Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends — Issue 1
Peaches & Bees
by
Brandon Doughty
The wall unit hummed a monotonous tune as we strolled toward my workshop. I grow peach trees and raise bees on my land, making jelly and preserves as a hobby.
“You need anything else?” I’d given him a two pack of epi-injectors for his allergies; a little off the books care, but I was his doctor.
“All good, man. I might need a vacation after this Andy business.”
“You remember how scared Andy was that night?” I asked Hank. That night we robbed his parent’s lake house back when we were twelve. It was the first of many home invasions. No one got hurt, but we stole enough to pay for mine and Andy’s college. We grew up trailer park trash, from even trashier parents. Hey it worked. Andy opened a business and I became a doctor; a GP in our little town of Wimberley.
“How could I forget? I recorded it,” Hank laughed.
“I thought you were joking about that.” I stopped to look at him. “You still have the tape?”
He looked away, kept walking. “Huh? Jeez, uh…that was twenty years ago. Who knows where it went.”
“The cops are looking for Andy because of this money laundering scheme. I thought we were done with all that,” I lamented.
“Bad news all around.”
“You brought him the original investment, right? Now the cops think it was all him. Could you help him out? Show some evidence he got duped?”
“I wish I could, but he made his bed,” Hank yelled. “Your air conditioners too loud.”
I opened the door. The buzzing grew louder thanks to my bees. Andy rushed around the corner, shoved Hank into the workshop. We held the door shut.
“Good luck with those new injectors, Hank,” I called through the door. He never responded.
Bio:
Brandon Doughty grew up in a trailer park, moved to Austin where he worked at Apple for twenty-five years before he started digging in the dark places under rocks. He occasionally surfaces with a story he found. He still writes out of Austin, where he avoids deviled-eggs and plays bass… poorly. His short fiction has appeared in Punk Noir, Black Glass Pages, Yellow Mama, the anthology Crimeucopia: Totally Psychological, The Yard: Crime Blog, Flash Fiction Onlineand Thriller Magazine. He was also long listed for Uncharted’s Horror Challenge in 2025. Find more at www.brandondoughtywrites.com.
Long Term Memory
by
Scott MacLeod
Kash wheeled himself back into his bedroom. Bones followed. His newest pal. They were inseparable. Best buds.
When they got into the room, Kash turned and reintroduced himself, anew. As he did every morning. With everyone at the home. Each day was a fresh start. The thrill of discovery.
Each man noticed on Kash’s dresser the framed black and white photo of a beautiful woman. 1950’s pixie cut. Chiffon gown. Pearls. Now she was only a memory. If you had one. Kash remarked on her beauty every time. Had not a clue who she was.
There wasn’t much in the way of sharp cutlery at this place where a diet of melon and soup predominated. But a butter knife will do the trick if you know where to stick it.
Bones pocketed one at breakfast after buttering his damp toast.
He recalled days in another institution. That’s where the long years had melted away slowly for him. While his best buddy, who put him there, roamed free. Worse than free. Doing worse than roaming.
At that other place, Bones had learned to be a resourceful armorer. A helpful skill. Essential even.
After dinner, back in Kash’s room, Bones buried the purloined blade into his unsuspecting old pal.
Is it justice if the recipient can’t understand?
If felt good. That was enough.
Back in his own room, Bones took out his wallet. Removed the worn photo and took a long look. It was the same picture from Kash’s dresser. Bones had carried it first.
Kash had been put in this place. Against his will.
Because he couldn’t remember.
Bones put himself in there of his own free accord. To be with his old friend.
Because he couldn’t forget.
Bio:
Scott MacLeod is a multiple Pushcart Prize nominated 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
Bubbles Up
by
Pamela Ebel
“I’d love some tea, Lisa. I brought cookies.”
“ I’m short on time today, Pat. I’m on a story deadline.”
“I know. I appreciate your willingness to brainstorm some ideas. I promise not to take too much time out of your important schedule.”
Months later Pat’s voice tone and snide look remained fresh in Lisa’s mind. The meetings were one-way. Lisa read her stories. Pat would make notes and blame childhood poverty, violence, and a poor education as reasons for struggling to write.
