After a very successful second submission cycle, One Eye Press wants to thank all those who submitted stories for consideration to our Winter 2015 issue and beyond. Now that the submission window has closed our BLIGHT DIGEST editors will continue working through the entries to fill future issues. With the volume we do expect this […]
Cassidy Sinclair leaned against her boss’s desk and took a deep drag on the cigarette he’d offered her when she came into his office that Friday afternoon.
“Is everything in order?” she asked, taking another drag before flicking the ash off the end of the cigarette. The room was dimly lit and felt a little stuffy. She knew the smoke wasn’t helping things, but in these instances, smoking was a necessity.
Her boss, a large man who was tall and muscular, sat there, watching her face. She felt nervous, as if she was on display. She was used to him watching her like this, but knowing the task that was at hand, she couldn’t help but squirming.
“You will call me at half past ten, and let me know the results. If I do not hear from you by then, I will assume you have failed, and you will be terminated. You will make sure that no one sees you, because I will deny any knowledge, and I will not come to your rescue. Is that understood?”
I’m running and the only sounds I hear are my ragged breath and my feet hitting concrete—a painful slapping noise echoing down the—what is it this time—oh, an alley. Yes, it’s an alley. Buildings lean in making me feel trapped. It’s like an Eastern European painting, I saw once. Maybe it’s made of cardboard. Flimsy street lamps with dim bulbs throw a shadow despite the starless, moonless sky. It’s like a movie set I’ve seen on screen a million times. Or more oddly been part of a thousand times.
“Don’t you ever get bored with it?” a voice asks. “This senseless running—and from a woman with no aptitude for it. Look at the graceless way you hold your arms. You should invest in some decent running shoes. Bare feet on cement is foolish. And why are your hands splayed like that. Bend them.”
I have no idea who’s speaking or from where, but I look down at my feet. Bare, grimy, and full of cinders. The soles sting. I peer behind the ash cans, check out the dark windows above me, the rooftops. Nothing.
He broke into the trailer after the fairgrounds closed. Watched the pig races earlier and something gripped him—told him to save those little fuckers. It was probably the seven beers and whiskey doing the driving, but he ignored those thoughts. He was the hero—liberator of the oppressed swine.
The trailer was wide—larger than the one he’d seen the carnies shuffle the pigs into. He was sure this was the one, though—had a picture of a smiling hog with speed lines poking out of its rear. The pigs were nowhere to be seen. Didn’t matter, they were probably further in the back.
He took another sip of rye—it stung and warmed his chest. The taste was so nice he took another pull. Before he knew it, the bottle was empty. A full fifth of whiskey sitting in his gut, spurring him on. It numbed him—taught him to be a hero between acidic burps.
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Called out, “Here piggy,” in a half slurred sing-song.
Earlier this fall we announced the acquisition of Tom Pitts’ novella, LIFE OF SERVICE, with a tentative release of March 2015. Pitts novella kicks off our second season of the Singles line, and while on schedule we have changed the title to KNUCKLEBALL and should have a cover reveal late January, early February. Today we […]
“What’d you think about me in high school?” Jack was grinning like a simpleton out a broken window at every piece of train graffiti that stuttered past.
The man shrugged beneath the weight of chains.
Jack squinted at him and wagged a finger. “No, no. No bullshit. Don’t avoid the question because I have you chained up in a barrel. Be honest.”
The man licked his lips and tasted gasoline. “You were kind of a bully. I mean, you were funny and all when it was somebody else, but …”
Jack’s eyes bulged. “Did I bully you?”
The man tried to breathe slowly through his nose, but the fumes made it onerous and nauseating. He had to take deep, burning lungsful past his broken teeth to keep from vomiting. “You called me Gary Fairy.”
Jack’s laughter echoed in the abandoned warehouse. “I don’t remember that.”
The man laughed, spuming sweat and gas. “Yeah. Pissed me off.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “I bet it did.” He flicked at his nose with a thumb. “Was I good at stuff?”
