Don’t Forget! By Rod Sytsma
Out of the dark and starless night a beam of light moves slowly across
the distant floor of the California valley as the rhythmic muffled sounds of
helicopter blades searched for its wanted prey. The bright spot light
illuminated the tops of the houses, trees, and yards between, moving ever
closer to the house he was hidden within.
Standing by the second story window his eyes scoured the backyard
through a crack in the slightly parted drapes. The house was dark and silent
except for the sound of a slow steady drip, the blood dripping from the tip of
his left index finger to the hard wooden floor.
Tearing a strip of cloth from the drape he wraps his left bicep tying a
tourniquet using his front teeth and his right hand. Ignoring the pain keeps his
eyes focused out the window. The bullet passed through his forearm tearing
the flesh yet missing the bones.
He can see the squad cars in the distance stopping in the neighborhood
doing a door to door search. He hasn’t much time before the police arrive and
the search light is moving ever closer.
The shed door in the backyard opens. The dark silhouette of a person is
moving toward the house. He can’t wait by the window any longer, he must
react. The land line phone is dead and he lost his cell phone when running
through the yard to the house.
He knows someone’s out there and can’t wait for the police. He makes
his way down to the kitchen grabbing a frying pan hanging from a hook over
the stove. Standing with his back to the wall, by the back door, waits with the
pan held over his head ready to strike as he stares at the door knob.
The lights of the squad enter the yard and he is somewhat relived until
he notices the door knob starting to turn. He heard the police yell "drop the gun"
as spot lights pierced every window in the house. He listened to a scuffle
outside the door on the porch.
Seconds later a police officer on a megaphone hollered "come out with
your hands in the air." After dropping the fry pan he did. They had her in one
squad and put him in the other.
After a little first aid at the police station they took him into an
interrogation room. An officer asked what had happened and he answered.
"I forgot to take out the trash, again, this morning and my wife was
angry. She must have been waiting in the shed for me when I got home. I
guess since I didn’t take it out she decided she was going to take me out."
They Say By Elizabeth Reapy
Though he is ten years old, Barra has white hair and loves to get drunk. His
dad works long hours and Barra is left alone in the house. Some days, he
decides to go to school but most days he is too hung-over.
He can get bottles of rum, vodka or cans very easily in the shop. They
would never suspect he is slugging them himself. They assume that his dad
probably has a drink problem due to the untimely death of Barra’s mother.
A tree fell on top of her in the yard the morning after a storm. She was
going to put the bins out.
A freak accident, they say.
Wrong place, wrong time, they say.
Smashed her skull all up. Blood and bits of pinky brain on the yard. Barra
found her there stuck underneath the tree. One of her slippers had fallen off.
His hair turned white overnight and he had his first drink at her wake. A
straight whiskey.
He thinks of the bare sole of her foot. The way it was bluish and wet
from the rain.
God love that kid, they say.
First Blooding By Annie Evett
I shuffled uncomfortably in the heat. I’d forgotten the claustrophobic feeling
this building has. A bead of sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades,
lazily making its way down my back and toward the earthen flooring. So many
things you forget; that muddy stench, the smoky aroma, the trapped feeling of
doom gripping at your heart. I glanced at my small son; his eyes wide with
wonder, as he absorbed the sounds and smells.
I’d grown up doing this – well most Sundays. But after moving – almost fleeing
to the city – other things became a priority. In the early years away, I rejected
everything that I had grown up with. The old traditions becoming an
embarrassment amongst new friends; no longer desirable or possible in my
new vibrant environment. Life slips into a different gear until something like
this opportunity presents itself. Though, standing here in the heat; I began to
question my sanity of the return. My fingers reached out for the security of my
husband Dan.
A figure, obscured by shadows, crossed through the brilliant beams of light
screaming through pin pricks of the tin ceiling. Joe hummed as he checked
each implement; scrutinising the blades and placing them with precise
movements onto the makeshift altar.
Grunting a greeting at Dan, he squinted at the small boy clutching my hand
and then looked up at me. “You’ve brought the water?”
I wordlessly indicated the steaming buckets to the side.
Joe tested a blade with his thumb and pointed the blade at my son. “First
time?”
“Yep.” Dan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Better he sees this with us
sooner rather than later.”
