Welcome to Flush Fiction: Tales for the Head!

 Welcome to Flush Fiction! 

The stories here are just a small sample of the stories in my complete Flush Fiction collection.

These stories were written with those short, annoying chunks of time we all have to deal with almost daily in mind.

On the bus, at the doctor's office, in the john, anywhere you wind up sitting and waiting... and waiting... and just want something random to rest your eyes on.

Why not pass those times with a little light, yet heavy reading? Mystery or murder, mayhem or the macabre. Even some heart-warming and heart-breaking fables as well. Flush Fiction has it all. 

If you're going somewhere but getting nowhere, or if you're just sitting there just going. These stories can help you pass that time in a flush!

In the meantime, when you have the time, read and enjoy my stories.

And please, post a comment or send me an email and let me know what you liked or didn't like about any or all of the content here at Flush Fiction.

A Pinch of Paula 

      Jack Slab worked diligently as he prepared his meat while waiting until his custom grill was at just the right temperature. For six years he was the reigning champion at the “Mid-States BBQ and Grillin’ Showdown.” He fully expected to hold his title this year as well. He had developed a new technique and array of special new “spices” that brought his flavors to another level. His success wasn’t all because of his cooking skills. A lot of it was all because of Paula.

       Paula was his culinary muse. Her belief in him was the reason for his success. Her love inspired some of the greatest recipes a chef could hope for. She loved his cooking, his style and especially his “secret” seasoning. She introduced him to all her upscale friends who were eager to try something new. They all raved about his menus and his business took off. She was the catalyst that launched his career.

      He started out as a teenager working in the kitchen of a popular bar and grill doing anything and everything they needed. He learned his way around the kitchen and showed some talent when it came to preparing the BBQ meats. One of his jobs was to prepare the meat for the next day. He was responsible for mixing the ingredients that made up the “World Famous,” dry rub used to flavor the assorted roasts and slabs of ribs

       Using various “secret” spices he combined them together in a closely guarded recipe that gave his dry rub a unique smoky flavor that had become a local legend.

      As he perfected the recipe customers began to compliment him and would line up when he was working the kitchen. His bosses noticed and soon he was making more money than most of the staff. Eventually he started thinking about having a place of his own. It wasn’t until he met Paula that he started to turn his dream into reality.

      Paula was a regular customer who always insisted on complimenting him personally. She was close in age and seemed to enjoy some playful flirting. They had become casual friends and talked often about random subjects. When he told her about his plans to open his own place he was surprised when she offered to back him financially.

      He graciously declined her first offer being reluctant to perhaps take advantage of a good natured but inexperienced investor. It was after she persisted and proved that she had the financial means and the business experience that he agreed to become partners.

      At first she was content to leave the kitchen management to Jack and focused on the customer end. It wasn’t long before Paula began to inject herself into the food operations of their restaurant and Jack began to feel pressured by her constant questioning when it came to how he prepared his recipes. Eventually she asked him to commit his “secret” ingredients to paper so that in the event of his being unable to fulfill his role as chef the recipe would be accessible.

      Jack refused to reveal his recipes no matter how often and how hard Paula tried to persuade him. When she finally threatened to pull her financial support unless he provided his secrets Jack was put in a desperate situation. If he didn’t share his secrets he would lose his business. If he did he might very well lose a lot more.

      He invited Paula to his home for a meal he would cook just for her and then they would discuss the terms of her demands. As they enjoyed the special meal he took the time to reminisce about his early days as a chef and how he created his secret recipe.

      His skill as a chef was surpassed only by his talent as a serial killer. After his first kill he panicked when it came to how to dispose of the body. He managed to dismember the body and bury the pieces in woods far from his home but it proved to be a tiring and difficult task. It took a long time to focus on the problem at hand. If he was going to go around killing people he needed to figure out what to do with the body. He worked in a BBQ restaurant that had large ovens that could burn anything put in it completely. In the end he decided to burn the bodies to ashes. He even devised a plan to get rid of the ashes.

      It became the signature conclusion to every kill he made over the last decade. He would incinerate the remains in the restaurant’s furnace at night. He would then take the ashes and mix them into the dry rub ingredients. As he refined his recipe he learned just which cut of meat from his victims added the most flavors.

      It was no problem to take the ashes from the best cuts of Paula to work and mix her in along with the other secret recipe ingredients. He already had his victory speech written in anticipation of winning his seventh title. Jack smiled as he added another pinch of Paula.

 

The Last Casualty

    

The Car     

      The twisters had devastated a ten mile wide, two hundred mile long swath of heavily populated land wiping out entire towns and causing hundreds of human casualties before it was over.

      It was inevitable that immediately after the storm passed looters began to pick away at the carcasses of decimated homes and businesses like vultures. They were part of the ugly and all too human side of disasters. At a time when so many people came together to aid in the rescue and recovery of their community, crimes of opportunity turned honest, desperate people into thieves.

      Such acts have become more frequent and brazen and the looters have become more aggressive and violent. Rioters and looters don’t back off easily just because the authorities show up. Emergency responders are constantly being attacked by the looters as they try to do their jobs.

