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Pick Up by Zvi A. Sesling Harvey
used to get his kicks by going to rock concerts and copping feels from stoned girls. Sometimes he would pick up one, take her home, screw her, and get her out before
she knew who he was or what they had done. Harvey would tell himself, There must be
a thousand girls having sex in town tonight, probably ten thousand in the whole
state; millions in the country. All those rear ends moving up and down. All that moaning
and wiggling. Sometimes he wondered why all those women were having sex with someone else
and he had to drag a druggie home and get her out of here before she knew who he was. Harvey thought, What if I knocked her up? I don’t want her to know
who I am. I really don’t.
The angry whistle of the teakettle snapped Harvey back to reality. He remembered
that not being able to laugh at himself meant he couldn’t look at anything objectively.
But this was not a laughing matter, and he could look at his situation objectively and
he knew what to do.
Last night the girl woke up. She screamed. She made a scene. She said she’d
call the police. He could not let that happen. He knew if he went to prison, he’d
be some brute’s bride. Harvey knew what to do.
First, he sat on her and strangled her. Then, he stuck the pillow over her face to make
sure she was dead. He felt for a pulse and felt none. Then he went into the bathroom and
ripped the shower curtain down and wrapped her in it. Then he carried her to the service
elevator and down to the basement and out to the back of the apartment building while everyone
was still sleeping. Finally, he hoisted her into the building’s dumpster. The problem Harvey had was that there was a garbage
strike in progress. A garbage strike in New York during an August heat wave leaves a dumpster
smelling like a whore’s unshaven armpits after running a marathon. Back where
the dumpster was located, it became very unpleasant to go to one’s car or return.
Since Harvey did not have a car, he did not realize the smell, which also attracted rats,
cockroaches, and other vermin. That led the building’s superintendent to bring his
pickup truck to the alley. Wearing a mask against the smell, he opened the top of the dumpster
and looked in.
When the police arrived, they made short work of the investigation. They found traces
of the shower curtain that had scraped off on the dumpster’s top when Harvey was
disposing of the body. Then they found more scrapings
against the door leading to the alley. There were additional particles at the elevator
door. Then, stopping at each floor, they finally arrived at the sixth, where more pieces
of the curtain were adhered to the elevator door. The police then checked each door until
they came to Harvey’s. They knocked.
“Who’s there?”
“Police. We need to talk to you.”
Harvey opened the door.
A sergeant who resembled a linebacker said, “Your name, sir.” “Harvey
McElroy.”
“You live here?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“May we come in?”
Harvey’s face flushed with a pink tinge. “Don’t you need a search
warrant, or something?”
“We do, but you can save a lot of time and trouble by cooperating with us.” Harvey
capitulated and let them in. Two of the police went to the bathroom, where they found more
plastic shower curtain particles which they collected and placed in a small plastic bag. “Looks
like you’ve been having a bit of exercise,” the sergeant said sarcastically.” “Exercise?”
Harvey asked meekly.
“Weight lifting. Human weight.” “I-I-I d-don’t
know what you mean,” Harvey stuttered.
“I’m sure you don’t, Mr. McElroy,” the
sergeant said, “but I am sure one of the detectives down at homicide can help
you figure it all out.”
The
Color Red
by Zvi A. Sesling
The motel in Hyannis is
modern on the outside and worn inside, sheets frayed, comforter with holes,
furniture scratched, finish rubbed off in spots. But the place has a bar, The
Light Bulb.
A woman sitting at the bar
drinking a Mojito or Marguerita smiles at me, probably because I am the only
other one in the bar besides the bartender who is a woman, so I smile back and
ask her name.
“Maya,” she tells me. “What’s
yours?”
“Brent.” I move over to the
barstool next to her.
Maya is a redhead. I always
prefer redheads. In fact, those are the only women I ever go out with because
there is something unpredictable about them, a bit volatile, fresh, frisky, and
as I said, unpredictable.
I also like the color red,
and she has on a brown sweater and a red scarf, brown slacks, and red shoes.
I buy a round for us and
then a couple more drinks. We are both a bit tipsy.
“Your place or mine?” she
asks, but before I can answer she says, “Mine, of course.”
We hold on to each other
and the wall as we stagger to her room, go in and fall to the floor laughing.
“I’ll go to the bathroom
and get ready, we’ll meet in bed, you, me naked.”
She crawls to the bathroom,
and I wait what seems an hour but is only ten minutes according to the clock on
the night table.
