“Homicide Victims Rarely Talk to Police” —The Express-Times

Madam Lin Merlo sat in her candle-lit living room between Detective Mullen and a crystal ball. A milky mist swirled and pulsed within the glass as a nasal voice spoke.

“I ain’t squealin’ to no cops!”

“Sir.” The seasoned detective’s hands throttled the air. “We’re trying to catch your murderer!”

“So? I already know who did it.”

“Don’t you want them brought to justice?”

“What justice? Ten years' prison time? Five if they play nice? Besides, I’m dead. What good is justice to me now?”

At this, Lin shrugged in agreement and took a drag from her pipe. Its indigo clouds mingled with the smoke from the incense burning on the mismatched end tables.

Detective Mullen ran his hands through his greasy hair, then squinted at the medium.

“You’re losing your touch, Lin.”

“Me?” Smoke fluttered from her nostrils. “You can hear him loud and clear, can’t you?”

Clasping his hands, Detective Mullen returned his attention to the crystal ball. He tried on a more sincere tone.

“Sir, what if he kills someone else?”

“They’ll just wake up here. There are worse things.”

The detective whirled wide-eyed to the medium.

“Lin!”

“What, you think I can just shove my hand up his metaphysical ass and make him talk?” Lin mimed a puppet with her free hand, and a laugh burbled from the crystal ball.

“I don’t know why we bother with you.” The detective stood up from the ripped sofa, pulling a cigarette box from his trench coat. He spat over his shoulder as he trudged toward the apartment door. “This’ll make nine unsolved homicides, Lin.”

After the door slammed shut, Lin gazed from her clashing, secondhand furniture to her leaky windows. Outside, the last bit of orange sunlight bled into the blackening sky over a city where nine murders lurked.

With a smoky sigh, she decided she really didn’t want to be thrown out onto those streets.

“Mr. Ricci, they actually pay me big to help solve murders, and if this keeps up, I’m gonna be living on Ramen and packaged underwear. Is there any way I can bribe you?”

“I’m dead. What could I possibly need?”

“I don’t know. Where’re you at? Heaven? Hell?”

The crystal ball dimmed for a moment.

“...It’s mostly empty space.”

“Oh, there. Well, eternal emptiness will get boring quickly.”

“Sure, but it’s not like you can ship me a TV.”

Lin took a thoughtful drag and looked around her living room. Her eyes fell on her dusty childhood boombox.

“Well, you can hear me fine right? How about radio? You like music? Audiobooks?”

“Ooh, I love those true crime podcasts. Got any of those?”

“I can get them.”

“Alright. One hour a day—”

“Woah there. I have a life… and eight other spirits to bribe now that I know I can. Twice a week.”

“For two hours each.”

“Deal.” Lin tapped her pipe over an ashtray, then sat up straight. “Now, who dunnit?”

"Thank you all for coming." Senator Rich Crook smiled through his false teeth at the crowds of reporters stuffed into the press room. He wore an immaculate suit. His dark hair was seasoned with just a touch of its actual gray, arranged by professionals to make him look every inch like a competent politician.

"I've called you here today to make a formal announcement." He settled himself at the podium, placing his hands on each side of the flimsy stand, "The senatorial committee for governmental transparency, of which I am the chair, has decided by unanimous vote, that it is in the governments best interests to stop wasting time and money hiding our obvious and well-known corruption. From now on, we will do whatever we like without consequences, as usual, but we'll no longer pretend that we're not."

He flashed his smile for the cameras and raised his hand in a stoic, yet friendly wave, "Any questions?"

Like chickens when the feed tube opens, a dozen heads bobbed up and squawked. The Senator pointed to the loudest of the bunch.

"Cash Clickbait here, Weekly Whiner. What will this mean for the upcoming vote on social security?"

"Great question." The Senator leaned forward, "Under this new ruling, we can freely admit that we've completely gutted social security to pay for private jets, summer mansions, and a very elite, hidden resort that only the ultra-rich have access to. I'd like to praise the public for their generous trust in the program and to give them my personal thanks for all their contributions. Next question,uhhh, yes, you."

"I. D. Seller, from This-Newspaper-Is-Brought-To-You-By-GEICO-GEICO-You-Can't-Escape." The young man paused to catch his breath, "How will this affect the next senatorial race? With this new transparency system, aren't you afraid of senate seats being lost, or even replaced by independents?"

"No." Senator Crook shook his head, "Due to the Each Vote Matters bill that passed last year, it's impossible for votes to actually matter. With unfair gerrymandering and the strategic removal of voting locations, we can secure every senate seat until military medical technology can no longer keep us alive. Now you, miss?"

"Unpaid Intern, Doom and Gloom Gazette." The young woman squeaked, "Um, uh, how will this affect, uh... the economy?"

The senator gave her a reassuring smile, "The Economy, as you know, is simply a measure of how quickly the upper class harvests money from the uneducated public. Thanks to ineffective financial regulation, the economy will continue to grow until we bleed the country dry. Then the upper class will use insider information to bail on the market right before the crash."

More hands went up and more squawking chickens clamored for a sound byte, but the senator just held up his hands and waved, "Sorry. That is all the time I have for today. It's just passed sundown and I have to fly to Hawaii for a senatorial ethics committee which is just golf and wine tasting. Thank you all, goodnight!"

‘Dodgeball Gods’

—-

Stanton Elementary’s grounds embraced their rural setting. Blessed with plenty of space, crabapple and sycamore trees lined dappled asphalt paths. The baseball field spread out next to the pristine basketball court. But at the heart of it all, in the disused tennis court, dodgeball was the name of the game.

Cotton stood with his buddy Pepper as the team assembled in the early evening’s fading sun. Younger and shorter with red hair, he was nevertheless the leader, as his friend’s slightly slumped shoulders attested.

“They’re looking good, Pepper. In fine form. And aren’t those shirts great?”

“Yes indeed, Cotton. The school’s done well with the new gym uniforms… And wow! Look at them go—straight through the metal gate and onto the court.”

