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Perfect: Fiction by Elizabeth Zelvin
Duck, Duck, Goosed: Fiction by E. E. Williams
Call Back: Fiction by Brian Peter Fagan
Hanging Out: Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Jelly Boy: Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Billy's First Road Trip: Fiction by Shari Held
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Hacked Off: Fiction by Pamela Ebel
The Poser: Fiction by Hillary Lyon
Trunk Space: Fiction by Jen Myers
Catching Up: Fiction by Edward Ahern
Butcher Knives Don't Float: Fiction by Chris Milam
The Grimsby Reaper: Flash Fiction by Jon Park
Bat Boy: Flash Fiction by Zvi A. Sesling
For Love: Flash Fiction by K. A. Williams
Getting Personal: Flash Fiction by Diana Dominguez
Owen and Jessica: Flash Fiction by Joseph Carrabis
Until I Wrestled It Back: Flash Fiction by Louella Lester
Lying in Wait: Flash Fiction by Robb White
Fox Fox Fanny Cuts: Poem by Otto Burnwell
Beer and Love Songs on a Wednesday Night: Poem by Richard Le Due
Her Wicked Devices: Poem by Lee Clarke Zumpe
Looking at the Sea: Poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
Twilight Zone Kind of Days: Poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
The Canvas: Poem by Meg Baird
me and the boys: Poem by Meg Baird
ode to sleep: Poem by Meg Baird
Plate Tectonics:Poem by Christopher Hivner
Seeking:Poem by Christopher Hivner
Bloodbound: Poem by Harris Coverley
Paradise: Poem by Harris Coverley
The Now Outside: Poem by Harris Coverley
Dallas County Phone Calls: Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Two Old Ladies Arrested for Feeding Feral Cats: Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Her Name Isn't Margo, but it Should Be: Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Yorick: Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
After First Sex: Poem by Rp Verlaine
The New Same Goodbye: Poem by Rp Verlaine
Fishermen: Poem by Rp Verlaine
Three Years Ago: Poem by Rp Verlaine
the smallest feline is a masterpiece--da vinci: poem by Rob Plath
no typewriter or ABCs necessary: Poem by Rob Plath
my cat sleeps: Poem by Rob Plath
it's enough: Poem by Rob Plath
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Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Jon Park: The Grimsby Reaper

Art by Michael D. Davis © 2023

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. He likes to write in the dark with the Ramones playing loud. If you meet him, you will need to shout.

If Charles Addams, Edgar Allan Poe, and Willy Wonka sired a bastard child it would be the fat asthmatic by the name of Michael D. Davis. He has been called warped by dear friends and a freak by passing strangers. Michael started drawing cartoons when he was ten, and his skill has improved with his humor, which isn’t saying much. He is for the most part self-taught, only ever crediting the help of one great high school art teacher. His art has been shown at his local library for multiple years only during October due to its macabre nature. If you want to see more of Michael’s strange, odd, weird, cartoons you can follow him on Instagram at mad_hatters_mania.

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