Sex and Murder Magazine Volume 1 Issue 1 August, 2009

All content is Copyright 2009 of its respective author. All authors and artists within reserve all rights to their respective works. Works are published with permission from their respective author or artist. No content of this magazine may be reused in any way without the express written permission of its author or artist

Table of Contents
Angelas Rising Kevin Brown whatever you may believe David McLean Predatory Fish B.L. Morgan Death Stare William Andre Sanders for Edmund Kemper David McLean Convulsions Doug McIntire Pushed at Both Ends Joseph M. Gant Down at the J and Flying Joseph M. Gant The Other Side Philip Roberts Concrete Jungle Safari kj tissue boxes for shoes kj How Far Can This Go? Douglas Allen Rhodes 2

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Cover art Oppressive Nights by Rami Hassam. http://lord-ramoth.deviantart.com/

Angelas Rising
By Kevin Brown The stars are wonderful tonight. I want to reach out and trace Orion with my finger, but my arms are pinned down above my head, and this one is taking twice as long as the others. I measure the time it takes by the number of stars I count. Im at one hundred and sixtysix, now. It doesnt really matter. The result is the same. After two years, youre not even bothered by the process anymore. When the really violent ones bash your face in, or use rusted knife blades to mark you up, you harden. You have gun barrels jammed so far down your throat it takes days to get the copper taste off the back of your tongue. You accept it, because you have your purpose. And you have your stars. I'm Angela Shepherd. Ive been raped twenty-four times, not counting this one. Ive been cut eleven times, stabbed twice, and beaten more times than I can remember. I was shot in the stomach near the mouth of Devils Tunnel a year ago. The only one that ever hurt, though really hurtwas the first one, the one that gave me AIDS the same year I learned long division. ***** This one finally finishes. He breaks a beer bottle against the alley wall and presses a sharp piece of glass to my cheek. He says hell take my tongue if I run to the cops. Anyway, he says, you fucking liked it. Im not really listening, though. My hands are free now, and Im tracing Orions bow drawn wide at Taurus. Blood slides over my cheek where the glass is digging in and I start to laugh. Stupid cunt, he says. Then he's off me and into the shadows up the alley. With AIDS, you get open lesions. You get ballooning lymph nodes. Lying in broken glass and maggot-covered garbage, it starts to rain in pucker marks on the alley floor. I can still smell himall sour beer and mildewed cigarettes, on my torn clothes. According to our information, Im the fourth girl hes raped. Walking up the alley, Im holding my clothes together in fistfuls, and Brandon comes to me out of the darkness like an illusion. His police issue Baretta Elite is drawn and hes carrying my first-aid bag. Jesus, he says, Christ. Nine and a half minutes. The rules ten, Brandon. You know that, I say, and suddenly Im on my elbows and knees coughing dry, hot air.
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You get weak breath. The rain comes harder. Brandon helps me up and drapes his coat over my shoulders. Whatd he cut you with? he says, wiping the blood with a towel from the bag. Bottle, I tell him. I counted two hundred and twelve. And he says, I told you, youre his fourth. Hes comfortable. Hes dead. He just doesnt know it. I hold the end of an adhesive bandage to my cheek, and Brandon pulls the other end tight and thumbs it down. Probably wouldnt give a shit, anyway, I say. Dont know, Brandon says. Balls are just balls until youre kicked there. Then, they're your whole goddamn world." ***** How I met Brandon was, he was an assisting officer in the investigation the first time I was raped. Hes who found me. He always stood away from the other cops, watching me. Just being around, he seemed to take some of the hurt away, to hoist it onto his shoulders. He rarely spoke except with his eyes, looking out from under his dark hair. What they said was: Im sorry this had to happen. They said: Im sorry this happened to you. Someone whos raped, theyre raped again every time theyre asked about it. Tell us again exactly what happened. Give us the details. What I remember was the mans rotted teeth smiling, saying, Youre my little pussycat, aint cha? I remember the large, bruise-colored birthmark around his colorless right eye. Here kitty, kitty. Here kitty, he said, his spit stringing into my face. The sores around his nose and mouth. His breath on my neck. Details. I passed out under a monster and woke up with Brandon holding me. My attacker, police found him three weeks later in the basement of an abandoned house on Lampkin Lane. What the AIDS left, the rats mostly took. After the rape, Brandon's eyes said he was hurting. After I was diagnosed positive, they said hes pissed.
