“I’m locked in my room. She’s looking for a way in.”
He borrowed a car and drove home. His mother was in the garage, looking through his father’s tools.
“Kyle,” she said. “Can you help me find something to jimmy a lock? I hate to use a blowtorch. The wood’s oak. Maybe we can remove it with a screwdriver.”
Her eyes were fixed and dull, dead moths again. “Jolene doesn’t understand I’m trying to lift her up to God.” She looked at him closely. “Like I did with you.” She smiled beatifically.
He put out his hand, and she gave him the blowtorch. He used it without hesitation, watching her cheap acrylic blouse go up in a flash, her face melt away. Her screams seemed inconsequential coming from a black hole as they did.
She was cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone.
He didn’t try to deny it when the police arrived, didn’t try to run or hide. He’d heard about Judgment Day often enough to recognize it when it came.
THIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN SPINETINGLER.
Patricia Abbott is the author of the e-book Monkey Justice (Snubnose Press) and co-editor of the anthology Discount Noir (Untreed Reads). More than one hundred of her stories have appeared in print and online outlets. She won a Derringer Award in 2009 for her flash story “My Hero” and has had three stories included in Ed Gorman’s yearly crime-fiction anthologies. She lives outside Detroit.
THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW
* * *
* * *
Richard Aleas
It wasn’t the rain, Jack knew, that would keep them from going into town. Mother would say that was why, and Father would nod behind his newspaper, and Celia would believe it because she was only seven and believed anything you told her. But the rain had nothing to do with it.
Jack got up from the table and went to the window. Buckets of the stuff were being flung against the glass. The waterspout on the side of the roof was pouring like a faucet. Dark clouds made everything gray.
But rain doesn’t last forever, not even a storm like this one. By the day after tomorrow, it would be gone. Then they’d roll the tent out again and bring the elephants and horses out of the traveling cages they were cooped up in. They’d string the high wire and hook the trapezes and lay the nets and set the harnesses. And then Kenny would take his place behind the barred window of the ticket booth, and he’d thumb off tickets one by one to each kid who showed up with three dollar bills in his fist.
Would he wonder why Jack didn’t show up? Oh, probably not. After the scene Mother had made—in front of everyone, in front of everyone!—he’d probably be glad not to see Jack in the crowd.
Jack kicked the wall, as hard as he could.
They’d promised. He’d x-ed off the days on the calendar they’d given him for Christmas, had watched as the crisscross of ink grew, snaking from one week into the next, toward the last day of the month. The last day before the tents were tucked away into the monster hauler that would follow slowly as the performers’ vans lumbered onto the highway and out of town. It was all Jack had asked for, for Christmas. It was what they’d said he’d get.
Jack closed his bedroom door and hung a metal coat hanger on the inside knob. It’d clatter if anyone turned the knob.
He opened the closet and knelt inside, in front of his toy chest.
Mother had screamed. That’s how Jack had known she was there. He hadn’t seen her; he’d been looking at the green and blue woman inked into the flesh of Kenny’s arm. The woman had moved as Kenny drew, her upraised arm waving from side to side.
And then the scream. Were there words, or just the sound of it? There were words later, many words, words for Kenny that Jack had never heard his mother use and words for Jack, too, shouted as she pulled him out through the flap of the tent and stood him in the sunlight, surrounded by kids from school, and rubbed at the ballpoint ink Kenny had put onto his arm.
That night it had started to rain.
Jack unpacked the top layer of toys and pawed through the folded sweaters underneath. He pulled out the box he found there.
It was a flat box that said Brunckhorst’s on it. The picture was of green leaves, and the box had a minty smell to it. Jack had no idea what had come in it originally.
Before opening the box, Jack turned his left arm palm up. Kenny’s half-completed drawing was still there in ghost-lines on the red surface, rubbed raw by Mother’s scrubcloth.
Comet will take that off, she’d said.