The students gathered in a line as the two self-declared captains, a gawky kid and a tanned, brunette, picked sides.

“The first few choices have been unsurprising—your standard dodge gods. Wait, did you see that, Pepper?! Scrawny new guy gets chosen over the next round of ball hogs?”

“It’s a bold strategy, Cotton, let’s see if it pays off for them.”

“And look, it’s everybody’s favorite gym teacher and the coach for both teams to provide some inspiration!”

A man with thinning brown hair and a mustard-stained blue shirt stepped forward. “Alright, kids, it’s time to review the five Ds of dodgeball—dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge. And, if you remember nothing else, if you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball!”

“Words to live by, Pepper. Words to live by.”

Six players took to the court on each side. Angry looks and scowls at those usually considered their friends were the norm in dodgeball.

“Ain’t no room for smiles here. Dodge ball is life!!”

“You’re quoting Ted Lasso now, Pepper?”

“At least it’s a current reference!”

“Touché, Pepper. Oh, no—look! Inside-out-shirt team’s captain got walloped. Ouchtown, population: you bro!”

“Is t-that blood?”

The captain roared as the ball hit the ground, indicating a fair play. “Nobody makes me bleed my own blood!”

“Gross. I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.”

“TMI Cotton. Moving on. Who will win is the big question of the day! Will it be the righteous right-side-out shirts or the incredible inside-out ones? Only time will tell.”

As the three balls whizzed back and forth between the two teams, Cotton and Pepper watched, mesmerized.

“Didya see that catch? Gonna be a substitution for sure!”

“Right, you are Cotton. And in good time, too—the players look pretty tired out there.”

The seasoned coach glanced up at the reddening sky, darkening to black. “Time to call it, kiddos.”

“But, coach,” the right-side-out captain whined. “We’re tied! Didn’t you say ‘only losers end on ties’?”

The coach combed through his sparse hair with his hand, little wisps floating in the breeze, before standing tall. “You’re all losers then, I guess! Hit the locker room!”

“Who would have seen that coming, Cotton?”

“Well, it has happened the last six games…”

—-

WC: 499

—-

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

Lying for Truth

My first day on the job was finally drawing to a close. With relief I snapped the laptop closed, eager to answer the call of my personal laptop beckoning me home so my real work could begin.

The only truthful skill in my bogus resume was my talent for multi-tasking. Not that my new boss had done anything more than give it a cursory glance, his small piggy eyes had been too busy feasting upon my cleavage. The job had been mine from the moment I had left an extra button undone on my blouse. Brains need not apply.

Every office at Magenta Party HQ was adorned with the campaign slogan, “Fighting for Fairness!”. I felt my face twist with derision, not so fair for Sarah Perkins it seemed, whose chair I now occupied. I squeezed my throbbing feet back into the unaccustomed confines of high heels, time to parade my way out with their stimulating click-clacking.

“You can’t leave now!”, exclaimed John Harris, his florid face suddenly peering around the door, his piggy eyes running all over my body like slime, apparently still unable to find my eyes. “It’s office tradition to treat the new girl to after-work drinks on her first day. I’m not taking no for an answer.” Damn, he worked fast!

“Oh, I’d love to Mr. Harris!”, I breathed, all wide-eyed innocence. “Give me just a minute to freshen up my make-up and I’ll meet you there.”

“Ok love, me and the boys will have a drink waiting for you. The bar across the road.” His modus operandi hadn’t changed. Sarah hadn’t stood a chance as she had been wilfully led into unconsciousness and into the dark void where non-consent wasn’t possible.

With his sweaty presence gone, I carefully lined my oversized handbag with a heavy-duty plastic bag to pour all the drinks I was not about to drink as I distracted them with the wonders of a further button undone on my blouse.

Next, I carefully fixed the tiny microphone behind the campaign button I pinned to the bag, ready to catch the seasoned player in his nasty game as I feigned leg-opening inebriation. He’d be sure to boast to the boys about his next conquest every time I stumbled to the restroom. I’d been rehearsing for this moment fastidiously since first interviewing Sarah, and felt strangely calm, dangerous, and ready.

I reapplied my lipstick of fire-engine red, although he wouldn’t see the warning. I planned to stamp out those life-shattering flames forever. Battle-paint ready, I marched off to war. If I played this right, I would have this wrapped up by midnight and the story on my editor’s desk by morning.

Passing under yet another poster screaming “Fighting for Fairness!”, I raised my fist into the air and exclaimed, “Oh yes I am. This is for you Sarah!”. I headed out into the twilight of the groaning city and towards John Harris, whose career was about to be cast into perpetual darkness.

(WC: 499)

Pauline was sat on the trunk of her custom painted (off-white and rust) Camry. It was getting late. She had driven out here, to the worst-polluted beach in town, and parked with the boot towards the ocean so that she could watch who came and went. That job had passed hours ago and now she watched the day run out.

The Sun had set — was swallowed whole by the ocean — and the wasted hours were getting to her. A feeling which was exasperated by the waves and their gentle cooing pleas to remain cool-headed...

Shhhh. Shhhh. Shhhhh.

Pauline hated being told to calm down. Hated it.

Her eyes were on the hazy golden dregs of unfinished daylight and she watched as the coming night slowly slurped it up. Late. The backs of her sensible sneakers took turns to bounce off her cars already dented rear fender — each passing second was gifted a short yet firm kick.

Her contact was late. Very late.

Beyond being a boredom-based bumper-beating metronome, Pauline works as a self-employed investigative journalist...which in this day and age means she has a blog and a lot of student debt. There had been a few freelance gigs and her bills were often paid by baristary, but what she wanted — what she really really wanted — was to be a hard-hitting, truth-touting, blow-this-shit-wide-open journalist.

She just needed a story. She had the chops. She could word good. Could word well, even! And folks seemed to like her in-depth and well researched takes...but she needed...substance?