The man looked around. “I don’t know. You were good in welding class.”
“Go easy on him, Frank,” Stephen said, a little bit of a whine edging into his voice.
But Frank wasn’t hearing it. His blood was up — as they say.
The kid, barely out of his teens, had both of his hands up in a defensive gesture, but Frank’s fists, as big as a catcher’s mitt, battered through them and struck home. A left caught the kid in the side of the head, jarring him, but the right hit him square on, knocking him off his feet. He fell back, striking the corner of the aging brick building, and ended up face-first in the dirt, gravel, and broken glass littering the alley.
“You think you can steal on my beat?” Frank hissed out. He moved in over the kid, fists up, poised like a boxer, his weight balanced evenly on both of his feet, his shadow enveloping the kid like a blanket. The kid looked up, a pathetic look on his face as blood oozed from his shattered nose.
“You gotta back off!” Stephen shouted as he grabbed Frank by the shoulders and tried to wrench him away. Frank shot out a tree trunk-sized arm and caught Stephen in the chest, knocking Stephen aside like he was made of balsa wood.
From a distance, I saw the shooter run into the subway. He wore an overcoat that puddled around him and a fedora. As commuters streamed down the stairwells, the fugitive pushed through the crowd and kiosks of vendors shouting in their different dialects. A gypsy with bags under her eyes brushed past me. Checking my wallet, I felt it still there along with the .357 revolver in my shoulder holster.
Chasing him, the escalator dumped us onto a dimly lit train platform. A fluorescent bulb dropped a cone of light onto the messy concrete floor. Cold drafts hunted gaps in my suit, I thrust my hands deeper in my pockets trying to be more invisible. The suspect turned and gave me a curious look before pushing onto the train.
A crowd flowed into the parting doors, I pushed into the gaggle and onto the train. We both sat on worn plastic seats half a car-length apart. Looking away, I gazed at a scantily
clad underwear model with concentration camp collar bones pasted on a billboard. Glancing back, I saw he matched the description
One Eye Press wants to wish everyone a happy holidays, and to help you fill your virtual stockings. All One Eye Press Kindle editions are reduced to 99¢ for the month of December. Don’t be a Grinch, be a Saint… Nick with these holiday deals. If you want to fill those physical stockings and your […]
The way she was bleeding told me two things; they got her too good for her to be on her feet anymore and I needed someplace to park her that’d buy me some getaway time.
“You think I’m gonna be okay, Trav?” she asked around the wincing and quiet sobs. Tear-streaked and pleading. I looked down to her, saw she’d bled on all that hard-earned money and wanted to say no just because it might be ruined cuz she don’t know how to take a damn hit.
“Yeah. I’m just plottin’ our next move, is all.” I lie and pat her on the head. Feel like I’m petting a loyal dog. Mostly am.
“Get that fucking gun out of my face!”
“Or else?” I spoke calmly.
“Just get it out of my face.” Sweat was moistening the barrel of my 40 caliber pressed against Clyde Swinehart’s forehead.
“Tell me where to find Raven Quinn.”
“I don’t know where she is, but I’m pretty sure she’s dead. Wouldn’t keep her mouth shut. Folks in this county need jobs. Who cares if we screw up the environment a little? It’s just sand.”
“If she is dead, then you know who did it.”
“Wasn’t me. I don’t know nothing.”
The man hits the carpeted floor with a thud. Jake gives him a pat-down. No ID. Just a Glock with a silencer, two magazines, one car key, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes. These people are so predictably passé.
Jake glances at his watch: 22:42. It’s going down soon, one way or another. As expected, the open-plan office is dark and empty. Taking a palm-sized scanner from his back pocket, he swipes each item and the dead guy. Good, no trackers—well, except for the thing locked around his own ankle. They’ll probably break through his jammer eventually. He huffed, wishing he had time to saw it off.
