Yellow Mama Archives

Christopher Davis
Adhikari, Sudeep
Ahern, Edward
Aldrich, Janet M.
Allan, T. N.
Allen, M. G.
Ammonds, Phillip J.
Anderson, Peter
Andreopoulos, Elliott
Arab, Bint
Augustyn, P. K.
Aymar, E. A.
Babbs, James
Baber, Bill
Bagwell, Dennis
Baird, Meg
Bakala, Brendan
Baker, Nathan
Balaz, Joe
Barber, Shannon
Bates, Jack
Baugh, Darlene
Bauman, Michael
Baumgartner, Jessica Marie
Beale, Jonathan
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Beckman, Paul
Benet, Esme
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Bennett, Charlie
Berg, Carly
Berman, Daniel
Bernardara, Will Jr.
Berriozabal, Luis
Beveridge, Robert
Bickerstaff, Russ
Bigney, Tyler
Blake, Steven
Bohem, Charlie Keys and Les
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Boyd, A. V.
Boyd, Morgan
Bracey, DG
Brewka-Clark, Nancy
Britt, Alan
Brooke, j
Brown, R. Thomas
Brown, Sam
Burton, Michael
Bushtalov, Denis
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Butler, Simon Hardy
Cameron, W. B.
Campbell, J. J.
Campbell, Jack Jr.
Cano, Valentina
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Cartwright, Steve
Carver, Marc
Castle, Chris
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Coffey, James
Colasuonno, Alfonso
Conley, Jen
Connor, Tod
Cooper, Malcolm Graham
Coral, Jay
Cosby, S. A.
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Criscuolo, Carla
Crist, Kenneth
Crouch & Woods
D., Jack
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Danoski, Joseph V.
Daly, Sean
Davis, Christopher
Day, Holly
de Bruler, Connor
Degani, Gay
De France, Steve
De La Garza, Lela Marie
Deming, Ruth Z.
Demmer, Calvin
Dennehy, John W.
DeVeau, Spencer
Di Chellis, Peter
Dick, Earl
Dick, Paul "Deadeye"
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Doreski, William
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Doherty, Rachel
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Draime, Doug
Drake, Lena Judith
Dromey, John H.
Duschesneau, Pauline
Duke, Jason
Duncan, Gary
Dunham, T. Fox
Dunn, Robin Wyatt
Duxbury, Karen
Duy, Michelle
Elliott, Garnett
Ellman, Neil
England, Kristina
Erianne, John
Espinosa, Maria
Esterholm, Jeff
Fallow, Jeff
Farren, Jim
Fenster, Timothy
Ferraro, Diana
Filas, Cameron
Flanagan, Daniel N.
Flanagan, Ryan Quinn
Francisco, Edward
Funk, Matthew C.
Gann, Alan
Gardner, Cheryl Ann
Garvey, Kevin Z.
Genz, Brian
Gladeview, Lawrence
Glass, Donald
Goddard, L. B.
Godwin, Richard
Goff, Christopher
Goss, Christopher
Gradowski, Janel
Graham, Sam
Grant, Christopher
Grant, Stewart
Greenberg, Paul
Grey, John
Gunn, Johnny
Gurney, Kenneth P.
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Halleck, Robert
Hamlin, Mason
Hanson, Christopher Kenneth
Hanson, Kip
Harris, Bruce
Hart, GJ
Hartman, Michelle
Haskins, Chad
Hawley, Doug
Haycock, Brian
Hayes, A. J.
Hayes, John
Hayes, Peter W. J.
Heatley, Paul
Heimler, Heidi
Helmsley, Fiona
Hendry, Mark
Heslop, Karen
Heyns, Heather
Hilary, Sarah
Hill, Richard
Hivner, Christopher
Hockey, Matthew J.
Hogan, Andrew J.
Holderfield, Culley
Holton, Dave
Howells, Ann
Huchu, Tendai
Hudson, Rick
Huffman, A. J.
Huguenin, Timothy G.
Huskey, Jason L.
Irascible, Dr. I. M.
Jaggers, J. David
James, Christopher
Johnson, Beau
Johnson, Moctezuma
Johnson, Zakariah
Jones, D. S.
Jones, Erin J.
Jones, Mark
Kabel, Dana
Kaplan, Barry Jay
Kay, S.
Kempka, Hal
Kerins, Mike
Keshigian, Michael
King, Michelle Ann
Kirk, D.
Knott, Anthony
Koenig, Michael
Korpon, Nik
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Kowalcyzk, Alec
Krafft, E. K.
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Lang, Preston
Larkham, Jack
La Rosa, F. Michael
Leasure, Colt
Leatherwood, Roger
Lees, Arlette
Lees, Lonni
Leins, Tom
Lemming, Jennifer
Lerner, Steven M
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Lewis, LuAnn
Lifshin, Lyn
Liskey, Tom Darin
Lodge, Oliver
Lopez, Aurelio Rico III
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Lukas, Anthony
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Lyon, Hillary
Lyons, Matthew
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MacArthur, Jodi
Malone, Joe
Mann, Aiki
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Marcius, Cal
Marrotti, Michael
Mason, Wayne
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McGinley, Jerry
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McKim, Marci
McMannus, Jack
McQuiston, Rick
Mellon, Mark
Memi, Samantha
Miles, Marietta
Miller, Max
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Mooney, Christopher P.
Morgan, Bill W.
Moss, David Harry
Mullins, Ian
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Muslim, Kristine Ong
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Nelson, Trevor
Nessly, Ray
Nester, Steven
Neuda, M. C.
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Newman, Paul
Nielsen, Ayaz
Ogurek, Douglas J.
Ortiz, Sergio
Pagel, Briane
Park, Jon
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Parrish, Rhonda
Partin-Nielsen, Judith
Perez, Juan M.
Perez, Robert Aguon
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Petroziello, Brian
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Pietrzykowski, Marc
Plath, Rob
Pointer, David
Power, Jed
Powers, M. P.
Prusky, Steve
Pruitt, Eryk
Purfield, M. E.
Purkis, Gordon
Quinlan, Joseph R.
Quinn, Frank
Ram, Sri
Rapth, Sam
Ravindra, Rudy
Renney, Mark
reutter, g emil
Rhatigan, Chris
Richardson, Travis
Richey, John Lunar
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Ritchie, Salvadore
Robinson, John D.
Robinson, Kent
Rodgers, K. M.
Roger, Frank
Rose, Mandi
Rosenberger, Brian
Rosenblum, Mark
Rosmus, Cindy
Ruhlman, Walter
Rutherford, Scotch
Savage, Jack
Sayles, Betty J.
Schneeweiss, Jonathan
Schraeder, E. F.
Schumejda, Rebecca
See, Tom
Sethi, Sanjeev
Sexton, Rex
Seymour, J. E.
Shaikh, Aftab Yusuf
Shepherd, Robert
Sim, Anton
Simmler, T. Maxim
Sinisi, J. J.
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Slaviero, Susan
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Smith, Willie
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Snethen, Daniel G.
Snoody, Elmore
Sojka, Carol
Solender, Michael J.
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Spicer, David
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Stewart, Michael S.
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Stolec, Trina
Stryker, Joseph H.
Stucchio, Chris
Succre, Ray
Sullivan, Thomas
Swanson, Peter
Swartz, Justin A.
Sweet, John
Tarbard, Grant
Taylor, J. M.
Thompson, John L.
Thompson, Phillip
Tillman, Stephen
Titus, Lori
Tivey, Lauren
Tobin, Tim
Tu, Andy
Ullerich, Eric
Valent, Raymond A.
Valvis, James
Vilhotti, Jerry
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Walsh, Patricia
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Ward, Emma
Weber, R.O.
Weil, Lester L.
White, Judy Friedman
White, Robb
White, Terry
Wilsky, Jim
Wilson, Robley
Wilson, Tabitha
Young, Mark
Yuan, Changming
Zackel, Fred
Zafiro, Frank
Zapata, Angel
Zee, Carly
Zimmerman, Thomas