And now, after networking and investigating and work upon work? A lead! Someone had something for her. Something big. The photos were a good start and Pauline had organised this clandestine meetup, just like a seasoned professional. You never know who you’re going to meet at the beach, right? At the beach no one goes to because it smells weird. Anyone notices us and it’s just a random chance meeting, but who would see us at Stinky Beach?

Late afternoon was the agreed upon time.

And by the thin strip of day that floated on the ocean...it was very very late afternoon. And when that went, so would Pauline.

The journalist was knocked off her car by something hitting her in the side of the head.

It was the word “Hey” spoken by a calm voice from a form that had arrived without warning. Pauline stood up, brushed herself off and squinted at the woman who had scared her half to death. Long dark hair, white business blouse, waist-cinched black pants, and an expensive set of heels. Corporate. Not boardroom, but definitely big-business.

Beyond this new arrival was the silent chariot with which they had secretly secreted themself: one of those new and shiny chic electric cars. Big big-business bucks.

“I left my phone at home like you suggested.” Said The Contact.

“Your car is covered in cameras and has GPS, Dingus.” Is what Pauline thought. What she said was: “Good.”

[wc: 500]

One day I'll get one with a resolution!

“Move!”

Shahid took wobbly steps out of the dungeon, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the brilliant desert sun. Though it was dusk, after being held in a windowless cell for twenty-eight days, he wasn't used to the light.

The guard prodded him in the back with the barrel of a rifle, pointing him toward a spot in the compound far away from any of the buildings. Dried blood stained the ground all about it.

As he shambled over, he took some grim satisfaction at the guards’ evident fear of him. The extremists that had captured him to cover up their horrific crimes clearly hadn’t expected a six-foot-four giant wielding a telephoto lens as a flail. He’d taken three out of commission before being brought down.

At last, Shahid reached the bloody spot. One of the guards smashed his shins with a baton, and another rammed the butt of a rifle into his back, driving him to his knees. They put a sack on his head, and began speaking; he recognized their words as a prayer for the dead. He offered up a silent prayer of his own.

If I am to die here, let me be a martyr for the truth. However, if life is still good for me, oh most merciful one, then let me live!

The executioner’s blade touched his neck. Shahid held his breath, waiting for the end.

Instead, he felt a thump, then heard yelling from the guards. Gunfire erupted near him, first in staccato bursts, gradually morphing into a continuous din. He then heard a distant explosion, followed by screams. As the battle raged on, Shahid laid on the bloodstained ground, still as death, trying not to attract attention, hoping against hope no stray fire would hit him. As the thunder of guns waned, he heard nearby footsteps, and felt a hand on his back.

“He’s alive!”

The shackles on his hands and feet were undone, the sack was roughly pulled off his head, and he found himself looking at a young man in a sand-brown military uniform.

“Can you walk?”

Shahid nodded.

“Excellent. Come with me!”

The other man put an arm around Shahid’s back, and jogged him over to an idling truck. Slamming the door shut, he waved as the truck drove away.

Shahid waited for his heart to stop racing, then spoke.

“Thank you for saving me.”

A seasoned-looking soldier spoke up. “Well, Mister…”

“Shahid al-Sadiqi.”

“Mr. al-Sadiqi, I can’t take credit for that.”

The vehicle slowed to a stop, and another soldier climbed in, a large rifle slung across their back. They doffed a sand-covered camouflage suit, revealing a youngish woman with skin bronzed by the desert sun.

“She’s the one you need to thank. She shot your would-be executioner.”

“I see.” Shahid raised his voice. “Miss…” he peered at the woman’s uniform, “…Keener?”

The sniper’s cold grey eyes locked onto his own. “Yes?”

“Thank you for saving my life.”

She nodded. “Just doing my job.”

******

WC: 496. Feedback welcome!

The Beginning of the End

-----------------------------------------------

This piece should have made my career, not ended it. That once in a lifetime story that, when it comes along, every other assignment — and competing writer — gets told to fuck off. But even knowing that it’d lead to this, I still think I would've taken the bait. Boredom can drive people to do stupid shit. And, damn, was I BORED.

I wasn’t even looking for a story. I was at the Blue Oyster Bar — my usual haunt after Caitlin left with our daughter. Said I was too invested in my work. She wasn’t wrong — I spent far more time chasing stories than I did making our own. My biggest regret.

Focus. The bar. The story. I was three sheets into the wind, munching on seasoned fries to absorb some of the booze sloshing around my belly before attempting to race the last dredges of sunlight home. At least, until this gorgeous redhead sat next to me with a smile, warming my core in a way the alcohol hadn’t. Grinning back, I offered her a drink, surprised she accepted.

Sabine accepted a second drink as well, downing it before whispering seductively in my ear. “Don’t you think it’s time to go home?” Her hot breath sending shivers down my spine and waking up parts I hadn’t paid any mind to for the better part of a year.

I immediately agreed, not considering that someone this beautiful probably had an ulterior motive. After all, it wasn’t like I still had “it”, that fabled recipe of charm and attractiveness. Not sure I ever did in the first place, if I am being honest.

Honest. Sure. Not like I have much time left. I am writing this in the foolish hope that someone — other than my captor — will find it. That my racing thoughts will cross the finish line before the blood — my blood — has been stolen from my veins.

Beautiful, sneaky Sabine. We went back to my apartment, and — well, it was a great night. For me at least. Never had the chance to ask her. Next morning, that damned manila envelope, leaning against my coffee pot. Full of the proof that the worlds’ leaders are working to keep us docile, distracted. Hiding the truth — that we are nothing more than livestock for gods that most of us don’t even believe in.

Gods. Demons. Celestials. Angels. Whatever name they use, they're monsters. Much like the legends of vampires, these…creatures feed on us. More than our blood, though, they steal our lives. Our years. I have aged decades in days. Always suspected I’d die young, never feeling the toll of time on my body. How wrong I was.

I won’t see tomorrow. But the proof, my article, can be found with the dreams of my future. He’s here. It’s the end.