Celia had stood in the doorway watching, three fingers in her mouth and her eyes showing that she wasn’t sure if she was seeing something bad or something good.
Where had Father been? In the living room behind his newspaper. He’s your son, he’d said. Jack had heard the pages turning while the chlorine scoured his skin.
His arm was still raw, but it didn’t hurt very much anymore. And under the pink, still visible if you looked hard, he could see the faint lines of blue, the half-finished woman with her upraised arm.
The Brunckhorst’s box was packed with Kleenex, which Jack carefully placed next to him on the floor. He took out the knife that lay underneath, held it by its heavy handle the way Kenny had showed him when they’d cut the tent’s binding cords together.
The day after tomorrow.
The rain will stop, Jack thought, and I will go to the circus.
The pseudonym of an American mystery writer and editor, Richard Aleas was nominated for both the Edgar Allan Poe Award and the Shamus Award for his first novel, Little Girl Lost, and won the Shamus for his second, Songs of Innocence, which was described by the Washington Post as “devastating…an instant classic.” The author lives in New York City.
HANSEL, GRETEL, AND THE WITCH
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* * *
Gary Alexander
The station manager called the witch into his office. He couldn’t procrastinate any longer. “We, uh, have some scheduling issues.”
“Cauldron Cookery isn’t doing well?”
The station manager realized the witch’s black cape and peaked black cap was only a costume. The wart on her nose, too. So why did she seem so natural in the role?
“Cauldron Cookery isn’t doing terribly as far as niche cooking shows go, but your ratings are flat.”
“You’re canceling me,” the witch snarled.
The station manager flinched, then lied. “No, no. Not canceling. You’ll tape your last segment tomorrow and go on hiatus.”
“Hiatus. Yeah, right. Tell me what I did wrong.”
“Well, some of your dishes do have ingredients that are hard to find.”
“For instance?”
“Eye of newt.”
“I explained that you can substitute cilantro. Who’s bumping me?”
“We’re expanding Hansel and Gretel to a full hour.”
“Oh, please! Their Gingerbread Magic is mind-numbing.”
“Their popularity is growing. The kids will be hosting Sugar ’n’ Spice, too. Tomorrow we’ll do a pilot episode. They’ll be making confectionery delights from around the world. Cupcakes are hot. They’ll do a lot of cupcakes.”
The station manager flinched again as the witch stormed out and slammed the door. She passed the set where Hansel and Gretel were preparing for a taping.
“How are you kiddies?” she asked sweetly.
“Good, ma’am,” they answered in unison.
“What’s for today?”
“A gingerbread roof,” Hansel said. “For last week’s gingerbread house.”
“With glazed roofing and wafer shutters,” Gretel said.
Hansel’s and Gretel’s real names were Chip and Susie. They were cherubic and adorable, him in lederhosen, a budding Hitler Youth type, and her in a ruffled peasant dress. They made the witch sick. And weren’t there child-labor laws?
“Oh, that sounds positively wonderful. You do so many delightful things with gingerbread.”
The witch went home and phoned Phil, her fifth ex-hu
sband. “I need your help.”
Phil carried a torch for her the size of the Statue of Liberty’s. “Anything, Mary Lou.”
“My career’s in shambles,” she wailed. “You’re my knight in shining armor. Come over now.”
Phil was also a major-appliance repairman, having learned the trade in the state penitentiary.
“But that’s 220 voltage,” Phil said at Mary Lou’s condo. “You’re asking me to booby-trap the stove and electrocute them?”
“They booby-trapped my career,” she cried. “I have an image problem. Will you do it?”
“Okay, but how do you expect me to turn your TV kitchen into a death trap?”
“The range tops are in the front counter, closest to the camera. The oven is built into a side wall. It’s part of the set, too, so the rear is completely concealed. I cook on the stovetops, and they bake their stupid gingerbread monstrosities in the oven.”
“How do you get me into the station?”
Mary Lou presented a yellow-toothed grin. “How’d you like to be in showbiz?”
