Stories on the Go: 101 Very Short Stories by 101 Authors Page 4

  Pulling the flashlight out, she noticed the bag of snacks again. Might as well take them with her now. She’d need something to eat while she waited for the power to come back on. There was precious little in the kitchen, thanks to her latest dieting phase.

  She stuffed the bars and shakes into her big purse. Her neighbors probably knew what was going on. They were the nosey type, always getting the latest gossip–and passing it around, whether you wanted to hear it or not–so if anybody could explain it, they could.

  As she was getting up, ready at last to move around the apartment without banging herself up, her fingers touched the antique brass letter opener resting along the top of the desk. Without thinking, she grabbed it.

  She pressed the switch that turned the flashlight on as she rounded the edge of the desk, shoving the cell phone into her bag on top of the snacks. The light swung around the room, flaring across the large, uncurtained window that took up the majority of one wall of the spare bedroom that served as her home office.

  Something beyond the window howled in agony and thrust itself against the glass. She nearly dropped the light from fright. Seriously, what in the world is going on? She tightened her grip and kept it low enough to reduce the reflection so she could see out into the darkness.

  The damned flashlight fell from nerveless fingers at the sight of raving mad faces outside her apartment. Teeth gnashing, voices raised, the crowd began banging on the glass with bloody hands, pushing their entire bodies into the window, slowly building a rhythm that would soon overcome the cheap security bars.

  Why, oh why, had she insisted on a ground floor garden apartment?

  Griffin Carmichael

  When not getting carried away by the endlessly (and endless) exciting duties required of a neophyte homesteader, Griffin Carmichael writes speculative fiction in a cozy hide-away in an undisclosed location. To get updates about upcoming novels and short works, check out Griffin’s page at his website.

  Griffin Carmichael’s Website

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  Paranormal

  Wild

  Selina Fenech

  Tilly kicked Donny Dunham in the shin before he could add balls to the incomplete design drawn on the slumbering new kid’s face.

  “Watch out!” his crony said. “She’s wild.”

  Tilly snatched the black marker and the boys went back to their seats laughing. People ought to defend themselves, Tilly knew, but the new kid was sick. Had doctor’s certificates and everything.

  James, the new kid, stirred, lifting his head off his desk. He blinked at the marker and then at Tilly.

  “You’ve got something on your face,” Tilly said.

  “So do you,” said James.

  Tilly pressed a tiny fist against the yellowed bruise on her cheek. “It’s nothing.”

  Tilly went back to her seat in time for the teacher to return and James to fall asleep again. Mrs. Bitterwood harrumphed about narcolepsy and unknown fatigue syndromes then quickly had a nurse escorting James out and on his way home. Discovering James had left his homework behind, Mrs. Bitterwood asked Tilly to take it round after school since she lived on the same street. Tilly pulled a face but agreed. She didn’t want to get into trouble. Again.

  Tilly jammed the brakes of her bike and skidded on the gravel driveway. The dust blackened her school socks and swirled onto her tongue as she panted for breath. She spat on the new kid’s lawn. Tilly spied through the kitchen window and saw James’s mom. The woman was grinding up white tablets and sprinkling the powder onto mashed potatoes. Tilly shrugged. She hated swallowing tablets too.

  The doorbell rang a Christmas carol despite being March. James’s mother called for him to get it. James stumbled to the front door, eyes half closed and brown hair looking like a tangle of tarantulas.

  Tilly thrust his homework at him.

  “Thanks,” James said. “You’re nice.”

  “Ain’t nice. I’m rough and filthy and rude and a wild thing. It’s what Dad says.”

  James poked the doormat with his toes and Tilly played with a hole in her shirt.

  “James! Dinner!” his mom called.

  His lip pulled up unattractively. “Ugh. I always feel worst after eating.”

  Tilly frowned. “Can I come in? I gotta piss.”

  James’s mother appeared. “Don’t you live just down the street?”

  “Puh-lease? I’m gonna bust my bladder.” Tilly hopped on the spot.

  Given directions, Tilly ran into the house while James and his mom sat down for dinner. She went left where she was told right and dug through unpacked moving boxes and cupboards until she found a massive stash of medication. She read a few labels. Experimental use. Not released for human trials. One had dosages meant for horses.

  On the way out Tilly emptied the mom’s wallet.

  The next day, Tilly sat down next to James under the schoolyard oak tree. He woke up when she jabbed a finger into his ribs.

  “You always been sick?”

  “Couple years maybe. Was eight when I started getting weird dreams and blacking out. Now I’m just sleepy all the time.”

  “You take pills for it?”

  James reached into his backpack and retrieved a rattling container, grinning wickedly. “Just these. Mostly I sell them to other kids.”

  Tilly smiled, showing her crooked teeth. “Share my lunch with me? I made it myself. Bet it won’t make you feel sick.”

  Tilly and James shared her lunch every day after that. Tilly made extra peanut butter and banana sandwiches for James to take home and eat instead of dinner. It took less than a fortnight before James stopped falling asleep in class.

  “Your mom was drugging you,” Tilly said, grinning at the wide awake, ice blue eyes that looked back at her.