She comes out sober, naked,
and holding a knife over her head and charges toward me, yelling some
incoherent words.
I throw a pillow at her, then grab
another one which takes the knife thrust. It gives me the second I need to grab
her wrist and force her to drop the knife. She tries reaching for it, but I am
quicker and, holding the handle, jam the blade into her chest. Red blood spurts,
then oozes out. To make sure she will not survive I slit her throat. Now there is
lots of red.
I put on my clothes and
go to my car, an old red Chevy and
begin driving west. One hundred miles later, on a bridge over some river, I toss
the knife in the water. I think of the twenty or so other knives soaked in red
that I disposed of as I drive cross country meeting redheads along the way.
Berserk by Zvi A. Sesling Ellsworth
Gadsby was one who was never satisfied. What bothered him was not being laid off from work
or his car being stolen, it was the rudeness of people. He enjoyed reading in the New
York Times that people were going berserk and shooting innocent people on the streets
of New York City. The first one managed to shoot three with a pistol until a police officer
shot him dead. “Hey, you see
this,” he said to Snappy the Bartender at the Last Hope Lounge, pointing to the front
page of the Daily News. “Snappy don’t read the papers,”
Snappy said, “but he does watch the screens in here. Nutbag killed a few useless
ones out there.” “Yeah, useless ones,” Ellsworth said. Another
killer used an automatic pistol and got five City residents and three tourists before
his streak was ended by another heroic New York cop. “Hey,
Ell, been gawking the tube, looks another dude outdid the first nutbag.” “Yeah, sure looks it. No one knows who or why.” “Don’t
matter much who or why. He had a reason. Or maybe just wanted to clean up the city.” Then
a killer carried an AK-47 and terminated the lives of twenty-three people before being
brought down by three police officers who put thirty-one bullets in him. Ellsworth said to Snappy, “Hit me with another
bourbon, this guy really did a job.” “And the cops did a job on him,”
Snappy answered. Ellsworth nodded. It gave him
an unbounded thrill to read about the ever-increasing number of innocents cut down on the
streets of his otherwise all-too-routine city. When the
morning Times arrived, Ellsworth was very disappointed that only four New Yorkers
had met their end at Broadway and 46th street before the gunman was downed by
one of the City’s finest. Ellsworth decided he would seek
his fifteen minutes of fame by knocking off as many as he could in Times Square. He managed
to procure three pistols, a rifle, machine gun and one dozen hand grenades. Ellsworth looked in the bathroom mirror and
said, “No need to shave anymore, my man, tonight you’re gonna make history.” Times Square was
packed with people on a Saturday night just after the dinner hour and before the theatres
opened for their shows. He drove there in a rented car and parked on 8th
avenue and 43rd Street, proceeding to the famed center of the City, bearing
two Beretta M9A3 9mm Pistols, each
holding 17 rounds, a machine gun, and several hand grenades all hidden under his overcoat.
There he proceeded with his diabolical plan, emptying
his pistols into thirty-one people. With his machine gun he fired into twenty more and
used grenades. killing everyone in one of the City’s finest restaurants, as well
as Mambo Fast Food and the Vernon Café. He was finally
gunned down by twelve policemen firing 49 rounds, thereby setting two records: most killed
by a person going berserk and the most bullets needed to put down a killer. Snappy watched it all on TV and, shaking his head, thought,
And to think that nutbag had his drinks here.
Purple Lady by Zvi A. Sesling It was an online ghost story reading
comprised of people in Los Angeles, New York City, Detroit, Japan, England and several
other U.S. cities. Anyway, the one in Detroit, Alicia Vanderwall, is a writer who was having
trouble with the computer, she said, and we all tried to help her make her computer screen
brighter, but we could not.
As the reading began, there was a black tail waving back and forth and sideways
across our computer screens which Alicia attributed to Medusa, the cat. As we stared at
the tail, we saw Alicia’s face was purple, her black hair sticking out and up and
to the sides as if she had stuck a finger in an electric outlet in a Tom & Jerry
cartoon. She was downing glass after glass of a deep red liquid I assumed was wine.
Every once in a while, I would see her gulp some more from a carved green crystal glass.
Then the tail reappeared swishing
around and I wondered if it was the cat’s or really her tail. I mean, why not?
“That cat’s got quite a tail,” I said.
“Most cats do,” Alicia answered.
