 |
Home |
Acuff, Gale |
Ahern, Edward |
Allen, R. A. |
Alleyne, Chris |
Andes, Tom |
Arnold, Sandra |
Aronoff, Mikki |
Ayers, Tony |
Baber, Bill |
Baird, Meg |
Baker, J. D. |
Balaz, Joe |
Barker, Adelaide |
Barker, Tom |
Barnett, Brian |
Barry, Tina |
Bartlett, Daniel C. |
Bayly, Karen |
Beckman, Paul |
Bellani, Arnaav |
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc |
Beveridge, Robert |
Blakey, James |
Burke, Wayne F. |
Burnwell, Otto |
Campbell, J. J. |
Cancel, Charlie |
Capshaw, Ron |
Carr, Steve |
Carrabis, Joseph |
Centorbi, David Calogero |
Christensen, Jan |
Clifton, Gary |
Cody, Bethany |
Costello, Bruce |
Coverly, Harris |
Crist, Kenneth James |
Cumming, Scott |
Davie, Andrew |
Davis, Michael D. |
Degani, Gay |
De Neve, M. A. |
Dillon, John J. |
Dominguez, Diana |
Dorman, Roy |
Doughty, Brandon |
Doyle, John |
Dunham, T. Fox |
Ebel, Pamela |
Fagan, Brian Peter |
Fillion, Tom |
Fortier, M. L. |
Fowler, Michael |
Garnet, George |
Garrett, Jack |
Graysol, Jacob |
Grech, Amy |
Greenberg, KJ Hannah |
Grey, John |
Hagerty, David |
Hardin, Scott |
Held, Shari |
Hicks, Darryl |
Hivner, Christopher |
Hoerner, Keith |
Hohmann, Kurt |
Holt, M. J. |
Holtzman, Bernice |
Hopson, Kevin |
Hubbs, Damon |
Irwin, Daniel S. |
Jabaut, Mark |
Jermin, Wayne |
Jeschonek, Robert |
Johns. Roger |
Kanner, Mike |
Karl, Frank S. |
Kempe, Lucinda |
Kennedy, Cecilia |
Keshigian, Michael |
Kitcher, William |
Kompany, James |
Koperwas, Tom |
Larsen, Ted R. |
Le Due, Richard |
Leotta, Joan |
Lester, Louella |
Lubaczewski, Paul |
Lucas, Gregory E. |
Luer, Ken |
Lukas, Anthony |
Lyon, Hillary |
Mannone, John C. |
Martinez, Richard |
McConnell, Logan |
McQuiston, Rick |
Middleton, Bradford |
Milam, Chris |
Mladinic, Peter |
Mobili, Juan |
Mullins, Ian |
Myers, Jen |
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl |
Nielsen, Judith |
Onken, Bernard |
Owen, Deidre J. |
Park, Jon |
Parker, Becky |
Pettus, Robert |
Plath, Rob |
Prusky, Steve |
Radcliffe, Paul |
Reddick, Niles M. |
Reutter, G. Emil |
Robson, Merrilee |
Rollins, Janna |
Rose, Brad |
Rosmus, Cindy |
Ross, Gary Earl |
Rowland, C. A. |
Saier, Monique |
Sarkar, Partha |
Scharhag, Lauren |
Schauber, Karen |
Schildgen, Bob |
Schmitt, Di |
Sesling, Zvi E. |
Short, John |
Slota, Richelle Lee |
Smith, Elena E. |
Snethen, Daniel G. |
Steven, Michael |
Stoler, Cathi |
Stoll, Don |
Surkiewicz, Joe |
Swartz, Justin |
Taylor, J. M. |
Temples. Phillip |
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don" |
Turner, Lamont A. |
Tustin, John |
Tyrer, DJ |
Varghese, Davis |
Verlaine, Rp |
Viola, Saira |
Waldman, Dr. Mel |
Weibezahl, Robert |
Weil, Lester L. |
White, Robb |
Wilhide, Zachary |
Williams, E. E. |
Williams, K. A. |
Wilsky, Jim |
Wiseman-Rose, Sophia |
Woods, Jonathan |
Young, Mark |
Zackel, Fred |
Zelvin, Elizabeth |
Zeigler, Martin |
Zimmerman, Thomas |
Zumpe, Lee Clark |
|
|
 |
|
 |
An Education
by
Jon Park
Vincent
twisted the
body’s head into the light, so the bullet entry wound could be clearly seen. The
bullet had entered just above the left eyebrow. Using a ballpoint pen, Vincent gestures
at the wound and turns to young Frankie, who stands off to his left.