  “Mom? No way.”

  “Way way,” Tilly said. “My sandwiches made you better.”

  James kept getting distracted by a crying girl behind them. Tilly rolled her eyes. “Sandy’s dog died last night. She reckons it was all tore up and bloody but I think she’s just a fibber after attention.”

  James took a long look at Tilly. “So, my mum drugs me. What does your dad do?”

  Tilly kicked James in the shin and ran away.

  Tilly’s dad was in the front hall, arguing with someone. Tilly hid under her covers because it was no good when her dad got angry at night. He came anyway and dragged her out. Her arm burned under his grip.

  “This woman says you been leading her son astray.”

  James’s mom was all white except her puffy eyes. “You made James stop his medication, didn’t you?”

  “You mean I stopped you from drugging him.”

  “I had to! You don’t understand. It’s safer for everyone this way.”

  Tilly’s Dad still had hold of her arm and lifted her till her toes scraped the floor. “You stealing some kid’s pills, little beast?”

  Tilly hissed at him like a feral cat. Her arm was ready to pop from its socket but she refused to cry.

  “Making strange women come round at this hour to complain about you, you’re nothing but trouble.”

  Her dad’s hand met Tilly’s cheek in a loud smack and James’s mom looked horrified. Her eyes widened further when a mournful howl came from the yard.

  The front door thumped and the house shook. The crackle of snapping wood made Tilly’s dad curse and drop her. The door burst apart and a hairy creature filled the space, silhouetted against the full moon.

  Saliva dripped from an army of gleaming teeth. Jaws snapped and snapped again, closing on the soft flesh of necks. Claws raked, crushing bone, and bodies fell around Tilly, bloodied.

  Tilly closed her eyes until she felt hot breath on her cheek. She opened them to see ice blue eyes staring back at her. Tilly brushed a shaking palm down the wolf’s furry neck and he licked her cheek with a rough tongue.

  Tilly matched James’s howl, and the two wild things ran away together into t
he night.

  Selina Fenech

  Escape into the fantasy realms of artworks and novels by Selina Fenech at her website.

  Selina Fenech’s Website

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  Mystery — New Pulp

  Chip Assassin

  Mark Gardner

  1

  “Sour cream, onion and death!”

  The shout was a fraction of a second before the small round object grated across warm flesh. A gash opened immediately and a fountain of blood drenched the wall and floor. The masked figure discarded the weapon and held the victim from behind. It looked like the embrace of lovers, comforting each other at the beginning of another day. It wasn’t until the body was dropped unceremoniously to the floor that the viscera was revealed. The masked figure looked around the room, picked up a laptop, and quietly closed the door on the way out.

  2

  Josephine Montez ducked under police tape, stepped through the open door and surveyed the scene. Kneeling, she examined the face-down body and the dark sticky pool. She made certain her shoes stayed clean.

  “Yo, Jo! What do you make of this?”

  Josephine’s partner stepped through the same door, but didn’t venture far into the room.

  Without turning, Josephine called out. “Hey, Doug. Looks like he’s struck again.”

  “Another potato chip?”

  She held up an evidence bag. “Sour cream and onion.”

  “We won’t find anything here. Let’s get outta here.”

  Josephine stood, smoothed her pants and walked out the door.

  3

  The next morning, Josephine walked into the bullpen to see Doug scrutinizing several photos. Several were face-down on his desk.

  “I just can’t get used to a homicide detective who’s queasy at the sight of blood.”

  “Seen enough blood in my time, don’t need to see more.”

  She smiled and draped her coat over her chair. Before she could retort, the phone on the desk rang.

  Doug seized the phone. “Crawford.”

  He listened for a moment and frowned. “Same to you, asshole!” He slammed the phone down to disconnect the call.

  To Josephine he said, “We have a problem.”

  4

  “Then what did the caller say?”

  “‘Ruffles have ridges, motherfucker’ and I hung up.”

  The captain frowned. “And you didn’t keep her on the line for a trace, because?”

  “Sorry, Ma’am. I lost my cool in the heat of the moment.”

  Josephine interjected, “Ma’am, this assassin has eluded us for months, I doubt a trace would’ve led us anywhere.”

  “Guess we’ll never know, will we?”

  In unison the detectives responded, “No, Ma’am.”

  “Get out and get this case solved.”

  The two detectives stood, glanced at each other and again said in unison, “Yes, Ma’am!” before scurrying out of the office.

  5

  “Up for some lunch?”

  Josephine scowled. “From the roach coach around the corner? No, thank you.”

  “Ever been?”

  “Uh… No. I prefer my foodstuffs properly prepared.”

  “Come on, Jo. These guys are subject to the same Heath Department as a restaurant with windows and doors.”

  “The whole setup looks skeezy.”

  Doug grabbed her coat before announcing, “Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.” He tossed it at her and continued, “My treat. Surely you won’t pass up on a free meal?”

  “More like free food poisoning.” Sighing, she relented. “Lead the way.”

  Side by side they walked to the elevator.

