by Luca Veste
In the bookies, I back two horses, my usual double bet. I go for a pint, come back, and I’ve won again. I can’t believe it. Not as much as the last week but still a three-figure sum. The lass behind the counter jokes with me – she knows I never win, and she’s saying congratulations on my newfound good luck. I’m not listening. For some reason I can’t stop thinking about the cat. I don’t even know his name. I’m being stupid. It’s just a coincidence, nothing more. Just luck.
I go outside and the cat’s there on the pavement, just like last week. This is getting fucking weird.
***
The same thing happens the following week. And the week after…and so on. Each time I go and bet, and win, and the cat is outside waiting for me, as if to pat me on the back for my good fortune. He’s my new best friend.
After a couple of months, the manager of the bookies threatens to ban me, but he can’t find any evidence that I’m cheating so I’m allowed to carry on. But all the same, I’m getting worried. I can’t keep this up forever, or they’ll ban me regardless. So I make a decision.
I’m in the house, gathering up all my money. My winnings – almost ten grand’s worth by now – are secreted in the loft. All this cash is laid out in front of me on the table. I’ll stick it on one long-odds horse, clean up, and walk away a rich man. I can’t lose.
The cat’s already on the windowsill waiting for me. I look over and give him the thumbs up. As I leave the house he’s bounding around my feet waiting for the tickle I always give him between his ears. Bless the little mite.
***
They don’t want to take the bet. I knew they wouldn’t, but I insist it’s the last time I’m betting. Eventually, they take almost ten thousand pounds on one horse that, in theory, can’t win. As is customary, I don’t watch the race – I go to the pub for a drink. I’ve graduated to large malt whiskies recently. I sit there savouring the taste of the Scotch, dreaming about what I’ll do with the wads of money I’m going to win. I won’t get cash of course. It’ll be a delayed payment, probably one of those giant cheques. I am going to win nearly a million quid on an unfancied horse.
I drain the last drop of whisky and head back to the betting shop, almost floating above the pavement. I go in. I hand them the slip, waiting for the bells to ring and the confetti to fall around me as I’m proclaimed the biggest winner they’ve ever had.
It doesn’t happen.
The horse fell at the second hurdle.
I’ve lost everything.
***
The cat isn’t outside waiting for me. My new friend has deserted me. I walk home in a suicidal mood, wondering how I’m going to pay the bills, when only a short while ago I’d been planning a holiday to the Caribbean. I’m panicking. I bet the rent money as well – everything.
I’m down my street and the lass from next door is outside in her front garden. She’s crying. As I get closer I can see what she’s crying about. On the floor in front of her is a prone black furry shape. The cat’s laid there, looking pretty dead.
‘You alright, love?’ I ask, shaking.
‘My cat,’ she says, ‘My cat… he’s dead. He’s dead!’
I go cold. ‘What happened? A car?’
‘No, there’s not a mark on him,’ she says through floods of tears, ‘Some bastard’s poisoned him I think. Happens all the time nowadays. But not my Bobby!’
She scoops up the corpse and cuddles it to her face. It’s horrible.
I go even colder.
I look over at my vegetable patch. She won’t see it, but in amongst the carrots there’s a small bowl buried to the level of the compost, and it’s full of anti-freeze. I’d completely forgotten about it, but I put it there months ago, and the fucking cat never touched it.
Until now.
The little bastard had it in for me all along.
Just my luck.
BIO: Nick Boldock is a writer and from Hull, England. He has been published in print in the Radgepacket Anthology, Fathom Collection, THE EPOCALYPSE – Emails At The End, and also appeared in Readers Digest more recently. His stories also appear online at Pulp Metal Magazine, Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers, and A Twist Of Noir. More information can be found at www.nickboldock.co.uk
BYE, BYE, BABY
By
Victoria Watson
The doctors say we can go home tomorrow. I hope your daddy’s managed to get the room all finished in time. We didn’t want to go for yellow really but we didn’t want to know what we were getting, we wanted a surprise. You gave us a surprise alright, coming as quick as you did. It’s all a blur now, probably the shock.
