stupid.

Which was not for nothing because how many stupid criminals had to be out there just for one of him to exist.

Leave a comment

Wilson Koewing (wilsonkoewing.com, @jadedwriter_) lives and writes in Marin County, California.

Lee looked up from the map. “Keep her still, Sam. Between her yapping and the abominations outside, I can’t hear myself think. He stabbed a finger on the map. “Redemption Gorge. Come sunup, we run like hell and get there before nightfall. Then we cross that rope bridge, cut it down, and head ‌west ‘til we see an ocean.”

“Yes, sir, Mister Patton, far away from these abominatin’ fucks.”

Lee leaned back in the pew. The screams of men and horses still echoed through his mind.

***

Lee left the new kid bleeding in the street outside the bank back in Last Chance. He had no choice; the Pinkertons had caught up with them. The lawmen pursued them into the hills, across the lowlands,‌ only to stop at the edge of the desert known as The Witch’s Boil. The Bullet Hole Gang didn’t question their good fortune and rode on.

Dusty Bill was the first to go.

The sun was low on the horizon when they first heard the sounds. “Coyotes, Mister Patton, sir?” Skinny Sam asked.

“Maybe,” Patton said, but thought, no beast on God’s earth made that sound.

Soon, darkness came, and the things appeared. The men thought they were human savages until moonlight broke through the clouds and revealed their ungodliness. Small, twisted bodies with sparse patches of hair on maggoty flesh. Jagged teeth and claw-like hands.

The foul things brought Bill’s horse down on top of him, then swarmed like ants on a piece of sticky candy. Bullets barely slowed them, and the few that went down were themselves devoured in the frenzy.

Next was Earless Joe Jackson.

The poor bastard survived torture at the hands of John J. Healy’s whiskey traders and three wives only to be torn to pieces and eaten alive.

Then Alejandro.

Patton got his horse under control ‌and spurred it forward. “Get to ‌that church!”

Alejandro raced behind Patton, pistol in one hand, Scraps in the other.

Skinny Sam whipped his horse alongside the Mexican, half a heartbeat ahead of the creatures. Alejandro twisted in his saddle and threw the dog at the kid when his horse stepped into a hole and went down. The Mexican hit the ground and tried to run. The screams of man and horse were indistinguishable.

Lee and Sam got into the church seconds before the things crashed into the doors, then turned on the horses abandoned outside.

***

Sam stopped chasing the dog and asked, “Why would anybody build a church all the ways out here in the middle of the desert, Mister Patton, sir?”

“I don’t know, Sam, just glad somebody did,” he said, but wondered what came first, the church or these things?

“Damn it, Sam, get the dog away from that window. We need to last a little longer. It’s almost dawn.”

The shutters exploded inward, and Sam was dragged screaming out into the night. Lee started toward the window but stopped and lowered his gun. It was too late, and he needed to save the few bullets he had left.

He grabbed the dog and sat back down, his gun aimed at the remains of the window until the first ray of sunlight shone through. Then he ran.

He ran hard, and when he could no longer run, he walked. He walked until he reached Redemption Gorge.

“Damn me to hell.”

Lee Patton stared out at what remained of the rope bridge, stretched across the wide chasm. The guide rope on the right was frayed and looked ready to snap. Halfway out, the few planks left hung like an old prospector’s teeth. He thought of the circus in Kansas City, where a man with a long pole walked on a wire high above the crowd. The ringmaster called him a tightrope walker.

The sun had dipped below the mountain ridge. It would be dark soon.

Lee tucked the tiny dog into his shirt and stepped onto the bridge. His weight sent the first board spinning down into the abyss. He kept to the left, gripping the guide rope, inching forward, sure his next step would send him and the dog down onto the rocks below.

He had reached the point where most of the planks had fallen away, the support ropes were in tatters, and only the guide ropes remained. “Hell, I’m not one of them tightrope walkers, but I bet I can shimmy the rest of the way.” Then thunder shattered the night and unleashed a torrent of rain.

Lee Patton looked up at the night sky. “You’re not making this any easier.”

Through the storm, he heard them—their impatient, hungry moans. Lightning flashed, revealing the things already on the bridge, crawling over each other to get to him.

“Ready to join the circus, Scraps?” he asked, and swung his legs up and around the rope and pulled toward safety.

He got half the way there when the bridge gave out under the added weight of the creatures and slammed Lee into the side of the gorge. The rope whipped back and forth as the creatures scrambled up the rope toward him; some even clung to the rocks. Between the rain and blood pouring down from his broken face, Lee felt his grip slipping.

Lee yanked Scraps out of his shirt by the scruff of her neck. “You’re the last of the Bullet Hole Gang,” he said, and with all the strength he had left, threw her up and over the edge to safety. He let go of the rope and plummeted down, taking as many of the things with him as he could.

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Kenneth M. Gray is retired and lives in New Jersey with his daughter and two furry overlords, Lola & Lolo. He has kept stories in his head for too long and is now setting them free. He is still working on and one day hopes to release his illustrated story of Gleepglorp: A Tale of Love and Abduction.
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“Doyle, just give me more time to get your replacement worked in.”

“You said that last time.”

I wasn’t even sure where we were for tonight’s show. They were all the same. Cookie-cutter motels off interstates or places that made the Bates Motel look like the MGM Grand.

“What’s so funny, Doyle?”

“I was just thinking. If you took the ten worst places to live in the country and strung them between Barstow and Camden, we’d have hit them all by now.”

“You’re in a pissy mood because your knee’s flaring up again. Look, I’ll get you the right doctor when we get to Sellarsburg.”

The right doctor, meaning pill pusher.

Our new guy, the Okie, tried to bust it up in the ring. I told him to do the hip toss from the other side. The guy wanted to hurt me—“Max Bombo, the Mustang Wrangler from Wyoming.” No more ridiculous than my moniker slapped on the Wrestle-O-Mania flyers printed up from town to town by O’Connor, ring announcer. I was “The Spitting Cobra, Mumbai Snake Man.” My pasty complexion was beneath dark tanning spray and theater paint.