“I just want to publish like you.”
Lisa brushed off her growing unease until a story submitted to a favorite publisher was rejected.
“I liked the story, but I just accepted an almost identical piece. I’m sorry and try again.”
Over several weeks most of Lisa’s publishers rejected works citing the ‘almost identical story’ issue.
Then one afternoon returning to her office with drinks Lisa saw Pat slip her new story into her briefcase.
Two weeks later Lisa served tea and told Pat about a story she was sure was about to be accepted by a major publisher.
“The tea is getting cold. I’ll make some fresh.”
Stepping into the hallway Lisa watched Pat put the box holding works in progress in the briefcase.
“I’m so excited for you Lisa. But we’ll have to celebrate later. I have to run.”
Three hours later Lisa entered Pat’s apartment. Pat lay dead on the floor next to the file box and Lisa’s brother’s pet Coral Snake.
Lisa placed the snake in the box, opened the champagne she’d brought, poured a glass, and smiled.
“Really Pat, you should know better than to cheat a murder mystery writer.
A Toast! Bubbles Up!”
Bio:
Pamela Ebel is the author of over 400 short stories, a number of which have appeared, in Shotgun Honey, YELLOW MAMA EZINE, Black Peals, Punk Noir, Kings River Life Magazine, The BOULD AWARDS 2020 and 2021 Anthology, Tomorrow and Tomorrow 2021 Anthology, The Yard Crime Blogand other venues. Her poetry has appeared in the Delta Poetry Review and The Five – Two Poetry Crime weekly. She teaches a course on ‘How to Write and Market Short Fiction’ and speaks on that topic as well as “The Legal Impact of Generative AI on Intellectual Property Rights” at various conferences. A native of California, she now concentrates on tales from her original home state and tales from the highways of the South. She knows, like the Ancient Greeks and the Irish, that as a southern writer you can’t outrun your blood.
She turned to writing full time in 2020, making this her fifth career. She lives in Metairie, Louisiana, with her husband and two cats.
Wingman
by
John Weagly
“Jeff is the perfect specimen,” Tony said. My best friend, my biggest supporter, my
consummate wingman.
“Look at those broad shoulders. Look at that chiseled jawline. Look at that tight waist.”
I was trying not to blush. He was laying it on thick.
“How often do you work out,” he asked. “Three times a week? Five?”
“As often as I can,” I shrugged. “Not that much, really. You’re in much better shape than I am.”
“Nonsense! And what about smarts? What’s your IQ?”
“I don’t know. Who knows their IQ?”
“Whatever the average IQ is, I bet yours is double.”
I shook my head. “You’re the one who got straight A’s in high school. I had a few Cs and a couple D’s.”
“That was a sign of how intelligent you are! You were too smart and those classes bored you.”
“Nah.”
“And humble. I swear, you’re the perfect example of human evolution.”
Apparently everyone agreed, except me.
We were pulled off a gravel road, drinking cans of Miller High Life in the bed of Tony’s Chevy Colorado talking about things we’d never do. The UFO came out of the night sky and landed in the field in front of us. Little green men, about eight of them, came out and surrounded the truck.
Long story short, they needed an earthling. Tony made a really good case for them taking me.
The wings extended from the ship with a metallic whine. By the way the visitors reacted, I could tell that it was time to go. They lifted their hands, palms to the sky, and I floated out of the truck-bed and onto their ship. Where was I headed? Intergalactic zoo? Special ingredient in a cookbook? Living dissection? I’d find out soon enough.
Thanks to Tony. My ride or die.
Bio:
John Weagly is a seven-time Derringer Award nominee (winning once in 2008). He’s also been nominated for the SpinetinglerAward and the Pushcart Prize. As a playwright, over one hundred of his plays have received productions by theaters on five continents. A collection of his short speculative plays, TINY FLIGHTS OF FANTASY, has been taught at Columbia College. You can find more of his short stories in the collections THE UNDERTOW OF SMALL TOWN DREAMS and DANCING IN THE KNEE-DEEP MIDNIGHT.
Betrayals.... here we go! Great start!
I also live in Metairie. Weird.