      Trooper Stone had been fifteen miles away, just outside of the edge of the strom's track where the destruction was greatest. He had lost seven members of his immediate family. They all lived directly in the massive path of the F4 tornado. He was on the phone with his brother and heard him scream as the house he was hiding in with the rest of the family was reduced to splinters. He didn’t have time to grieve. Instead he focused on the work he had to do. He was a trained military veteran and a state trooper and those were the skills he would need now. He would have to deal with the situation at hand before he could stop and cry.

     Currently, he worked with local and state law enforcement and emergency management agencies. He was directly involved in securing local businesses with buildings that had been structurally damaged but remained standing with inventory still inside. His team was often in place before the debris had stopped falling; looking for survivors, spotting for fires, fallen lines or gas leaks.

      He often encountered mobs of looters rummaging through the open walls of local businesses. He considered them scum, parasites feasting on the corpses of communities, businesses and homes.

      Protocol stated that they shouldn’t engage if possible, just clear and secure targets. Catching looters meant running them down which meant risking your life catching a guy with empty hands. The team's arrival usually made them scatter like roaches. The ones arrested were those stupid enough to run straight into their arms. The sad souls that ran into Trooper Stone were lucky if they ever ran again. Rather than instruct them to get on the ground he greeted them with a swinging baton and a knee to their groin. He would hit them even after he had them in cuffs just for good measure. They would probably get off easy in court he reasoned. So he passed his own sentence while he had them.

The Truck

      “Juke” Saunders was in his truck chasing close behind the tornado’s path. He was certain that it was going to roll over the entire town. He was a member of the local fire brigade, trained in first aid with a heavy duty custom painted pickup that could haul a house. He knew the roads and country as good as anyone could. He never hesitated to respond in an emergency.

      He put in seventy-two straight hours working with the local first responders. He assisted the medical staff in caring for the patients with serious wounds. After that he lifted, loaded and transported anything and everything that would fit in his truck. It was knowing that everything he did was helping save lives and families that kept him going. If there was something to be done he was the first to take the job.

      As usual, every time he worked as a volunteer he would work until the work was done. He caught quick naps and drank one continuous cup of coffee trying to make a dent in the tasks to be done to get people back on their feet It was obvious that the work needed after this weather beating would be going on for months. Noticing his exhaustion, Juke was ordered to go home for forty-eight hours by his bosses.

      The roads were littered with trees both whole and in pieces. Juke’s route home took him on a long and winding path when one after another detour took him an even longer way around the normal route. A huge number of warehouses and an airport were obliterated and a carpet of broken pieces from all the items they once held covered the landside. Hundreds of homes had been destroyed just a few miles from the clear, untouched homes and streets where he lived

      A glint of light off a bright object a short distance from the side of the road caught Juke’s eye and he slowed to take a closer look. He discovered a pile of boxed and bagged packages with familiar logos on them piled in a peculiar fashion. The pieces of a wooden pallet were close to the parcels. Dozens of assorted UPS, FedEx and Amazon packages were clustered together. Several large transport facilities nearby were destroyed by the twister. The parcels were obviously debris from one of the warehouses that landed in a funny sort of clump and were almost dry and intact.

      There were collection sites in a clear town just a few miles from his home where people turned in articles that survived the storm in hopes they would found by the owner. He decided the parcels were worth salvaging and he tossed the dozens of packages that he collected into his truck bed. He hoped the roads would be better closer to the center.

The Intersection

The Truck      

     Driving slowly and carefully on his way home Juke approached an intersection where a state trooper’s car was sitting with his headlights on. Juke slowed down until he was sure the car was stopped. He accelerated and slowly drove past giving a friendly wave to the trooper behind the wheel. Once past the intersection he checked his rearview mirror and was surprised when he saw the trooper’s car pull out and come up behind him. 

The Car

      Trooper Stone was parked at an intersection that led to a badly damaged mall preventing traffic from entering until a truck with barriers arrived. He checked his gun again as he kept his vigil. There could still be some individuals hiding in the mall waiting for an opening to slip away home. 

      He noticed a brightly painted pickup truck slow down as it approached the intersection even though there was no stop sign. The driver looked at the patrol car  as though unsure about driving past. Trooper Stone suddenly sensed the driver seemed spooked by the patrol car.

      As the truck passed in front of the car the trooper noticed the large heap of boxes with logos and packaging that told him those packages didn’t belong in a private vehicle. Trooper Stone cursed under his breath as he started his car. Turning the corner he pulled behind the truck, turned on the lights and pulled the truck over.

The Last Casualty

      Juke was confused when the trooper’s lights came on and he was being signaled to pull over.

      “Fucking looter!” Stone cursed out loud. He checked his gun again before muttering to himself lowly. “How the fuck did he slip out of the mall with that load?”

      Stone was angry as he stepped out of his car but as he looked at the pile of stolen contraband he also noticed the expensive piece of truck this looter was driving. It didn't look like he needed the money... the money he wasn't going to be getting by stealing this load. Stone was in a rage by the time he approached the driver’s window. In a loud and commanding bark Stone demanded Juke hand over his license and registration. Juke smiled and leaned towards the glove box as he started to ask why he was being stopped and to explain his curious load.