“I know, but the way this tail moves, it looks attached to you.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, I have what you
guys call a tail, but not a furry one like that.” I laughed and thought about commenting
on her purple face and electricity-spiked look, but chose to keep quiet, which for me is
always difficult.
The reading finally ended around 9 p.m. and I watched a movie on TV. It was midnight
before I finally got to bed. I lay there staring at the ceiling thinking about the tail.
How could a human have a tail like a cat? Was
it an anomaly or something else?
Suddenly, the purple face appeared on the ceiling.
I stifled a scream. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, big boy, you complimented my tail.” “No, I didn’t,”
I responded. “Oh, yes you did. And you had
thoughts about my face and hair.”
“H-how do you know that?”
“My computer is a living entity, it can
read people’s thoughts, even computer to computer. I can speak through its thoughts
and it understands what the people I am dealing with are thinking. It told me about your
curiosity about my purple face and hairdo. Through my computer. I am able to project my
image on to your ceiling.”
“That’s crazy. I . . .” I did not get to finish my sentence.
The next thing I knew, she was in the room. She was larger than I assumed seeing her online.
Despite the features I have already described, she had a nice figure and wore purple fishnet
tights, knee-high purple leather boots and a matching purple bustier. Her accent was a
bit strange and reminded me of a combination of New Jersey-Boston. But what I noticed most
was her lemon-yellow eyes that seemed to glow when she spoke.
“I can also travel anywhere through my
computer. I give it a command, like say Pittsburgh, three hours, 12 Brickledge Road, and
zoom, I am there.”
With that—Poof!, —she appeared at the
end of my bed. I sucked in a lot of air and stared. I estimated she was six feet tall
and not too heavy. And then, the tail swished out from behind her, her face grew a deeper
purple, and the spiked hair grew an inch.
“Who . . . what are you?” I stammered, still
wanting to seem brave.
“I am the daughter of Mastema who you mortals call the devil. He has
endowed me with the powers, and you have recognized them and so you must be taken to him.
Others at what you call readings have gone before you.”
Her tail was swishing faster; she seemed to grow a foot taller. Her face continued
changing to a deep purple, with hair spreading. Then she spread her hands and chanted something
in a language I did not understand. I began to rise horizontally out of the bed and float toward
her. She took my hand as we traveled to meet Mastema.
She said, “Do not be afraid . . .yet.”
Dead Lorraine by Zvi A. Sesling I
awoke in the middle of the night to a woman standing at the end of my
bed. I live in a small apartment: one bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom, and I
certainly did not know this woman. “Who are you?” I asked. “Dead Lorraine,” she answered. “Dead?” “Yes. You killed me. I was June, but here they renamed me Lorraine.” “June, I don’t know—ever knew—a June,”
I answered, scared of the apparition. “It
was many years ago; you were twelve, I was nineteen.” “So
I didn’t know anyone your age when I was twelve. Certainly wouldn’t
have killed you.” “You don’t remember,
do you?” “I’ve killed a few people. My gang made me.
Later at a bank robbery, but never when I was twelve.” “You
remember stealing your stepfather’s car?” “Yes.” “You
remember taking that turn and going up on the curb?” “Yes.” “Remember
hitting that woman standing there waiting for the light to change so she could cross?” “Not
really, but the police told me and that I knocked down the light pole.” “And
then?”
“They sent me to juvenile prison.” “Not punishment
enough.”
“I was bullied, beaten, and raped. Isn’t
that enough?”
“No. You deserve more.” “What?” “Death,
like mine.” At this point, I should
note that I was sure I was having a bad dream, like Scrooge, perhaps from
an undigested piece of meat, except I had not eaten meat for any of the three meals or
snacks I had consumed during the day and evening. I sat up straight and confronted her. “Look, lady, what happened all those years ago
was purely an accident, a preteen acting out. It cost me, physically and mentally. I’m
truly sorry as to what happened, but I paid the price.” “Not really,” she answered, “you are still here,
and I am not.” “Well,
at least ghosts can’t kill me.” “Oh,
but we can,” she said, “perhaps not with a gun or
knife, but we can have someone corporeal do it for us.” With
that, she faded into nothingness and left me to wonder
and worry when and where, how and who. I had to admit to myself, I’d worry the
rest of my days, no matter how many I had left.
Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has
published numerous poems and flash/micro fiction and won international prizes.
A five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he has published four volumes and three
chapbooks of poetry. His flash fiction book is Secret Behind the Gate.
He lives in Brookline, MA. with his wife Susan J. Dechter.
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