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The doctors tell you all about HIV. They tell you about rapid weight loss and chronic fatigue. Fever and night-sweats. You learn about venereal diseases. The details. Youre put on a drug treatment called Highly Active Anti-Retroviral Therapy. Called HAART. This is a combination of three HIV drugs: NRTIs, PIs, and NNRTIs. This is what you will feed your body the rest of your life. Words you cant spell. Words you cant even say. In the hospital, Brandon never left my side. Even after visiting hours, he was never asked to leave. In that room, in the burning hours of the early mornings, something was growing. One afternoon, a Social Services agent tells you, all smiles, about a family that will take care of you. Your first one. This is where you will go to die until Brandon takes your hand, his eyes telling you: Ive lost faith in the Justice System. They tell you: Its a bed and three hot meals a day. A color TV. Weight room and recreational yard. Its state funded programs for better prison libraries and improved inmate education. At the age most girls have first dates, I ran away from my first family. Brandon and I, we had a plan. ***** At the car I change clothes. I always have extra clothes in the trunk: underwear, shirts, pants, and socks. Even an extra pair of shoes. I put on a hooded jacket, zip it to my chin, and pull the hood over my head. I cant stop my hands from shaking. You get chills. My fingers on the heater vents, Brandon puts the car into drive. His eyes say: Im so tired. Rain shadows pelt his cheek and slide down in black streaks. Look, he says, you done one. Lets call it a night. I knew this was coming. I tell him, We planned two. Its so cold, he says. He rubs his eyes and sees my hands rattling against the heater vents. Youll get pneumonia again Brandon
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your body won't hold up this time. He looks out his window. We could take some time off. I told you Im fine. This isn't seasonal, I say. Just drive. I know what this is, better than anyone. He rubs his eyes again, shakes his head, and laughs. Whys it thinking about living makes some want to die, and thinking about dying makes others want to live. I laugh the kind of laugh when you dont feel like laughing and say, Confusion. We turn left on Pilate Street and a black Sedan whips in behind us. Brandon adjusts the rearview mirror, squinting from the glare of the headlights. In my mirror, I open my mouth. You get a thick, yellow tongue. Still looking in the rearview, he tells me we're all on our way out. That the key is to dance a little before the song's over. "Husbands, mothers, childrenme," he says and runs a hand through his hair. Look in that mirror. With or without AIDS, it's the reflection of someone doomed. I roll my tongue around my pale reflection and cough into the glare from the headlights. Objects, I say, may be closer than they appear. ***** Our plan, it consists of an active phase and a preventive phase. First, Brandon and I scout the worst areas in the city, the sections overrun with gangs, drug dealers and addicts, the districts scarred by derelict houses hiding known felons. We take notes. Now, imagine a young girl in one of these areas late at night. Imagine her alone except for her stars and an angry cop parked two blocks down, counting the seconds off ten minutes. Imagine her held face down over a gutted sofa littered with syringes and used needles, head pulled back by the hair, a knife to her throat. Imagine a worm on a hook. And they share their needles and spread themselves around. This is how the disease is injected. The active phase. In the preventive phase, Brandon heads a strike unit called A.R.E.A., the Anti-Rape Enforcement Agency. It consists of four eight-man teams, each assigned to an area weve