O’Connor whipped the crowd into a frenzy with lurid descriptions of Cobra’s cruelty, reviling my “dirty techniques.” But it was the Okie cowboy who strained Enrique’s elbow ligaments by bending and twisting his arm back before he let him tap out from unbearable pain. Lomax kept applying pressure until he did damage.

That afternoon we pulled into another motel that would make the Bates Motel look like the MGM Grand. I went to Lomax’s room and knocked. Bare-chested in briefs when the door opened, he smirked at me. Two pairs of bare female legs were stretched out on the bed. Some girls he’d spotlighted with his monologue and crotch-grabbing horseshit must have liked his act.

“Lomax, I don’t want you damaging my leg like you did Enrique’s arm. Last time I’m warning you.”

“Sure, Doyle. You’re old, your pussy hurts. I get it. Fuck off ‘fore I break your neck. I’m fixin’ to go for that leg tonight.”

I called an Uber and left the premises. Two hours later, I began preparations for tonight’s show.

George Hardcastle, “Steven Sarcosis, the Steroid Man,” stopped by my room.

“Doyle, you read this crazy shit O’Connor wrote? What the fuck, man. I got to say this?”

He handed me the paper. At the top it said: Wrestling’s Nite of Vengence. As usual, it was full of O’Connor’s garbled grammar. The rant he wrote for me to say in the ring was aimed at God, Mom, and Apple Pie.

“Look at the bottom, Doyle. What he wrote.”

Doyle: Take American flag and wipe your ass.

“The boss is trying to get you killed,” George said.

Not him, I thought. That was Lomax’s doing. I sat in our makeshift dressing room before my match with Bombo the Wrangler. Lomax sauntered over, smirked at my taped hand. He extended a hand. “No hard feelings?”

“None.” I shook hands. He threw one of his buddies in the corner a wink.

George’s bout was before mine with Lomax. His face was beet-red and his eyes were bugged when he climbed out of the ring while Mickey introduced the next match.

“Good luck, Doyle,” he said while I held the rope for him. “Lomax told the guys he was gonna twist your leg into a pretzel and shove it up your ass.”

We went through the first half of our routine. My knee was on fire. Lomax used more force than necessary for the tosses. We’d done the Half-Nelsons but not the leg takedowns. I’d shifted my body in a defensive sprawl, moving my legs and hips back to prevent him from grabbing my leg. He hissed when he had me backed against the ring post in a maneuver called a Crossface, forearm against my face. “Fuck you doin’ asshole?”

Sweating, furious, he tracked me around the ring, but I evaded him. The crowd booed at the inaction. O’Connor’s face popped up below the ropes. He made the throat slash: Get out.

The last series involved a combination of “The Cradle” and the “Granby Roll.” I was to be pinned twice, roll out of the pins in a defensive move, just before the final pin and the three-count.

Lomax was spitting with fury. He was going to make me pay. Before the ref—Enrique in his backup role—could count me out, Lomax whirled around like a giant pinwheel, throwing himself over my legs—going for the knee. Enrique fell to his hands and knees, slipped the bag into my good hand. I shoved the bag’s spout under Lomax’s jock, squeezing with all my strength to release the mixture before he wrenched my knee out of its socket.

Lomax jumped off me, practically levitating off the mat. Off went his speedo, exposing his genitals. Screams, laughter, howls from the ringside crowd.

He wailed and hopped around in agony, slapping at the powder speckling his joint and balls, making it worse. Enrique and I dashed to the dressing room. I grabbed my go-bag. O’Connor, red-faced and sputtering, tried to stop me. I shoved him aside. We made for the exit.

My night of vengeance was the price of a pharmacy bag from a CVS, cayenne, chili powder, and jalapeño powder from a Kroger’s—all mixed into a fiery concoction by Enrique, whose nickname back in Pelican Bay was “the Cook” for his batches of pruno for Florencia 13.

I’d savor that image a long time—the Cowboy nude to his boots hopping about with his dick on fire.

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Robb White has three series detectives: Thomas Haftmann, Raimo Jarvi, and Jade Hui. Betray Me Not was selected for distinction by the Independent Fiction Alliance in 2022. Fade to Black is a collection of noir tales, and Jersey Girl is his latest thriller. He has two works in the queue at Brick Tower Press: a crime novella (Easy Money) and The Dearborn Terrorist Plot, a collection of stories featuring private-eye Haftmann.

Sam felt a slight prick. He worried the blade would accidentally slit his throat if he spoke.

“Gonna have to repeat that,” he whispered.

“Shut your hole!” Spittle hit Sam’s cheek. “Said nobody fucking move!”

Sam eyed the old woman seated at the end of the train car. She watched them from under the brim of her Giants baseball cap. She was buttoned up in a faded pink rain slicker. Look in her eyes said she’d seen this shit before. Probably the last time she rode BART.

“Don’t got any money,” she mumbled. “Don’t look like he does either.”

But he did. Despite smelling like a sewer, Sam had two grand in cash in the front pocket of his black Dockers.

Had to be careful. Say the wrong thing and he’d have to stuff his throat back into his neck. Play his cards right, he’d only have to worry about a prick from a rusty blade.

“Know anything about tetanus?” Sam asked the switchblade’s owner. His assailant wore a green trench coat. Damp, shoulder length black hair clumped around his face.

“Man, shut up!”

Dude jumped him the moment Sam boarded the train. Gave him only enough time to see the weapon. Concrete walls, lit by security lights and covered in rain-drenched graffiti, dashed by outside.

“Nasty bacterial infection, caused by rusty blades, dirty wounds; shit I can do without.”

“C’mere, you old bag,” Switchblade said to the woman.

Sam tilted his head half an inch. “In a similar line of work as you. Leave her out of this. We’ll work something out.”

That line of work, that evening, saw Sam in one of San Francisco’s larger sewers. Smell still clung to him. Beat up Volvo in the shop meant he got to ride BART home.

“I get paid to do this.” Sam said.

“Hurry the fuck up, lady!” He kept the knife pinned to Sam’s neck. The old woman got to her feet. She wore a turquoise-colored Muumuu under the slicker. The baseball cap, like its owner, had seen better days.