If you find my story, share it. Stop them. Tell the world, don’t let my death —

---------------------------------------

WC 495

Feedback always welcome, and thank you for reading!

Cullen Bell, the editor in chief of the Daily Apple, looked out over the beginnings of sunset. The deadline was fast approaching, and his biggest story was still up in the air. He needed to hear back from the final authors, twin brothers Edward and Jacob Long, before he could put it to bed.

"Where is that finished article?" he asked to no one in particular.

As if on cue, a knock came on his office door. Alice Carlisle, the managing reporter, burst through. "Mr. Bell, sir... we have a problem."

Someone who was a seasoned veteran of the newspaper industry such as Cullen understood that "we have a problem" was business-talk for "everything just hit the fan". He slowly turned around, then quickly recoiled. Alice's face and arms were covered in ink!

"Why, Miss Carlisle... what in the world happened to you?"

"It's the twins, sir. They were out of control."

"Did they hurt you?"

Alice hesitated. "N-no, sir, but they've set operations back in the printing room quite a bit. The two were working on a middle paragraph of the top story and got into an argument over the Oxford comma. It turned into a bit of a shoving match, and then... then a full-on fight broke out."

Cullen became nervous. "Is... everyone alright?"

"No injuries, sir, nor any damage. But as you can see, they wasted some of our printer's ink on each other and... I got in the middle of it to break it up." Alice stared at her hands, wondering when her subordinates stopped paying attention and hoping her boss wouldn't blame her.

"I'm glad you did. I assume both brothers were sent home?"

"Pending an investigation, yes," Alice replied. "And we're working double-speed to get the paper out. I don't want to fire them -- they have a way with words separately, but when on the story together, everything falls apart!"

"No, Alice, I presume a suspension will be enough." Cullen offered a box of tissues to Alice, as though that would clean up the black mess on her face thoroughly. "But I suppose this is a lesson for next time."

"I agree, boss. Never let the brothers on the same story again." Alice wiped as much of the ink off her face as she could with every tissue in the box before returning to supervise the daily edition.

Slowly, Cullen sat as his desk and made himself a note: two Longs don't make a write-up.

[WC: 411; Regrets: 0]

Nathaniel sat down on a bench as the sun sank below the horizon on a cloudy summer’s eve. He scanned the pages of his newspaper idly. A second gentleman in a blue suit arrived, perched on the other end of the bench, and stared at the swift current of the river just beyond the footpath.

After a few minutes, the silence was broken by a question from Nathaniel.

“Eddie, you ever read the Seer section of the paper?”

Eddie looked at the paper in Nathaniel’s hands and scoffed. “Why would I bother? It’s just prophetic drivel, no more real than the horoscope section. I wouldna taken you for someone to waste their time.”

“Not usually, no.” Cocking his head he continued, “but something caught my eye today. ‘A one-eyed man stabs a man in a blue suit six times in the back.’ And here we are.” Nathaniel looked intently at the man sitting next to him.

“Is this a joke or somethin’?” Eddie chortled. “You’re not the only one-eyed man in the world, and I ain’t the only bloke in a blue suit. Besides, we’ve known each other since kindergarten. I’d bet the seer is really just the editors' mad lib puzzle for the day. I mean who’s gonna call them out if they’re wrong?” He wrung his hands for a moment before catching himself then sat back on the bench slowly, weaving his fingers behind his head.

“Nah, you’re probably right,” Nathaniel replied and folded the paper gently, setting it between them, the Seer section face up with the prophecy circled in red. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve got any reason to harm you. Like you said, we’ve been friends since kindergarten. A well-seasoned friendship, you might say. Had our ups and downs, sure, but all friends do.” He shrugged, smiled thinly, and touched the crow’s feet forming at the edge of his glass eye.

Eddie dropped his hands and turned toward Nathaniel. “Man, I thought you’d forgiven me for that? You know it was an accident. I got distracted by a pretty lady walking by and the dart went sideways. How many times do I gotta say I’m sorry? Although, I still think you got the better end of that deal since you got to marry her.”

“Yeah,” Nathaniel sighed ruefully, “I did get to do that.”

Whip fast Nathaniel pulled out a knife and stabbed it into his friend’s throat. Eddie’s eyes widened and a gurgle was the only sound he made as he scrabbled to grab the knife. Nathaniel pulled it out and Eddie toppled forward onto the grass holding his torn throat.

Nathaniel knelt over him, whispered, “Friends don’t fuck friend’s wives,” then stabbed the fornicator six times in the back. As he bled out, Nathaniel rolled him over the footpath and into the river.

He went back to the bench, picked up the newspaper, folded it around the knife, and tossed it in the river.

“The Seer got one right at least.”

______________________________________________________

WC: 499 All feedback is appreciated.

“Welcome to Point Squared, the news debate show where the points are pointed. I’m your host, Samantha Stellen.” She paused, flashing a too-bright grin. “Tonight’s topic, the imminent destruction of Earth by the Kordrathi warfleet… Or is it imminent?”

Samantha turned to a distinguished white haired gentleman seated at the table beside her. “We’re honored to have NASA’s Dr. Morris Exemplarre with us tonight.”

He nodded curtly.

"And once again joining us remotely, is Will Fükkus of the ‘Kordrathi Are Kewl Alliance’, a disgraced former pig farmer from—”

“It was never proven that I was sellin’ monkey meat!” Will interjected.

“Right… Mr. Fükkus, what is the K.A.K.A. view on this alleged imminent 'destruction'?”

“Ain’t happenin’! The Kordrathi are super chill, just here on vacation.”

“Well, smaller attacks already have wiped out 20% of Earth’s population, but… a fascinating take! And doctor, your team was the first to communicate with the Kordrathi two years ago. Your counterpoint?”

“As always, K.A.K.A. is bullshit,” Morris said simply, too exhausted for intonation. “The Kordrathi are not inherently violent, but humanity squandered every chance at diplomacy, and now... we’re screwed.”