“Here,
Frankie,
come closer. Get a look at this,” said Vincent, beckoning him closer. “Look how
neat the entry wound is. See the cordite burn? This tells us the gun was close
to the head when it was fired. Now give me a hand to turn him and I’ll show you
the exit wound.”
Frankie
reluctantly steps forward and helps Vincent turn the body onto its side. He
winces when he sees the damage to the back
of the victim’s head.
“Now,
look at the
state of that,” Vince continued excitedly. “The bullet’s blown the back of the
fucker’s head off. See the bits of bone
and brain stuck in his hair. The bullet’s trajectory was pretty much straight
in and out. One time I saw a bullet that had entered the side of the head, near
the temple, and made its exit out the lower back. Pass me the saw and we’ll
take a gander inside.”
Frankie
handed Vincent
the saw. He closed his eyes as its teeth bit into bone. The burger he had eaten
earlier did a double take. He prayed the
lecture would end soon, but he knew Vincent was just warming up.
“Right,
let’s take
a look inside.” Vincent took hold of the top of the skull and lifted it free, with
a wet, sucking sound. “Woah! Fuck! Here, Frankie, get a load of this. The brain
looks like Jell-O.”
Frankie
felt the
burger begin its ascent. He turned and stepped out of the golden rays cast by
the Cadillac’s headlights, into the cool darkness of the cornfield. Cornstalks
scratched at his skin. He bent over and threw up, trying his best to avoid his Nikes.
Over his shoulder, Vincent was laughing like a demonic hyena.
The Cadillac’s
driver door opened. From beyond the light, Frankie heard Joey shouting.
“Vincent,
will you
stop fucking with the kid? Just get the souvenir
to show the problem is solved, and let’s get back to Tony’s and get our money.”
“Okay,
Joey, calm
the fuck down. I was just trying to educate the kid.”
Frankie
stood up
straight. He could hear the saw biting into bone once more. He closed his eyes,
trying to shut out the
sound. The sawing stopped. Sweet silence.
Vincent
called to
him. “Here Frankie, get over here and give me a hand lifting the stiff.”
Frankie
made his
way back into the light. Taking a deep breath, he helped Vincent lift the body
and drop it into the shallow grave they had dug earlier.
“Listen
kid, sorry
for fucking with you. No hard feelings, eh?” Vincent held out his hand. Frankie
took it, surprised at how cold it felt.
He was
still pumping
the hand as Vincent turned and began walking back to the car, laughing.
The
Connoisseur by Jon Park It
wasn’t unusual for Mark and his wife Sue to spend
Valentine’s night with their best friends Tony and Michelle. They had been friends
for well over ten years, spending most weekends in each other’s company. So, when
Mark had suggested rather than heading out to an overpriced restaurant in Newcastle, Tony
and Michelle could come round for a meal, they had readily accepted. Tony and Michelle arrived
at seven. Mark greeted them at the door, took their coats, and guided them straight into
the dining room. He settled them down at the table which had been hastily set for four.
A solitary, burning candle was reflected in the silver cloche that covered a plate sat
in the centre of the table. “Can
I get you some drinks?” Mark asked. “JD and coke for
me, my good man,” Tony joked. “Let’s get this party started.” “I’ll just have a
white wine, please,” replied Michelle. Mark disappeared into the kitchen to prepare
the drinks. He returned a few minutes later, placing the drinks down on the table. He sat down with his guests. “Is
Sue still getting ready?” Michelle
asked. Mark laughed.
“No, no, no, Michelle.” Michelle nervously glanced at her husband. “As
I’m sure Tony, can attest to, my wonderful, unfaithful wife, it would appear, is
always ready. Especially where old Tony is concerned.” Tony moved uncomfortably in his chair. He glanced at
his wife. “Not following you, Mark.” Mark
gave a grunt, “Well let me enlighten you, Tony.
I’ve seen the messages you’ve been exchanging. How could you? My best mate,
fucking my wife.” Tony
pushed his chair back from the table. “What the
fuck are you insinuating, Mark? Listen, if the two of you have had a lovers’ tiff,
don’t try and drag me into it.” Mark
held a mobile up so Michelle and Tony could see it. “That’s Sue’s,” said
Michelle. “Very
observant, Michelle. It’s just a pity we weren’t so observant of our cheating
spouses.” Michelle,
pushed her hands through her hair. “Mark, please. This isn’t funny. You must
be mistaken.” Mark tapped
away at his wife’s mobile. He turned the screen so his guests could see it. “Then
why would Tony feel the need to send this photo to my wife? That is your bathroom, isn’t
it?” Michelle
gave a sharp gasp. The photo showed her naked husband, his erect cock in his hand. “Oh,
no. No!” Tears filled Michelle’s eyes as she felt her world beginning to collapse. “Michelle, I can
explain,” Tony cried, reaching across the table for his wife’s hand. “Oh, really, Tony.