You’re in the crib beside me, bundled up, all in white, your eyes closed. I’m scared to pick you up in case I wake you. I’m nervous about what will happen when you wake up. How will I know what to do? I’ve read every book I could get my hands on, every spare minute had me reading about it all, but will that really prepare me? Can I really do this? I’ve always been good at academia but this is so different, you’re an unknown quantity. What I do know, though, is that there is no way I could ever love you more so, I guess that stands us in pretty good stead.
Even though we didn’t want to know, I knew you were a girl. I don’t know how, I just did. You’ll be a daddy’s girl but I know, as you get older, we’ll get closer and I’ll get a new friend.
It’s a shame my mum isn’t here to see you, I would have loved to do what my friends do and spend their days with their mums and their babies, three generations together. I wish she was here so I could go to little country cafes with you and her, walk along the promenade near her house, pushing your pram. I’ve had a little cry this afternoon, and talked to her. I’m sure she’s here, just making sure we’re both alright. She’s our guardian angel now.
That’s why I’m trying to remember all of this, so that - god forbid - anything should happen to me before you get to experience being a mummy for the first time, you have my thoughts on it. Maybe I’ll write it all down, just in case. I like to be prepared which is why you gave us such a shock – we weren’t really ready at all.
I remember being younger, about twenty-five, and asking your grandma everything about my birth, trying to arm myself with all of the facts. I hope you and I have a relationship where you can ask me anything, no matter how embarrassing you might think the subject.
Your daddy’s just come in. He looks all pale, his skin‘s a funny grey. He’s probably still in shock, your arrival was quite traumatic. But it was worth it, you’re here now. Your dad’s lovely dark brown eyes are red. He’ll have been fretting about getting us home, no doubt. Plus, he always said having a girl would mean he would never be able to relax again. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his hair is touseled and he’s got a five ‘o’ clock shadow where he hasn’t shaved. He’s a handsome man, your dad. Not only that but he is one of the most sensitive, caring people you will ever know.
‘Where’s the car seat, Daddy?’ I give him a slow, languid smile, I know he’ll have everything all set up. He’s probably spent all last night reading the instructions, not even stopping to sleep. My gentle giant, the six foot three scrum-half with false teeth and a broken nose, starts to cry.
‘Hey,’ I get up despite the tightness in my tummy and the drip in my hand.
‘What’s up sweetie?’ I whisper as he burrows his head into my neck and sobs heaving great sobs right into my ear. Maybe it’s all just too overwhelming for him. But then he pulls back and looks into my eyes and I can see something’s happened. Has he lost his job? Has there been an accident? Has he done something wrong? My stomach churns.
‘Chris, what?’
‘Sarah, don’t you remember?’ Chris pulls away, taking a deep breath, and holds my arms at my sides, still staring deep into my eyes.
‘What are you going on about? Remember what?’ He bursts into tears again and presses the button for the nurse.
‘The baby, she was too early. There was nothing they could do.’ He can barely spe
ak, he’s crying so hard. I hate him for what he’s saying, why would he say such a terrible, awful thing? What’s wrong with him?
‘If she was dead,’ I spit the word out, it feels disgusting in my mouth, ‘Why would they leave her in the room with me?’ He’s sobbing, gasping for air almost.
‘You….wouldn’t let…..them….. take her…..’ He’s looking frantically at the door, he’s moving towards me. ‘They said…..to leave you…..to come to terms…..’ I won’t let him finish. This isn’t happening. It’s a bad dream. He’s gone insane. It hurts me to think that of him but he must have done, why else would he be saying such awful things?
He wraps his big, muscular arms around me. I always used to joke that I never knew if I was being hugged or restrained. I’m not laughing now though. I struggle against him but he’s gripping me too hard for me to move. I kick out at him and he jumps away in shock. I pull away from him and try to run to the crib. It turns out to be more a trip and a fall. I cling onto the side of the plastic cot and drag myself up with my arms. I lift you out of the crib but you’re cold. Why are you cold?