Joe’s dark eyes, framed in short stubby lashes, flickered at me again. “I went to see the girls this morning, like I always do; every morning. They normally just about jump on me through the doorway. But today, they kept away. They know something is up.”
I shrugged helplessly. I knew it doesn't pay to get too close. Your heart needed
to harden in order to do this every week. I wondered if Joe was losing his
touch. I looked about the corrugated iron clad shed and decided that had I not
left home when I did, there was little argument, that I would have taken on
the family traditions and be standing where he was now. I shuddered.
“You want to come with me lad? You can hold one of the girls and bring her in
here.”
My son looked to be for guidance; for permission. “Mummy, what’s Joe want
me to do?”
I glanced over at my husband, whose jaw was set like granite.
“We can leave now, we don’t need to do this, or let him see. Maybe he’s not
ready; too young?”
He glared at me. “How old were you? How old was I? No – the city has made
us weak. Divorced our children from reality. He’s ready now.”
I smoothed my sons hair and smiled down at him. “Go on. Follow Joe, he’ll tell
you what to do.” He scooted off after Joe, grinning madly on his return as he
hugged one of the victims; gently, but firmly.
Joe nodded towards us. “The lad’s got a good way with them. Just walked in
calmly and they came to him.” The victim Joe held looked about in bewilderment. He soothed her and stroked her head, laying her down on a large wooden block.
No matter how many times I had seen this done – done it myself – I always
squeezed my eyes shut at the last moment, hating the final look that face gave
you as the axe or knife descended. Those bewildered eyes, never fully
comprehending what was about to happen, until their head separated from
their body and blood poured from the op
en wound; blood pumping from
severed veins.
The head was unceremoniously dumped into a waste bin and the wooden block
cleared of feathers, then the next victim laid her head gently down and stared
up at Joe in trust and love.
Both hens bodies jerked momentarily as their feet twitched and scratched in
the air, before they were then thrust into the scalding water; feathers removed
and dressed ready for the roast pan.
Sweet Sixteen By SJI Holliday
Patty knew she’d committed the most heinous of crimes but it was too late to do a damn thing about it. Ever since her daughter had been pulled shrieking into the world, she’d been given every single thing she wanted; and now, at sixteen, Melanie was a spoiled brat.
Obsessed by the ludicrous Super Sweet Sixteen parties on MTV, Melanie had informed Patty that she was having Boytoyz to play at her sixteenth, and that was final. Patty could merely concede.
She phoned their management. Ten thousand quid for an hour long appearance, which Patty didn’t think was too bad, considering that since their recent comeback, they were the biggest boy band on the planet. Plus, Melanie’s dad would be more than happy to cough up if it meant he could ditch his daughter’s party.
There was just one small problem.
Melanie had insisted that she wanted the band to play live, but as the woman from the management company had explained, no bands played live these days. Not when their holograms could be tailored exactly to your needs. Most of the time the kids don’t even notice, she said. You can set up the playlist, choose their outfits, get them to do a shout-out to the birthday girl. The only thing that can’t be done is the pulling-them-up-on-stage-for-a-snog part. Patty had laughed at that, imagining Melanie’s embarrassment at the vanishing lips, but she said no: we want the live band. The actual band. Kurt, Jonno, Craig and Marcus – the one who everyone fancied but also knew was a screaming queen. Patty was more partial to Craig: he almost looked old enough to sleep with. Oh, the woman said. They don’t really do personal experiences you know... I’m not even sure they’ll all be available. If I’m honest, I’m not sure that Jonno and Marcus are even speaking …
Well they wouldn’t be, Patty thought. Not after that headline last summer. The photograph. He was being sick, Marcus had been quoted saying. I was just holding his head to comfort him. Patty wondered now if this had been a hologram too; another publicity stunt they didn’t need to get out of bed for. Thinking about it, their new single had shot straight to number one afterwards. It has to be them, she insisted. Whatever the cost. The woman hesitated. It’ll be five hundred thousand then, she said. She sounded like she was going to say something else, then she stopped. Patty pondered it. Melanie’s dad would pay.
Okay, Patty said. Let’s do it.
