The Company Man by Paul D. Brazill

Flash Fiction, Paul D. Brazill

The Company Man

By Paul D. Brazill

Jose opened the waiting room door. Six men, wearing grey suits identical to his, were sat staring straight ahead. Their hands were palm down on their knees. Jose walked in and took a seat next to the reception desk.  He put his hands on his knees and sniffed. He sniffed again.

‘Would you like a tissue?’ said Margot the receptionist, offering a box of lemon-scented handkerchiefs.

‘No thank you,’ said Jose, without looking at her. ‘It’s the bleach. I smell bleach.’

One of the men looked at his hands and sniffed them. Margot sighed and took out her iPhone. She put in her ear plugs, hoping to drown out the sniffing sounds with The Saints’ ‘Swing For The Crime.’

Fifteen minutes later, the red telephone on Margo’s desk flashed. She picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. She listened, nodding occasionally.

‘Of course, Mr Tipple,’ she said.

She hung up and cleared her throat.

The men all leaned forward and stared at Margot.

‘Jose please go through,’ she said.

The shadow of a smirk briefly crossed Jose’s face.

He got up and walked through a door marked The Director.

***

Mr Tipple’s office was dark. He sat behind his mahogany desk breathing heavily.  Behind him was a large window. Its blinds were pulled down. Tipple switched on an Anglepoise lamp. He was well dressed, as always, and held a gold fountain pen in his hand.

‘Please take a seat, Jose,’ said Mr Tipple. ‘I’ll be two ticks.’

Jose sat and waited until Mr Tipple had finished signing a wad of papers. He pressed a button on his desk and Margot came into the room and collected the documents.

Tipple waited until Margot left and nodded at Jose.

‘The thing is,’ said Mr Tipple. ‘The thing is …’

He leaned across the desk and looked Jose in the eye.

‘The thing is, Jose, we have to let you go,’ said Mr Tipple.

He smiled, looking uncomfortable.

Jose blinked and said.

‘I understand,’

‘Please take this to Col in supplies and he will arrange everything connected with your … departure.’

Jose took the slip of yellow paper from The Director and stood. As he went to open the door, he turned and looked at Mr Tipple.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

Mr Tipple nodded.

‘Good luck, Jose,’ he said.

***

Col’s office was small and cramped. It was stuffed with metal filing cabinets and cardboard boxes.  Col was big and ginger. He smelt of Cuban cigars although no one in The Company was allowed to smoke.

Jose gave the slip of paper to Col who rubber stamped it and put it in a filing cabinet. He took a small wooden box from another cabinet and handed it to Jose.

‘Check this and sign it,’ said Col.

Jose opened the box. He took out the Glock, inspected it and put it back in the box.

‘It’s fine,’ he said.

Col gave him a sheet of pink paper. Jose signed it and gave it back to Col, who stamped it and filed it away.

‘Is this your first field trip?’ said Col.

‘It is.’

‘Well, keep an eye on those expenses, eh?’ said Col. ‘We’re not made of money.’

He winked.

***

Charlotte’s Bistro was dark and red. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons leaked from a small CD player. An old married couple sat near the window, holding hands and watching the rain soaked street outside. A skinny business man maniacally tapped at his iPhone.

Jose sat at a small table near the door. He had finished his spaghetti carbonara and was halfway through a glass of Maison Surrenne Cognac when Sir David came in, shaking his black umbrella and spraying the room with autumn rain. As the petit waitress fussed around him, Jose went to the toilet. Five minutes later he came back out and shot everyone in the room. Twice, just to be on the safe side.

As he left the bistro, he picked up his blood splattered bill from his table and put it in his wallet. He’d need that for his expenses claim.

© Paul D. Brazill.

ALL THINGS SERVE THE BEAM BY BEAU JOHNSON

Beau Johnson, Down and Out Books., Flash Fiction, Short Stories

ALL THINGS SERVE THE BEAM

BY BEAU JOHNSON

I’ve found it.  It was right where it should have been too, just a little more than halfway down the steps that led to the pantry of Al’s Diner.  In the book it’s a type of doorway used to try and stop Oswald from taking out JFK.  

This will not be the case with me. 

