Coda

He followed the familiar tune through the fog: strings, horns, that impossibly sweet voice. The gloom lifted to reveal the girl, singing her heart out under the spotlight, invisible orchestra in accompaniment. He cried tears of joy, felt love, and also something not quite love.

"You sing it to me every night in my mind. But it sounds so much clearer now. Why?"

She smiled sadly. "Can't you guess?"

*

"Is he dead?" The reporter watched the killer's body inside the execution chamber.

"Yes."

He peered closer. "What does he have to smile about? He murdered that girl right on stage!"

From Guest Contributor Clay Waters

Alice Falls For A Killer

She surmises blood stains under everything. His skin is cracked like hard dirt in a barren winter. "You could use baby oil," she says. Later, they share a half-gallon of chocolate chip ice cream, her treat. They always meet by the railroad tracks because of his love of trains and exit signs. He speaks in fragments, and she imagines his past is dammed up, full of unexplained absences. She wants to show him her breasts under the moonlight. She wants to hear him whistle so shrilly it will puncture the dark. Then, the darkness will erase the both of them.

From Guest Contributor Kyle Hemmings

Conversation RIP (Killer)

There was furious silence in the booth from the women, mixed with a gauged suspension of opinion from the men.

Ginny, being invested, had expressed her dissatisfaction with the quality of man available to the unwed mother.

Kurt had provided a brutally frank answer. It hung in the air above the table like a phantasm.

To me, he’d drawled, a man willing to bring up another’s child born of selfish gratification – or conversely accept someone who’d aborted – wouldn’t think much of himself. Where’s the quality in that?

I wished the now red-faced Frank had given a brutally curt answer instead.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

A Killer

I should have sensed him as I entered the room, guessed that he was crouched in the corner silently watching me. As I reached for a bowl he dashed out from his hiding place. I shrieked as I brought the bowl down repeatedly onto his body. I didn’t stop until his insides spilled out beyond the edges of his cool smooth skin. His head was pressed over the edge of the sink in an unnatural position, as if dreaming of escape from a deranged woman wielding a bowl. I'm a killer; this unfortunate salamander’s life taken in five horrible blows.

From Guest Contributor Natashia Smith

Natashia writes poetry and flash fiction. She has been published at: 50-Word Stories, Friday Flash Fiction and Postcard Shorts.

Budget Costs

The detective leaned back in the seat, stretched expansively and roared. “Lazy fucking bastards!”

There was a sudden flurry of papers being shuffled, phones being lifted, and desk drawers being opened and closed.

“Aggghhh, not you useless lot,” he growled. “Not this time anyway.”

“Who’s offended the mighty Sergeant Prick, this time?” an attractive female police officer drawled.

“That’s Pryck … like dyke.” She’d rebuffed his many advances.

She merely generated a smug smile...pausing it for greater effect.

“Hrrmph, thought I’d a break on the Couples Killer...but the council couldn’t be bothered cleaning the CCTV lenses.”

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Lake Wakona

George and Kristen were counselors at the Lake Wakona Christian Retreat. They'd met there several years before as campers and were eager to become reacquainted now that they were in high school.

First love can be a majestic experience, filled with dizzying heights of emotion, but almost always ending in a pit of despair. For George and Kristen it would be no different. They shared their first kiss and pledged to love each other always.

Fortunately, George and Kristen would spend the rest of their lives together. Unfortunately, they were both killed that summer by the Lake Wakona chainsaw butcher.