      Stone cut him off again and demanded Juke’s papers in a voice that was far beyond what would be reasonable. Taken aback, Juke reached for his glove compartment both bewildered and frightened by the trooper’s demeanor. He saw Stone’s hand rest on the grip of his service weapon.

      Juke reached in and nervously felt around for his papers. It was when Juke was startled and tried to catch the gun that fell out of his glove compartment that Trooper Stone started to draw his weapon. 

      It was when Juke, in a panic, picked the gun up off the floor and started to turn towards the officer to explain that the first of six shots ripped into his body.

      Trooper Stone began pulling the trigger before shouting, “Looter! Drop the weapon!”

      Juke was dead before he ever got the chance.

      The last casualty of the storm.

The Grape Thief

  

     When the S.W.A.T. team smashed in his front door, Martin Fletcher was at first shocked,  then terrified and totally confused. Before he could even get out of the shower he was thrown to the floor, handcuffed, wrapped hastily in a towel and on his way to a prison cell where he would live for the rest of his life. The state had no death penalty so executing him wasn’t an option, although everyone that followed the case felt it was what he deserved.

    For twenty-four years Mr. Fletcher had been the produce manager at the local big name supermarket. He ran a “tight ship” as he referred to the way he did his job. His biggest complaint was with the way many customers felt it was OK to sample the fruits and vegetables before buying… especially the grapes. It seemed as though every customer that passed the stand where the grapes were displayed would look them over, pluck one from the bunch, sample it and then move on, never buying any.

    He had posted a number of signs warning the customers to please refrain from sampling the produce. He’d even started to threaten people with arrest for the “theft of goods not purchased but consumed!”

    He was famous for his angry comments directed at people that would sample the wares. He had become much more confrontational when faced with a customer’s wanton disregard for his signs. It seemed even the threat of arrest didn’t curtail their outrageous, if not criminal, behavior. More than once he had remarked to his co-workers. “They get me so mad that sometimes I just want to kill them!” 

    His temperament led to a confrontation that almost cost him his job and pension. On a particularly bad day he witnessed a customer walk up to the grape stand and sample not one but two grapes before turning to continue shopping. She did it even while standing next to his sign that threatened violators with arrest for theft if they sampled products without paying.

    From three stands away in a voice loud enough for others to hear he ordered the customer to stop. He rushed towards her and began berating her for “stealing the grapes” despite the clear warning on the sign. He chastised her in a loud, angry tone in front of dozens of customers. 

    “I am so sick of people like you who think my department is a place where you can eat for free! Didn’t you see the signs?”

    Instead of reacting like someone who should be offering an apology the lady turned on him with equal aggressiveness 

    “How dare you talk to me that way? I don’t who you are but I have been a loyal customer and stock holder of this market for 27 years. I never buy grapes without sampling at least one grape. Never have I been so humiliated and treated so rudely. I’ve just moved to this town and I’m new to this market but I can tell you this, you are being a complete moron and I think you are seriously overreacting. And, for the record, these grapes suck!”

    Over the years he had become accustomed to people just slinking away meekly to his policing in the produce department. This time the woman was challenging his rules regarding sampling the goods. He decided then and there that his signs were meaningless if he didn’t back them up with action. He called her a thief and had the police called. He insisted they arrest her for shoplifting. The police were reluctant but Mr. Fletcher insisted so she was taken to the local police station, given a citation and ordered to appear in court. Fletcher felt she was dealt with properly and that his actions were fully justified.

    Fletcher soon learned he had picked a fight with the wrong customer that day. She had money and a good lawyer. The judge listened politely to Fletcher’s complaint. When Fletcher was done he felt he had presented a solid case against the woman he had come to call the Grape Thief. He was genuinely surprised when the judge smiled and tossed out the complaint and she was free to go. She followed up her encounter with some well placed letters to the corporate office. Fletcher was called into the store manager’s office for a hearing with a corporate representative that could result in his losing his job and pension.

    Fortunately and with no explanation, the woman didn’t come to the meeting to present her side of the story. Fletcher had been an excellent employee for twenty-four years so the corporation went easy on him. He was removed from his manager position and had his pay cut but kept his pension. He was put on a two year probation. If he got into any arguments or received any complaints he would be dismissed with no severance package or pension. 

    After the meeting the lady was rarely seen in the store again. The few times she came in he would run to the back of the store until she left. Even after everything she went through she still stopped and sampled the grapes.

    Fletcher would sit sullenly and plot her death, killing her in a thousand different ways. His hate for her was a burden he never could free himself of. He kept a journal where would give voice to his hate and plots of revenge. He wanted to kill her and every customer who ate the grapes freely.

    About a year into his probation a number of people in the area died in a wave of mysterious deaths. It took months to discover the cause. Investigators found that all the people had one thing in common. Shortly before their death each victim had shopped at the same supermarket. They all had bought some grapes. When questioned by the investigators almost every person pointed the finger of suspicion at Martin Fletcher.

    Autopsies showed that the same drug had been used to kill them all. Succinycholine was a drug that was almost undetectable in most routine blood screens. An anonymous tip led the police to search the supermarket. When the police searched the employee’s lockers they discovered a small vial with the same poison in Fletcher’s locker. They confiscated all the grapes in the store; after testing them many of the individual grapes contained large doses of Succinycholine.

