He moved on top of her, making small noises, but her mother was silent beneath him. Susan, afraid to stay, afraid of being caught there seeing something strange, something she instinctively knew she shouldn't be seeing, was more afraid to go, and she stood there with the longing to see her mother's face.
He cried out, a low, grunting noise, and stopped. She strained to see past him, to glimpse her mother's face. Susan held her breath until he lifted his head. For the rest of her life she would wish she hadn't seen the blankness in her mother's eyes as they stared at the ceiling, past him, past anything in this world.
He was gone from her line of vision then, and it was just her mother, lying motionless on the floor, a trail of blood running from the corner of her swollen mouth. Susan wanted to go to her, and would have, threat of the belt or no, if he hadn't laughed then.
"You fucking whore." Something landed next to her mother's face with a sickening thud. A small paper bag. "Here's a little something extra. See you next week."
Susan heard his boots on the linoleum and scrambled under covers on the couch, settling into the indentation made by her mother's body in the night. She peeked out to look; her mother was on the floor, curled on her side, staring at the bag. She heard the kitchen door slam, and then her mother sobbed, picking up the bag and throwing it through the doorway into the living room.
Susan ducked under the covers until only her eyes were showing, waiting, watching. She would always remember the way her mother sobbed as she sat up, not bothering to pull her robe together as she staggered to her feet. Tall and pale in the early morning light, her face was smudged with mascara and blood. She stood, head down, trembling and quiet, fists clenched.
Then her mother turned and headed toward Susan's hiding spot beneath the covers on the couch. Afraid her mother would yell and bring the promise of the belt, she held her breath, paralyzed. She would remember forever her mother swearing, bending down to retrieve what she had thrown, and peering inside like a kid into a bag of candy. Her mother squealed and laughed then, heading toward the bathroom.
Susan was never discovered by her mother that Monday. She crept back to the closet and fell asleep, awakening to her mother's voice calling her, asking her what she'd seen.
Nothing, nothing, I swear it, Mommy; can I go to school, now?
No, it was too late for school, but they could go to the park. And they had. Susan would also remember forever the feel of her mother's hands on her back as she pushed her, higher, higher, on the swings. Give me under, Mommy; give me under! And her mother would run under the swing, laughing through a mouth still swollen and beginning to bruise.
Night Becomes the City
By M.P. Berry https://mpberry.wordpress.com/
"Dig, dig, dig that crazy, bombastic, fantastic sound that streams out of the city like an electrical current, like an un-spooling cosmic thread, like a long reaching arm of errant smoke that hooks you by the nose and leads you blindly to some claustrophobic, fog filled bebop club where you fast find yourself in the hypnotic hold of Charlie Parker, suddenly healed of all your lifelong hobgoblins and hang ups; jazz is the tonic to a sickness we don't even know we have."
From his cave on the outskirts of town, the Monster could hear the mad, savage rush of city life. He found a seductive overture in the distant hoops and hollers of well-toasted partiers, the wheezing hiss of nonstop traffic and even the salvoes of random gunfire that exploded frequently throughout the lower east neighborhoods.
Most inviting of all, though, was the sound of the revved up and raucous jazz that wafted frequently into the Monster's woods where it always managed to stir his dark, hardened soul. He composed long, rapturous poems in his diary, rave reviews of the latest music emanating from the nearby metropolis.
"The drums, the drums, it's the primal, pounding drums that really make your heart go zoom-a-zoom-zoom! Hearing the thud and thump of bass and tom-tom falling out of the expected rhythm and into some barely syncopated offbeat (that teeters on the edge of falling apart) lies tantamount to seeing the face of God materializing in your Saturday morning Corn Flakes!"
***
The Monster stood watch over the city that cast him out. Though he longed to live among its bustling crowds and looming skyscrapers and yearned to tell its citizens how he secretly protected them as they slept, he kept his respectful distance. He remained grievously silent.