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infected. The teams are divided into four pairs on rotating six-hour shifts. Some are undercover. Others work surveillanceover two hundred and fifteen strategically placed mini-cameras, from vans parked at nearby locations. A.R.E.A. quarantines the infected sections by any means necessary. Think of them as angels protecting you while you live. No potential victims are allowed within a three hundredfoot radius of the areas. None of the infected are allowed out, no questions asked. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week for fifty-two weeks. See you on Christmas. See you on the Fourth of July. If you are in one of the areas, we see you now. And rapists are not confined to any certain social class. They're not all junkies in wrecked out heroin houses, or gutter-rats living like zombies in back alleys. Many of them are doctors and bankers, athletes and CEOs. We have a division of A.R.E.A. that collects intelligence. If youre a sex offendera date rapist, sodomist, if youve insisted upon intercourse when your partner was not in the moodthis division knows. Number four on my list of twenty-five was a family doctor who sometimes gave sedated female patients a little "extra" check-up. Number nine was a high school history teacher who gave As for more than hard study. Number twenty, a preacher, a husband and father of four, had a thing for young Asian boys. And these people are easiest to infect. You find their hangouts or where they work. Youre young and attractive. An easy worm on a poisoned hook. After they finish with you in some rent-by-hour hotel, you trail them to their home. Late at night, you slip a 4x 6 index card into their mailbox. Written on it in careful print is this: TO THE FAMILY OF _____, YOUR HUSBAND RECENTLY HAD AN AFFAIR WITH A WOMAN CLINICALLY DIAGNOSED HIV POSITIVE. I URGE YOU TO TAKE EVERY PRECAUTION NECESSARY TO PROTECT YOURSELF AND YOUR CHILDREN. IM SORRY THIS HAD TO HAPPEN. IM SORRY THIS HAPPENED TO YOU. Since we began two years ago, six of the twenty-five have diedtwo from the disease and four suicides. At the bone, this is how our world operates. Do unto others what theyve
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done unto you. Bomb us, we bomb you. Attack. Counterattack. Turn the other cheek when you get tired of watching. ***** I look back at the headlights of the Sedan. Theyve been in our mirror for six miles. Im serious, Brandon says, we need a few months, just till the weather eases. That cars still behind us, I say. He glances in the rearview. He says, I just dont think I can keep going. Then stop, but this was your plan, too. That we started two years ago. Were even now. And things, he says, are different. Different? The people we deal with? I say things are worse. Maybe were helping out with that. Im sacrificing myself for people I dont knowwho wouldnt look twice at me on the streetso no other kids'll have to grow up knowing they were murdered. Youre sacrificing us. I know the shit holes you disappear into every night. How you might not walk out." He rubs his eyes and looks back out the window. "It's killing me, too." Were near our location and I tell him to pull over. The Sedan passes us. Down the road it U-turns and pulls to the opposite curb. Look, I say, what we do works. We're saving lives every night. But we're giving every bit of ours. Like you said," I tell him, starting to cough. "We all get the gate. I cough until Im dry heaving into my jacket sleeve. I wipe my mouth, open the door, and he takes my arm. Please, he says. Just promise, I say, when I die, youll be two blocks away, watching the clock. He lays his head back and says, "Be careful."
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See you in ten or less. He knows its useless. This is who we are. This is why we are. You could not have kept Christ from His cross. And when the nails are in the wrists, you just have to hang. ***** Stop me if youve heard this one: a girl walks into an alley and three guys are hovered around a barrel-fire near the end. The alleys lit red like the sunset of a bad love poem, and these three guys, they see this girl coming toward them through the filmy heat rising off the fire, her jacket hood slipped over her head. Shes a sickly looking bitch, but ass is ass, right? They step around the barrel-fire and are backlit into silhouettes: Two short ones. One Goliath fucker. They surround me, and Im snatched and lifted like an offering and carried toward the end of the alley. Their hands are tearing at the sores on my back and shoulders, and for a second, I see the handle of a dipper between a