    When they searched Fletcher’s home they discovered his journal that detailed many ways he intended to kill all the people that sampled his produce.

At his trial the prosecution had a parade of witnesses who testified as to Fletcher’s angry, over-zealous and borderline insane reactions to people who sampled any produce; especially the grapes. All of them had witnessed his outbursts and heard the threats. Individually, each witness’ testimony was about their personal experiences with Fletcher. He might have had a chance at beating the charges if it was just them.

    Unfortunately for Fletcher the prosecution had a star witness whose experience was witnessed firsthand by several of the witnesses called to support her testimony. The older woman, the long time loyal customer and stock holder, the one that Fletcher had insulted, humiliated and had arrested for stealing two grapes took the stand and, in a tearful voice, described his tirade and his death threat..

    She was well-spoken, articulate and a witness whose story the jury totally believed. She was in the courtroom when the jury came back with the guilty verdict. Fletcher’s eyes met hers as he was led from the court and she simply gave him a small smile. It was then that Fletcher finally realized the mistake he had made.

    Many credited her with being the one that helped bring a monster to justice and saving many other lives. No one ever learned just how many lives she sacrificed to get the man that had called her a thief; A “Grape Thief!” The best thing was knowing that Fletcher would spend the rest of his life in a cell.

    It took almost two years to exact her revenge. She worked at a medical supply company and had an extensive knowledge of the drugs used in medical centers.  Getting her hands on the Succinycholine was easy enough. She wore a variety of wigs and dressed in ways that would disguise her appearance. The public restrooms were at the rear of the supermarket just steps away from the employee lockers. The names made it easy to identify Martin Fletcher’s locker. She went to the supermarket almost every week and went to the grape stand. She would always sample them and usually buy a few bunches.

    Over two years, when she was disguised, when Fletcher was hiding in the back of the store, she would leave some grapes as a gift from Fletcher to all the rest of the Grape Thieves.

A Christmas Rose

    On most weekends his home was pretty busy. Friends were always dropping in unannounced. He always enjoyed the visits, almost as much as his wife, Rose. But it was during the christmas holidays when his home always became the center of attention.

    Starting with Thanksgiving, the holiday season brought enough visitors to make his modest home absolutely crowded. Almost every weekend there was a spontaneous party. People seemed to come out of nowhere. He hardly had enough room for himself let alone his guests. The influx of visitors picked up through Christmas. By New Year's Eve he could barely find a place to sit where he wasn't in the way.

    Older now and a little less active during the season, he loved to sit and reminisce about the days when he and his family celebrated the seasons with large gatherings of friends and loved ones. Holiday parties were a way of life growing up as a kid in his parents home. It was a tradition he carried on when he finally had a home and family of his own. He would tell his stories to anyone that would sit and listen. He wasn't much of a cook and he was never able to whip up a holiday meal. That had always been his wife's job.

    Holidays were when his wife was in her glory! She loved everything about them... especially the cooking. Her holiday table was always one of the best feasts around. He always referred to her as his "Christmas Rose!" She would always have a deep red blush on her beautiful face from working in the warm kitchen or hustling about, cleaning up after one party or preparing for the next.

    It was his skill behind the bar that made him the hit of the parties. His guests would always praise him for being able to make the best drinks around. He had mastered his talents during his college days working as a bartender at some of the wildest bars around. He met his Rosie back then and they married the year he graduated. He earned a good living and together, they raised two beautiful children. The holidays were the time of the year when his family always shined.

    Slowly, he began to be less of a host and more like a party guest. His friends started to notice before he did. His bartending skills finally started to get the best of him. Soon, he was mixing fewer drinks for the crowd and more for himself.

    Each year the financial demands of the season became more of a burden. He hadn't received a pay raise in years. He couldn't cutback on the party supplies, so the gifts became cheaper. He was always in a rush and dealt with the pressure by drinking. Gradually, his friends stopped coming to his parties as often. Even, "Christmas Rose" started to slow down. She'd grown tired of cleaning up after the parties... and after him. He'd embarrassed his wife and kids more times than they could bear. Eventually, they left the party too.

    But that never stopped him from enjoying a good holiday party. He simply decided that if the party wouldn't come to his home, he would go to the party. Before long, he found the kind of people for whom the party never stopped. He never lost his holiday spirit. Gradually, while finding the way to the next party, he lost his job, his friends, and his family. In the end, he never found his way home again.

    Every year, he still welcomed visitors to his home. Their good cheer and generosity helped lift his spirits. He never had much to offer in return, but he always put on his happiest face. Often he would sing a song and dance merrily to help add to the festivities. He always wore a bright red "Christmas Rose" in his lapel during the season. It was the only way he knew to keep his love for Rose alive.

    Pulling his coat tighter around him, he sat huddled in the doorway, staring at the holiday crowds through bleary, bloodshot eyes. He smiled at his guests as they walked past him or around him. When he wasn't singing or dancing for their entertainment, he sat talking in a low voice to the rose he wore. As far as the shoppers on their way to the next purchase were concerned, it was just a street to them. For the drunk that sat crying quietly in the doorway ... it was home.