Samantha was a well-seasoned host, adept at guiding wayward guests back onto the rails, but even she was taken aback. “Pardon me?”

“In our first communications, the Kordrathi offered a non-aggression pact, so we asked the public—begged them!—to remain peaceful.” Morris stared into the camera. “And what’d you morons do? You shot at the first Kordrathi diplomatic craft to enter our atmosphere. With… guns, nailguns, fireworks—”

“As was their constitutional right!” Will interjected.

“In what section of the constitution is the right to 'shoot fireworks at aliens' written?”

“Uhhhhrmmm, Exodus? Probably?”

“Great. Brilliant stuff as always.” Morris sighed. “The world chose to believe K.A.K.A., and now, we’re going to suffer the consequences.”

Samantha fidgeted nervously. “Doctor, you’ve always evoked a hopeful tone, are you saying—”

“Who cares what he says! Look, I’m goin’ out to meet the Kordrathi Party Fleet when it arrives, and everyone else should—”

“Oh, shut up, Mr. Fükkus!” Samantha yelled.

Unused to pushback, Will fell silent.

“Doctor, there may be a viewer out there willing to listen, so, understanding there are no good options at this point, what pragmatic steps could you advise?”

Morris smiled wanly. “If you've constructed a bunker, as advised, get yourself and your loved ones inside now. If you didn’t, shelter in a basement, cave, or any underground location you can. If you survive the initial bombardment and encounter Kordrathi soldiers in the weeks to come, shout ‘Kavlak’, it translates roughly to asking for forgiveness.”

Samantha nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Doctor. Now, Will—”

“Hooooooold up,” Will said, “got a knock at my door.”

Will stood, opened his door, and vaporized as rippling waves of green energy passed through his body. A little gray alien holding a raygun strode into his room and peered curiously into the camera.

“Well, then,” Samantha muttered, “I’d call this debate settled.”

The red button on the recorder went click. The reporter set it on the table and slid back in his chair, licking the tip of his pen out of habit as he flipped his notebook to a new page. He crossed his legs.

“First of all I want to thank you for agreeing to this interview, Miss Kinney” he said with a smile. “It’s an honor being able to speak to you like this.”

She returned his smile, sitting forward in her chair. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Tanner. I know you’ve been trying for a while.”

He scribbled on his notepad as she spoke, his eyes never leaving her for more than half a second. From her angle she could almost see what he was writing. It looked like some form of shorthand, all soft curves and smooth transitions.

Seeing the direction of her gaze, his smile turned lopsided for a moment and he adjusted, tilting the notebook just that much further away.

“To start us off, why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself.”

She sighed and leaned back, boredom already beginning to set in as she began listing off various ‘interesting’ points along her life story.

Mr. Tanner cleared his throat, “I apologize for interrupting. I do love listening to you talk, but I’d like something a bit more personal. I already gathered this stuff from your social media.”

“You want more personal? Something I didn’t put on social media. Alright. There was this time…”

As she talked, the reporter kept his eyes trained on her, but still his hand never stopped moving over the page.

“…After a long day of walking along the side of the freeway outside Sioux Falls, we were picked up by the Sheriff himself. My dad wired the money for bus tickets. We were both grounded for a year,” she rested her head in her palms, peeking through her fingers at him.

He grinned. “I see. So you were a bit of a delinquent. That does contradict the perfect image you’ve got online, doesn’t it? But I bet it gets more interesting from there. Tell me more.”

She opened her mouth, her jaw working for a second. Then she flushed a soft shade of red.

“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it. You almost made me want to tell you everything. How did you even do that?” she asked, her hands coming down on the red Record button. “You’ve been recording this whole time. What are you even writing?” She craned her neck to see what was on the paper.

This time it was his turn to flush. He turned the notebook around to show her the beginnings of a sketch of herself. All soft curves and smooth transitions. He smiled sheepishly. “This is what I do for a hobby.”

“A good reporter and a great artist? Well. You may just be able to get another date out of me yet, Mr. Tanner.”

“Thank you kindly, Miss Kinney.” He grinned.

They say the phone will only ring once, on the night of the full moon, just as twilight emerges. And only if you’re alone.

Silence blankets the rocky hills as I approach the phone booth. Eyes watch me from the distance. Their glare pierces through the layers of fabric, disapproval chilling me to the bone.

Pulling the creaky door open, I step into the booth, hoping desperately for this to be legit. I need it to be.

My boss laughed when I submitted the column proposal earlier this week. “Seasoned investigators don’t chase ghost stories. They don’t publish garbage.”

But I know there is truth in this story, and a connection to the two missing persons cases. I just have to prove it.

I connect my recorder to the phone just as it rings. “Hello?”

Static crackles on the other end of the line. My fingers twist the pendant resting against my chest. “Someone there?”

Several voices come forward, unintelligible over the choppy connection. I take a deep breath. “J-Jack?” I want him to be there. Desperately.

A gentle voice forces its way to the front. “Button?”

I fall to my knees in the presence of that name, gripping the receiver tight. My heart thumps as I try to form words. But I’m speechless. Overwhelmed. Afraid.

“You… can’t… be here,” he says. The static fades in and out.

“How’s this p-possible?” My fingers twist the necklace too hard and the chain breaks in my hand.

A deep growl pierces through the chattering voices, silencing them. “Go,” Jack’s voice snaps.

“No, please. How is this working?”

“It’s not safe, he’ll make…pay.” Static floods the line.

“Who? What about the others who came—”

“...too late for them,” he interrupts. “He’s coming. I love you.”

A high-pitched scream cuts through the line and it goes dead.

The windows of the phone booth rattle. A screech pulls my attention to the door.

Blood-red eyes stare into me, claws rip the door from the hinges. I search for something to grab onto, anything, but find nothing.

The creature steps forward, its flesh black and oily in the moonlight. “You must pay the toll.”

“For what?” I ask.

Saliva drips from its mouth. “You crossed the threshold of the living and dead. The price must be paid.”