“Coming. Coming,” she said. Sam watched her grab an aluminum cane from the bench next to her. She used it to hobble down the rocking aisle without falling over.

Stormy darkness whipped past. The lady kept her eyes on her feet. She wore fuzzy slippers the same color as her slicker. Stopped a foot away from the two men.

“Sorry about all this,” Sam said.

She offered him a sorry smile. “You know how it is at night in this city. Ain’t nowhere safe.”

“His pocket,” Switchblade growled. “Right front pocket.”

Sam closed his eyes, furious. He recalled a few goons hanging around when he’d been paid half an hour ago outside an alley. Paid well for a hard day’s work. Sam cursed himself for not noticing the tail. Smelled too bad to care. Wearing only a white tee shirt with no coat, he’d been in a hurry to get home.

He drooped slightly, hands drifting to his back pockets. Cash wasn’t the only thing he carried. Spiked brass knuckles, his Irish Devil, never failed to even the odds. Had to tread lightly, not risk more of that rusty blade cutting through skin.

The old lady reached out. Then paused. “One hell of a tightrope we’re walking, don’t you think? Who’s to say he don’t just kill us anyway?”

“He’s got his back to the door. Next stop coming up. He plans to bounce as quick as he can. Planned it well,” Sam said.

“Just grab the fucking cash, lady!”

Her withered fingers slid into his front trouser pocket. “Haven’t had my hands down a man’s pants in ages,” she said. “Too bad you stink.”

Sam’s fingers touched the tip of the Irish Devil. “Take your time.”

He felt her fingers curl around the wad of bills. That’s when he let out Hell.

Sam threw his head back. Right hand came up draped in brass knuckles. He punched upward into the mess of hair. Heard a wet pop and the weight of the man fell atop him. They both hit the floor. The switchblade slashed into empty air. Somewhere nearby he sensed the old woman’s presence. Saw a flash of faded pink.

The train slowed to a stop and the doors whooshed open. The chill poured in. Sam smelled rain. He had his hands full holding back the switchblade. His fingers clamped around the man’s wrist, holding the rusty blade at bay. He angled himself from his assailant’s snarling face and jabbed him with the Irish Devil a second time. Didn’t get much momentum but enough for the spikes to break the skin.

“Son of a bitch!” Switchblade shouted. Sam felt the arm relax. The switchblade fell to the floor. Drops of rain managed a small puddle at the open doors.

Sam rolled towards him and sat on his chest. The train doors whooshed closed.

“Had enough, asshole?”

“Fuck you.”

Dude finally went limp despite his arrogance. Blackish blood pooled around his jaw next to a wad of stepped-on bubble gum. His voice trailed off.

“Fuck... You...”

Sam wobbled to his feet just as the train started moving again.

“Sorry about the excitement,” he said. But there wasn’t anyone else on the train. The old lady, his two grand, and his good mood, had better places to be.

Sam appraised the unconscious goon. “Guess it’s just you, me, and tetanus.”

Maybe the asshole had some cash in his wallet.

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Patrick writes fiction and nonfiction, the latter of which includes the books Haunted Monterey County, Murder and Mayhem in Tucson, and Eerie Arizona. He’s written three Barker Mysteries novellas and his short stories have appeared in Punk Noir, Shotgun Honey, Hoosier Noir, Mystery Tribune, Pulp Modern, Guilty Crime Story Flash, Dark Dossier, and elsewhere. He’s been featured in the anthologies Bitter Chills, Wild Violence, Shotgun Honey Presents: Recoil, and in Trouble in Tucson, a Left Coast Crime Anthology.

He stepped out of the Caddy and eased the door closed with a quiet thunk. He waited, looked for and saw no movement in the lot, listened for and heard nothing. The late September Houston air was sticky and warm. Outside of the Caddy’s air conditioning, Ed felt himself start sweating through his shirt.

His back hurt. His knees hurt. During the flight here, he’d felt a prickly little pain in his chest for a minute. Thinking about that made him go cold in the hot dark of the night. He decided to stop thinking about what hurt.

Be back in Minnesota soon as this is done, he thought. This is the last one. Didn’t matter how much money Dalmar or anyone else offered. He pulled the short, heavy rope out of his jacket pocket. The knotted ends settled into the palm of his hand.

He should be knocked out by the time you get there, Dalmar had told him on the phone. Good sex and good weed will make sure of it, she’ll make sure of it, Dalmar had said. And, she’ll make sure the door’s unlocked for you.

Fifty years old, thirty years in this business, taking orders now from a guy like Dalmar, Ed thought. Crazy Somali who sends his own girlfriend to prep the target. Time to get out, for sure. Past time. Everyone in the business was crazy now. They all got high on their own supply and they all wanted to go out guns blazing. Not like when he’d started, when it was mostly Italians and Irish and sure, a few black guys, but American black guys. Regular guys, all of them, just trying to make a living. Just like Ed.

He walked quickly and quietly to number 11, tested the doorknob. It turned easy. Dalmar’s girl Riyo had done her job all right, Ed thought. He eased the door open and slipped into the darkened room.

He sidestepped and crouched at once. He listened and looked, letting his eyes adjust to the near total dark. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Wrong, he thought, all fucking wrong.

No sound. No snoring, no breathing. He saw something lumpy on the bed. Ed stood and crossed the room and looked closely. Just sheets and pillows jumbled up in a mess. No one in the bed.

Ah, fuck, Ed thought. He turned and made for the door when he felt more than heard or saw someone rush out from further inside the room. No, not felt, smelled. Cinnamon. Dalmar’s girl, Riyo, wore cinnamon perfume all the time.

Ed spun and got his arms out in time, not as fast as he used to be but fast enough and he had height and weight on his side, and he threw himself at her. She’d expected a victim in retreat. What she got were hands around her throat and a knee in her belly and then the other knee in her face, and then Ed had the rope looped around her slender neck and the ends crossed behind her head and he hauled her up and twisted from the hips and spun her and he heard a pop, very loud in the dark room, bad things happening to bones.