What Time Will Tell

What Time Will Tell

        Albert sat quietly watching the ceremonies along with the rest of the crowd gathered on the town common. He was waiting his turn to get up, make his speech and put his contribution to the town's history into the "Century Capsule." It was a time capsule that the people in the town could use to send a message to the future,  He had been selected as one of the leading citizens and was asked to contribute to the contents of the town's 200th anniversary time capsule. It would be placed at the foot of the new statue commemorating the soldiers that had perished in the various wars over the years.   
      He wasn't a member of the military although he did have family members who served and died honorably. He was denied admission to the military because he had lost two fingers in a farm accident when he was just a young boy. After learning of his rejection many of his classmates took to pointing with the fingers he lacked and making jokes at his expense. 
      His family was one of the first families to settle in the small town that would become a mid-sized city in the mid-west. His great-grandfather started a farm and a lumber business that became a regional success. His brothers became big in civic, business and political affairs and held important positions.
      When his parents passed away he became the richest man in the city. But that did nothing to improve his social standing. He was still quietly shunned by the more active social groups, Once his brothers got their share of the inheritance they left their small town for the big city in a hurry.
      The family fortune and name would grow along with the town. He was generous in his support for the town so he held a place of dubious honor at most civic events where no one really liked him.
      He was only invited to events where donations were important. They always needed money and he had more than most of them combined. He hated the affairs but felt obligated to attend out of respect to his family. No matter his age, whenever he was there, he always felt like the little boy that everyone pointed fingers at and laughed.
      Other than his family name Albert was as forgettable a man as anyone could ever meet. He was short, plain and frail He led a quiet life running a business his grandfather had started back in the early 20's. He was happy for a few years when he met his wife. She was the only person in his life that ever truly loved him for who he was, not what he had.
      They married when he was 32 and she was 27. She was a social gadfly and was loved by everyone that met her. They both wanted a family but his wife passed away before they had children. After she passed away he lost interest in life in general.
      He was recognized as a pillar of his community. He was active in every social group and contributed what money he could whenever asked. But he was active because he knew his wife would have wanted him to be.
      He volunteered whenever the need arose. He volunteered as a firefighter. When hikers, children or residents from the surrounding towns were lost he would guide the search parties. Sometimes they were successful in finding those lost, most times they weren't.
      He was only 17 the first time he joined a search party. He was 71 when he joined the last one. The searches found many of the missing but there were many, dozens over the years, that were never found; Adults, children, males and females, cases that were never solved. "Cold Cases" as they were referred to by law enforcement
      There were many theories that followed the cases. People believed it was the work of cultists or sex perverts. Many suspected a jealous husband. But the murders were done in different ways with different weapons that made it impossible for the task forces that were formed to catch the killer or killers.
      The last unsolved murder was committed almost 5 years ago. By now the people had almost forgotten it. No one seemed interested in discovering the identity of the mysterious monster. 
      Only the killer was still craving the fame and notoriety he felt he deserved. He had expected to be discovered years ago. He had even taken to leaving small clues at the crime scenes hoping the detectives would put them together.
      But they never came close to identifying the killer. They never even gave the killer a name. Despite the killer's efforts to give the police clear clues to help them find him he wasn't even sure they ever linked the crimes together. 
      Albert had volunteered to work on the task forces and had done his best to track down the killer. No matter how hard he worked no investigation ever came close to finding the killer.
      What the people chosen added to the time capsule would remain a secret. The contents were intended for the residents that would be there 100 years from mow. He had decided that the string of murders were a vital even if embarrassing part of the town’s history. Maybe he could contribute in a way so that people in the future would be able to finally reveal the identity of the person that terrified their town over 100 years ago.
      He reverently placed the small ornate wooden box into the concrete container along with all the other trinkets, baubles and mementoes. He stepped back and stared at the box. His grandfather had kept all of his prized possessions in the box. The capsule would be opened in 100 years. It meant that it would be another 100 years before the town, before the world finally knew who the killer was,
      In the capsule were 12 different fingers from 12 different victims. They were his favorite trophies from the 73 victims that he had kidnapped, tortured and killed over his lifetime. He had cut off many pieces from his victims over the years but fingers were his favorites. More than a few of them were from people that had enjoyed pointing their fingers at him. He made sure to point their fingers at them when he was done cutting them to pieces,
    Along with the fingers was a map indicating where whatever remains still survived could be found after 100 years. On the map was the location of the home he'd lived in all his life. It was also where he buried and disposed of at least a couple of dozen bodies. He left pictures and a signed confession.

For once he would look forward to having his name in the town paper… even if it takes 100 years,

 

The Commute

The Commute     

     On a normal day the commuter train ride from his home to the office seemed to last forever. His office job was an hour’s ride from his home and was excruciatingly dull. He always tried reading a book or the newspaper but found it difficult to keep his mind off the drudgery of the commute. He was a victim of routine. In the morning his wife would drop him off at the station. With a kiss goodbye and his lunch in hand he would wait for the train that would take him to his office.

     Day after day he crunched numbers, entering data that meant nothing to him; just names and numbers. At the end of the day he would make his way to the station as always. He always caught the same commuter train at the same time. He saw the same commuter’s every day. He knew their faces and even smiled at one or two on occasion but, for the most part, they were strangers. On most days he would stare out the window at the same old scene rushing by or try to nap to help relieve the stress of his workday.