You can. Come on then, let’s hear it. Let’s hear why you have been sending
messages like this to my wife, and I quote. ‘You are the best fuck ever.’ Or
this one. ‘I love eating your pussy. Your tits taste of honey.’ Quite
the connoisseur, Tony.” Michelle
covered her ears. A trail of black mascara ran down her cheeks. Tony stood up. “Come
on, Michelle. Let’s go. This is all bullshit. We can talk about this at home. You
know the pressure I’ve been under at work.” “Oh,
no, please don’t go, Tony.” Mark reached across the table and took hold of
the silver cloche covering the plate. “We haven’t eaten the meal I’d
prepared. I really want to see you enjoying the taste of my wife for the last time. Here
you go, Tony. Tuck in.” Mark lifted
the silver cloche clear of the plate. Michelle
began to scream.
A Christmas Collection by
Jon Park
Brian pointed the house out. It
was set back from the main road. Hidden by two giant redwood trees that grew on either
side. Colin swung the white van, affectionally known as the “meat wagon,”
onto the narrow drive and killed the engine. The house was a single-storey, wooden structure.
Shrouded in darkness of the trees that towered above it. The garden was overgrown. He could
see parts of a pick-up truck scattered amongst the undergrowth. Brian sat slumped in the
passenger seat. He tapped away at the screen of an iPad that sat in his lap. Even the collection
of the dead had moved with the times. Gone were the clipboard and forms. All the deceased’s
data was now held in a cloud somewhere. Which amused Colin to no end, as every time he
heard this, he had the image of the recently deceased sat on this cloud, strumming away
on a harp while surrounded by filing cabinets. “Bet they didn’t tell you who
the stiff is we’re here to collect?” said Brian, his face illuminated by the screen
of the iPad. “I’m
guessing if he lives here, he ain’t no A-list celebrity.” Colin replied. “Adam Croft is his name. Or was,
should I say. Quite the celeb round here when I was a kid. I used to live just down the
street from here, on Beech Lane. This fella was the main suspect in some pretty heavy shit
back in the noughties. Me and my buddies watched the police haul his sorry arse out of
this very house. He came out kicking and a hollering like a stuck pig.” “Really?” Colin said, suddenly
interested. “What kind of shit we talking?” “He
was only the main suspect in the disappearance of seven local women. “ “How come he’s not lying dead
in a prison cell, then?” Brian opened
the passenger door and jumped from the van. Colin took another look at the house and followed
him, wanting to hear the rest of the story. Brian was already hauling the gurney
from the back of the van, lowering it onto the driveway. “Go
on then,” Colin urged. “Well,
the cops had him in custody. But then they picked up this homeless guy down at the church
shelter. He had one of the women’s purses on him. Reckoned he had found it down some
storm drain. And with no bodies, the cops released our stiff and the homeless dude went
down for life. The cops were under pressure to solve the case, I guess.” “Fuck. Don’t you just love a
happy ending on Christmas Eve? You haul the gurney and I’ll get the door. If we get
sorted quick enough, we can join the rest of the crew at Reds for a festive beer or two.” “Sounds good to me.” Colin ripped the police tape off
the door and opened it. He stood back and allowed Brian to pass with the gurney. The darkness
swallowed his partner in one gulp. Even stood here on the porch, with the door open, Colin
could smell the decaying flesh. Brian found
the light switch and lit up the hallway. Colin let the door close behind him. The hallway ran the length of the house down
into the kitchen. It was empty except for a small table set back against the wall. A black
dial telephone rested on the table. A phone book lay open next to it. Brian manoeuvred the gurney into
the living area that opened off to the left. Colin
followed. Brian found the light switch. They both stopped and looked up at the large Christmas
tree that seemed to fill the room. It was so tall; the tree’s crown was crushed against
the ceiling. “Now
that’s what I call a tree, “Brian said. “How the fuck did he manage to
get that in here?” Colin asked. “Well,
why don’t you ask him” Brian said, pointing to the frail body that lay slumped
in a battered armchair. “Adam
Croft, I presume?” said Colin, laughing at his own joke. “Let’s get him
out of here and then we can get to Red’s for that beer.” Brian pushed the gurney to the
left of the armchair and began to unfurl the body bag. Colin brushed past the tree. A large,
red bauble began to swing on its branch. He instinctively grabbed the bauble to steady
it. The bauble was the size of a small football. It looked handmade, the kind of thing
a child would bring home from school. The weight of it surprised him. “Stop admiring the tree, Colin,
and get your arse over here.” Colin gently
released the bauble and joined Brian at the gurney. They both pulled on masks and surgical
gloves. “Legs
or head?” Brain asked. Colin reached
down and took hold of the body’s thin legs. Brian took hold of the torso and together
they peeled the body away from the fabric of the armchair and laid it down gently into
the body bag. Brian gave the body a final adjustment, then sealed the bag. “We’ve
got seepage,” Brian said, pointing to the dark stains on the cushions of the armchair.
