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Thursday, July 28, 2011

Flash Fiction - Take 'Em Out

“So, what's the deal?”
“The deal's the same as it always is.”
“Who's the guy?”
“I'll tell you when we find him.”
“So what's with the boat?”
“Dumping the body in the ocean. Boss doesn't want this one found.”
“That so?”
“Yeah, that's so.”
“Huh, he usually wants a message sent. Wonder what this guy did.”
“Don't know. Don't care. Boss says take 'em out. We take 'em out.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“We take 'e out.”
“Why you stopping the boat?”
“We're here.”
“Here? Where? Were in the middle of the friggin ocean.”
“What the hell man? Don't point that gun at me. It could fire... Me? It's me? I'm the guy?”
“Sorry man. You lose stuff.”
“What. I lose stuff? Yeah, but...c'mon. It's no big deal.”
“It was this time.”
“The diamond? It was just a little thing. It fell out or dropped when I stuffed the jewels in the bag.
C'mon, it was nothing compared to the rest of the haul.”
“See, the thing is, it's always a small thing. Boss's starting to wonder, maybe you aren't losing shit. Maybe you're taking it.”
“Taking it! Man, look, you've gotta to listen to me. I'm just careless, I swear. Can't help it. Look at these giant hands. They were meant for beatin' people. Not grabbing loot.”
“But we're friends.”
“Can't afford a friend like you. I vouched for you.”
“Oh. I get it. It was you or me.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, you sure you want to do this? You really sure?”
“Whadya mean?”
“I mean, maybe I thought this day would come.”
“Maybe I prepared.”
“Prepared how?”
“Maybe I lost something else. Something important to you.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“Lost what then?”
“Think hard, my friend. Think hard.”
“No. No. You said you destroyed those photos. I saw you do it.”
“Well, maybe one of them got 'lost'. Wonder where it might show up if I don't make it home.”
“You're lying.”
“Boss wants me dead cuz he thinks I'm stealing. Wonder what he would do to someone sleeping with his wife? Gotta be worse.”
“What did you do?”
“Protected myself. That's what.”
“But I can't let you go back.”
“I know. I don't plan on going back.”
“ have been stealing, haven't you? Wait don't shoot me. Don't-”
“Oops, man overboard. Now where'd I put those keys?”

Like this story?  Try another Free short story, The Warning, on Amazon

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Sample Sunday July 24

This week an actual excerpt from the first story in the book, The Hate.  I plan on having a new Flash Fiction Story on Friday.  



Right now there is a massive manhunt for me. There’s almost no chance I will be found, but just in case, I need to set the record straight. I know you think you know what happened. I mean, it has been all over the news for days. The country in mourning, shocking act of violence, and on and on. But you only know what they told you. But once I tell you everything, tell you the truth, you’ll be thanking me. I’ll be a goddamn hero. Not that anyone will admit it. Doesn’t matter though. I’ll be long gone.
So like any good story, I have to start at the beginning. I know you’d prefer me to just cut to the chase. But there are some things you need to know first.
Bear with me, you’ll be glad you did.


First, you should know some things about me.
I hate people. I hate small talk. Trying to find something to talk about with a bunch of strangers I’ll never see again. No thanks.
I like being alone. I’m happy alone. I don’t want to be married and pop out a couple of whiny, germ filled kids. I don’t want anyone around telling me what to do or making me feel bad about what I am doing; i.e. a husband or boyfriend.
If I want to stay up till three in the morning eating double stuff Oreos while watching St. Elmo’s Fire then that’s what I goddamn well am going to do. If I want to lay in bed till noon or not shower for a couple of days, well, you get the idea.
If I feel the need for some companionship i.e. sex, I go pick up a guy at a bar. It’s pretty easy because, in all modesty, I’m hot. Not just attractive. An actual stone cold fox, at least to enough of the population to matter. I can say that because I had nothing to do with it. All genetics. All big blue eyes, full lips, blond, tall, and lean. So sex, no problem. And since I don’t really like people or small talk, I pretty much scope out the bar for an attractive unattached guy and ask if he wants to go to my place. I’ve never been turned down.
No one spends the night. Last thing I need in the morning is some smelly guy with bad breath bothering me for something I had plenty of the night before.
Also, I’m filthy rich. I hadn’t planned on ever working for a living, but who knew I’d find something I enjoy so much. What do I do? I kill people. For money. I know what you’re thinking, but who gives a shit. Not me, that’s for sure. If it makes you feel any better I don’t kill kids, no spouses just because a divorce will cost too much (selfish bastards), but other people.
It’s not hard, partly because of because of my looks. I can get into a lot of places with no questions asked. And partly because I’m ahead of the curve on intelligence. Not a genius, but pretty damn smart.
Maybe it goes without saying that I don’t have any friends, but I’ll say it anyway. I don’t have any friends. And I don’t mean I don’t have any close friends. I don’t have any. I think it’s because I’m rich and beautiful and that intimidates people.
Or, it’s because I’m a bitch. I don’t care about people’s petty problems, I don’t take shit from anyone, and I don’t tell people what they want to hear.
So, why am I telling you all of this and why do you care? Because, I just killed the President of the United States.