There are two reasons for this.  One is that things are different than how the Author explained: no set time limit which might reset when any given character attempts to change the past.  The walls are thin here, yes, but it’s not time travel we’re talking about.  Not in the least.

            The second thing is this: there are other worlds than these.

            For truth, I think I have found the gateway to stories; to where each of them originates.  It is the story, not he who tells it.  Pretty sure I’ve heard him say this many times throughout the years.  I never believed it though, not fully.  Not until now.  How could I not?  I mean, I have met the girl now, the first one I ever heard told to plug it up.  I was an extra, sure, there in the background amongst the crowd at the prom.  Fortunate for me I made it out before the pig’s blood fell and the doors began to shut.  It was tougher than I imagined too, and heartbreaking, and only because I now stood within what once I only read.  

I hope I am making myself clear.  The world I believe depends upon it. 

Discovering all this caused certain scenarios to enter my mind, numero uno being this: could I now affect things?  Bold, I know, but the situation itself was beyond anything I ever thought possible.  I think the Author knew this too, or knows, and might have been subconsciously leaving breadcrumbs for someone like me to find.  He needs help is what I think this means.  All told, I’d set my watch and warrant on it.

            Me saying things like that, this is what has gotten me through.  I’m talking all of it too, every story.  Not just the thing behind the clown or what Ben Mears found in the ‘Lot.  It comes to what things always come to: The Tower.  From one book to the next it seems to be in there or just around, glowing like a buried stone.  Excavated or not, it sings like Susannah and forces me to aim with my heart and not with my hand.

            Do you see how I have not forgotten the face of my father?

            I had to investigate though, and I had to be sure.  Onwards I went, from world to world.  From dog to dome to plague; all of it like some mutated Deja vu which tugged at my core.  It means Mordred is in fact a-hungry and Harold Lauder will always jump.  I meet Paul Sheldon, Dinky Earnshaw, and poor Nick Andros before he figures things out.  They speak to me.  Spoke to me.  But none of them for long.  A line or two here, a description of who I think is me there.  It’s as this occurs that I realize the magnitude of what I’m to do.

            And that Mother Abigail would be proud.

            I had to test it though, had to be sure.  At first it didn’t work, not all the times I travelled and tried to save Gage from that semi.  The last time however, the last time something new transpired as I attempted to prove what I believe is possible.  The Author brought the child back.  He did so from the grave, yes, but my mother always said a victory was a victory no matter its size.  It also meant I was ready; that I had come into my own.

But I would not go in as Patrick Danville, not as a device placed books before an ending had yet come.  No, I would be new.  I would be fresh.   Becoming everything he required to find his way home.

            The man in black would flee across the desert, and horn or no horn, I and the gunslinger would follow.

9:27 a.m by Alex Z. Salinas

Alex z Salinas, Flash Fiction, Torch Songs

9:27 a.m.

By Alex Z. Salinas

It’s 9:27 a.m. and Larry Rios decides with a scorned lover’s swiftness that 9:27 a.m. is the most perilous of timestamps—because ten minutes after 9:27 a.m. it’s 9:37 a.m., which means it’s three minutes from 9:40 a.m. and 9:40 a.m. is only twenty minutes (or one-third of an hour) away from 10 a.m., and by 10 a.m. it’s one hour until 11 a.m.—so-called late morning, subsisting only for one hour, sixty minutes, 3,600 seconds—and then bam! Morning’s donezo, baby. See ya mañana. The birds’ll keep chirping, sure, but the chirping’ll hit differently. Larry consults his watch: 9:30 a.m.

Bio: Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections from Hekate Publishing: WARBLES (2019) and DREAMT, or The Lingering Phantoms of Equinox (2020). His poems, short fiction and essays have appeared in various print and electronic publications. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University.

Out NOW! Death by Punk

Anthology, Art, Flash Fiction, Indie, Poetry, punk

Dumpster Fire Press unleashes its first anthology…DEATH BY PUNK a tribute to the spirit of punk rock, DIY and counter culture, intermingled with good old fashioned writing about death with a bit of existential dread thrown in (ah, poets)Featuring poets, writers and artists from around the globe! Whether you want to relive glory days, looking to explore or even seeking ways to unfetter yourself from past lives to the here and now DEATH BY PUNK is a hell of a read! OI , OI, OI!