Riyo collapsed in a heap on the floor, shaking and gurgling. A long thin knife lay beside her, fallen during the struggle.

Ed’s breathing came in hard, ragged gasps, and he felt like his heart was being tattooed.

Just get the hell out of here, he thought.

He heard buzzing. Ed knelt and found Riyo’s phone. He looked at the incoming number and smiled at Riyo. She wasn’t shaking or gurgling as much. He put the phone to his ear.

“Riyo can’t come to the phone.”

Silence on the other end. Then Dalmar’s heavy voice, “Ed, what are you doing with this phone?”

Ed just sat on the floor and watched Riyo go still. Those needles in his chest were still going.

Dalmar said, “She’d have done it quick, old man. You shouldn’t have fucked things up like this.”

“Why?”

“Can’t chance you getting picked up. You couldn’t handle inside at your age. You’d talk. It’s time, man, you got to go. You should have let Riyo do it, girl’s magic with that knife, man.”

“She used to be. I’ll be seeing you, Dalmar.”

A day and a flight later, back in the cold fall nighttime of Minneapolis, Ed sat in his car and watched through binoculars. Dalmar got out of a black Escalade and hustled to the door of a plain brick house. Two heavies walked alongside and one just behind him. Dalmar looked over his shoulder, and the heavies all looked over theirs. Ed smiled, despite the cold.

A month later, wrapped in cold, lonesome October dark, Ed watched Dalmar get out of the same Escalade, with the same hired help, going to the same house. They all did a lot of looking around, not quite as much as before. Ed smiled, despite the cold, the wind, and the little prickly pains in his chest.

A year later, wrapped in a whole new cold and dark, Ed watched the Escalade roll up, watched Dalmar get out alone and head for the brick house. Dalmar didn’t even look over his shoulder.

Ed smiled. The pains in his chest were sharper, harder. That’s all right, he thought. Just one more. The last one. He felt the comfortable weight of the knotted ends of the rope in his jacket pocket. He started for the house.

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Cory Flick is a database developer in Houston, Texas. He enjoys hair metal, hardboiled crime, and Lovecraftian horror. Someday he might figure out how to mix the three.

And he’s a cop and he quit after he got shot in the leg and he walks fine, mostly, but the bullet hole is no joke and he says, “No, I’m not a cop no more and I’ll never be again.” And I’m a vet and I’ve never been shot, but had worse happen, but I won’t get into that. And we’re at this ranch thing, except we’ve escaped. Meaning we got sick of the Big-Brother feel, how they were watching our every move. For our “safety.” Because they said “things have happened” with people in the past, which is as vague as you can get.

And we’re in the woods and we can hear the horses who aren’t sleeping and it’s late, real late. It’s bleak, motherless, mononucleosis-colored night, and we’re free, huddled, looking at the weird dorm-barn thing where we’re staying and the lights are on and there’s flashlights in the field and they’re looking for us and it’s amazing to be looked for and we’re probably going to get kicked out of here, but it’s better than listening to a lot of lectures. It’s been endless lectures. As if we know nothing. As if it’s kindergarten. We’re both done with it. “There’s no hope,” he says. “We gotta do this on our own,” he says.

“Or with each other,” I say.

“Sounds good,” he says.

And we plot to escape, except they have our car keys and our cars and our keys and our everything, because we signed paperwork to come here to get help, except the help isn’t helping. It’s like we’re getting talked down to. Like we’re idiots. Like we never graduated fifth grade. We did. And college too, mostly. And we’re here and the PTSD is going nuts with their nonstop asking us if we’re suicidal and we’re not and we’re tucked into the branches and the vines and the Evil Dead trees and we’re going to have to step into the searching spotlights soon enough, or maybe we’ll sleep here. Looking up at the stars we can’t see because the leaves are angry and hungry and hangry. And nothing’s going to happen. There’s no revelation. There’s no excavation. There’s no realization. It’s just two hacked-to-bit humans who realized that we made a mistake, that the counseling back home was horrible, but this is worse. The V.A. is a farce. It’s a lion dreaming about old men. It’s a man becoming a pig. It’s darkness waving at your face. I never want to go back to it. I wanna stop drinking on my own. Even if it means giving up on Christmas forever. Even if it means reckoning with my guts. I can’t be incarcerated voluntarily ever again. We’re saying, ‘no, we have autonomy!’ ‘No, we’re free!’ And tomorrow aches for us. And I can’t stand the future. And he’s getting divorced. And I have more diagnoses than an entire hospital ward. And the flashlights keep playing with the grass and fist fighting with the sky and losing. And we’re devilish and angelic and silent and wild and young and old at the same time. And when I was a stripper, I remember leaving with my pocket bulging with ones, so many that it felt like my pants would explode. And, now, I make minimal wage because my body is too old to sell. And I hurt. And we lie back. And the dirt is dirty. And the woods are woodsy. And the voices yell our names with mispronunciations made for movies. And we relax. We truly relax. This feel that the PTSD is gone because we are two death-metal lyrics in a pile on cool ground, where God likes to sleep at night too and so we cuddle up with God and we wait and we feel good disobeying and maybe we’ll disobey forever and maybe that’s the cure.

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Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, Riekki’s listening to Porno Dracula’s “Reject of Society.”

“Just remember girls,” she said. “Never wear heels on a date.”

She said it with the gravity of a middle-aged woman in beat-up Nikes with the unflappable belief in the talismanic power of appropriate footwear. I had assumed at the time—confirmed among the whispered audacities of children—that it was a sage caution about optics. Never wear heels on a date, she said. We took it to mean: He may think you a whore.

What she meant was: if you wear heels, you cannot run.

Fifteen years later and I sat at the far end of the restaurant, in an inky black corner, re-considering my current pair of shoes. He had asked for a secluded table, and the manager was all too willing to comply. White tablecloths hid my legs—most of the length of them bare beneath my mini skirt, and a pair of strappy, red-soled patent leather sandals with a 100 millimeter heel. I wish I knew what that was in inches. They were painful and they were sexy and I wish they had stayed in their box on the top shelf of my closet.