Next morning, Mary Lou introduced Phil to the station manager. “My new assistant.”
The station manager gulped.
On the set Phil said, “Mary Lou, the cameras make me nervous. I have mug-shot flashbacks.”
“You’ll be fine. How long will it take?”
“Not long. I know that model oven. They’ve had recalls for bad junction blocks. Behind the fake wall, I remove a screw from one, lay it there like it worked loose and fell out, and rest a hot wire on the range chassis. Turn the oven on and touch any metal part, like the handle. Zap!”
“Do it when the stagehands go on break. I have to tape first so the little darlings will have all the time they need for their precious masterpieces.”
Mary Lou tied an apron on Phil. “I’m making my famous Sorceress Stew. Dice and chop and peel, my galley slave.”
The crew went out for coffee before they rolled tape, giving Phil and his screwdriver plenty of time.
He was uncomfortable during Cauldron Cookery and spilled a bowl of diced carrots on the floor as he tried to dump them into the bubbling kettle. Everybody had a chuckle.
The witch mugged for the camera, cackling and saying, “The man’s all thumbs. I dearly hope neither of them land in my stew.”
Phil dropped and broke a dish.
“Wet hands,” he said.
“That’s the third,” Mary Lou said. “Relax.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Hansel and Gretel appeared as Mary Lou and Phil sat at a table offstage, eating her stew.
Gretel opened the oven, peered inside, and shut it.
“Nothing happened,” Mary Lou whispered.
Phil said, “It’s gotta be turned on.”
The witch smiled. “Ah, Gretel just set it to preheat.”
The station manager rushed up to Phil and Mary Lou. “I have fantastic news! The station owner watched the taping in the control room. He loved you two together. You had him in stitches. He’s giving Cauldron Cookery a better slot and a full hour.”
After he was gone, Mary Lou whispered to Phil, “Quick, fix what you did after I turn the oven off.”
“I can’t,” Phil said. “There’s no time.”
She went into the kitchen to turn the oven off and slipped on diced carrots and dishware shards. Instinctively she grabbed what she could on the way down—the oven handle.
The station lights flickered.
Gary Alexander has written thirteen novels, including Loot, fourth in the series featuring Buster Hightower, which will appear in 2013. Disappeared, the first, has been optioned to Universal Pictures. He has written more than 150 short stories and sold travel articles to six major dailies. Dragon Lady, his Vietnam War novel, is being published by Istoria Books.
PREPARATIONS
* * *
* * *
Tasha Alexander
Precision was essential. There was nothing more important in a lady’s life during the London season. Every gown, every piece of jewelry, every hair on her head must be perfect or disaster could strike. Disaster in the form of no marriage proposal. Disaster in the form of forced retreat to the country or, worse, to Egypt, where Shepherd’s Hotel might provide a groom willing to overlook failure in England in exchange for an adequate bank account. Gwendolyn Banks had suffered no such indignities. She had attended to every detail of her appearance, took care to be charming, but not too charming, danced like a dream, and had paid rapt attention to every word from her suitors. Her debut was a smashing success, culminating with her engagement and marriage to a gentleman of fortune and, perhaps more important, heir to the Duke of Highgate.
After marriage Gwendolyn did not allow her standards to slack. Perfection was her daily goal. She would not be one of those women who grew matronly too soon, and her husband’s friends frequently commented to her how lucky he was. She would bestow upon them a smile, demure and flirty at the same time, but never let her eyes linger for a moment too long. Gwendolyn was an ideal wife. Or so they thought at first.
On this particular day, she took extra care dressing. Her finest lingerie, purchased in Paris during her honeymoon trip, covered the bruises down her back, black-and-blue, purple, and green changed for silk and Burano lace. Her maid laced her prettiest corset so tightly she could hardly breathe, but Gwendolyn welcomed the feeling of a pain she could control. She had debated the choice of gown for hours the previous night when, unable to sleep, she had flung dress after dress onto the floor after rejecting them. Red was too obvious. Blue too placid. Rose was right, a pink of the palest shade, the embodiment of innocence and sweet beauty.