“I didn’t even see him. Or have a real conversation. I won’t pay.”

The creature growls. Flames ignite from its hands. My insides shrivel up like dead worms on the sidewalk, just as everything goes black.

Jack’s deep brown eyes greet me as I awake.

“You’re here…” I sit up.

“Oh honey, what’ve you done?”

The world around me is now grey, cold, and lifeless. But despite everything, I can’t help feeling like this is where I belong.

Jack wraps his arms around me, then leans his head against mine. Just as he used to.

“I’ve missed this so much.”

“Me too, Button. Me too.”

The faint ringing of the phone echoes in the distance. Another story waiting to be told.

• Thanks for reading! Feedback always welcome.
• r/ItsMeBay (I'll get to updating it one of these days)

##Experimental Medicine

Mary sat on the park bench as the sun set behind her, eating a bag of seasoned oyster crackers. A figure wearing a long trench coat and a fedora sat next to her. The figure looked away.

"Did you come alone?" They had a deep raspy voice. Mary nodded her head. "Good. Did you see the story on Dr. Tyler in the City Times?"

"I wrote it."

"You need to issue a correction. Dr. Tyler doesn't just run a clinic for low-income people. He's a sick twisted man who runs experiments on the most desperate."

"How come I've never heard of it?" Mary asked.

"Because we're too ashamed to show ourselves." The figure lifted their head. The face was a woman's with multiple patches of skin sewn to it. Her left eyelid was held shut by a metal rod. Her neck was covered in slash marks. "My whole body is like this."

"Oh my god."

One week later, Mary hid in the bushes by Dr. Tyler's office. He locked the office door behind him as he left none the wiser. She persuaded the building supervisor to give her a master key in exchange for favorable reviews of his other properties. After waiting several minutes, she entered his clinic.

She tried to find a room that she hadn't seen on her previous visit where he tortured people. The first door she checked was a janitor's closet. When she opened it, she discovered a mop and cleaning supplies. The backwall was cracked and pushing it revealed a staircase.

At the bottom of the staircase was a laboratory with a table in the middle of the room. She turned on the light and screamed at the sight of his handiwork. A human body was on the table with its torso cut open. She moved closer to inspect it, and she found it completely hollow. Looking around the room, she saw jaws with internal organs inside of them. In the corner of the room, bones hung on a rack with liquid draining off of them. The scene was too much for her, and she vomited on the floor.

After taking several photos of the gruesome scene, she left in a hurry. In the alley, she collided with Dr. Tyler. He laughed as he helped her up.

"Sorry about that." He tilted his head at her. "Mary, what are you doing here?"

"Monster." She slapped him in the face and ran. Dr. Tyler looked at where she came from and realized she knew his secret. He chased her for several seconds but quickly gave up.

The next morning, Dr. Tyler's sadistic activities were on the front page of the City Times. The police went to his clinic to arrest him, but he disappeared. He left the unfortunate results of his experiments.

r/AstroRideWrites

Assumptions | (201 words)

Katherine sat hunched over her laptop, the world of pastries and coffee around her no more than a delicious afterthought. Her fingers glided easily across the ergonomic surface of her keyboard that her eyes never even focused on once. She had been doing this for years, and yet, this post she was writing...

... was interrupted by the local barista placing her latte down next to her. "Miss, your drink."

She didn't spare him so much as a glance, even as he continued to stand there, waiting for who-knew-what. When she realized he wasn't budging, her typing slowed to a halt and she dragged her gaze up to his goatee'd face. "... what?"

"You're here every day. I was just wondering-" Katherine picked up her cup and took a sip of her latte. She set it down with a loud *CLINK* and went back to typing, not sparing him another glance. "... wow," he muttered under his breath. He turned on his heels and walked away.

In another time or place, Katherine might have cared about how rude she appeared. But this bombshell wasn't going to write itself, and her twenty followers relied on her to give them an unbiased perspective on cutting-edge news!

Initial Public Offering

It was night on the street when Sam arrived. Allen let her in through a side entrance and took her up in the freight elevator. In the conference room she caught the sunset — the last slice of light in Manhattan — before Allen’s sharks went to work. “Sign here,” they would say, “And here.” They kept coming for more and more: arbitration, nondisclosure, even something called her 'life rights.'

But as each suit got their fill, they departed. In the early morning, only Allen remained.

​

"What’s this part?” asked Sam.

“Business agreement. For all intensive purposes, Bradley Media Group gets ninety percent of everything. Want to be a household name? That's the price.”

Sam weighed the pen in her hand. It was heavy, real gold heavy. She noticed its avian shape.

“It’s a goose,” said Allen, smiling. His teeth were too white.

“Is…” The pen flapped in Sam’s fingers. “Is ninety fair?”

“Ninety percent is standard. There's a lot of risk for us. And of course we’ll be working to keep you relevant,” he paused, “Irregardless, if you feel like you need an attorney—“

“You’re…not my attorney?”

“I’m with BMG. Again, if—“ He stopped as Sam signed and smacked the pen on the table.

“Okay!” He cheered. “Let’s see, you’ve signed…” He scanned the table. “So that just leaves… Here.” He slid a stack in front of Sam and picked up the business agreement. "Last one’s the waiver of liability—means you can’t sue us for emotional distress, physical harm, whatever.”

Sam leafed through it. It was scarier than the others, with bold text all over reading: The Event.

“What’s this about the ‘Event’?” she said. “I’ll be so embarrassed that I’ll - what - die?”

“Sam…” Allen sat down. “We picked you. We believe in you. But the Event - whatever it is - has to put you in the news for a week, and not just our news. It’s going to tarnish you—put you in a hole.” He placed his fingers on Sam’s hand. “We’ll pull you out, make you a star. But you can’t wash it off. Everyone will always feel like they’re above you, even while they worship at your Instagram feed. It’s gonna hurt."

Sam shook off his hand. She looked past him, out over the Hudson. New Jersey was still dark but the heavens were turning blue. She thought of all the faces she wished she’d never seen.