But they were on my feet and whatever he’d slipped into my drink when I went to the restroom between salad and entree was in my bloodstream. It took me two sips to feel it and before my salmon was even cleared I knew I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“You don’t look well.” He’d told me his real name when we first matched—he didn’t use it on his public profile—but maybe it wasn’t his real name anyway. I’d sent my friend my location, but now my little clutch purse was in his hands. “Let’s get you out of here, maybe that wasn’t the freshest fish.”

He handed a credit card to the manager and lifted me out of my chair. I’d never felt arms so strong before. Lifted me clear out of my seat like a baby from a crib. My feet were under me and I felt like my head was detached from my body, just floating above myself as I walked like an automaton towards the door.

Sixty feet from the back booth to the sidewalk. Another twenty to the curb. A straight shot. If I could manage to stay upright, if I could manage not to fall, then maybe I could save myself.

Every pair of eyes were on me and the crowd watched with rapt, silent attention. I held my breath. With every footfall, I felt like the floor was going to melt away beneath my feet.

I made it three paces before a chair moved back, a half-drunk man in a white button down shirt who needed to use the restroom. The breeze of him throwing his napkin on the table was enough wind to make me wobble. He stood up, and the man holding my body in his arms made me spin. I felt the room breathe in, and never let the air back out. I was performing in a vacuum, now, every desperate step so delicately placed, not daring to disturb even the atoms in the room.

I could feel every muscle in my body flex as I clenched to stay upright, attempted not to waver. Sinews in my toes, through my calves, to the tense trunk of my abdomen. Stay upright, stay upright. I fought the instinct in my arms to push the man who held me. Any sway and I would fall—and he would be able to sweep me away, like so much trash.

A stumble, a shuffle, a juggle of my weight as we came to the door and I felt the crowd gasp. But no, the manager came, rushed to be our balance, the strong man’s assistant. A breath of cool air and we had made it past the halfway point. As much as my body screamed for me to break away, to turn back and run to the safety of the restaurant, I had no ability to push against the body urging me down the line.

The parking attendant in the garish tie was told of our arrival—my date’s cavernous black SUV stood at the curb, the passenger door waiting as my ultimate end point.

The man was dangling my date’s keys in his hand, as he stood to the left of the open car door. One, two, three strides closer. My eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of my looming prison, and I felt a small shift beneath my foot. It felt like my head was a helium balloon, floating towards the sky. I could not run back to the restaurant. The man urged me forward. There was only one direction to flee.

I could just feel the closeness of the man with the car keys when I felt the strongman’s grip loosen. My stiletto, my heel, my vice, my weakness—I let go of the power to stay upright. I let myself fall, leaning my body into its tipping point, hoping there would be a net to catch me as I fell. No, not here. Only the cold, hard ground.

The attendant was at my side, faster than gravity, faster than the strong man. He attempted to lift me but his wiry arms were nothing compared to the potency of my date’s. I looked into the attendant’s eyes, unable to focus, unable to speak. The strong man grabbed his keys and pulled away from the curb. My purse was in the gutter, next to my body.

A single well-placed, misplaced step.

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Emily J. Edwards is the author of the acclaimed Girl Friday Mystery series. The New York Times said of the initial installment, Viviana Valentine Gets Her Man, “[A] sprightly debut . . . Edwards writes with flair.” The longtime host of the comedy-podcast-about-books F***bois of Literature, Edwards currently co-hosts the classic cinema podcast Ticklish Business. She lives in Los Angeles with her film-composer husband and several quadrupeds. She is a graduate of Emerson College.

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Eric Richer was born in France in 1971. He grew up with 7 dogs, read a lot,
studied cinema, worked in movie theaters as a projectionist and went to Japan. There he made a documentary (Kamo River), came back, returned in the darkness of the projection booths and started writing. His first two novels, La Rouille (The Rust, 2018) and Tiger (2021) were published by L’Ogre Editions. He is currently working hard on the next ones.

I throw my wig over my doll’s face and go find Jess. We make a break for the door, sneaking past the foreman screaming at his phone and go outside to where a few other free thinkers have gathered in the parking lot. We watch the sky, an eerie electric blue, with thick dark clouds rolling towards us. I watch the downy hairs on the back of Jess’s arms stand on end while she tilts her nose upwards, sniffing as she paces back and forth. “It smells like rain,” she announces right as the warm drops drench us with ozone. “No shit, Sherlock,” I tease as a flash of lightning strikes a cow grazing in the field across the street. It’s followed by a deafening crack of thunder that makes Brian jump with surprise even though we all know thunder follows lightning. We’re unfazed as we watch the black and white cow ignite. For a split second it’s a fiery hologram, subliminally spliced into our subconscious, and then it turns back into a cow as the downpour puts the fire out. The cow returns to all it knows how to do, chewing wet grass in the fenced field, unaware that it narrowly escaped being barbecued, and we go back into the factory knowing that we have no choice.

“I hear Muckerberg’s coming tonight to try his out.” Brian swishes along the top of the curb with the precision of a tightrope walker. He stops to knock the mud off his shoes before he enters the building. “See ya suckers.” He calls over his shoulder as his Converse squeak on the concrete floor. Jess and I sit down in the fiberglass chairs. I grab us each a pair of white booties from the bin to put over our shoes. They’re fanatics about germs here. Brian’s thumbing his nose at contamination protocol runs him the risk of being booted off the assembly line and reassigned to the backup generator. “I heard Zusk was here last week.” Jess whispers. “Oh yeah?” I whisper back. “Eliot told me Zusk is having his robot programmed to talk dirty.” We both look up, making sure the red light on the surveillance camera hasn’t gone back on yet. “Fuck me with your micro dick?” I whisper. And we both cover our mouths like we are having a coughing fit as we laugh hysterically.