GRAB DEATH BY PUNK HERE!

First Snow by Marko Antic

Flash Fiction, Marko Antić, Short Stories

FIRST SNOW

The beginning is November. November 3rd, actually. Already? We are both warmly dressed, and yet I took that ridiculously larger blanket again, as if we were going on a September picnic. You know, one of those especially magical trips of ours, with sandwiches, chocolate, wine, and Indian chopsticks whose fumes supposedly repel mosquitoes.

I hug you and kiss you, hug you until they “crunch”, sniff your wavy hair that spills over the black coat you got for your birthday and wear it for years, until it gets its place of honor in the closet dedicated to the Holy Things of Youth.

It’s dusk. We walk towards the forest. I can feel the smog. Yes, the first sign of winter.

“It is a grove where a dog with different eyes lives. Remember, we petted him back then. It’s magical. ”

“I remember. Anyway, is the Mp3 player still kidding you? I brought it to you

walkman. ”

“Great, I found my sister’s dictaphone too. I also have some audio cassettes and batteries. Hehe, my special compilations… ”

We play the tape, open a bottle of rum, stick cheek to cheek, share headphones and sips of rum. Uriah Heep, Pink Floyd, Haustor, Azra, Leonard Cohen…

The first snowflakes soon fluttered towards your curls. We found shelter under a small pine tree. Then I took a blanket, we spread it out and improvised a standing tent for two.

A tent of love, good music, curly hair, the first November snow and eternal kisses. A tent that I will remember forever.

Marko Antić was born on October 11th 1980 in Paraćin, Serbia. He is an underground poet and writer.  His work is published in the fanzine “Green Horse” and Serbian and regional poetry and short stories anthologies. Formal education: Bachelor of Law

The Deadlands by Tom Leins

All Due Respect, Brit Grit, Close To The Bone, Flash Fiction, Indie, Short Stories, Tom Leins

THE DEADLANDS

By Tom Leins

The burn is horrendous and I struggle to look him in his good eye.

His only eye.

His face hasn’t healed, and he smells charred – like he has crawled out of the belly of hell itself.

Virgil is a tall man in a rust-brown suit. The severed nub of his thumb protrudes from the soiled looking plaster-cast on his right arm. He scratches his ruined face. 

“Will you be able to get her back?”

I nod, and he wheezes with relief. He removes a creased photograph from his wallet.

The girl has hair the colour of melted caramel. She flashes the camera a tight smile, which never quite reaches her eyes. Her collarbone seems to be tattooed. I pick up the photo and squint. It looks like a flatlining heartbeat, with the words ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ tattooed underneath.

“Can I keep it?”

He grunts.

“I don’t need the photo back, Mr Rey. Just my daughter.”

***

I survey the hellscape in front of me. The horizon is a jagged blur of burned-out, skeletal-looking houses and abandoned office blocks.

The Underworld looms large in the middle: a labyrinthine subterranean nightclub presided over by an elderly tycoon named Harry Hades. It’s only a year old – built on the site a notorious crime scene. Ten boys were found in the vacant lot – their bodies entirely drained of blood. People said that the Bone Daddy did it, but I don’t believe in ghosts.

‘The Underworld’ is spelled out in lurid, neon lights. Underneath, in smaller lights, are the words ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’.

I step past the expressionless, gargoyle-esque doormen and into the vestibule – my boots crunching on a bloody mixture of maggots, lice and dried pus. The grinding bass is so low it makes my guts churn.

There are nine doors, evenly spaced out. A word has been carved onto each door: Limbo. Lust. Gluttony. Greed. Wrath. Heresy. Violence. Fraud. Treachery. The Nine Circles of Hell.

I pause next to Lust. The door opens a crack and sultry laughter oozes through the gap.

I turn abruptly as Gluttony swings open. The room disgorges a tide of putrid slush into the lobby.

I choose Violence. One way or another, I always choose Violence.

***

The door opens with an infernal creak. A wave of evil, reeking heat takes my breath away. It’s as hot as hell and twice as ugly. The men drinking themselves into damnation are the worst of the worst. Child murderers. Spree killers. Degenerates. The violently unhinged. Sickness comes off them in waves. They rub shoulders, careful not to look one another in the eye – or spill each other’s pints. Their names are tattooed on their foreheads, their crimes inked on their knuckles.