He understood that more time was needed before the residents of Radio City could accept something that was so abhorrent to what they had always known. The memories of his vicious attacks, criminal acts and wantonly destructive rampages were still too fresh in their minds to allow for a cozy coexistence anytime in the foreseeable future. He knew that, for now at least, he would have to atone for the misdeeds of his past in lonely anonymity.
***
The Monster had been fighting crime and corruption in Radio City for over a year when he began to investigate a series of smash-n-grab robberies at local museums. A curious collection of small, inexpensive items had been taken from low-security, low interest exhibits. The pattern made absolutely no sense, and the Monster was trying to connect the dots.
One night while staking out a Natural History hub that had yet to be hit, the creature caught a sudden flash of light in the corner of his hideous, yellow eye; he glanced up from his surveillance in time to see another quick strobe popping to life in the shrubbery that bordered a nearby park. A third flash briefly illuminated the silhouette of a long nosed man, crouching in the bushes, snapping photos of something happening by the swing-sets.
The beast fixed his stare, focusing on the crouching photographer's subjects: two men loitering just under the tree line. A low-level drug deal was in progress-two dime bags for two bits. Nothing to get worked up about, certainly nothing worth a Kodak moment. Intrigued as hell, the Monster decided to tail the peeping creep for the rest of the night to see what other mundane meetings the man chose to commemorate on film.
***
In public, the creature often obscured his fearsome features beneath a rumpled Johnny Staccato suit, classic black Ray-Bans and a William Burroughs Fedora. Looking like an eight-foot tall, five hundred pound, preposterously hairy Beatnik, he still managed to blend in better than much of Radio City's prodigiously bizarre nightlife. Donning this ridiculous yet effective disguise, the Monster followed the Photog all over town as the clandestine cameraman cranked out covert Polaroids of a multitude of men engaged in sleazy, reckless behaviors: not only drug deals, but kinky indiscretions, petty larcenies and other decidedly desperate acts of deviousness and depravity.
Two nights later, the creature watched from the shadows as the Photog revisited these men, flashed his candid pics and collected a fast payment. Standard blackmail op. Or so it seemed in the beginning.
Over the course of a week, the Monster, a natural born detective, did some leg work on the long nosed extortionist and his various vices. As he dug into their dirty, degenerate lives, the creature came to realize that these men were not involved in a standard blackmail op at all. This was something far more sordid and sinister. And as he often did upon making these discoveries, the Monster immediately sought to involve himself in thwarting the bad guys' plans.
For just as he heard alluring invitation in the most unseemly of sounds and the most discordant of tunes emitting from the boulevards of Radio City, the Monster also heard a persistent siren song in the ever present rumble of the city's iniquitous underbelly. He had come to believe that saving the city (from its own darker appetites) was his life's purpose and as part of his ongoing campaign to atone for the sins of his past, he determined to destroy the devilish plot being formulated by the Photog and his criminal cohorts.
Before the latest round of city saving could commence, however, the Monster had to pay a visit to a friend: someone he knew would have a particular interest in this newly uncovered mystery.
In the Nuthouse
By Dannan O'Brien
The interior is pastel pink
, blue, and egg-salad-with-way-too-much-mayonnaise-yellow. Sensitive to colors, my stomach spins. The over-starched nurse grips my elbow. My feet touch floor here and there traveling the hall.
Smells: cafeteria spaghetti, oranges, disinfectant, piss.
In the crafts room: clay, paste, powdered tempera, piss.
In the lounge: cigarettes, floor-wax, vinyl, piss.
After the mind, the next thing to go is the bladder.
Crazies are big on repetition; rocking, head nodding, pacing, phrases.
A woman sings, "When cupid shot his dart, he shot it at my heart" from morning meds until bedtime meds, if someone doesn't smack her and make her cry.
Mine is inside my head, a voice with a New York accent repeats, Who knew?
This alone is enough to land me here, but they insist there's more.
Days feel dangerous looking through barred windows.
May-day! May-day!
Heart pounds heart sounds in the purple light, sensing uh-oh data.
To my New Yorker I say, We know the pencil pointed excruciation of being.
Breathe.