I’m not surprised to see Brian coming back through the swinging door. He’ll never learn that being a rebel here gets you nowhere. Jess and I both look down at the floor while he angrily grabs a black rubber harness and a yellow slicker from the properly marked bin. The lights are on again and I go back to my station. I’m on the Blonde Bombshell line today. It’s the worst one for me to be on and they know it; that’s how they break you. Who would have ever thought a feminist dyke like me, minding my own business doing bleach jobs and buzz cuts for marines in 29 Palms, would be building sex robots against my will for tech billionaires? It is what it is until I can figure out how to get the fuck out of here without getting myself killed but least I have Jess.

I put my lab coat on and flash Jess a Desmond. I know in my heart she’s flashing me one back but she looks down at the ground as she takes her place on the East Asian line. She used to be a linguistic anthropologist at Berkeley studying queer language. We have to make sure we use the correct pronouns here, and by “correct,” the talking heads mean what you were born with and a fetishized Asian woman is their top-selling robot this month. It speaks volumes of what life is like here at the worker camp in Good Intent, Kansas. Speaking out loud is grounds for permanent termination, as in caput so Jess came up with our own sign language that we do with our eyes. The Desmond, as in Norma Desmond, is a quick indignant flashing of both eyes, which means ‘don’t let them steal our light.’

I look out the window and see Brian. God bless the child that is Brian now. He refused to listen to Jess and me when he got here and now it’s like watching a toddler stick a fork in a light socket over and over. They nabbed Brian from the Mac counter in the Bronx a couple years ago. He was Briana then and they were coming up in the ballroom scene, and honey, I’m not talking about the Dancing with the Stars ballroom. I’m talking about the House of Louboutin ballroom as in that ballroom. I watch Brian, with the others like him who refuse to comply, strapped to the turbine that powers the backup generator. They’ll walk miles in circles today along with the cows they breed for this purpose. Their forced labor will keep the power on in the storm so we can build robots but I got to believe that on the inside, Briana is dancing.

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Laura Bogner is a writer and artist who left Los Angeles after many years and now lives in Joshua, California. Her writing and art are infused with satire and irony in response to the bizarre era we are living in now. She is originally from Cincinnati, Ohio, where she spent a lot of nights across the river in Newport, Kentucky, at the Jockey Club, seeing some of the best punk shows ever that mangled her mind into what it is today. Her art and written words have been shown and performed at Live from Joshua Tree, La Matardora, Art Queen, and Furstworld galleries in Joshua Tree and have been published in the Los Angeles Press, Glendale Weekly, ADAD Zine, Space Cowboy Books podcast, and other publications that sadly no longer exist. Her goal is to live every day like it’s the last because lately, people around her are dropping like flies

A Job in New Orleans

by

Nils Gilbertson

I picked up the gun from an old man in a balcony apartment one block up from Bourbon Street. He smoked a joint and didn’t say much. Better that way, I thought. Jazz guitar, tuning up, reverberated from the whiskey bar downstairs.

I pressed the magazine release and fingered a nine-millimeter round. “Any suggestions for ditching the gun?”

The old man only grinned, his face like a weathered mask.

The bar downstairs was mostly empty. My only companions, beyond the bartender, were the jazz trio and a balding man tending to a double whiskey. Guitar rang and the drumbeat mimicked the rhythm of my chest. I double-checked the address, the instructions, and tried to forget the holstered piece underneath my coat. “Wild Turkey, rocks,” I said. I tried to escape into the music. Walking on a Tightrope by Percy Mayfield. A tightrope—I knew the feeling. A place where there was no standing upright; the only choice was which way to fall.

The bartender was pregnant and smiled at me as though I deserved it. After serving my drink, she went to the balding man a few seats down.

“Another one, darling?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Double?”

“What the hell.” He sucked an ice cube from his drink as she fetched another. After she served it, he took a slurp of whiskey and made a gesture like a half-hearted prayer. “I love this town,” he said to the bartender. “My wife loves it even more.”

“And you came without her?” she asked.

He took another sip. “She passed. We’re here on our last trip together.” He gestured toward a small urn on the barstool next to him.

The bartender’s face curled downward. “I’m so sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you,” he slurred.

“When was it?”

“Four months ago.”

She poured him a glass of water without a word.

“She loved it here,” he said. “She loved the oysters, the cocktails. We came twice a year.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He stared at the ice, disappearing, in his glass.

The bartender served my drink, and I drank.

“Where you in from?” I asked him.

He looked at me. “San Francisco. You?”

“Great town,” I said. “Hell of a price tag, though.”

He grinned. “You ever hear of rent control?”

“Sure.”

“My wife and I pay $1,800 for our apartment in the Mission. Been there twenty years. You know how much the new couples moving in pay?”

I shrugged.

“Near five grand.” He chuckled. “A nice place, too. My wife used to say that they’d have to drag us out of there in body bags.” His smile disappeared, and he turned back to his drink.

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“I brought her ashes,” he said, placing his hand on the urn. “Our last trip together.”

“They staying here?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why not. She’s with me either way.” A red-cheeked, watery-eyed smile.

I finished my drink and stared at a fly on the wall and listened to the jazz trio play, each melody plucking my nerves like a guitar string. But even in the darkened barroom, there was light. In the corners and crevices, there was so much light it would blind you.

I paid my tab and wished the man good luck. His eyes, half closed. Tired. Too much to forget.

I walked a few blocks toward Jackson Square. The gates were locked, so I sat on a ledge and peered up at St. Louis Cathedral. It was quieter than Bourbon Street, the rhythms of night, piercing staccato of drunken revelry only a few blocks up, like sirens in the distance. The breeze like God’s whispers. Stained glass glowed, judging, yet loving. The gun heavy under my coat. Still, the light soothed me. Its glow, accompanied by the drink in my veins, insisted that all could be forgiven. All evil could be repurposed for good.

People crossed my path. Drunken groups of men and women, their merriment like little bursts of chaos. Then others who had long passed that stage, the joyous chaos devolved to an inescapable stalemate of addiction. A truce with the Devil in a burning field.

“My man,” I heard.

I looked up.

“You got a stem?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He grunted and moved on.

I watched him go. As he went, others came. I bowed my head, but not for too long, because I didn’t want to miss any of them. The balding man—his dead wife—the bartender and her baby—anyone.