     But, on Thursdays everything changed. Thursdays were always different. Thursdays were the day when he left his regular job early and went to work at the job he loved most. His skills as a CPA allowed him to do free lance work and make a lot of money outside of his regular job. The side work wasn’t stable enough to do it full time and offered none of the benefits that his corporate position did. He’d arranged to be able to leave his office early on Thursdays a long time ago. He explained to his employers that he needed the time to be able to pursue work outside of his office. He was a valuable employee and they quickly agreed.

     The work he did at his office was his vocation; what most people would have considered his career. However, on Thursdays, he pursued an interest that was his true avocation.

     He could make as much money in a day as he made in a week at his regular job. He got paid on Friday’s just like every other employee in his office. That was the paycheck he brought home to his wife. It paid the bills and allowed for extravagances like the new pool they put in last summer.

      But the money he made on Thursdays. That was his money. Money he made meeting new clients for discrete, anonymous business encounters. From his office in the middle of the city he could travel a hundred miles or more by commuter train and meet clients close to where they lived.

     The text message he received in response to the ad he posted in the business services section in the local paper caught his attention. The man that responded seemed eager to meet and was close. An hour’s ride on the commuter line north. It was important that he be able to meet, conduct his business and make it back to his home where his wife would pick him up on time. He was never late.

     As usual, the client he was to meet was someone who wanted everything about his services to remain confidential. Hiding assets, dodging taxes, finding loopholes, using his talents to open offshore bank accounts, these were all the sort of things he excelled at. Helping to hide his client’s money was one way he made money for himself; money that was always paid in cash.

     His client was a very wealthy man. He needed to setup some offshore accounts that couldn’t be traced back to him. Even more important, his wife and family must never know or be able to track his funds. Discretion was of the utmost importance. Once he met the client in the restaurant or lounge they would discuss the work and the details were agreed to. Then they would move to a local hotel where he could access the internet over their connection anonymously. The room would already be rented by the client under a false name.

     When they got to the room he would setup his laptop and start the process of moving the funds to the numbered accounts that his client had secured while the client relaxed with a few drinks. He was always amazed at how easily the clients trusted him. He was a stranger but they gave him the sort of information that they would never share with their wives or children or business partners. They gave him the keys that allowed him to open doors into their lives that they ordinarily kept locked.

     He always assured them that once he was done and the security was set they would be the only one who could access the accounts. The pass code they created would be the only way anyone could gain entry. Once he was done no one on earth would be able to find the treasure he had buried.

     As he worked at his computer and his client relaxed thinking about how clever they were by hiring a practiced and discrete specialist, he would do more than just move their money, he would take possession under their very noses. But the best part of his work would come after the business was finished.

     Over all the years of working as an accountant one thing had become crystal clear. He hated numbers. He hated figures, and totals. If it wasn’t for the money he would have taken up his Thursday practice full time. Sadly, dealing with all the illegal circumstances made doing it too often too risky. He loved his wife and family. So he kept regular job and kept his family happy and removed from his side job.

     On Thursdays he became the businessman he always wanted to be. He was the boss. He controlled the hours, the time and place where he would work. He picked his clients. The very thought of having to deal with the same things he had to deal with in his office when he met his “private” customers enraged him. He hated the way his clients gloated and looked at their greed as something they were proud of. They thought they were deceiving the government and the IRS. To him there was more to it than that. They were robbing their own families and friends of their share of the inheritance that should be theirs.

     They were stealing from the wives that loved and supported them. They were depriving the children that depended on them for support and the means to build a future. Most of his clients were ugly, narcissists, men whose entire lives were built on lies. His hate for working for them, his hate for numbers, and his disgust all that was involved became an incalculable total; one that always resulted in a sum of anger that overtook him and resulted in a rage that possessed him.

     Once his work was done, then the fun would begin. He would have them sit at the computer to look at the accounts and verify everything was as they wanted. He would show them where and how to enter their secret code that would transfer the money. They never knew that when they entered their “secret” pass code all the money would go to accounts that he controlled. They would never know what happened. They would never know who stole the money since the fact that they kept everything anonymous meant he was anonymous as well.

     He would excuse himself and go to the other side of the room to give them the privacy they both needed. He would open his briefcase and reach for the most important business tool he carried. Even as his rage came to a boil all he did was smile as the client finished their part of the job. He was good at suppressing his anger. His customers never saw him coming.

     He would push the ice pick deep into the back of their neck just at the brain stem. Usually that was all it took to kill them. If he had the time he enjoyed dismembering them in the tub as well. If he didn’t have much time he would just pace the room with a drink in hand randomly stabbing the corpse as creatively as possible. He always liked to give the police and coroner something to puzzle over.

     Once the rage subsided it was time for him to relax with a drink as he waited until it was time to leave and catch the train for the commute back home.

     He didn’t want to be late and keep his wife and kids waiting, Tonight was movie night.

Sharing the Juice

Sharing the Juice

He had been hiding for so long he didn’t know whether it was day or night. The virus that was sweeping the globe was causing the entire world to stop and shelter in place. For once in his life, as a man that had never really enjoyed life outdoors, he was growing ever more frustrated by the fact that going outside was suddenly considered dangerous.