Art by Steve Cartwright 2015



Christopher Davis




The door of the motel stood ajar, exposing a darkened Travelodge room 213. Except for a few cars on 101, nothing in Santa Laguna stirred at this late hour. Fog moved inland sheltering most of the town from view.

          Mother fucker, Rob Reese thought as he approached from the parking lot, his car was still there. Cat…? His wife Catherine had scheduled one of her beach yoga sessions earlier in the evening, if she wasn’t back by now, she was probably still fucking the instructor somewhere.

          Two weeks in the shit-hole tourist town was becoming a vacation in hell for Robert Reese. Florescent lighting cast odd shadows on the second floor landing.

          First it was those kids, Reese thought, and now this? He knew that he should report all of this to the police, let them handle it, but the thought of catching those kids in his room was too hard to resist. Besides, the little fuckers took his phone.

          Navigating a sand berm earlier separating the sea-side Travelodge from a local watering hole, Reese had to empty his pockets for some of the local hoodlums. The dumb shits settled for a wallet and cards but didn’t think to ask if the tourist had any cash. Reese had already scolded himself throughout the evening for not taking his CCW Colt when he left for the bar. Hell, he was on vacation here right? No need to carry the .45 in this sleepy little town.

          “Cat,” Reese asked pushing back the door of 213. “Cat are you in here honey?” High pressure lamps cast enough light to make the bed and bathroom doorway recognizable.

          Whether she was fucking the yoga instructor or the waiter at the restaurant, Reese knew his wife wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t bring them back here to their room.

          His suitcase stood out in the dim light across the room near the dresser. If I can get my hands on that Colt, Reese thought. It was one thing to call the bank to report stolen cards, but a firearm?

          Something moved in the bathroom dressing area. Reese dove for the suitcase, hitting the dresser and stopping against the wall. Silence enveloped the room. Unzipping the Samsonite, his hand felt for the cold of steel. It was still there, they hadn’t found his gun. Listening for any movement in the bathroom, Reese slammed the magazine home and stood in the darkened room feeling for the wall switch.

          An unfamiliar perfume wafted in on the cool ocean breeze. Was it Catherine?