Gwendolyn stepped into her slim silk shoes. She went through boxes of kid gloves before she found a pair in just the right shade of cream, the leather so thin they could not be worn again. They would come to pieces when removed, which seemed fitting to Gwendolyn, who turned her attention to her jewelry box. The suite of diamonds from her mother-in-law would be too flashy for a garden party. The rubies were too obvious a choice with rose. She slung long ropes of pearls, a gift from her parents on her eighteenth birthday, two weeks before her wedding, over her head and studied her reflection.
Elegant and refined. She clipped on the matching earrings and held out her arm so that her maid could fasten an intricate bracelet around her wrist. Her hat was the only easy choice that day. Its brim was wider than Gwendolyn’s shoulders, and its crown was covered with an enormous mass of ostrich feathers. The hatpins were next. She would need three to hold the monstrous creation in place. She first chose two relatively plain ivory ones and then her very favorite, a swirl of gold and precious stones handmade in Florence that was long enough to go through both the hat and the pile of hair on top of her head.
Hat firmly in place and gloves pulled on, Gwendolyn descended the stairs to her husband, who ushered her into their waiting carriage. They made a striking couple and were both much in demand from the moment they stepped into the party, but Gwendolyn knew what the gossips said, that in private she was frigid and icy, denying her husband affection. They speculated there might never be an heir to the Dukedom of Highgate. Yet Gwendolyn was so lovely and so kind and so gracious in every other capacity that they adored her nonetheless. She smiled, knowing she would not have to tolerate the overcrowded crush of the garden for long, and knowing that today, unlike so many other days, she would not object to being removed to a more private environ.
It happened as it always did. He paid little attention to her at first beyond the usual family duties, but circled back to her when he had grown tired of his friends and their wives. He pulled her aside and complimented her appearance. He took notice of every carefully chosen detail and reprimanded her for any perceived flaws. There were always flaws, and because of them, he would be forced to take her to a hidden copse, or a small room, or a back staircase where they would not be disturbed, and he would remind her that his son deserved a better wife. He would cajole her for a
bit, then his hands would begin to wander and grope. He would raise her skirts. He would cover her mouth, though she had long ago learned not to scream. When he finished, he would bend her forward and strike her eight times with the walking stick he carried. The bruises it left would have to be hidden. Until they faded, her bedroom door would have to remain locked. This time, especially.
Gwendolyn made no sound as he beat her and braced herself for what she knew would come next. He took her in his arms and kissed her, rocking back and forth, imploring her to be a better wife. Today she did something she never had before. She kissed him back, and while he reacted with delight to this, she reached up, pulling the long Florentine pin from her hat. She flung one arm tight around his grizzled neck, bringing him closer, and felt for his ear. The pin went in with ease at first, but required more pressure as it went deeper. Gwendolyn had no difficulty finding the necessary strength. Her father-in-law crumpled to the ground.
Gwendolyn returned her pin to her hat, smoothed her skirts, and returned to the party, the picture of wifely perfection.
Highgate had a new duke.
Tasha Alexander attended the University of Notre Dame, where she signed on as an English major (with a concentration in medieval studies) in order to have a legitimate excuse for spending all her time reading. Her work has been nominated for numerous awards and has been translated into more than a dozen languages. She and her husband, novelist Andrew Grant, divide their time between Chicago and the United Kingdom.
THUNDER AT THE HORIZON
* * *
* * *
Charles Ardai
In the alley behind the Wigwam Club, Dolores bent low to shield her cigarette from the night breezes. It took two matches to get it lit. She hadn’t bothered to put on a robe before stepping outside. None of the girls ever did. It would smear your war paint and crush your feathers, and anyway the nights were plenty warm. It was one good thing about Arizona. The only good thing.
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