From Bullets Under Glass
He leaned forward. I watched his practiced hand slip beneath the counter, probably to caress the walnut grip of a sawed-off twelve-gauge bolted under the display case.
-read the rest at Twist of Noir
From Light
On your wedding day, until death us do part, was the only vow you knew you might one day break. Twelve years, seven months, eighteen days later that day arrived…gift wrapped, metastatic and inoperable.
-read the rest at The Oddville Press
From Spinning
As the tall one drew back the pistol’s hammer Don found himself wondering what Mr. ‘Toast’ would think if he found his tag illegible, splattered all over with the blood and brains of what used to be Connecticut’s hottest DJ.
-read the rest at MFA/MFYou
From Command Performance
He knew Grandma suspected he was cutting, but turned a myopic, if not blind, eye to it. With Grandma out of work, the money Micha was bringing in, meager as it was, the only thing keeping tuna in their mac ‘n cheese instead of cat food.
-read the rest in Transition Magazine (issue 102)
From Chickens
I shoved the business end of my 9mm hand cannon into his open pie-hole. I shoved it in deep, watching the barrel disappear up to the trigger guard…no one would have mistaken us for father and son––and that was his fault.
-read the rest at Thuglit
From Dinah
She barely looked fifteen. A couple of yellowing bruises and old cigarette-end shaped scars on her arms told me all I needed to know.
-read the rest at Eastern Standard Crime
From Convention of Ekphrasis (written with Libby Cudmore)
late. When you wake in the hotel’s high-backed brass-tacked chocolate leather wing chair, drool dripping down your chin to mar your once crisp cream colored shirt, now wrinkled, that’s that you think––what you remember. You were late.
-read the rest in Crossing Chaos‘s Anthology
Quantum Genre on the Planet of Arts
From The Ricochet
I caught the barest glimpse of a mop-topped head backlit by the pixillated picture of a flame-engulfed Ferrari flipping end for exploding end. This kid wasn’t going to hear a thing. Pity.
-read the rest at The Flash Fiction Offensive
From Hazardous Material
It was all so clear. So clear it burned like acid on brass, etching the truth forever in his mind. He could shift from one layer of reality to the next as simple as flipping the pages of a book. An apocalypse book painted on plates of transparent plastic–each one revealing some new horror–and he was chosen the angel of vengeance.
-read the rest at Aphelion