‘Chris, help her please.’ I scream at him as two nurses scurry in, pulling me back onto the bed and holding me down. I see a doctor come in tapping something. I feel a sharp sting in my arm. Everything goes black.
BIO: Victoria Watson was awarded ‘Young Reviewer of the Year’ in 2009 and completed a Masters degree in Creative Writing in 2010. Victoria has had her short stories ‘I Should Have Seen it Coming’, ‘Keeping Quiet’ and ‘Inside’ published by Trestle Press. Victoria currently lives in the North-East of England. For more of Victoria’s writing, visit her blog at http://elementaryvwatson.wordpress.com/
BLOOD ON THE DANCEFLOOR
By
Benoit Lelievre
I longed for those long forgotten days where everything was so simple. House parties were gatherings where nothing really mattered and testosterone was kept in check by skinny jeans and self-loathing. Living rooms were a perfect set-up. If you could bust a move, all you had to do was to arrive early to take the center stage and you were guaranteed terrific poon. Because that's what it boils down to. Girls get into dancing because it keeps them young, toned and skinny. Guys get into it to get laid.
The wall clock indicated a quarter passed three. I was alone with a six feet cholo type, surrounded by empty cases of beer. I woke up there, about ten minutes ago, groggy, nauseous and handcuffed to this plastic chair. Hands and feet. No matter how panicked I could be and the questions I would ask, all he did was staring at me through his mirror shades, nod and grin like he just got caught jerking off. I abandoned any attempts to communicate after the shrieking started. God, those sounds. You're never really prepared to hear something like that. Especially when it comes from the voice from someone you know.
Nico Armendariz.
About an hour ago, Nico and me were Gods among men. We owned the Casa de la Cucaracha de Oro. I hated him, he hated me and our mutual feelings fuelled our performance. Earlier that day, we concluded a deal, a challenge if you prefer. At night, we would dance in a duel and the loser would have to find himself another club. The referee of this match would be our muse, the drop dead gorgeous Valkyrie of the Miami night scene, Susanna Acevedo. Whoever she would chose as the winner would win the privilege to dance with her once a night. Everything was going well, I was hitting my stride as Susie was watching and all hell broke loose.
Then, I woke up here. With my man here, Mr. Cholo.
I didn't know what happened or what we did wrong, but I could only speculate. We probably pissed off somebody important. The jealous daughter of a mob boss or the vain cousin of some gangster, envious of my swagger. Nico's screams were frightening enough, but the reason why I was so scared, was that I didn't want to hear Susie's voice coming from behind his.
Fuck. Susie, I would have done anything to spend ten minutes alone with her.
She arrived at the Cucaracha about two months ago. I had never seen a girl like this before. Such a flawless Latina beauty. She was maybe my height, but she was always wearing heels at the club so she was taller than me by about a hand. She had the slim and subtly chiseled body of a dancer and she chose her dresses carefully to expose one of her advantages. One night is was her muscled legs, the other it was her back or sometimes her arms. The way her skin glowed under the black lights or how she smiled with her eyes. Everything about her was so goddamn perfect.
When I say I didn't even talk about the way she danced. It was more than beautiful. It was, unreal. I could have swore she had a dancing background. Jazz or maybe one of those Latin dances. Samba or Salsa, maybe. In the club, she kept her moves fairly simple, basic even, but everything she did was marked with a lustful, animal energy. The way she swayed her hips or that she discreetly moved her feet to the bass line. Drove me nuts. I dreamed about her at night and I dreamed about her so hard during the day sometimes, that I did stupid things like going out with a backwards v-neck t-shirt or brush my teeth with shampoo. I was in love and I couldn't support the idea that someone could alter something so pure, let alone hurt it.