My armpits feel rancid with sweat. Perspiration stings my bloodshot eyeballs. As I pass through the crowd, hushed voices rasp like flame. Yellow eyes glare at me from the gloom.  Pale, naked girls drift around the room, drinks trays in hand. I grab a drink to try and alleviate the blast-furnace heat, but it tastes hellish, so I spit the fiery liquid back in the glass and place it on the next tray that passes my way.

At the back of the room, Harry Hades slouches in an obscene gold-plated wheelchair. A girl – Beatrice – performs a private dance for him. There’s a choke-chain wrapped around her throat – fastened to his wheelchair. Her movements are weary, her feet are calloused. She has been condemned to perform a relentless slow grind by a bored sadist.

***

Harry Hades is old. Not frail, but old enough to have lost his fear of death. He jerks the chain and the girl falls at his feet. He removes his tinted sunglasses. His eyes look dead.

“How can I help you, young man?”

His dentures are so big that he can’t close his mouth when he grins at me.

I hold the photograph up for his inspection.

He shrugs.

“If you think she was here, she probably was.”

“I’m going to need her back.”

Another shrug.

“I care little about what happens outside The Underworld, young man. I have everything I need down here. But no one steals a soul from my realm.”

I don’t have the energy to talk to this rotten old motherfucker – especially in this heat – so I throw a brutal right hook at his elderly face – crumpling his bone-structure like a scrapyard hatchback.

Streaky blood leaks from his broken mouth. He spits a mouthful at my feet and speaks in a nasal whine.

“How about I let my hell-hound off his leash?”

It’s an idle threat, and I let it hang in the air – like the stale smoke from his high-tar cigarettes.

“Do your worst, Hades.”

“Cerberus.”

Crouched behind the wheelchair, attached to a second choke-chain, is a lean, tattooed guy with a flick-knife sneer and a mangled ear. Hades yanks his leash. He scampers across the floor on his hands and knees, before springing to his feet.

I forget his real name, but he’s a Scottish ex-bareknuckle fighter who was banned for life after killing two men in the cage. His torso is layered in clumsy prison ink: skulls, daggers, obscenities. In the middle of his chest is a brand-new tattoo of a three-headed dog with a serpent for a tail. It’s so new, the tattoo is still wrapped in clingfilm.

Hades unclips the chain, and I see the man’s muscles bunch and harden.

I don’t give him the time to make a move – I grab his leash and wrench his pale face towards my fist. Once. Twice. Three times. On the floor, he whimpers like a kicked hell-hound.

Hades attempts to scramble away from me, but his slip-on shoes look skittish – like hooves on a blood-slick abattoir floor – and his withered legs give way immediately. His forehead hits the concrete and blood as thick as mould oozes from his ruptured skull.

I place Beatrice on the vacant wheelchair and move towards the exit.

Cretinous faces leer at me, but no one makes a move to stop me.

I retrieve a complementary matchbook from the table next to the exit, strike a match and drop it in the pocket of one of the nylon bomber jackets hanging on the coat-rack.

Kick up the fire, and let the flames break loose.

I doubt these rotten bastards will even notice.

The End

Bio: Tom Leins is a crime writer from Paignton, UK. His books include Boneyard DogsTen Pints of BloodMeat Bubbles & Other Stories (all published by Close to the Bone) and Repetition Kills You and The Good Book: Fairy Tales for Hard Men (both available from All Due Respect). For more details, please visit:

https://thingstodoindevonwhenyouredead.wordpress.com/

Todor Flew by Damjan Pejović

Damjan Pejović, Flash Fiction, International Noir, Marija Stanojević, Poetry, Short Stories

TODOR FLEW

    Black patent shoes covered in mud looked shabby as well as, moreover, whole appearance of the clerk Todor. That very night as always… After he took them off and left them in a narrow vestibule, in woollen socks he went to the shed table in the dining room, while farina porridge was steaming on its top. Skinny sonny boy named Toma already slurped it big time.