break in the rain clouds. Then, Im flipped face-first into a pile of half-opened garbage bags. Rats scatter beneath me. Get her legs open. I want in her asshole, one says, Goliath, I see by his flickering shadow on the wall. My pants are skinned off in a hard jerk, and my knees drop to the concrete. Silhouettes one and two each grab a leg and spread me open. If she shits on me," Goliath says, over the sound of his zipper, "kill her." This is where you close your eyes and wait. Try to imagine Orion reaching down and lifting you away. Get down! I hear from behind. The fuck down, now! My legs are dropped to the concrete again, and there is a flurry of shadows on the wall. A hand takes my elbow. Careful, her knees are bleeding, a voice says. Turning around, I see the three silhouettes face down, their hands behind their heads. Three cops are standing above them with their guns pointed. The one holding my elbow says, Maam, and hands me my pants. To the right of the men is Brandon, standing in an entryway, his hands in his pockets. His head is lowered but his eyes are looking at me. They say: Im sorry. Angela Shepherd, the cop with my elbow says, you have the
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Brandon? I say. right to remain silent Brandon, whats this? The cop stops and looks over at the entryway. Brandon rubs his eyes. anything you say, the cop says, looking back at me, can and will be held against you in a court of law. I'm with Brandon, I say. Tell him." The cop looks back at the entryway, then back at me. Miss Shepherd, he says, who are you talking to? Brandon, tell him to let go of me. The cop looks over again. Miss Shepherd, you see someone there? The other three cops look toward the entryway, then at each other. Brandon fucking Hooper! I say, pointing. Sergeant Brandon Hooper, who runs the A.R.E.A. Strike Team. Brandon looks at me and lowers his head. The cop holding me looks at the other cops. Miss Shepherd, we dont have a Sergeant Brandon Hooper, he says. Theres no unit called A.R.E.A. Im aware of. He pulls my elbow. Come on. Brandon, please! Looking down, he rubs his eyes and looks away. Come on, now, Miss Shepherd. Theres no one there. ***** They tell you your name is Angela Shepherd and youre in the Raining Hills Sanitarium. Youre in the advanced stages of the AIDS virus. Brandon Hooper, they tell you, is a delusion, a part of you. The part that wanted to stop. They also tell you A.R.E.A. does not exist, either. Like Brandon, its your creation. "The part that wanted to protect."
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You hear about tertiary syphilis. According to lab tests, this is what you contracted approximately two years ago. The AIDS virus is feeding off the syphilitic infection, as the syphilis feeds off your dilapidated immune system caused by the AIDS. The result of this is what we call paresis, they say. "You call it insanity." The night you were arrested, they tell you with needles and cups of pills, four off-duty officers saw a young woman driving alone in a bad neighborhood at a late hour. They thought you were after drugs. Then you parked and got out. One of the officers recognized you as Angela Shepherd, a missing case from two years ago. Based on similarities in some of your older handwriting samples and that of several handwritten index cards, the Angela Shepherd wanted by authorities for intentionally spreading the AIDS virus. They tell you about some of the men you infected, and their families. Since A.R.E.A. isnt real, the intelligence you claim to possess isnt real, either. Most of the men you infected were ordinary, hard working citizens who met the wrong girl. Only one has a police record. "These men were adulterers, not sex offenders." The index cards, police initially suspected they were being given to random families as a form of psychological terrorism, because the people you gave the cards to were not in any way related to the men you infected. So, what you have is families who think they have AIDS but don't. You have families who have AIDS and don't know it. You have the most dangerous men in the city possibly carrying this disease, and no one to stop them. This is what they tell you. What they want you to hear. What they dont tell you is thank you. Thank you for doing for the world things that create religion. Thank you for the love and the blood. For being the shepherd and the lamb. For fighting the Beasts. Because these Beasts, these days, they're everywhere.

