7 OF THE BEST 7 DEADLY SINS — EDITOR PICKS
from Seven Deadly Sins: a PUNK NOIR Magazine series
Hell it’s hot today out here in Japan. 36 Celsius. Sweltering. Perfect for me to round up the 7 stories that stuck with me long after I finished them. Which – to be frank – was most of them. But here’s 7 of the most sinfully written stories that I liked best of all. Strangely, many of them seemed to be food related…
P.S life’s been crazy lately, and I just wanted to say I really appreciate every one of you for sharing your talents here and supporting this ragtag mag of mine.
All the best always
Steve
EXTRA-EXTRA
by
Cindy Rosmus
Excess. Natalie’s middle name.
Nobody like my sister. Extra-this, extra-that. Salad lost in so much dressing you felt sorry for it.
“No such thing,” she said in that baby-schnooks voice, “as too much blue-cheese dressing!”
Nick watched her. Like there was “no such thing” as too much Natalie. Her new husband . . .
Who used to be mine.
“I need a big bowl,” she told the waiter. “Of cut-up, fresh lemons.” For her flounder. Instead of two slices, like a normal diner.
“No, no!” she snapped, when only two slices showed up.
“Nat,” Nick whispered, “Take mine.”
That pout.
Spare ribs, extra-well-done. Beyond the jerky point. Deluged with the thickest, sweetest BBQ sauce she could find. “Isn’t it delicious like this?” she said. Smirking when I spat it out. Avoiding my eyes, Nick leaned closer to her.
That was Memorial Day.
Fourth of July, she got a surprise.
After years of feeling empty. Starving, no matter how much food surrounded me. Swimming in the juice of fresh lemons . . .
While Nick got us drinks, I loaded her plate high.
“Mmmmm,” she said, cheeks and fingers drenched in BBQ sauce.
Extra-extra sweet.
From antifreeze.
THE END
Bio:
Cindy Rosmus originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Storyand 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, The Yard, and Rock and a Hard Place. 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 Only
Remaining Sin
by
Carlotta Dale
I’d been cast in The Devil Takes the Hindmost.
The play featured the seven deadly sins: a fat woman was Gluttony, a bosomy one was Lust, a droopy one, Sloth. The rest were men: Greed with a bay-window paunch, Envy a beanpole, Pride resembling a movie star.
I’d gotten the part because the Wrath from the Off-off-Broadway production had listened to the siren call of Hollywood. Now the show was moving to Off-Broadway, and they needed a replacement.
They hired me. They didn’t know who I was. I didn’t tell them.
Anger reigns supreme; the other sins are weak. Only Wrath is truly outward facing.
Envy, Pride, and Greed didn’t stand a chance. Well, none of them did, to be frank.
The script was stupid: overly intellectual, pretentious crap. That offended me, but I didn’t really care. The costumes were quasi-medieval. Mine was black, cod piece and all. Worked for me.
Carrying a scythe would have been a nice touch … Nah, too obvious. The whole production verged on camp, anyway. We weren’t going to make it to Off-Broadway. Not if I could help it.
I wondered who I’d kill first.
I was destined to be the last sin standing.
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’s had many jobs, including gigs as a ghost writer. She still uses adverbs—sparingly—and has had three short stories published by Punk Noir Magazine, if this one makes the cut. She can be found on Twitter @carlottadale38 and on BlueSky @carlottadale.bsky.social.
Three’s Company
by
Steven Lemprière
Sophie took the last of her husband from the freezer. A muscle that should, like other hard-working cuts of flesh, become mouth-wateringly tender when slowly braised.
The seven-year threshold since Oliver’s disappearance had rolled over, and with no activity on his part, the High Court had declared him dead. It was time to move on, and tonight, it gave Sophie the opportunity to kill a second bird with the same stone.
She’d invited Lettie, her younger, free-spirited, and as she once heard her mother say, prettier sister, to celebrate.
“Delicious,” Lettie exclaimed, as she dug in. “What meat is this?”
“Pizzle.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a type of offal.”
Lettie grimaced.
“I remember our father loved variety meats when we were children, or so mother led us to believe. Although, looking back, I’d say the limitations of his pay packet were behind its regular appearance at our dinner table.”
“Don’t remind me. It was like chewing leather, but this…This is so tender.”
“Good. I had a feeling you’d like it. I wondered if it might remind you of something you’ve tasted before.”
“Really? Can’t think what.”
“No. I felt sure you would. Maybe it will come to you.”
Bio:
Steven Lemprière’s flash has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Drabble, Friday Flash Fiction, 50-Word Stories and 50 Give or Take. He undertook a creative writing course while a patient at an Irish psychiatric hospital, and shortly after his discharge, found himself shortlisted for the New Writers Prize at the Cúirt International Festival of Literature. Originally from London, he now lives between the West Coast of Ireland and South-West France.
Seven Deadly Toppings
by
David Milner
“When you are ready, Ivan.” Said Detective Inspector Rice to the young man.