  • Me flying!…. Me? – scatterbrained, he told his wife Milena, who was spreading jam on thin slices of bread in a little kitchen.
  • What did he say, why in hell? – his wife Milena asked him, just to say something in return.
  • Why! Why! You ask why?! – Todor was amazed, while the difference between his higher and lower blood pressure begun to perish. – At first, he didn’t say a thing, but he said that after I withheld my support for reformation of five-year acquisition plan in the cooperative.

    Blood pressures met each other halfway. While they exchanged impulses, Todor was levitating a bit tilted, even upside down over the table, touching a light bulb of 45 candles with his socks.   

  • Not in a hell! Me flying, well not in a hell! – shouted Todor.

    Wife Milena dropped a jar of jam, that smashed on tiles. She shouted in panic: – Ouch, ouch!… ho-ho… – pulling her messy, grayish hair and running around in circle.

    Skinny Toma bewilderedly smiled.

    A clerk Todor started swimming in frog style and flew out the window, lured by evening air filled with bluish vapors. When blood pressures again parted, he was already about fifty meters away from the building… so claim those who run into his smashed corpse.

                                                                                                        Timisoara

                                                                                         December 12th,, 1999

Translated by

Marija Stanojević

BIOGRAPHY

Born 01.05.1977 in Belgrade.

Founder of literary nonprofit organization “Dimitrije Tirol” 1995 godine, for young Serbian writers from Romania, Timisoara. Main and responsible editor, editor for prose in literary zine “Zeleni konj” (Green Horse), which is been published every 3 months, now we have published 32th issue.

Publish in Romania:

  • Poems in anthology “Ni nuli ne bih ćutnju oprostio” with other writers from “Dimitrije Tirol” which was published in year 1999;
  • Stories and poems in anthology “Zeleni konj 6 godina – izbor priča i pesama“, in year 2019 where were also editor for stories.
  • Short stories and poems in Timisoara newspapers on Serbian: “Naša reč”, “Književni život”.

Publish in Serbia:

  • Story’s in anthology “Najkraće priče 2005”, publisher Alma;
  • Story’s in anthology “357”, publisher “Književne vertikale”
  • Publishing short stories and poems in following newspapers: “Književna reč”, “Zeleni konj”, ”Književne vertikale” and on internet portals (“Balkanski književni glasnik”, “Rastko”, “Poeziranje”…).

Publish in Europe:

  • Poem in artistic magazine ”Nekazano” from Montenegro;
  • Graphic story in magazine ”Gold Dust” from United Kingdom;
  • Short story in magazine ”Between These Shores Literary & Arts Annual”. Annual

Founder of artistic center in Belgrade named “Zemoon” in year 2017, where was responsible for literature.

Founder of nonprofit organization ”Zeleni konj” in Belgrade in year 2019, which is publishing literary zine, books, organize literary events and international exhibitions of various arts

As was for many year in scrap metals business have become passionate collector of figures and sculptures which are sorted from metal scrap.  

Living in two countries, Serbia and Romania, am divided between Belgrade and Timisoara.

John Wisniewski interviews Bill Baber

Bill Baber, Flash Fiction, Indie, Interviews, John Wisniewski, Poetry, Shotgun Honey, T Fox Dunham

When did you begin writing, Bill?

I took writing classes in high school as well as Journalism. Wrote for the school paper and continued that in college. I wrote for small newspapers for many years before switching to fiction, which is much more enjoyable! The deadlines are much more manageable!

Any favorite crime authors?

How much space do you have? JamesCrumley is the reason I write crime fiction. To me, “The Last Good Kiss” is the best crime novel ever written. James Lee Burke is a close second and I really enjoy Don Winslow and Dennis Lehane.

Then there are all the writers who are part of the online community and that is a long list- Joe Clifford, Tom Pitts, Rob Pierce, S. A Cosby, Brian Panowich, Chris De Wildt, Greg Barth, Bruce Harris, Chris McGinley, Jim Shaffer, and Johnny Shaw (Love the Jimmy Veeder Series.) Lately I have read a couple of books by Andrew Rausch-not for the faint of heart. Then there are the chaps from across the pond, Paul Brazil, Tom Leins, Ken Bruen and on and on-I hope they all know who they are!

Lastly, T. Fox Dunham wrote a book a few years ago called The Street Martyr. It is damn near perfect.

This is a partial list as there are a number of other great writers that deserve mention!