I wasn’t born an unfeeling bitch. I was made into one. I was a caboose baby. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it means my parents were done having kids but too lazy or dumb to do anything permanent. So sixteen years after their first and only child, I was born.
I don’t know why they had me. It wasn’t as if abortion was illegal. It was 1984 for Christ’s sake. My parents weren’t overly affectionate with my older sister, but to me they were downright cold. I didn’t understand why until recently. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Who knows how I would have turned out if I had been loved. Nature vs. nurture, right? Who can say? Anyway, my parents were killed in a car accident when I was ten. My life hardly changed.
Remember when I said I was filthy rich? Well, it’s from family money. Where did it come from? Doesn’t matter. My parents were rich and their parents were rich. Rich marrying the rich and getting richer. So when my parents died, I stayed in the same house with the same servants taking care of me, only now my older sister was in charge of me. At the ripe old age of twenty six. She moved back into my parents’ home, but basically left me alone. Where did we live? Irrelevant to the story. But if you really need a location, just imagine some sprawling estate up north.
Did I mention my sister works in politics? She has a political science degree. She started volunteering in college for whatever Republican was running. Oh yeah, my whole family is Republican. Big surprise, right? Rich and white. I’m the odd man odd. Another big surprise. I actually don’t give a shit who’s president. They could tax me at eighty percent and I’d still have more money than I could ever spend. They could take away gun rights and I could still obtain any weapon I needed. They’re all a bunch of lying crooks anyway.
But, I digress.
So my only order from my sister was to not embarrass the family. My sister had big plans for her future and wasn’t about to let a pre-teen stop her. So I had almost complete freedom, as long as I did well in school and didn’t draw any unwanted attention to the family. The doing well in school was no problem. As I said, I’m not a genius, but definitely above the curve when it comes to brains. My sister also controlled my trust until I was twenty one, so I behaved. It wasn’t that hard. You’re thinking I was some wild child? How else could I grow up to be a stone cold killer? You’re completely wrong. Killing people takes incredible control. Correction, killing people and not getting caught, that takes incredible control and planning and patience. You can’t do anything spur of the moment. You have to be able to walk away if something changes.
So how did I become a killer? I’ll get to that. It’s not really the point of this story, but I think you need to know about me to understand what I did.

This is an excerpt from the first story, Manhunt, in the book, The Hate, available for 99 cents at the following retailers:

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Flash Fiction 1952

Hope you enjoy - please leave a comment.  Love it, Hate it?


“There's no doubt he's guilty. He was standing over the body holding the knife,” Detective Tom Flank said.
“Drugs, you think?” asked Detective Andrew Peters, looking through the two way glass.
“Or alcohol. Look at how he twitches. He can't sit still.”
“Good cop, bad cop?” Peters asked.
“What about a psych eval?”
“On the way but until then...”
“Good cop bad cop it is,” Flank said.
Peters entered and stood next to the man, resting a hand on the table, while Flank sat across from him.
“Visions, huh?” Flank asked.
“I know you don't believe me,” the man said, still twitching his hands while his eyes darted around the room looking everywhere but at Flank.
“That's right we don't believe you. You're just scum, admit it,” Peters yelled at the man.
“Calm down Peters,” Flank said. “Give him a chance.”
Peters made a sound of disgust but didn't say any more.
“So, you say you killed him because you had a vision?”
“No, yes, I mean,” the man took a breath, “it was a lot of visions. They just wouldn't stop.”
“Your file says you were released from the hospital two months ago.”
“You were in a coma for three days.”
“I fell off my roof.”
“Did you ever have visions before that?”
“No. Look I know how it sounds but I'm telling you, he was a killer.”
“Who did he kill?”
“Well, no one yet. But he will,” the man said, finally meeting Flank's eyes. “He would have. I had to stop him.”
“Did voices tell you to kill him.”
“No,” he yelled. “Not voices. Just visions.”
The man grabbed Flank's hand and squeezed. “Every time I closed my eyes. They wouldn't stop.”
Flank fought the urge to pull his hand away.
“I tried to ignore them. I really did. I didn't want to kill him. I thought if I found him, if I saw him in the flesh, I would see he was innocent. Then the visions would stop,” the man said smiling and nodding while still squeezing Flanks hand. “But they only got worse. And then...”
“And then what?”
“He looked at me. And I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That he was a killer,” the man sobbed. “I knew I had to stop him. He was evil. He was going to do such bad things. To children. Don't you get it? I had to do it.”
“You had to kill him,” Flank said, finally pulling his hand away. “This helpless ten year old boy was evil. A horrible murderer.”
“He was,” the man said, trying to grasp Flanks hand again, pleading. “He was. Such terrible things coming.”
A knock on the door startled the man.
A cop stuck his head in the door. “Psych is here.”
“Okay, thanks. Looks like were done here,” Peters said, heading for the door.
They watched as the man was loaded into the ambulance.
“He's crazy. Gotta be. Who would kill a little kid like that?” Flank asked, not really expecting an answer.
“Yeah. Either way, he's not getting out.”
“What was the kid's name again? The victim? Jim?”
“It was John. The kid's name was John Wayne Gacy.”