Compulsion to thump forehead against bed frame-red-red-red later purple and yellow. The evidence noted by elbow-gripper nurse in my chart. Not sleeping, I spend the night rubbing off the insanity tattoo creating a bloodstain on pillow, which I then must hide.
Where?
Nurse squeak-slaps down the hall.
Coming, she's coming! She's coming!
Hide under the bed.
No!
She is a trained professional. She will look there.
The New Yorker sighs.
I flatten myself in pink hospital pj's against the pink wall, bloody pillow behind my back.
Hold breath. Be the wall.
She sees me.
I'm bummed. I am not the wall.
"What is the meaning of this?" the nurse barks.
What a question. What a goddamned question to ask a crazy person.
She tells me I'll never get well if this keeps up.
The New Yorker hollers, Who knew?
On a new day I try again. I'm casual, doing my impression of sane. Method acting.
Remember good manners are a sign of a good attitude.
"Thank you." I bow a greeting to elbow-gripper nurse.
Arrange a smile over uncooperative dry teeth, form lips into pleasing crescent shape. After morning meds, Bald Peter ruler of the crafts room announces through a papier-m?ch? megaphone of his own design, that he drained my brain during the night with his fully loaded K-80 brain zapper.
"I copped a feel too." He grins.
I say, "Thank you."
Elbow-gripper nurse says, "Now, now, now, none of that nonsense, Peter."
I look out the window beyond the bars and practice smile facsimile while one eared old lady screams, "cuntcuntcuntcunt!"
"Thank you." Curtsey.
On the way to lunch, we find piss in the hall.
"Thank you." Nod to the yellow puddle.
Lunch is egg salad with way too much mayonnaise in it. Stomach lurches.
I manage a "Thank you." Place the napkin on my lap.
I do my smile thing and take meds that make me puke egg salad.
"Thank you," I say embracing toilet.
During therapy doc says, "I hear you've had a good day."
The New Yorker thinks it's a trick but I risk it.
"Thank you."
The doctor strokes his tie, the one with bug-eyed frogs on it. "Wellnow huminnah lalaattitude younglady."
"Thank you." I avoid making eye contact with the frogs.
"Itappearsblahblah copeyadaillness numnumwill doowahdoo returndiddyhome."
Home!
The mere possibility of it with its light left on and its gate that swings in moonlit breezes sends me skipping back through piss puddle halls.
And the New Yorker whispers ...
Parklife
By Alan Baxter https://www.alanbaxteronline.com
Jed looked at the bourbon in his shaking hand. He didn't feel drunk and only had enough money for a couple more. 'Another,' he said hoarsely, holding out the glass.
The barman looked at him steadily. 'Everything all right?' he asked as he poured.
Jed laughed, a short, humourless bark. 'I don't know.'
'Wanna talk about it?'
Jed tipped back the bourbon. His stomach trembled, almost vibrating. Nodding at the bottle again, sliding the last of his coins across the bar, he said, 'Sounds crazy.'
The barman poured, leaning on one elbow. 'I get all kinds of crazy here, buddy.'
Jed wanted to tell someone, if he could bring himself to admit what had happened. He was dismayed to see his glass empty. The barman reached for the bottle and Jed shook his head. 'I'm outta money.'
The barman shrugged, poured another shot. 'What happened?'
Jed took a deep breath. 'I was jogging alongside the park ...'
***
Looking into the inky shadows under the trees he heard a cry. It sounded like a young girl.
Jed looked around, suddenly scared. He wanted to help, but had never had to protect someone or defend himself since school. If he went in there now he might get in a fight. A real fight where someone, most likely him, could get seriously hurt. But there was no one else around. With a noise of trepidation he ducked into the darkness.
He heard the cry again, along with a man's voice grunting and gasping for breath. The sounds were close by. Then he saw a flash of something between the trees. He leaned around the trunk directly in front of him, nervously peering into the gloom.