Mingling among the rest of the people in the city was never something he relished. He found common people repulsive. He avoided casual or unintended contact as much as possible. Still, he enjoyed taking his walks out in the fresh air regardless of the fact that he would encounter other people. The occasional bump couldn’t be helped.

He did his best to follow the “social distancing” rule that had been put in place. Avoiding “the juice,” the germs that could be expelled in coughs or sneezes, or touching any surfaces where such germs could land was important. He kept his distance from other people as best he could. 

Try as he might, shopping in the supermarkets, the one place where other people couldn’t be avoided made it difficult. People would push past and bump him in their rush to grab the items most desired before he could get to them. He had to use public transportation and avoiding close contact with the other passengers or touching surfaces that others had touched was impossible.

He had offered to pick up some items for the old lady that lived next to him so she could avoid having to deal with it all. She was one of the few people he liked and they would often stop to chat in the hall. Three days ago she didn’t answer the door when he knocked to deliver her groceries.

Two days later he learned she had been taken by ambulance to the local hospital with symptoms. Another neighbor wearing a face mask and wearing latex gloves told him the next day that she had succumbed to the virus. Two days later he started coughing. He considered going to a clinic but, if he was contagious, they would put him in isolation. That was something he just couldn't bear.He didn’t need a clinic to tell him what he knew.

The virus was highly contagious and could be passed by both air and contact. He and his elderly neighbor had a lot of contact during the time she would have been contagious. When he learned that he was infected his outlook on social interaction changed. Once he was sure he was at the level where he was a virtual biological weapon he decided that the humans he had long considered something to be avoided were now a way of influencing the fate of the rest of them.

On a sunny day, when the air was fresh and seemed to offer a respite from any virus to all those people that dared to go shopping he dressed in his best outfit and walked to the market. Greeting everyone with a happy smile and a hearty breath-filled laugh he strolled through the crowds keeping close contact. He entered the supermarket and greeted all those shoppers with a clasp on the back.

With a strange smile he spent his day doing his best to share his juice with everyone he met.

First Kiss

First Kiss
By Michael Cannata

He took her in his arms, looking down at her hauntingly beautiful face. He'd been waiting for this moment all night. She tilted her face upward waiting to feel his lips touch hers. She'd been kissed before but never by a man as strong and confident as he was.

Her trembling lips pursed in anticipation as he drew closer. He never thought this moment would come and his excitement became even greater. He'd admired her from the moment he first saw her. She was cautious, always being wary of strangers and showed no willingness to share in his first attempts to chat, but gradually she warmed up to him

.

They met in the local Laundromat where they both spent Saturday afternoons doing their wash loads. He started a casual conversation and did most of the talking in the beginning. He wooed her slowly after their first encounter. Over the last couple of months she had become more animated and involved in their conversation as he hoped she would.

His chance to take things to another level came on a cold, rainy afternoon. Her car wouldn't start and she came back in from the rain looking both angry and distressed. She had no money for a cab and carrying all her laundry home on the bus wasn't possible. He tried to help jump start her car but nothing he did would get it running.

He gallantly offered to give her a ride home. Reluctant at first, she finally smiled and accepted the ride making his heart leap. By the time they reached her house they were laughing and she seemed more at ease than he could have hoped for. She graciously accepted his offer to carry her laundry into the house for her.

The rest of the evening was a pleasant blur as he passed the time enjoying her company the way he'd been dreaming of for so long. But it was a kiss he wanted; the kind of kiss that would make the evening something special. A kiss they would both remember.

Just before he kissed her for the first time, he reached out gently and touched her face. He wiped the blood from her lips, smearing her cheek as it mixed with her tears. He hoped she could see him through her swollen eyes. She pressed against him willingly, finally believing he wasn't going to kill her.

 He should have put the knife away sooner.

The Knock on the Door

The Knock on the Door

The knocking on the cabin door was hard and rapid, just short of pounding.

“Who the fuck is that?” Sara’s boyfriend, Jim, questioned as he got up to open the door. “It’s almost two in the morning!”

Before she could stop him Jim opened the door and a man covered in blood and clutching a large hammer pushed his way in. He had a crazy look on his face and was yelling something incomprehensible.  She recognized him as one of the people in the cabin next to theirs.

He looked at Sara and started towards her raising the hammer. Jim jumped on him from behind and they fell to the floor. The man kept screaming as Jim did his best to hold him down.

 Ned and Jan, the couple that was sharing the cabin with them, emerged from the back bedroom to find Jim and the blood covered man wrestling on the floor.

As Ned jumped onto the lunatic the hammer fell to the floor. As Jan stood screaming in the corner, Sara picked up the hammer and tried to help end the terror. She did her best to help and started to swing the hammer at the crazy men. She wasn’t sure if the man was dead when she stopped swinging. Jim and Ned were lying on the floor on top of the lunatic. She couldn’t remember what happened to her girlfriend. Everything became a blur.

The next thing she knew she was running through the woods clutching the hammer and looking for a place to hide. Exhausted, she finally fell and crawled under some brush and tried to be still. She wasn’t sure if she was being followed and she didn’t want to be found. She tried to calm her panting.