“It was midnight she was in a shop doorway, arms folded staring at the rain. Blonde hair in the cornrow style. Went with anyone – Kurds, Somalis – people said. I only wanted what she was willing. Bought pizza all seven toppings half price that night. Back at my flat put the heating on so she could have a hot bath.
She was small all over. Older than she looked. Knew what she was doing.
Should have fucked before I handed over the cash. No. Sorry. Before the Spice. I didn’t know that poison. Thought it was normal smoke. Things turned to shit so fast like a heart attack. She’s laughing. Laughing in my face.
I slapped her, stuffed pizza in her mouth. She’s too much noise and bony knees. Pushes her thumb right in my eyeball and it’s fucking thick with dirt under the nail. I hit her then. Hit her. Blood tomatoes sweetcorn salami fucking face. And it’s like my hands weren’t my own that I put around her neck.
Beautiful she was. Honest to God.
Was she called Lisa?”
Confession signed at 11:07 AM (as recorded).
End
Bio:
David Milner’s stories have appeared in print and online at 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.
The Virtue of Sloth
by
Steven Sheil
Murdering my father had always seemed like such hard work. Not the act itself – even at my laziest, the swinging of a hammer was not beyond my abilities – but the endless planning required to avoid detection, the meticulousness demanded to evidence-proof the crime scene. It all just seemed so exhausting.
But time has the habit of sharpening necessity to a fine point, and when my own funds began to dwindle, and I was faced with the choice of finding a job (unthinkable) or procuring my own rightful inheritance, the decision was made.
One night while my father slept I commandeered the kitchen in order to draw up my plans. The effort of maintaining concentration swiftly became tiring though and so I made myself a large stiffener which seemed to help. ‘One’ soon became ‘many’. My last memory of the night is slopping a colossal G&T across to the kitchen table.
I woke to find my father – delightfully – dead on the tiled floor beside me, head bloody and cratered. The court ruled it accidental, though the judge did chide me for my lax housekeeping, saying, “Had you bothered to clean up your spilled cocktail, your father might yet be alive.”
Bio:
Steven Sheil is an Edgar-nominated writer of crime, horror, and weird fiction. His work has previously been published in Alfred Hitchcok’s Mystery Magazine, Black Static and The Ghastling, online at Fudoki, Horla, Horrified and Pyre, and as part of the Black Library anthologies Invocations, The Harrowed Path and The Accursed. He is also the writer and director of the feature film Mum & Dad (2008), the co-director of Mayhem Film Festival, and an enthusiastic collector and reader of vintage crime fiction. He lives in Nottingham, UK.
Lust
by
Zvi A. Sesling
I always wanted to have Belinda as my wife. We met in high school and dated through college, but the Vietnam War came along and I got drafted. Two years and back home I found Belinda married to Ray Welch, my best buddy. Now I must tell you I wasn’t going to let that keep me from having Belinda. I wanted her and she was mine, so I congratulated them both. A few weeks later I convinced Ray we should hike up Mt. Washington for old times sake just like we had done with the fraternity in college. It was Memorial Day weekend and the crowds were pretty big despite the unseasonably cold weather. He “fell” and hit his head on a rock. I informed the Park Rangers he was missing and I couldn’t find him in the blinding storm. Since he was only wearing a sweater he froze to death. I attended the funeral and tried to keep Belinda company, but kept seeing Earl Mason coming over there. I put two and two together and suggested to Earl we go for a hike. Belinda was going to be mine and I would never let anyone else have her, ever.
XXX
Bio:
Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has published numerous poems and flash fiction. He edits 10 By 10 Flash Fiction Stories. His flash fiction books are 40 Stories (with Paul Beckman), Secret Behind the Gate and Wheels. Sesling lives in Brookline, MA with his wife Susan J. Dechter.
REST FOR THE WICKED
by
Meghan Leigh Paulk
The verdant village, nestled at the foot of a craggy cliffside, was renowned for its temple. The temple, in turn, was renowned for its great bell. The massive bell, molded from bronze, hung from the temple’s high tower. Three times daily, the appointed bell ringer mounted the tower steps to strike the sonorous bell with a beechwood mallet. At dawn, the bell sounded to wake the villagers. Two hours later, the bell rang to signal commencement of the work day. At sunset, the bell’s resonant tone sent the workers home to their families.
null
Then, one morning, the bell stayed silent.
The villagers woke gradually, greeted only by a melodic chorus of robins and bush warblers. The town constable, still wiping sleep from his eyes, roused his deputy at home. Together, they rushed to the temple to investigate. Upon arriving, they found a gathering of villagers gawking at the bell ringer’s crumpled body. His skull had been stove-in by his own mallet.
The deputy whispered, “What kind of maniac would kill our beloved bell ringer?”
Less than a mile away, in a slovenly shack, a grubby man slept peacefully, still clad in his bloodstained shirt.
null
Uninterrupted at last.
THE END
Bio:
Meghan Leigh Paulk is an attorney by day, author by night who lives in Austin, Texas. Her short fiction has been published by Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Punk Noir, Shotgun Honey, and Cowboy Jamboree.
I was a great sinful crop!
Thanks for including me, Steve. Feeling very chuffed.