On the grass, not ten feet from him, was a young girl, held fast by a huge man wearing a long, stained coat. The man's hair was shaggy, unkempt. His unshaven face was inches from the girl's nose as he leaned one hand on her mouth, holding her down, keeping her silent. The girl's eyes were wide and terrified, staring between stray strands of disheveled blonde hair. Her white shirt was torn and dirty. The man's free hand was fumbling under his coat, trying to tear the girl's skirt away. Her screams were muffled as she writhed under his weight, helpless to dislodge him. Jed stood dumbfounded, paralysed by fear.
The man growled as he pulled at the girl's clothing. 'Come on, bitch, give it up!'
Disgusted, Jed launched himself from behind the tree, running full tilt at the huge man. The grizzled face whipped towards him, shock and surprise etched onto his features as Jed, with arms outstretched, rammed into him, slamming him over onto his side. The two rolled on the wet grass. Jed felt a wave of panic pulse through him as he came to a stop with the mean looking assailant sitting on his chest. The man raised one hand back to his ear, clenching his fingers into a fist the size of Jed's head.
The girl scrambled to her feet and swung a sneakered foot hard at the rapist's head. The kick was powerful and true, the big man's mouth opening as the girl's foot connected with a sickening crunch.
Stunned, bleeding, the man staggered to his feet. The girl grinned, her teeth flashing bright white in the darkness. 'Thought you had me that time, Kern?' Her voice was strong, powerful. There was something strange about that voice; a soft, constant, unwavering wail that sounded as she spoke and continued unbroken when she stopped.
Kern wiped at his bleeding nose, casting a hateful glance at Jed. His face seemed to twist with effort, as if he were pulling a ten ton weight, before he dipped his head and ran at the girl. She leaped aside, spinning in the air, her leg whipping out once more. The smack of her foot connecting was gruesome. Kern collapsed onto one knee as the girl landed beside him. Grabbing his hair she punched him hard across the jaw. As his head whipped to the side she let go, hit him again. Kern didn't even try to defend himself. Blood sprayed from his lips as he spun on his knee and slumped onto the grass.
Jed was transfixed, unable to move a muscle. The girl was still making that strange noise, her mouth slightly open as the soft wail escaped her lips. As Jed stared the sound stopped. Instantly a heaviness came over his li
mbs and he realised he could move again. It occurred to him that he couldn't have moved before if he had tried. The girl looked up at him and grinned, feral, wild. She stood over Kern, putting one foot against his throat. He stared up, grimacing. 'Here's what you wanted,' she said, pulling a large gem in an ornate silver mount from the waistband of her skirt. 'The good guys lose again.'
Jed stared. The girl laughed. 'You people know nothing,' she said. With that, still staring into Jed's eyes, she twisted her leg. There was a deep crack as Kern's neck snapped. His eyes rolled back, his last breath hissing out between clenched teeth.
Jed began to tremble, unable to think of anything but flight. The girl opened her mouth again, the strange wail starting once more. Jed felt his muscles harden and lock.
Through the unearthly sound the girl spoke clearly. 'I'm going to leave you here, mortal, because your fear is delicious. Besides, who would believe you?'
Still frozen by the wailing song Jed watched in horror as the girl leaped upwards and vanished with a swish through the leaves of the trees above them. The hold on Jed released and he staggered, dropping to one knee, next to the corpse of Kern, twisted and bloody in death.
Pirated Twinkies
By Shannon Esposito https://murderinparadise.com/
George lowered himself onto the toilet and knocked twice on the wall to his right.
"I got the money," George said. He held it under the stall. "It's all there."
Within a few seconds, a brown package slid into his feet. George picked it up, dizzy with excitement. He breathed it in as if he could inhale it through the paper.
"Next month, my number will be 776. Got it?"
"Yeah," George answered, "got it." George decided to go out the back doors just to be safe.
What happened next was a blur, because all George could think about was the brown package-containing all that mattered to him in life-being plucked from his coat by a gray haired DEA agent.
"You've got a real problem, son. Let's go."
George wasn't a stranger to the Maintenance Facilities, but he had already failed two monthly weigh-ins. That meant an automatic year at Tripp's Prison. His heart sank along with his will to live.
Flash Fiction 40 Anthology - July 2009 Page 5
