FIND WHAT YOU LOVE AND LET IT KILL YOU #3
A PUNK NOIR Magazine series
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.
Ah, that tiger will stay with me... great selection!
The Tiger Girl got me too.