“I love them all,” I whispered. “I love everyone. Everything.”

Something in me cursed that it was a lie. I checked my watch. It was almost time. A dirty, goddamn lie.

The whiskey, I thought. It’s only the whiskey. The familiar poison breeding synthetic passions—passions I had been trained to feel—exaggerated by the glow of the stained glass, illuminating the cross so far upward that it strained my neck to look upon it.

So, I looked down.

When I did, my phone lit up. I didn’t read it.

Instead, I walked until I found water. Swells like goodness itself coming to wash away all I had done—all I hadn’t.

I imagined the balding man, standing at the water’s edge, sprinkling her ashes. I imagined everything after, too. His walk back to the hotel, the ride to the airport, the lines, the flight. Only to return home without her.

I imagined crossing the river on a tightrope. The inevitable fall.

I tossed the gun and the phone into the Mississippi. They sank in the inky water. I turned back to the lights of the French Quarter—the sounds, the revelry—and returned to everything I had ever loved.

Nils Gilbertson (www.nilsgilbertson.com) is a writer and attorney living in Texas. His short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Rock and a Hard Place, Mystery Magazine, Cowboy Jamboree, and others. His work has also been published in various anthologies, including Mickey Finn: 21^st Century Noir and Prohibition Peepers. Nils’s story “Lovely and Useless Things” was selected to appear in both The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2024 and The Best Mystery Stories of the Year: 2024. His story “Washed Up” was named a Distinguished Story in The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2022.

“Empire”

by

Frank Vatel

“…for Jacob Nowak, who was given the promise of eternal life in Baptism…”

Whenever a spider-man goes home to the lord, there’s always a prayer next day. Priest comes up the main shaft about seven-thirty and we all circle around.

First time it happened, a kid named Tedesco, we paid our respects proper and solemn. Thinking it was a fluke he slipped on that scaffold. Thinking there wouldn’t be no more.

Now it’s five and counting. Ozzy says the novelty’s worn off.

As the priest talks, I see a man wandering the platform. Tall and raw-boned in fresh coveralls. The greenhorn, I think.

Sure enough. After the circle breaks, Ozzy brings him over.

“This here’s Anson,” he says. “Starrett’s people sent him. He’ll be our fourth till Carmine gets well.”

He introduces Fran, then turns to me. “This is my brother Zeke. You’ll be working with him, mostly. Don’t expect much conversation. He’s dumb as a post.”

The greenhorn stares me down. Lots of folk stare at me, but his eyes are different. Strange, unblinking. Reminds me of something unhappy, but I can’t place it.

“Where you cook before this?” Fran asks.

“My old man’s crew,” says the greenhorn. “He’s a contractor up Woodside.”

Fran trades a glance with Ozzy. “Any high steel?” he asks.

“Park Row building. Some maintenance.”

This is good enough for Ozzy, who’s under pressure and wants the greenhorn set up fast. He takes him round to the stove, leaving Fran and me with our coffee.

“What do you make of him?” Fran asks.

I purse my lips and shrug.

Fran don’t mind I’m dumb. He’s Italian, and Ozzy says nothing stops their kind from talking, least of all a fella who can’t answer.

“You know he’s lying about Park Row,” Fran says. “It ain’t had repairs since twenty-two.”

He lights a smoke and studies my chagrin, snorting in amusement.

“Don’t fret, Zeke. We all gotta start somewhere.”

***

The first one nearly clips my leg. It’s all I can do to scoop it on the bounce so it don’t burn through the platform.

Ozzy always says a real man don’t apologize. I reckon the greenhorn concurs. He’s already back at the fire, cooking the next one.

I deliver the piece, expecting Ozzy or Fran to mention what happened. But they’re busy securing the beam. Fran extracts the hot rivet from my bucket and presents it to Ozzy, who nods his approval and fires up the gun.

Maybe it’s for the best they didn’t see. No reason for a greenhorn to catch trouble for something that’s my fault. Catcher’s job is to bring the cook along, teach him to throw—slow and easy, with a nice arc. But I can’t teach nobody.

Back at the stove, it’s more of the same. The second and third ones come at me just like the first—low and fast.

The fourth one tags my shoe and skips off the platform. The stink of branded leather reaches my nose.

This time, Fran speaks up.

“What’s say we keep it waist-level, Anson? Give old Zeke a fighting chance.”

Fran whispers something to my brother, who sets down his tool and watches us for the first time. This distracts me just long enough. When I turn around, there ain’t no time to react. The incoming rivet puts me square on my ass.

Draped over a length of steel and miles of air, I freeze. The greenhorn’s stare burns through me like a flame, same as before. Only now it’s floating above a murderer’s grin.

Suddenly it all comes back to me. Ozzy and me, the farm, the bloodhounds. Daddy laying into those dumb creatures with boots and belts, wringing their necks, eyes glowing with a wicked pleasure I hoped never to see again.

But I was seeing it now.

Fran knows about my nerves. He rushes over and slaps me gentle on the face. Then he props me up northeast so I can see my favorite tower. Already I feel calmer.

The Chrysler looks nice this time of day—the crown and spire picking up the sun, winking at us from Lexington. We met Fran and Carmine on that build. Thirty-two months. No deaths.

This one’s going up a lot faster. Ozzy says it’s gotta be that way—there won’t be no tenants in thirty-two months. Just breadlines and nervous breakdowns.

***

It’s almost lunchtime, so we’re winding down. Ozzy supervises the greenhorn as he puts out the fire.

“You like this work, Anson?”

“Fourteen a day ain’t nothing to sniff at.”

“No, it ain’t,” Ozzy says, lighting a smoke and turning to admire the views. “But that ain’t the best part.”

The greenhorn sets down his tongs. “What’s the best part?”

“You got lunch?”

“I saw a commissary down there.”

Ozzy shakes his head, jabbing the cigarette toward Fran and me. “These two knuckleheads can fetch our sandwiches. Meantime, I’ll show you how we take our coffee and smokes up here. You ain’t seen nothing like it, I promise.”