Confused, she started to go over the events of the night. A night filled with hate, violence and terror. How could something like this happen? They were just out for a fun weekend. What would drive a man so crazy that he would break into a cabin filled with strangers and try to kill them all? Why? And then she remembered.

It was all because of that slut, Judy.

Sara had started dating Jim about 6 months ago. He was a handsome, popular boy and many other girls had sought his company. Sara was easily the most beautiful girl around yet was regarded as a bit of a prude. She didn’t “put out” as they say.

Despite her reputation as a “good girl”  Jim was drawn to her. He was aggressive and, like most boys, did all he could to bed her. Still, true to her nature, Sara resisted most of his advances because she wanted to wait until marriage. She would only go so far. Jim seemed to understand and backed off after his initial attempts. It didn’t take long for Sara to decide that Jim was the man she wanted to marry.

When she discovered the texts on his phone from Judy everything changed. Her plans to marry Jim were suddenly threatened in a serious way. Jim never let on that he was screwing Judy on the side and she couldn’t confront him.

When she heard that Judy was going to the lake for the weekend and Jim suddenly suggested that he, Sara and their best friends go to the lake on the same weekend, Sara knew she had no choice. It was now or never.

Jim had had too much to drink and fell asleep on the couch. Ned and Jan had gone into the bedroom earlier. Sara could hear the couples in the cabin next to them partying. She slipped out of the cabin and went over to Judy’s cabin and knocked softly. A large man she didn’t know answered the door and called to Judy.

Judy came to the door and smiled when she saw Sara standing there. She emerged from the cabin to smoke a cigarette, blowing the smoke casually as Sara confronted her about the affair. Rather than deny it she just laughed at Sara.

“Oh, come on, Sara!” she taunted. “What makes you think that a priggish little girl like you could hold on to someone like Jim? Shit, from what he told me you won’t even jerk him off or let him get under your shirt. It’s a shame really because you have such nice titties.” When she reached out and ran her hand over Sara’s breasts something in Sara snapped.

She shoved Judy as hard as she could and Judy fell back hitting her head against the wood piled on the side of the cabin. Sara picked up an old hammer lying near the pile and started smashing Judy in her beautiful, smirking face.

She heard someone from inside the cabin call out and she ran to stand by the door. Judy’s current lover came out and called her name. It only took one blow from the hammer to send him down. He was bleeding and unconscious when she entered the cabin.

She found the other couple passed out on the couch wrapped in each other’s arms. Both were naked. Neither of them ever woke up as Sara pounded their skulls into bloody messes. By the time she was done it was impossible to see where one head ended and the other began.

She calmly went to Judy’s clothes, picked out some that looked much the same as her blood covered outfit and took a shower. Her boyfriend Jim never noticed the difference when she got back.

Everything was fine until the large man, the one she stepped over thinking he was dead as she left the cabin, knocked on the door.

As she recalled the events of the night Sara knew that no matter how far or fast she ran she would never escape the maniac in the cabin. After all…

… You can never run away from yourself.

Lonely Roads

Lonely Roads
By Michael Cannata

The hum of the tires was like a low whisper that gave voice to the lonely road he drove. The radio stations faded in and out over these long stretches between cities and civilization. Music was always welcome, but he didn't mind the silence. Alone with his thoughts, he preferred listening to the song of the road.

The highway was the path he followed as he crossed the country delivering the loads he carried. His home was a cramped space behind the cab of his rig. He had a family once, and a house that gave him a place to call home, but that was years ago. The long stretches of time between his visits had made them strangers. The last time he made it home it was empty. All he found was a note from his wife explaining why they were gone. He never did learn where they went. Eventually, he stopped even trying to find them.

Long hauls were his livelihood.  He drove coast to coast as easily as people drove across town. Loneliness wasn't something he experienced anymore. After twenty-five years he learned how to cope with the solitude. He grew to relish the isolation and silence that he lived in. Tonight the miles seemed to fly by. His truck moved easily without the drag of a container and he was making good time. He would have some time to kill at this rate.

Truck stops provided comfort and the occasional chance to interact with other drivers. Weather and road conditions made up most of his conversations. The stops were places filled with friendly strangers. The stops gave him a place to shower and shave. He loved the smell of the engine exhaust and the dust of the road, but he hated smelling his own sweat. Once groomed, he would stock up on the meager supplies he needed and start driving again.

The constant crackle of the chatter over the CB radio had grown silent. There were two more waysides where he could pull over for a quick rest before he reached his next destination. He slowed down as he approached the one he liked best and pulled into the darkest corner. It overlooked a deep chasm where a small river ran past. It was a beautiful spot that he knew well. The troopers that patrolled the highways never bothered the truckers that stopped during the night to rest 

He parked his truck and went into the back of his rig; He stood looking at the girl hanging limply from the chains holding her. She'd stopped talking about 300 miles back. She didn't even scream when he approached her naked, bruised body. He considered just tossing her into the ravine now.

Still, it would be days before he could find a new companion. He preferred women that would fight and beg him to stop. But quiet company was better than no company at all.

           Besides, he had some time to kill.