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whatever you may believe

By David McLean whatever you may believe you have no connection with the sun or with the trees who do not care for you however many cancers you happen to have at the moment however much sadness and whatever god's diarrhea you drink greedily the trees will not thrive well on your weak and pasty meat they need a redder blood to eat

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Predatory Fish
By B.L.Morgan I sucked in the smoke of the joint that Bobby Chavez passed me from the back seat, feeling it slowly fill my lungs and enjoying the feeling of thickness behind my forehead. This was some good shit, Mexican weedgood to the last toke. Maria, my girl, was driving. She's a short, stocky, Mexican woman with thick sensuous lips, long black hair, and deep brown eyes. She seems to always have this idiot grin on her face when she's stoned. The music of The Doors filled my head, sending messages of sweet, soft death. This is the end, beautiful friend This is the end, my only friend, the end... Yeah, sweet death, come and take me. The gray smoke from the weed filled my mind. It matched the overcast sky above us. Victoria Texas in the winter time; we cruise the back roads regularly. We've been dealing for awhile, Maria and me. But sometimes we just got to get away from these idiots that come knocking on our door, needing to get stoned. Hell, we need to get our relaxation every now and then, but junkies just don't take a break. They need to get stoned every day. Bobby is a pretty cool guy. At around six three and two hundred and thirty pounds, with an ugly scarred up face, he doesn't get messed around with too much. He talks his shit. Telling us how we're his family now and how he'd eat a bullet for either one of us. Well, that's why we let him hang around us and smoke so much of our dope for free. He's like a type of bodyguard. He'll back his shit up too. Like the time this guy came up from Matamoros. He was supposed to be some kind of relative of Marias, a cousin or something. He came to us to buy some weed. Why he came to us when Matamoros is like weed city, I don't know. But, he had money, so I'll sell to him. He'd bought his bag and was sitting in our front room smoking with us when Marias fourteen year old daughter got home from school. Now, Leticia is a little too developed for her age and everyone knows it. But, she's a kid. You don't stare and you keep your fucking mouth shut. You treat her like a kid. This guy, maybe his name was Carlos, I can't remember, he didn't have no fucking sense.
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Leticia walks in and he's like a dog in heat. He's ooooin and ahhhhin and looking at her like she's a piece of meat and he aint ate in months. Then he said, "You need to lick my balls, little girl." That was it. Maria lit into him in Spanish. I aint never learned too much Spanish and when I'm stoned sometimes English is a foreign language. So I didn't know what passed between them, but he said something to Maria that made her and Leticia stomp right out of the room and into the kitchen. Bobby passed me a look that had death in it. Carlos, or whoever the hell he was, didn't catch the look. "Lets get the fuck away from these bitches," I said to Carlos. "We can smoke on the porch." Carlos went ahead of us and I passed Bobby a quick glance that told him what he wanted to know. Our porch had a wooden railing, and six big wooden posts held up a roof over our heads. Carlos parked his ass on the railing next to one of the posts. Bobby was on his left side I was on his right. I fished in my shirt pocket for a fresh joint and Carlos started talking his shit. "I don't let no bitch tell me what to do," he said. "No fucking bitch is ever going to rule me. Not this fucking cholo. No fucking way. I am one bad mother fucker." I held out the joint to him. He reached for it. Bobby drew back and slammed his fist into the side of Carlos head driving it into a wooden post. Something crunched inside his head. I think it was teeth breaking. Carlos eyes rolled up in his skull. He fell backward off the porch and landed in a heap in the dirt. I came down the stairs. Carlos was barely conscious. "You think you're gonna talk that shit to my woman and her kid and get away with it," I yelled at him. He got to all fours, which was what I was waiting for. I reared back and kicked him hard in the face. This time, when I heard the crunch, I knew it was his teeth breaking.