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Flash Fiction Airport Bar

Airport Bar

“Can I buy you a drink?” the man asked, helping himself to the empty chair at her table. She'd been checking him out for about ten minutes now but he wasn't surprised. He was the whole package; looks, money, charm, and he knew it.
“Sure,” she smiled, like he knew she would. He signaled the bartender for another round then returned his blue gaze back to her green one. Talk about having it all going on. She was smoking hot with definite 'do-me' eyes, long tan legs in a barely there miniskirt and white tank top. He just wondered if they had enough time.
“Traveling back home?” he asked.
“Something like that. You?”
He waited while the bartender brought their drinks.
“Just going back to work. Took a long winter break this year. I travel a lot.”
“I'm guessing,” she said, leaning back and giving him the once over, “salesman. Pharmaceuticals?”
“Yeah, how'd you know?”
“You're sample bag,” she laughed.
“Very observant.”
“I also observe the tan line on your ring finger. Married?”
“Recently divorced. Well, not so recently but I guess I finally accepted it was really over.”
“Hmm, kids?”
“No, my wife couldn't. I told her we could adopt but she just...” he sighed. “But we don't need to talk about this. You on a layover or is this your departure city?”
“Layover,” she said leaning in. “A long layover.” She dropped the straw she had been twirling and he leaned over to pick it up, getting a nice view up her miniskirt.
“Well,” he said slowly sitting back up, “we could go to the business lounge. I'm a frequent flier, they know me well there.”
“You are a confident one, aren't you?”
“When I see something I want,” he smiled back.
She picked up her drink and held it out for a toast. “To long layovers.” They touched glasses and slammed their drinks down.
“I'm just need a minute to freshen up,” she said, standing.
He relaxed when he saw she left her purse. Not that he doubted she would be back. I mean, he was irresistible when he turned on the charm. That had been proven a hundred times, with a hundred different women. The small amount of guilt he used to feel was long gone.
“What's wrong?” she said when she returned.
“Oh, nothing. It's nothing,” he said taking his hand off his chest.
“Are you sure? You're sweating,” she said sitting back down.
“I'll be...oh” he cried out clutching his chest again.
“Maybe I better get some help.”
He just nodded. She walked over to the bar, said a few words to the bartender, then returned to his side.
He was finding it hard to breathe now, and starting to panic. What the hell was happening? He was healthy as a horse. He'd just had a physical for his increased life insurance policy.
“Why don't you lay here on the floor,” she said helping him. “Let me loosen your tie.”
She leaned in and while unknotting his tie, she asked “Can you talk?”
Gasping, he tried, but couldn't.
“By the way,” she whispered leaning in, “your wife says fuck you.”
His eyes grew wide. “She knows about your secret vasectomy and the reason for it, you cheating bastard. For a year you made her believe it was her fault. All the testing, the hormones. She was devastated when she discovered the truth of course, but I think two million dollars will help her heal. Don't you?”
He started shaking his head, still trying to catch his breath. “You probably thought that increase in coverage was your idea. Well, she did learn deception from the best.”
“I don't know officer. He asked if he could buy me a drink, I said yes, then he just collapsed.”
“You don't know him? Never met him before now?”
“No, sorry. Listen, am I going to be able to make my flight?”
“Yeah, we have your information. The bartender and the other patrons confirm your story. Someone will be in touch, if needed.”
“Thanks,” she said shaking her head and picking up her bag. “What a shame. He seemed so...nice.”

Tuesday, July 5, 2011