Find What You Love and Let It Kill You #2
A PUNK NOIR Magazine series
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.
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.
Thanks for including Frank. A great collection of stories.