Death’s hand, which I shook reluctantly, was a plumped pillow.
“You’re safe,” he said. “For now.”
“I pictured you as a, you know—”
“Skeleton? You should’ve seen me before the Western diet.” Laughter rippled his corpulence. “Doctor’s telling me to eat better, but she thinks I’m lying about my work.”
Iain Young hasn’t forgotten the childhood nightmare in which he was chased by angry vegetables. That might explain a lot.
Target confirmed, advance fee accepted, Robert dresses that night to kill. Black pants, black turtleneck, black greasepaint covering every inch of face and hands. Stealthy, he waits in shrubbery. Hours pass. Lights dim. Robert heeds nature’s call at last.
Sirens erupt: the alarm!
He’d never considered greasepaint below the belt.
Alexandra Renwick’s literary pulp fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen’s & Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazines, The Exile Book of New Canadian Noir, and Imaginarium: The Best Canadian Speculative Writing. When not inhabiting urban wetlands in Austin, Texas, she can be found curating a crumbling historic manor near downtown Ottawa. More at alexcrenwick.com.
She was beautiful, alluring, desirable.
I moved gracefully towards her, straightening my bowtie.
Just as I arrived, she smiled … and accepted the hand of another suitor.
The embarrassment of turning back would burn.
With a deft sideways movement I stood before a plain woman.
Unexpectedly, my heart awoke.
Joan is an educator in Australia.
Martin Bledsoe was a short, plump, bald, harmless-looking man in his mid-50s. Nobody suspected he was also the best assassin in the world.
Well, nobody except Emma Kronstad, a short, plump, grandma-looking woman in her early sixties who strolled away from his dead body whispering, “Now I’m No. 1!”
Michael Coolen is a pianist, composer, actor, performance artist, and writer who lives in Corvallis with his wife, two boys, and two cats to which he is terribly allergic.
An usher discovered Delbert laying across three seats. “Sir, you only get one seat. You gotta move.”
When Delbert only groaned, management called police. “You appear drunk, sir. Your name?” the cop asked.
“Delbert,” he croaked.
“You got ID?”
“Nooo…” Delbert managed.
“Okay wise-guy, where’d you come from?”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has an M.S from Abilene Christian University and short fiction pieces published or pending on over thirty online sites.