          Always the protective husband, Reese yelled, “Cat, if that’s you honey, stay outside.” Reese cleared his throat, “I’ve got my forty-five and I’m turning on the light.”

          Movement in the dressing area brought a flash from the open doorway. Reese dropped to the floor clutching his side as the room spun out of control from whiskey and lead. Fuck.

          Another shot rang out, the flash highlighting the figure of a woman in a hooded sweatshirt.

          “Cat, is that you?” Reese asked of the figure.

          “Don’t shoot,” The voice of a young man pleaded from the bathroom. A woman’s heels trotted away down the steps outside.

          Reaching the wall switch, Reese squinted to focus. Room 213 was in shambles. After two shots from the small caliber pistol guests in the neighboring rooms were beginning to stir.

          The bathroom door opened. A young man bolted for the safety of the open door and the outside world, straight-arming Reese. Instinct gaining the upper hand, a wounded Reese thumbed the hammer of his Colt and fired.  

          His world beginning to spin, Reese felt himself slipping as a Policeman asked, “Do you know the shooter, Mister Reese?”

 “Yes…no. No, I don’t think so.” Reese said, closing his eyes to remain focused. Could the assailant have been Cat, his wife of twenty years?

“That’s it,” A young paramedic said in a soothing voice, starting an IV, “Just stay calm.”

“Mister Reese, was the shooter a man or woman?” Another policeman asked, scribbling notes on a yellow pad. “Did you see the shooter?”

“I…I don’t know,” Reese said, “It was dark.”

Some would have truth, others their lies. Robert and Catherine Reese each had alibis.


The Night Shift


Christopher Davis






There she stood in the aisle, right between day old bread and dirty magazines, my savior. She must have been twenty-five… twenty-seven? A nine-and-a-half if she wasn’t a ten. Pretty. Short dark hair and olive skin, I’d never seen her before.

          It was midnight. No, it was later than that, the bars were closing. It must have been one-thirty, two?

          Anyway this guy comes in, Puerto Rican maybe? I’m from California, so they’re all Mexican to me. He mulls around the store by the coolers for a while. I didn’t like the way he stalled. He was up to no good, but fuck what was I to do? I’d just started college, first real job working at the all night mini-mart, ten to six and free hotdogs.

          This douchebag comes up to the register with a twelve pack and starts making small talk. I’d done crank and coke a time or two and I could tell this cat was on a bender if there ever was one. He was nervous, fidgety.

          A car pulls in and some old guy gets out. This border brother pats the beer and says something I didn’t understand, starts for the back of the store. So this old black dude walks in and grabs a forty, walks up to the register and asks for pack of menthols. I thought that shit was a Hollywood stereotype.

          Meanwhile this chick pulls up in a new car, stops by the gas pump. She gets out and then kind of gets back in. Once she started toward the store, this black dude and I lost track of time man, we both watched her walk across that lot. Nothing distasteful really, just two guys admiring a young woman’s beauty.

          She walks in flashing a smile, carries herself like she’s a daddy’s girl, you know? This other asshole says something and she rolls her eyes. She goes into the bathroom in the back of the store.

          I make change for the dude with the beer and the smokes. Fuck, I wish he would have stayed all night. Nice guy really, had just finished his shift at the plant.

          After the old guy leaves, my fuck-head buddy with the twelve-pack comes back to the register, wants a pack of Shesterfields. I don’t know what the fuck he wants, I get like three or four hours of sleep a night man.

          He points and argues. I give him a green pack and he points at the blue one. He’s going to rob me, but when?

          Finally I say look dude, take the smokes. Take the beer, it’s on the house.

          This dumb fuck pulls out this shitty little pistol, some rusty relic that’s been bought and sold on the streets of Reading since World War Two. Don’t get me wrong, I knew it was going to hurt if he shot me, but it wasn’t some bad-ass semi-auto. If he missed, he wouldn’t get a second shot. Honestly, I would have been surprised if he knew how to use it.

          Distracted with the matter at hand, we had both forgotten about the chick in the bathroom. I saw her come out, but didn’t really look her way. I’d hoped that she would see what was happening and call the police.

          The sound of a hammer locking into place is a terrible sound man, when it’s pointed at you. This Puerto Rican crack-maniac puts one into the cigarette display over my shoulder and starts yelling something I can’t understand. Rust from the barrel found my cheek. I knew I was bleeding.

          I tell him, fuck man…you can have the whole god-damned store. Over his shoulder I see a beautiful leg peeking from her black dress as she leveled the barrel and fired. I fell toward the window and a spray of red plastered the cigarettes behind me.

          Never did get to really thank her. It seemed like the cops pulled in as the guy slumped to the floor.

          The police asked questions about what happened. Others walked her to her car and took notes. She drove away and my boss tells me to go home.

Go home? Fuck that. That was my last nightshift.




Christopher Davis is a central California native and grandfather of three rambunctious little ones. When not tending the herd, he'll try his hand at writing crime & western fiction. His stuff can be found in the usual places. Chris lives with his wife and a dog that has totally lost his mind. Find out more

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