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I kicked the hell out of Carlos until my feet started getting sore. My legs were getting a little tired from the dance I was doing too. Bobby came down off the porch. Carlos was yet again trying to get to his hands and knees. He just wouldn't learn. Bobby came up from behind him and made a run at Carlos like he was doing the opening kickoff in a football game. He planted the toe of his boot between Carlos ass cheeks. From the sound Carlos made, I knew that for weeks he was going to be spending some uncomfortable time on the crapper. To make it short, we pitched and he caught and I don't think he liked the game we were playing. When we were bored with the beating we were laying on Carlos, we dragged him to the edge of our yard and rolled him into a ditch half filled with sewage. He looked right at home among all the floating turds. The next morning he was gone. His car was gone. We've never heard another word from him or about him. He wasnt missed either. Yeah, Bobby's my boy. I passed him a new joint to light while I tried to keep the smoke from my last hit in my lungs. The numbing in my brain felt good. It was like I had a layer of thick air between me and everything else. The inside of the car must have looked like we were carrying a fog bank with us. The roads out here are just gravel, spread on top of red dirt. There is always dust in the air. Just as Maria was reaching over her shoulder for the joint Bobby had lit, an old, light blue Chevrolet of some kind came around a bend and passed by us. Maria kept on driving. She took her hit and handed the joint to me. Jim Morrison spoke to me from the tape player. Of all you love replies the end No safety or surprise the end... I took a deep hit of the joint.
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"That bastards behind us," Maria said as she looked in the rear view mirror. "I thought I saw him earlier. He's been looking for us." Both Bobby and me turned around and looked. The blue Chevrolet was behind us, pacing us. "Who is this motherfucker?" I asked Maria. "I don't know," She answered. "I noticed him the second time he went past us." Maria sped up. The Chevrolet sped up. Our car was throwing up too much dust for us to be able to see who was driving the Chevrolet. Bobby wasn't saying anything, he was just watching out the back window. Maria almost lost control of the car on a bend and I told her to slow down. I had two weapons. A little chrome twenty-two that I wore on my belt behind my back and under my jacket; and a large, heavy screwdriver with a ten inch steel blade. The end of the screwdriver blade I'd sharpened on a grinder, down to a razor sharp point. The screwdriver was under the seat. I pulled it out. The Chevrolet pulled up beside us. His windows were rolled down. He shouted at us, "I want to buy some smoke." It was a black dude. He had some mangy looking dreadlocks. Maria yelled back, "We don't have nothing." "Pull over," he shouted to us and waved some money in the air at us. Bobby looked at me. "Do it," I told Maria. She started toward the side of the road and I leaned close to her. "We aint selling him shit," I told her. We stopped. He parked behind us. I popped my door and stuck my leg out, keeping the screwdriver hidden beside me.
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The guy walked up to the driver side door and leaned on our car, looking in at Maria. I stood up in the doorway on my side. "Get your hands off the car," I told him. "It be cool man. It be cool," he said. His Jamaican accent was fake. "All I want to do is buy me some weed. Dat is all I want man." "Don't have any," Maria told him. "We got nothing. Nada," Bobby said from the back seat. "Ok. In that case," the dreadlocked guys eyes and voice got hard. He lost all trace of an accent. "Victoria Police, get out of the car." Maria hit the gas. I tried to climb back in the moving car but my door swung shut and I was knocked sprawling to the ground and showered by gravel from the tires passing my head. Some laughing was coming from the side of me. "Oh man. That was fucked up." The guy with the dreadlocks said. "I didn't mean to scare your girl like that. I was just fuckin wit ya." I came up off the gravel with the screwdriver clutched in my fist. Maria slid to a stop about forty yards up the road. "You think that's fuckin funny, huh?" I said to him moving forward. Bobby came flying out of his car door, running toward us like a locomotive. The guy was backing up. "Hey, I don't want no trouble." Well, now trouble wanted him. I leaped forward and slashed him a backhand stroke across the face with the screwdriver blade. He squealed a scream that sounded like the winner in a hog calling contest. Blood flew in a line through the air. I'd sliced his skin open from his right cheek to his left cheek and cut his nose in half on the way. Bobby came at him and kicked him in the balls. He whined and went to his knees.
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I hit him another stroke across the face with the screwdriver and he went to his back covering his face. Maria was behind us. She screamed, "Stop! Stop!" But, there wasn't going to be anyone stopping me. I stomped on his throat and he gurgled and spit blood into the air. Everything seemed to stop then. He looked up at me. His eyes were clear. They met mine. Please, don't kill me. I knelt next to his chest, like some Aztec priest, and I drove the blade down into his heart. Maria screamed so loud I thought she would deafen me. Bobby was holding Maria. She had buried her head in his chest. I stood up. Maria was sobbing. "Shut the fuck up," I told her. Without a word she went to the car and got in. Bobby looked at me. "What are we gonna do?" he asked. I pulled the screwdriver from the guys chest and cleaned it in the dust. We went through