“My whole life has hurt,” she said, meeting Allen’s eyes.

Sam breathed. “Okay.” She poised herself to wring the goose’s neck across the dotted line.

She stopped.

“Fifty-fifty.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want half: fifty percent”

Allen shot up. “You signed that part already!” He said, shaking the proof at her.

“Tear it up. I want half.” Sam twirled the pen at Allen. “Golden eggs, right?"

Allen grinned. “Sun’s almost up. Leave the way you came in.” He held up the business agreement and - ffft - tore it in two. “Come back tonight and we’ll negotiate.”

​

WC: 500

"Okay Bea, you can do this," she said, trying to psyche herself up for the absolute worst part of her job. A journalist sometimes required doing things that were unseemly, disgusting, or even illegal, which was why they hired out work to freelancers like Bea. She wondered how much legwork they actually did before they made enough to hire out the dirty work.

Bea opened the dumpster and quickly stepped back, not believing the smell could be that bad. She had not been dumpster diving before today and the offer had been pretty damn generous on paper; five hundred dollars was hard to turn down. But after this she knew she was going to update her Fiverr profile to exclude this specific activity.

The first part of the job was just to hang out near the hotel where some guy was staying at. Bea did not know his name but the email had come with a picture of his face and that was all Bea needed. The second part was to make sure the guy was actually staying at the hotel and Bea had taken inspiration from one of her favorite spy novels about how to do that; she'd printed out the picture and went up to the front desk of the hotel, asking about a room and showed the picture, saying she had a restraining order against him and wanted to know if he was here before booking. The young man behind the counter said something about privacy concerns but also said that she might be more comfortable seeking other accommodations with a sincere nod. Bea took that as confirmation.

The third and final task was to wait for trash to come out of the hotel and look through it for anything that might incriminate him. The sun was hidden behind the horizon at this point as she looked inside the dumpster, holding her breath against the stench, and winced at the idea of climbing into it. There was so much garbage, and she had no way of knowing which of it was his.

Bea donned a pair of gloves and a long sleeved T-shirt, which she tucked into the gloves and into her jeans. The less she touched anything the better. After climbing in, she began to rummage round and decided that she was definitely going to exclude dumpster diving from all future gigs. She was already well seasoned in filth so she was going to finish this one but never again.

After almost an hour, and after scattering garbage all over the alley, Bea left and tried not to gag at the stench clinging to her clothes. She would need to burn all of it and take a bath in battery acid or something. While walking away she texted the client and let them know that she could find nothing; the guy was clean.

At least one of us is. she thought wryly.

---------------
WC: 486
r/TomesOfTheLitchKing
Edited for crit feedback

Revised Version

30 minutes have stretched into a week in my brain as I sit, immobile, across the old interviewer in the blazer. He keeps looking at me with skeptic eyes, of constant disbelief of what he’s seeing across him. I know his image of me. Void black, messy hair is most likely code for “secretly commits murder”. The Birthday Party shirt I’m wearing means I’m a cultist who sold her soul to Lucifer through my first rock vinyl. And oh, those fishnets? Those mean my veins are seasoned with drugs and booze.

“Can you show me the tattoo on your arm?”

I’m woken up from my trance for a second, just to move my body aside a bit. In my arm, Musidora as Irma Vep is immortalized, her arms stretched to the air.

“What does she mean to you?”

“...She’s just beautiful. Have you seen Les Vampires?”

He shakes his head silently.

“Have you ever considered the violent iconography of the musicians you follow?”

He starts flipping a clipboard full of examples - half of which are metal bands I’ve never heard of. What the hell does Judas Priest even have to do with this, I ask myself? I hear him spew “witchcraft” and “vulgarity” and “suicide” as he flips through album covers. I crack a smile to the cover of Siouxsie’s Juju album, which gets him saying:

“Do you sympathize with all of this?”

I stare at him for a few seconds before he turns his head away. I doubt what I meant is clear.

Gosh, dude. What a joke.

“That brings me to my next point, actually. Could you try to actually answer a bit more this time?”

“I guess…”

“Okay then… Do you believe that, uh… Since becoming a part of this subculture, your psychological state has been affected?”

“Oh, definitely.”

He stares attentively this time, and motions to ask for more words.

“Yeah, I believe I've been. Because now, I get bullied every time someone in my class catches me outside of school, and my parents keep yelling at me that I should dress proper and cover my skin and whatnot, and old ladies keep stopping in the street and talking some stuff about the end times and everything and… Well, guess it does affect me cause now everyone wants me dead, including myself, but that’s not my fault, is it?”

“But you do admit-”

I stand up angrily. “Ugh, goddamnit. How does this even help your article, dude? Just say I eat babies and spray me with holy water, will you? I’m done with this crap.”

I hear the interviewer call my name as I go to my room, as well as Mom rushing to the living room as I close the door. I can hear her saying “I'm sorry about her”. Hell, I can imagine the man’s article’s words. Something, something, devil worship, goths are crazy, kill ‘em all. I bury my head in my pillow as I realize this changes nothing.

Gosh… What a joke.

The last sliver of sun disappeared behind the dome of the Imperial Auction House, and blue streetlights flicked on, their clockwork duty unbothered by the tension in the air. The woman across from me, a young blonde with cotton-candy blue lipstick and the eyes of a wolf, slipped something from her purse: a glint in the newfound light. My shoulders clenched, sweat pricking at the back of my neck.

It was only a compact.

I was sitting in the center of the safest city on Earth, a mere stone's throw from house of the ‘esteemed’ Emperor himself, scared senseless at the sight of a powder puff.

Vaughn set aside his pen, then read over his words. Not too shabby, but there was something missing. Did he need to say outright that this was the night of the License Auction? Perhaps not--any reader worth writing for could surmise that much. Maybe a bit more flourish for the wolf-eyed dame across the way?

The woman, unaware that she was being written about, tossed her compact back into her purse.