Nico stopped screaming at twenty passed three. But really, he just lowered the volume. His high pitched screamed transformed in a low, droning moan. I wanted to yell him to shut up, but I was so scared to start hearing Susie scream that any words that were burning my throat also died there. It only occurred to me afterwards that he could have been bleeding out. I just panted like an idiot and anticipated the worse. That made Mr. Cholo very amused. He might have been a big guy (a lot bigger than me), but he laughed like a little girl. Before hearing that I thought Mike Tyson had the silliest voice for a big guy, but Mr. Cholo forced me to re-evaluate my position on the subject.
The door opened. I was next. Seemed logical to me at the moment. Slice up the two guys first and keep the girl for the end. Slice her up, disfigure her. Maybe even rape her. That would have been the worst. To see her air of supreme confidence and femininity stolen away from her, forever. I panted harder and harder, gathering the courage to take a peek at the opened door where stood....
Susie.
Her beautiful royal blue dress was covered in blood. It streaked her face like war paint. In her eyes, a sexy, sadistic look of pleasure and in her left hand was a dripping wet butterfly knife. The final touch to her demented make up was that conqueror smile. Inside me, something I took years to construct was being swept by a giant fucking wrecking ball and yet I couldn't help but to find her so damn hot. All I needed was a cinema screen and I would've kept the fantasy alive and well. She was the very idea of beauty and better yet now. She was dangerous.
‘You stupid fool’ she said. Then she spat on me, crushing that little ego I took years to rebuild after junior high. ‘La Cucaracha is my uncle's place. When I go there, people look at me. Understand? Not at you or your little faggot hipster friend.’
I was befuddled, but I managed to articulate something like: ‘Of course. Of course. I'm yours only, Susie. I'm yours. Your pet, your thing’.
She laughed and she sat over my legs, an inch away from my mouth. She smelled of peaches and iron. I couldn't help but getting a hard on. That made her chuckle a little more.
‘Really? But what was that about, then? That macho little dick bullshit competition?’
That accent, so sweet.
‘It was about you, Susie. We were dancing with you in mind only. The loser would have left the club. A honour bet’.
‘I do not think so, little weasel. I think you were just showing off. Everybody knows that guys get into dancing because they want pussy. If I didn't step it, you would have left with anything with a pulse’.
I was hypnotized by the fine, but firm musculature of her arms, caressing my arms and my neck with a childish playfulness. I wanted to chomp down on one of those shoulders. ‘No. Not at all. You got it all wrong’ I said, distractedly.
She grabbed me by the throat to bring me back. ‘You know, you are a very beautiful boy. But you are just
a boy’. Then she kissed me. With the tongue and all. I almost choked and exploded at the same time. I hadn't felt like that since, ever. I was out of myself, drunk with enjoyment and pride. She chose that exact moment to pull my hair back and take her knife to my mouth. She started sawing upwards, toward my left ear.
I screamed. I screamed like Nico screamed a few moments before. I don't know for how long it lasted, but when she was finished with the left side, she started the right. She laughed like a little girl and spat in my mouth when I was yelling too loud. The pain was unlike anything I experienced so far in my life. It was one pure, white lightning of suffering. When she was done, Susie let a huge groan like a girl who just came and got up.
She left me bleeding, without even saying goodnight. The last thing I remember before passing out was her butterfly knife dripping my blood on the dance floor, as Susie walked away.
BIO: Benoit Lelievre lives in Montreal, Canada. His stories appear in THE LOST CHILDREN ANTHOLOGY, BEAT TO A PULP, and SHOTGUN HONEY. Whenever he’s not writing, he spends a lot of his time on his pop culture blog www.deadendfollies.com or he’s fishing young souls out of the proverbial gutter, at his local martial arts gym.
AMERICAN PIE
By
Ron Earl Phillips
We stood on the third base line, just outside the dugout, arms linked in solidarity and a modest attempt to keep warm. Winter had lingered and the new ball field lay frozen beneath our feet. My leg was bitter with pain where pins and screws held together the mangled limb under tangled scar tissue. I wished I could flex it, massage the pain, but I knew that wasn’t an option. Not here, not now. This wasn’t about me, so I stood silent with my team mates, the 2001 Martinsdale High School Boys Baseball team, state champions.