the guys pockets. He wasn't a cop. His drivers license said he was James Blair. He had fifteen dollars and some change on him. He'd been waving ones at us. Blairs keys were still in the ignition. We opened the trunk and loaded him in. He was probably just some guy who was going to try to pull a scam on us. I told Bobby I knew of a deserted farm not far from there that hardly anyone ever went to. The place had been foreclosed on and no one had ever bought it from the bank. There was a deep lake on the property. We would just drive James Blairs car in, with him in the trunk. No one would find the car or him for years. I lead the way, driving our car. Bobby drove the blue Chevrolet. Maria sat in the riders seat crying the whole way out to this deserted farm. She was doing Hail Marys and asking for forgiveness and shit like that. I tried to talk to her and tell her that we handled the situation the only way we could. She only cried louder. I popped the Doors tape out of the tape player. There was no use in trying to listen to it with her wailing like that.
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This is never going to fucking work, I thought. We arrived at the farm and the gate was only tied shut with some wire that was no problem getting off. We drove onto the property crunching dirt clods and ancient cow pies under our tires. I drove past the old house. It was dried out and looking like it could collapse at any moment. Marias bawling was getting on my nerves. She really knew how to ruin a good buzz. I pointed Bobby at the spot where we would have to drive the Chevrolet in. He parked in front of the lake, I parked beside him. Maria and I got out of the car, and I went to the back of the Chevrolet. Bobby walked toward us. "Did you hear that?" I asked Bobby. "What?" He said. "I heard something in the trunk." Maria asked, "Is he alive?" "I heard something from in there," I told them. Bobby fumbled through the keys and found the trunk key. I stepped back. He popped the trunk open and leaned forward to take a look. I pulled the twenty-two from under my jacket. Bobby looked up. I shot him in the center of his forehead. He slid down the trunks bumper and sat on the ground. He looked up at me with a questioning look. He was probably already dead, but he looked like he was looking at me. "Sorry Bro," I told him. I shot him through the left eye. He went to his back, and blood began to pool around his head. Maria was looking at me with wide staring eyes, her mouth open in shock. "Why?" She whined.
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"Why?" I answered her, "Cause there's no way he was gonna let me do what I know I got to do. Shit, I'm gonna miss Bobby. He was all right by me." Realization hit her then and Maria turned to run. "Nope," I told her. "Can't be lettin you get away." I took aim and pulled the trigger. The bullet caught her between the shoulder blades. She went down face first and her nose plowed up some dirt. I went to Maria and rolled her over with my foot. She looked up at me. She was coughing blood. Her eyes looked beautiful. Maria always did have the prettiest eyes. "This is really going to pain me to have to do this," I told her, "I really did want to make a life with you, but you just would not have kept your fucking mouth shut." She opened her mouth to say something and I pulled the trigger and blew the back of her head out. Her pretty eyes still stared at me, so I shot those out too. I put Maria and Bobby in the back seat of the Chevrolet and started it. After placing a big rock on the gas, I took the car out of neutral and put it into drive. It drove itself into the lake and slowly disappeared under the water. I got into my car, took one of the joints out of the glove box, and lit it. Why doesn't anything ever go right for me? I asked myself. I go from town to town, from woman to woman, nothing ever stays right for very long. After awhile something always happens and I have to run. I plugged the Doors tape back in The end of laughter and soft lies. The end of nights we tried to die... The birds were chirping in the trees as I drove out of the farms gate. I put the wire back in place. Nothing ever stays perfect, I thought. Well, maybe next time.
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Death Stare
By William Andre Sanders Sheer terror constructs a stream dispersing thinly layered over agitated blood-vessels on the verge of bursting and emitting scarlet tears across your pitifully strained panic-stricken eyes. How you scramble, flashing your eyelids rapidly, only to find no triumph in your effort to look beyond that horrifyingly dark tunnel, blurring three-times distorted upon death of just one second. Feel desperation churning silent hysteria inside your eyes, as nerve-endings pulse an oddly precise rhythm-flowing simultaneous to rampant traumatization uttering screams from the heart. Glimpse far onto a bleary world that lies consciously oblivious. Resign aggressive struggles as I asphyxiate you beneath me. Open wide your tear-glazed eyes so that I may see the bright twinkle fade at the instant life evades, and leaves you laying-staring blindly, with mind and sight erased.