He offers a cigarette. After thinking a moment, the greenhorn takes it.

Across the platform, another team is finishing up. Ozzy stuffs two bills in Fran’s pocket. “Take Freddy’s gang with you. Tell him lunch is on me.”

He pats my cheek. Fran lays an arm on my shoulder, leading me away.

***

Going down in the lift, everybody’s talking up the Canzoneri fight. Dooley says he’s got a sawbuck on Kid Chocolate, but nobody believes him.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I stick my head out the window.

There they are. Ozzy and the greenhorn, high above us on a beam. Watching the heavens. Getting smaller and smaller as we drop. A line and two dots, suspended in light.

The wind riffles my hair and I feel all my agitation leaking out. I’m sleepy now.

My eyes shut.

Then I hear it. A whistle past my ear, like God blowing out a flame.

My eyes open.

A line. One dot.

Frank Vatel is a writer and freelance illustrator whose work has appeared in Punk Noir Magazine, All Due Respect, Bristol Noir, and Reckon Review. He spends far too much time discussing crime fiction and old movies on social media and is currently penning a noir novel set during the Depression. He lives with his wife in a rapidly deteriorating apartment in Chicago. He can be found on X (@Vatel1675) and Bluesky (@frankvatel312.bsky.social).

I pressed the magazine release and fingered a nine-millimeter round. “Any suggestions for ditching the gun?”

The old man only grinned, his face like a weathered mask.

The bar downstairs was mostly empty. My only companions, beyond the bartender, were the jazz trio and a balding man tending to a double whiskey. Guitar rang and the drumbeat mimicked the rhythm of my chest. I double-checked the address, the instructions, and tried to forget the holstered piece underneath my coat. “Wild Turkey, rocks,” I said. I tried to escape into the music. Walking on a Tightrope by Percy Mayfield. A tightrope—I knew the feeling. A place where there was no standing upright; the only choice was which way to fall.

The bartender was pregnant and smiled at me as though I deserved it. After serving my drink, she went to the balding man a few seats down.

“Another one, darling?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Double?”

“What the hell.” He sucked an ice cube from his drink as she fetched another. After she served it, he took a slurp of whiskey and made a gesture like a half-hearted prayer. “I love this town,” he said to the bartender. “My wife loves it even more.”

“And you came without her?” she asked.

He took another sip. “She passed. We’re here on our last trip together.” He gestured toward a small urn on the barstool next to him.

The bartender’s face curled downward. “I’m so sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you,” he slurred.

“When was it?”

“Four months ago.”

She poured him a glass of water without a word.

“She loved it here,” he said. “She loved the oysters, the cocktails. We came twice a year.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He stared at the ice, disappearing, in his glass.

The bartender served my drink, and I drank.

“Where you in from?” I asked him.

He looked at me. “San Francisco. You?”

“Great town,” I said. “Hell of a price tag, though.”

He grinned. “You ever hear of rent control?”

“Sure.”

“My wife and I pay $1,800 for our apartment in the Mission. Been there twenty years. You know how much the new couples moving in pay?”

I shrugged.

“Near five grand.” He chuckled. “A nice place, too. My wife used to say that they’d have to drag us out of there in body bags.” His smile disappeared, and he turned back to his drink.

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“I brought her ashes,” he said, placing his hand on the urn. “Our last trip together.”

“They staying here?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why not. She’s with me either way.” A red-cheeked, watery-eyed smile.

I finished my drink and stared at a fly on the wall and listened to the jazz trio play, each melody plucking my nerves like a guitar string. But even in the darkened barroom, there was light. In the corners and crevices, there was so much light it would blind you.

I paid my tab and wished the man good luck. His eyes, half closed. Tired. Too much to forget.

I walked a few blocks toward Jackson Square. The gates were locked, so I sat on a ledge and peered up at St. Louis Cathedral. It was quieter than Bourbon Street, the rhythms of night, piercing staccato of drunken revelry only a few blocks up, like sirens in the distance. The breeze like God’s whispers. Stained glass glowed, judging, yet loving. The gun heavy under my coat. Still, the light soothed me. Its glow, accompanied by the drink in my veins, insisted that all could be forgiven. All evil could be repurposed for good.

People crossed my path. Drunken groups of men and women, their merriment like little bursts of chaos. Then others who had long passed that stage, the joyous chaos devolved to an inescapable stalemate of addiction. A truce with the Devil in a burning field.

“My man,” I heard.

I looked up.

“You got a stem?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He grunted and moved on.

I watched him go. As he went, others came. I bowed my head, but not for too long, because I didn’t want to miss any of them. The balding man—his dead wife—the bartender and her baby—anyone.

“I love them all,” I whispered. “I love everyone. Everything.”

Something in me cursed that it was a lie. I checked my watch. It was almost time. A dirty, goddamn lie.

The whiskey, I thought. It’s only the whiskey. The familiar poison breeding synthetic passions—passions I had been trained to feel—exaggerated by the glow of the stained glass, illuminating the cross so far upward that it strained my neck to look upon it.

So, I looked down.

When I did, my phone lit up. I didn’t read it.

Instead, I walked until I found water. Swells like goodness itself coming to wash away all I had done—all I hadn’t.

I imagined the balding man, standing at the water’s edge, sprinkling her ashes. I imagined everything after, too. His walk back to the hotel, the ride to the airport, the lines, the flight. Only to return home without her.

I imagined crossing the river on a tightrope. The inevitable fall.

I tossed the gun and the phone into the Mississippi. They sank in the inky water. I turned back to the lights of the French Quarter—the sounds, the revelry—and returned to everything I had ever loved.

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Nils Gilbertson (www.nilsgilbertson.com) is a writer and attorney living in Texas. His short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Rock and a Hard Place, Mystery Magazine, Cowboy Jamboree, and others. His work has also been published in various anthologies, including Mickey Finn: 21^st Century Noir and Prohibition Peepers. Nils’s story “Lovely and Useless Things” was selected to appear in both The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2024 and The Best Mystery Stories of the Year: 2024. His story “Washed Up” was named a Distinguished Story in The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2022.