  6

  Doug shoveled pico de gallo, sour cream and ground beef into his mouth as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Josephine watched and ate small bites of her gyro. She hadn’t thought of a Mexican food cart for Greek food, but other than the sauce, they were similar enough. They ate in relative silence. Doug so he could focus on shoveling, Josephine concentrating on the case. Each time she attempted to work out a piece of logic, Doug would grunt and shovel another tortilla in his mouth. When he finally finished, he asked, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  7

  “Why did I become a detective?”

  “Yeah. Your family is in the food manufacturing industry. You don’t exactly need this job.”

  “You mean, ‘why did you turn your back on the family potato empire?’”

  Doug shrugged his agreement.

  “Let’s put it this way: the family business is all-encompassing and I didn’t want to mix it up in the mud.”

  “Still, that’s a lot of money to walk away from.”

  “Someday I’ll have to deal with it, but until then, I’ll do my job as a detective.”

  “That day might be sooner than you think.”

  “Let’s get back to work.”

  8

  “Let’s call it a day.”

  Josephine looked past Doug to a clock that read 5:15. She closed the file she was studying and grabbed her coat off the back of her chair.

  “Walk you out?”

  “That’s hardly necessary.”

  Doug flipped his scarf over his shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

  Josephine walked through the parking garage. She felt uneasy. Instincts told her she had a missing piece to a puzzle she was only vaguely aware of. Sitting behind the wheel, staring at herself in the rear view mirror, she saw the grille of a large truck seconds before she felt the impact.

  9

  Josephine awoke tied to a metal chair in the middle of an empty warehouse.

  “Hello?”

  Her shout echoed. She didn’t know how long she was unconscious, but she watched a moonbeam creep across the floor. She worked her wrist and felt her binding loosen. She had been at it for hours and now watched sunlight fill the warehouse.

  Her attention was drawn to an opening door as Doug entered, gun drawn.

  “Doug! Over here!”

  Doug rushed to her side. “There you are.”

  “Help. I’m almost free.”

  “I see,” he said, tightening the rope. “I got here just in time.”

  10

  “I said five million!” Doug shouted into a cellphone. “Fine. I’ll be waiting.”

  Closing the phone, he focused on Josephine. Glaring, she spat at him.”You work for a rival company?”

  “Please,” he scoffed. “I have loftier ambitions.”

  His rant was interrupted by the sound of a car door closing outside. A man walked through the door with a briefcase. Doug rushed to him and seized the case with both hands. Before he could open it, a fine red mist erupted from his forehead.

  The man walked over to Josephine and holstered his weapon. “Let’s go home, pussycat.”

  “Yes, daddy.”

  Mark Gardner

  lives in northern Arizona with his wife, two school-aged children and a pair of spoiled dogs. Mark holds a degree in Computer Systems and Applications and is currently attending Northern Arizona University.

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  Literary Fiction

  Choose Peas

  Ellisa Barr

  There is one can of food left: Peas. I’ve always hated canned peas. Frozen or fresh, sure. But canned? No thanks.

  It’s funny how things change. There was a time I would have turned my nose up at the offensive vegetable. Now, imagining the smell of food, any food, makes my mouth water.

  I think about opening the can and eating all the peas while my daughter sleeps. I should just do it. If I think about her I’ll lose my nerve.

  I glance at Cassie. It’s easier to look at her when she’s asleep because then I don’t notice her sunken eyes or the way she just sits and does nothing. A three-year-old should be running and playing. Instead, she is dying. We
both are.

  Her emaciated body is wrapped in the warmest wool blanket we have, and she sleeps with her head thrown back and mouth open. My mom would have said she was catching flies.

  I wish there were some flies. Protein, right? There will be flies soon, but it will be too late for us then.

  My mind wanders. I think about the day the power and phones went out. They say it was the shockwave from a nuclear blast that exploded in space above us. All I know is one minute we had power and the next we had nothing.

  It’s been six months since the blast. So why are we still alive? I wasn’t a prepper or anything. As if a single mom could afford it. No, I was a couponer. I used to go through the newspaper and Internet and find coupons and deals that I could combine to buy boxes of cereal for a dollar, bottles of water for a quarter, or tubes of toothpaste for free. It was a game, trying to whittle down prices to next to nothing. Then I’d buy as many as I could.

  Who knew couponing could save lives? Or prolong them, anyway.

  Once again I contemplate my daughter. Her tiny body reminds me of when she was first born. I was only seventeen, a party girl not ready to sober up. I hated being pregnant and I resented the parasite growing inside me.

  That all changed when they let me hold Cassie for the first time. It was only a few minutes before they rushed her away, but everything was different after that. I sat in the NICU and watched her struggle to breathe. I was so afraid that I’d outlive my child.

  Now I’m terrified my child will outlive me.

  I’m startled, but not surprised, to hear gunshots from the street below. Cassie stirs in her sleep and I know I only have a few minutes before she wakes up. My heart feels as heavy in my chest as a can of peas. My path is clear to me: I will eat the peas so I won’t leave my daughter alone in this nightmare of a world. I will be here to comfort her as she dies, then I will die alone.