It’s Just Me
“Mommy, is weer-woofs
real?” From the other end
of the house, I could hear Lisa talking to her mom. Sweet Lisa. My only
“No, Honey, werewolves
are just made-up stuff,
like Frankenstein and the Mummy. Just stories. Let me tuck you in, Sweet Girl.”
but who made ‘em up, if they’re
“Werewolves came from
probably to scare little kids and keep ‘em in line. There ya go, Baby.
The tiny hairs in my pointed
ears allowed me to
hear my wife as she walked almost silently from my daughter’s room. Marie, my
gorgeous blonde wife. I could smell her, too. Her menstrual cycle would cause
her to flow heavily tomorrow. I could smell her that well.
I heard her as she went
into the kitchen and
started loading the dishwasher. Her smell was intoxicating. I really should go,
now. Especially since she had no idea I was even in the house. We had been
separated for four months now. The trouble was over my absences. Once a month,
I would be gone for several days and I never had a good answer when she wanted
to know where I went. She suspected I was cheating, but I wasn’t. At least, not
in the way she imagined.
She was finished with her
kitchen chores. I
heard the dishwasher start. I should really have left right then. No
hesitation, just get out. I could have just slipped out the door, and she would
still be alive. If only she hadn’t screamed when she saw me . . . the screaming
always brings it on more quickly.
Sebastian and Thompkins
agreed; the crime scene
was one of the worst they had ever seen. The man had not just murdered the wife
and child, but the horror of the arterial spray on the walls and ceiling, the
entrails draped on the furniture, the woman so brutally violated . . . and yet,
the child appearing so peaceful in her bed, merely dispatched as gently as
possible, by suffocation. The wound tracks on the woman suggested he’d used a
serrated knife, but so far, they hadn’t found any weapon at all. Like all good
cops, they would suck it up and do what was required, but they already had the
confession. All they were really doing was putting the final nails in the guy’s
coffin. . . .
The moon is in a position
where I can see it
through the bars of my cell. It is rising right now, fat and bloated and
magnificent. I’ve been here a month, awaiting trial and very soon now, I will
begin the change. When this first started, I dreaded it. It was painful and
took hours to complete, but now it happens in mere minutes, and when it does,
it is almost like a sexual release. I look forward to the increase in strength,
the sharpened senses and even the dulled intellectual functions. I know that
when I change, these bars will not hold me.
And, man, is that fat little
guard with the big
key ring and cocky attitude gonna be surprised. It’s coming now and so is he .
. . yeah, relax little fella . . . run that key ring along the bars for the
last time . . . come to Papa . . . oh, my, what big eyes you have . . . see?
See it all?
little fella, it’s just me. . . .
Kenneth James Crist is Editor Emeritus of Black Petals Magazine and is
on staff at Yellow Mama ezine. He has been a published writer since 1998,
having had almost two hundred short stories and poems in venues ranging from
Skin and Bones and The Edge-Tales of Suspense to Kudzu Monthly. He is particularly
fond of supernatural biker stories. He reads everything he can get his hands on, not
just in horror or sci-fi, but in mystery, hardboiled, biographies, westerns and adventure
tales. He retired from the Wichita, Kansas police department in 1992 and from the security
department at Wesley Medical Center in Wichita in 2016. Now 75, he is an avid motorcyclist
and handgun shooter. He is active in the American Legion Riders and the Patriot Guard,
helping to honor and look after our military. He is also a volunteer driver for
the American Red Cross, Midway Kansas Chapter. He is the owner of Fossil
Publications, a desktop publishing venture that seems incapable of making any
money at all. His zombie book, Groaning for Burial, has been released by Hekate
Publishing in Kindle format and paperback late this year. On June the ninth,
2018, he did his first (and last) parachute jump and crossed that shit off his
Kevin D. Duncan was born 1958 in
Alton, Illinois where he still resides.
He has degrees in Political Science, Classics, and Art & Design.
He has been freelancing illustration and cartoons for over 25 years. He has
done editorial cartoons and editorial illustration for
local and regional newspapers, including the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch. His award-winning
work has appeared in numerous small press zines,
e-zines, and he has illustrated a few books.