What makes a good crime novel?                                                                                     

Tough question. The reason I like Crumley and James Lee Burke is because they bring a literary side to the genre. Dialogue is important, it has to be believable. And a little humor helps. Lately, I have been drawn to stories featuring characters that are hard core criminals. Tommy Shakes by Rob Pearce and American Trash by Andrew Rausch are great examples. Pearce’s book should come with a warning- “Do Not Read With A Full Stomach!” It is disturbing- and about as real as crime fiction gets. When I wrote a review of American Trash I said I didn’t know if I should be outraged or entertained. I felt a little guilty that I liked it. Both were like reading Edward Bunker- dark and disturbing but real crime fiction.

You write poems as well as crime fiction. Could you tell us what interested you about poetry?

Back in the 70’s I was enamored with the writing of Richard Brautigan. I read all his novels and short stories. All that was left was two volumes of poetry. I was not a fan of poetry-until then. His was very easy to understand as was stuff written by Gary Snyder. I thought I could do similar stuff. I was in my twenties, living in a cabin in the redwoods of northern California. I still have those poems floating around. They weren’t very good. It was thirty years before I started writing poetry again.

The poetry I write is mostly spontaneous prose. Something pops into my head and I write it down. It requires very little in the way of editing. When I was first published, I was living in Central Oregon which is big, wild country. It was “nature” poetry because I was surrounded by raw beauty every day. I just wrote what I saw. Had a book of poems published in 2011.

A few years ago, I discovered a crime poetry site, The Five-Two. I was fortunate enough to have a number of poems appear there, two of which were nominated for “Best of the Net” consideration.

Could you tell us writing “Betrayed “? What inspired you?

 “Betrayed” was an anthology about domestic violence that was put together by Pam Stack, the woman behind “Authors on the Air.” My contribution, “No One Heard” is a story about multi-generational abuse. It might be the darkest thing I have written but it was what the subject called for. The title is still out there, and proceeds go to survivors of domestic violence.

How do you create such gritty characters?

 I am an observer of people. And it helped that I spent fifteen years working as a bartender in a small town. I got to know some real characters who had criminal tendencies. Many of my characters are based on them or guys I knew growing up in San Francisco. Now, I look at people and see if I could imagine them a s a criminal, you know, do they have larceny in their heart? And if you walk around Tucson or Phoenix there seems to be no shortage of people you could imagine as characters in a crime story.

How have you managed to be so prolific a writer, Bill, publishing nearly fifty stories? 

I need to update that; it is well past fifty now. My first crime story was published at “Out of the Gutter” back in 2010. Writing is a hobby for me- and a release. I work long hours for corporate America, so it is difficult to stick to any kind of a schedule. Most of those stories have been flash fiction at sites like OOTG, Shotgun Honey, Close to the Bone and Yellow Mama. Maybe a dozen stories that have been published have been longer, I’m trying to force myself to go more in that direction.

What will your next story be about?

I have a story in the just released “Coming Through in Waves” Crime Fiction based on the songs of Pink Floyd. It is titled Arnold Layne and is named for the bands first single. The story is about a million-dollar jewel heist that is interrupted by Arnold’s strange hobby.  This collection was edited by T. Fox Dunham and has some incredible stories by a bunch of great writers. It was an honor to be included!

I am currently working on a story that starts with an armed robbery and a bunch of meth in Tucson and ends with a triple cross and lots of bodies in Albuquerque.

Could you tell us about writing “Sleepwalk “, an award-winning short story?

For the record, it was nominated for a Derringer award by John Thompson, the editor at Dead Guns Press where it appeared. It was set in Tucson. I walked around the barrio where the late Isaac Kirkman, who was well known and loved in the writing community lived. It was during the monsoon season. A thunderstorm was brewing, and it was easy to picture the city fifty years earlier. Tucson has that timeless feel about it. It’s an easy place for a noir tale to take hold.

A son kills the man who murdered the father he never knew. And the fathers best friend lives with guilt and regret for not doing it himself. It was different than anything I had written before. If I had to pick a favorite story of mine, “Sleepwalk” might be it

Six Sentences is BACK!

Flash Fiction, Paul D. Brazill, Robert McEvily, Six Sentences

The Six Sentences ezine was set up by Robert McEvily is 2006. It was super popular and it even spawned a few anthologies. Contributors have included Cormac Brown, Jeanette, Cheezum, Paul D. Brazill and Etan Hawk!