“I’ll grab a couple more bags off the van.” Colin moved to the tree. Another
bauble had attracted his attention. This one was green. Similar in size to the red bauble.
Again handmade. But it was the shape of this one that attracted him. He reached into the
tree and removed it. It was heavy. He tapped it with his finger. Turned it in a couple
of times. Then dropped it to the floor. The bauble hit the floor with a satisfying
thud and broke open. Colin reached down and lifted part of it from the floor. His stomach
dropped. He counted another six baubles of similar shape and size hanging from the tree.
Brian returned
from the van. He began to pack the stained cushions into a bag with “Surgical Waste”
written on its side. He then noticed Colin, staring back at him from across the room “You
okay, Colin? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” “I think I have,” he replied,
holding up the jawbone he had removed from the remnants of the green bauble. He turned
and reached into the tree again. Grasped the red bauble this time and threw it down onto
the floor, already knowing what he would find.
The Grimsby Reaper
by Jon Park Steven Burnett was known as “Baby
Face” to his friends, on account of his youthful looks. The press called him “The
Grimsby Reaper,” on account of he killed his first two victims, students Mary Davis
and Claire Ward, in the apartment they shared in the North East coastal town of Grimsby. Steven’s job as a
travelling salesman, selling animal feed to farms, meant he travelled extensively across
the North of England. His killing spree went on for four years, until he was eventually
caught in York one cold December morning. He
had been staying at a hotel in the city and planned on heading home to Manchester for Christmas.
He had stopped at a newsagent to buy a packet
of cigarettes, when a young police officer, Patrick Keene, on foot patrol in the city,
spotted that the tax disc displayed in his car had expired. The
young police officer was making a note of the car’s registration, when Steven came
out of the newsagent’s. Seeing the police checking out his car, Steven panicked and
tried to make a run for it. Unfortunately for him, Patrick was the Yorkshire force’s
reigning cross-country champion. He caught Steven without breaking a sweat. When the car, registered to Steven, was
searched, police found a blood-stained towel in the trunk. Wrapped in the towel was a blood-stained
hammer and knife, the gruesome tools used to dispatch and mutilate his victims. Blood samples
lifted from the towel matched his last victim, Rosemary Stephenson, killed a week earlier
in Wakefield. Steven
was eventually charged and convicted of the murder and mutilation of fourteen
women. He was sentenced to life in prison. It was in Durham
prison, thirty-two years later, now aged sixty-two, Steven’s evil black heart exploded
in his chest. He died alone on the cold, hard floor of his cell. Guards found him the next
morning. He had been dead for several hours. All Steven recalled
of his demise, was a sharp pain in his chest and then a blinding flash. When he opened
his eyes, he found himself stood naked in a field of golden wheat. The wheat stretched
as far as he could see, gently swaying under a painted blue sky. It was so quiet. A serenity Steven had never known. The silence was broken by the sound of
a bell ringing. Steven could see a white painted church, floating on the sea of gold. He
began to walk towards it, brushing the wheat aside. As
he approached the church, one of the twin central doors opened. A woman, tall with the
body of an Olympian, a goddess, stepped from the church. The long white dress she wore
hugged her athletic figure. Hair golden, the colour of the wheat, fell about her shoulders.
Gracefully, this goddess
descended the church steps and made her way to where he was stood. Steven tried to cover
his nakedness, feeling a stirring he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Hello Steven,” she
said. “Is this heaven?”
he asked. “For some,” she
replied. Then turned and looked back at the church. “Ladies, if you please?” Steven
watched as more women began to step from the church. Fourteen of them, if he had cared
to count. All as beautiful and radiant as the goddess. They made their way down
the steps, circling him. Steven smiled and licked his lips. He failed to notice each of
the women carried a hammer and a knife. “Now, remember, ladies,”
shouted the goddess. “You have eternity. So, take your time and have fun.” They moved forward, arms raised. Steven
began to scream. Jon Park lives in the North East of England
and loves to write. His story “Too Tough to Die,” appeared in Gabba
Gabba Hey, an anthology of fiction inspired by the music of the Ramones
published by Fahrenheit Press in 2021. He loves loud music and
plays guitar badly. If you meet him, you will need to shout.
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
Site Maintained by Fossil
Publications
|
|
|
 |