A plump man in a yellow raincoat huffed through the courtyard, plopping himself on the bench beside Vaughn. When his breath had caught up with him, he glanced around at the few hundred or so people waiting beneath the streetlights and smiled.

"So," he said, nudging Vaughn with an elbow. "What're you here for?"

This guy had to be joking. That or it was his first time. The License Auction may well be the largest gathering of the criminal underworld outside a gene-mod fighting ring. A seasoned bidder knew to keep his mouth shut.

"I'm looking to get a 'sale of illegal foodstuffs' license," the plump man continued, unaware. "I gotta nice bakery, and I wanna sell egg custard."

The wolf-eyed woman snorted, and Vaughn jotted down a note about a bakery.

"Egg custard?" he said. "You can bid on a license for any crime in the world and you want to sell egg custard?"

The plump man put his hands on his hips. "Well if they'd just make eggs legal again I wouldn't hafta."

Now a few of the shady guys crowded nearby began chuckling too, their breath curling like smoke in the cool, blue light.

"Well what about you then, eh?" the plump man asked. "You're not all here for the murder license, are ya?"

The question hung like a crook from a noose. The doors of the auction house opened, and people began filing in.

"Nope," the wolf-eyed woman said, standing up. "I'm after a license to own any exotic pet I want." She glanced at Vaughn. "And you, notebook guy?"

For the first time this evening, the tension fell from Vaughn's shoulders, and he laughed.

"I'm bidding on a libel license."

The plump man stood and offered a handshake to each of them. "Guess we're all innocents then, eh?"

Vaughn wrote the phrase "all innocents" in his notebook, then closed it. "Guess we are."

Rules? What Rules?

It was a Thursday evening in March. I was driving west across the Courtney Campbell Causeway and the sun had just dipped into the Gulf of Mexico. Sweat was in my eyes and I wanted to get back to my hotel, down a Bud and change. That's when I got the call.

"Ted, it's Gail. Where are you just now?" Oh dear, my editor. Gail had been a seasoned reporter in her day, with a Pulitzer nose and no sense of humour. A real stickler for responsible journalism. Hah!

"Nearly back at the Marriott. Why?" Straight away I thought something was up. That cold beer was calling me. How I wanted the first gulp, numbing my throat and stinging my sinuses. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and thought of just hanging up. Not worth the aggro.

"Are you serious about this Clearwater thing? Your copy reads well, but you've taken a ... let's call it a controversial angle. Are your sources reliable."

"Can I call you back in twenty? I'm parched and drenched with sweat."

"No. We go to print in half an hour and I'm not running something that'll invite a lawsuit unless I know it's legit."

I pulled into the car park and left the engine running. The aircon was fighting a losing battle but better than standing out there. Even through the window I could hear the cacophony; bugs waiting in ambush. I called her back.

"Yes, all off-the-record, two from local council members, three from the Chamber of Commerce and a doozy from the mayor's office in Tampa. That's about as good as it gets."

"Did you ask who might speak up, Ted."

"Of course I did. It was a list of the usual suspects. That's why no one would give their name."

"I don't know, Ted. I always like to have someone who doesn't mind the heat, you know, standing out front of the camera."

Heat was right, though that's not what she meant. Two days of these stifling temperatures and I'm almost on my knees. And who wants to be on the record backing the Playboy brigade?

"Good luck with that, Gail."

"We've got a substantial readership that might agree with the Council. You're making it a political issue, not a moral one. City Hall Wages War on the Free Market."

"I think attractive girls selling watermelon by the roadside is a worthy cause, even if their bikinis are smaller than my face mask."

"Think that might be personal bias, Ted? I'm not sure it's a story for the business pages."

"Are you kidding. All those red-blooded commercial lechers and that picture I sent. She's almost naked and look at those watermelons she's holding."

"Alright Ted. Your head if it backfires."

That beer was so good. Oh! And my story went viral as protesters took to the streets. My readership went crazy and Gail let me take a more liberal stance. I still recall that sunset.

[WC:499]

Tigo was much younger in person. All the photos on his official website showed a man with haunted eyes and gray at his temples. In his performances he moved like there was a weight on his soul, forcing everything he had no words for into the show. But now, in the hotel restaurant we'd agreed on for the dinner interview, all of that seemed to melt away. He lounged in his seat, looking every bit like the mid-thirties man he was.

I was just glad he was here at all. For a seasoned performance artist, Tigo was notoriously reclusive. He bared his soul to the world in his work, but outside of it he was famously cynical and abrasive, thumbing his nose at the establishment in whatever form it took. I didn't trust my magazine's indie darling status to exempt me from that label.

Our drinks arrived, and I decided to start with some simple pleasantries. "You landed in Mondeclay a week ago. How are you finding the city so far?"

He sighed. "Finally, something open-ended. Do you know how many people said 'good morning' to me today?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Six, and all before I'd even finished my breakfast."

"If you have any complaints about the service here, you should take them up with the management," I said.

He sipped from his glass. "It's not about the service. It's about the scripts people refuse to admit that they read from."

"Is that all you want to cover in this interview?" I asked. "Nothing about your process, your hobbies, your latest installation at the Blackstone Gallery?"

I'd seen the previews, of course. His publicist had put together a press kit. The video gave away just enough to look mysterious: a shot of an unmade bed, a brief close-up of Tigo's face as a lone tear rolled down his cheek.

I'd been looking forward to the full piece. But now I was rapidly losing interest in anything he had to say.

He snorted, already getting up to leave. "Do I want to reduce myself to a grayscale outline, flatten out the work I bled and wept for, just to appeal to an empty-hearted public? No."

For a moment I was too indignant for words. He'd agreed to the interview. He'd suggested this place. And now he was going to walk away and make this a waste of my time.

I had to salvage something from this mess. I readied my camera.

"Don't you want to see what performance you can make out of this?" I called to him.

He turned at the sound of my camera snapping, just in time for me to capture the expression on his face: curious, unguarded.

[removed]

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