And it’s BACK!

This is the SP:

‘It’s simple. Just write six sentences. Say anything you like. Send your work (including its title) along with your name (or pseudonym), your bio, and any links you’d like to include to robmcevily@gmail.com. All submissions receive a response when you least expect it. Please see Formatting for further details.’

So CHECK OUT SIX SENTENCES !

Palace of Swords Reversed by K A Laity

Flash Fiction, K A Laity, Short Stories, The Fall

Palace of Swords Reversed

‘Look, this is the Five of Swords. That means conflict or strife. Which seems appropriate, right?’ Joy looked up with bright eyes but Will only grunted. ‘Strife it is, indeed. Oh, but look! It’s reversed. Now let me remember. Oh, no I can’t. I have to peek.’

Joy picked up the well-thumbed Rainbows and Unicorns spiral notebook she had bought at WS Smith at the beginning of this new enthusiasm. She had taken notes more carefully  than ever she had in school. Perhaps she had only needed the right subject to awaken the avid scholar within. ‘Ah reversed: here it is. An ongoing conflict, one you can never win so you just need to walk away. Avoid it. Well, that’s a new path to walk as Mother Shipton would say.’

Will offered no reply to this. Perhaps he had grown tired of Mother Shipton says this, Mother Shipton advises that. Perhaps he realised that she had drawn her name from a slightly more famous, somewhat earlier, vaguely notorious psychic of some sort who had a cave now doing a bustling business as a tourist destination in Yorkshire. Perhaps he wasn’t listening.

‘Now this one seems obvious, but it’s not. We had many discussions about this trump. They’re called trumps, you know,’ Joy said, the excitement evident in her voice and the way she bounced on her chair. When they met back in the local primary school, he had found that endearing and told her so. So much energy in such a small bundle was what he always said.

‘The Death card is much feared, and it looks rather daunting, but it doesn’t necessarily doom you,’ she added with a giggle. ‘It means a big change. Things cannot go back to the way they were. An old life is ending—not always literally, mind you!—and a new one begins. That’s encouraging, don’t you think? I think so!’

Will sighed and coughed a little. He was having some trouble breathing. It may have been the knife in his throat.

‘But the last card: that’s the way forward. Look, Will. Knight of Swords. Two swords in this spread. Past and future both the same suit.’ Joy looked over at Will. The spill of red blood down the front of his vest looked rather like a bib, which struck her as funny.

‘The Knight cards area always about energy and motion. Mother Shipton says that real knights were seldom better than mercenaries! Nothing like the stories at all. You know, King Arthur and all that. Maybe Guy Ritchie was right, they were thugs. You liked that film, didn’t you?’

Will did not respond.

‘Motivation. Oh who was that, Will? Comedian fellah, doing the football manager. You know! The three Ms: motivation, motivation, motivation. How we laughed. It was on the YouTube. You remember, I know you do. Motivation, determination, overcoming challenges. Don’t let anything faze you. Brazen it out.’

Joy pulled the knife from his neck and Will fell forward onto the table. Fortunately the vinyl tablecloth would keep the blood from staining the veneer. Incoherent babble emanated from his shape and his hands clawed uselessly at his sides. It had been a good idea to tie him up. Serves him right for nodding off right in the middle of his tea. Four cans of Boddingtons before he sat down! No wonder.

‘I was wondering what I would tell the polis when they came,’ Joy said, more serious now, ‘but as I turn the matter over in my head, I think I may just wait for a nice dark night and slip you into the compost.’

Will did not offer an opinion on the matter.

‘Listen, I’ll call Alice in a few days. Oh Alice, Will left me for a woman Ayrshire! Or should it be France?’ Joy pursed her lips, thinking. Inspiration hit and she turned over another card.

‘Queen of Wands. Ooh, I like that. Independent woman. Wands…hmmm…Poles! I know, you’ve run off with Polish woman to France. Ha! So much for your Brexit, take back control nonsense, Will. You must admit you were wrong about that.’

Will admitted nothing.

Joy wet her thumb and cleaned the drop of blood off the Death card. ‘Can’t have that, now can we?’