Melanie was ecstatic. So were the five hundred of her closest friends that she’d invited to the ballroom of the most expensive hotel in town. By the time Boytoyz were due on stage, the crowd were whipped. The atmosphere writhed. As the spotlights began to seek out the stage and the DJ faded out his last track, the cacophony of shrieks became deafening.
In a final act of mouth-watering build-up, the place was plunged into darkness.
Then came the moment they’d all been waiting for. The opening chords of Boytoyz biggest hit blasted from the speakers and the lights exploded like starburst. The shrieking reached ear-splitting volume… then abruptly stopped.
Puzzled, Patty’s gaze shifted from one open-mouthed teenager to the next until finally her eyes reached the stage; and the sight of the four decrepit old men slumped on their stools in the middle of it.
Patty grinned and tapped her foot. She quite liked this track. Their looks might have faded twenty years ago, but at least the old gits were auto-tuned.
Sisters By Valerie Sirr
Tash sat on one end of the kids’ slide staring at the ground, headphones in ears. The playground was dimly lit by streetlights. She looked up when her sister squeezed through a gap in the fence.
“You look like you’da kept on slidin’ but for the tarmac being there,” Gemma said, balancing her skinny bum on an old motorbike helmet lying on the ground.
Tash removed her headphones. “Where the fuck were you?”
“Nowhere.”
“Gemma?”
Gemma looked away. “I went with a weirdo.”
“Fuck. Not again. Who?”
“Bloke from the Spar.”
“The skanger that drives the Hi-ace? Always givin’ us looks?”
Gemma nodded. Tash grabbed her arm. “You serious?”
“He offered me a lift. ‘Howya,’ he said. ‘How far ya goin?’ So I said ‘How far d’ya want me to go?”
Tash stared at her. “Ah, Gemma.”
Gemma looked away. “He put his paw on me knee when we got to the park.”
“You let him?
Gemma looked dazed. “He looked at me and said, ‘Robbie told me about you.’”
Tash groaned and pushed her hands through her hair.
“I said nothin’. He grabbed me face and it felt like he was kissin’ me with his teeth. One of his hands was up me T-shirt, the other between me legs.”
“Fucksake!”
“It hurt. I was rememberin’ a programme on telly. You can only take so much pain, they said, after that you go numb. There were people in the distance walkin’ by the long grass with their buggies and their kids. They weren’t real, but. Just blurs.”
Tash shook her head. “You’re mad. You’re fuckin’ mad.”
“Then he stopped. He poked around the glove compartment. ‘Do you have any protection?’ I heard him say. I shook me head. He said, ‘Fuck it, I've no rubbers left.’ Nothin’ happened for a second or two. I started to climb back into meself. ‘Who knows where you've been?’ he said.”
“Wanker!”
“He looked me up and down then he pulled down the zip on his jeans. He gripped me hand and put it on his prick. He kept his hand on mine. He made it rub fast and hard.”
Tash groaned. “Ah, Gemma.”
“I saw trees through the windscreen liftin’ their branches like they were turnin’ away. When he finished he zipped up his jeans and me hand reached for the door. I got out. He pulled away - I wiped me hand in the grass. Then I wiped me skirt.”
“Is that everythin’?
Gemma nodded. Drunken shouts came from the street. A dog barked.
“You don’t even mind yourself! When they get you on your own they can do what they want, Gemma!”
“You mean Da?”
Passing headlights beamed on Tash’s and Gemma’s hunched figures. They looked at each other then they looked at the ground.
Gemma walked over to the carousel. Tash followed her. They sat there with their legs hanging over the side.
Gemma rubbed at her legs. “Me tan’s all streaky.”
“Yer tan? Yer tan’s important alright.” Tash buried her head in her hands.
Gemma jumped off the carousel.
She picked up the old helmet and put it over her head. She danced around the playground, laughing. “Tash, look! Protection!”
Tash said nothing.
Gemma stood in front of her. Tash glared at her. “That’s fuckin’ funny. That’s hilarious.”
Gemma removed the helmet and dropped it on the ground.
“Isn’t it hilarious?” Tash said.
Gemma flopped against the carousel.
“Well, Gemma?”
Gemma covered her face with her hands.
“Answer me!”
Gemma sobbed. “It’s not funny! Alright? It’s fuckin’ not!” She sobbed harder.
Tash moved close and hugged her tight.
Twisted Tales Page 3