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for Edmund Kemper

by David McLean from mother to the cellar and death, there are worlds beyond her borders where the skull answers silenced from the slashed larynx that the grinder spat out just like angry lies about mothers and love and life so kill them still before you kiss them, Ed, for love is safest dead, and before you face-fucked your mother's skull she had fucked too much with your head

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Convulsions
By Doug McIntire As I copulated with my alien love mistress, the term succubus came to my mind. For she was a demanding mistress, using her mind to control me, keeping me hard and preventing my orgasm. But in spite of my inability to climax, the ecstasy continued to rise and build toward a crescendo, the likes of which Ive never experienced before. Suddenly she released her hold upon me. My heart exploded as my seed boiled forth, waves of euphoric pleasure passing through me as life was wrung from me in spastic convulsions. And in that instant, I found true happinessand death.

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Pushed at Both Ends

By Joseph M. Gant Fountain by the riverside Why'd ya go and turn to dust? Everythings a sham. Come and Play upon this pipe, Sweet Prince, you fuck who Bound me to the Rock to burn, Melt, Hit, Come to life in stars . . . To feel the moments Count the dying down. Time is money. Money time So why cant I afford my watch? Everythings a sham.

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Down at the J and Flying

By Joseph M. Gant

Something strikes romantic in a truck stop troll For pussy, dope, the night crawl stroll into that other -The goin' in the 2 a.m. hours of the morn. Diesel Pump perfume trails lead me to my hand picked ladies -Prices never change (forty straight up, sixty half and half), No internet escorts, craigslist scams - trannies love to mug You till you learn to love it too. You just pull in slow Between two trailers, flick the lights off and on and pray: no dick. Lucking out, take home twenty minutes worth of woman Names like Valentine, Afroditey, Joy parade; you try to hold Your face straight, count your cash beneath the wheel So she cant see what you cant pay -- look her over (just a glance) For new sores, fresh tracks . . . fuck it, ya say to save your eyes -Pick the dish and pay your bill. Tomorrow -- you tell yourself driving Her back, broke and spun -- tomorrow gonna get me some Joy.

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The Other Side

By Philip Roberts Ben White awoke to the sound of screaming in the night. The frantic howls of pain and rage brought him red-eyed and sluggishly to his feet. His pace was slow and meticulous. Now aware of his surroundings, he found a certain amusement in the screams, yet cringed at his own elation. Just three months ago when the first cries came, he had spent his night huddled in the corner of his bed, his pillows pressed over his ears, while he cried for the suffering he caused. Now, he stood before the closed closet door and slammed his fist into the wood. Ill gag you if I have to, he sneered. His voice cut off the uproar. Try it, the voice whispered. But the challenge carried little conviction, and there was no more commotion that night. ***** In recent weeks, when his co-workers gathered each day for lunch, Bens soft voice no longer joined their conversations.. All ten of them sat around a picnic table outside the building, basking in the spring weather while discussing various topics of little consequence. Ben lowered his eyes away from them so they wouldnt see his slight frown. Think Ill go back in, he said, bringing surprised stares. His friend, David, followed him. David was a man so large, that his walk took on a slight waddle, while his chin nearly melded with his neck. It was something that Ben had never really considered or cared about before. You seriously look really awful, David said. Ben picked his pace up just a little to force the man to struggle in order to keep up. Havent had any decent sleep in a long time. he said. If you needed any help you would ask, right? David pressed, Id hate to see anything bad happen to you because you were too kind to impose on anyoneI know you have a problem
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with that. In days past, David wouldve been right. Ben had spent his entire life reluctant to bring any potential hardship onto another person. He often shouldered workloads far above his means of accomplishing simply so that others could live their life with a little less stress. Ben turned towards David with a slight smile. You know something, he said, the recent string of shipments has been kind of weighing me down, especially with how little sleep Ive been getting. Why dont you lend me a hand with it? The two men stood there, surrounded by empty cubicles. Daves face scrunched up a little at Bens words. He was far more overworked than Ben, at the moment, and both men knew itjust as they both knew that Ben could easily handle the workload he currently had. Still, Ben had never asked something of a person unless he genuinely needed what he said. That much history made David reluctant to refuse. He nodded his head, SureI guess I could help. The goodness of his friend nearly made Ben break down and beg David for forgiveness right there. Whatever had possessed him to ask such an unnecessary thing withered. No, he said, dont bother, I can handle it myself. Ive justI dont know, but Ill handle it. Dont worry about it. I think I just need to get back to work. He left before David could ask him anything else. He stayed in his cubicle the rest of the day. He couldnt bring himself to face his coworkers. ***** We have to talk, he said to the closet door. Silence. He could feel his jaw tense up and his hand lightly shake as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Chains rattled as the man inside brought up his hands in an effort to protect his eyes from the sudden glare of the living room light. The clean-shaven, neatly dressed man he had wrestled to the ground and knocked unconscious only a few months before was now nowhere to be seen. Instead, a full beard covered the mans dirty face, its whiskers encrusted with dried blood. His hair was nearly down
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to his shoulders now, and he was hunched from so many days without being able to stand. Thick chains held the mans thin arms and legs, with just enough slack to allow him to lie down, but never to stand completely. His clothes were rumpled, darkened from blood and dirt, and they displayed little of the fine suit they once had been. On the floor beside him sat an empty food tray. Ben replenished it each morning, when he cleaned the mans bedpan. The stench inside the closet was horrible, and just having the door open nearly overwhelmed Ben. And what do we need to talk about? the man in the closet asked in a thin, hoarse whisper. Ive been Ben paused to gather his thoughts, lately at work Ive been having issues. Im not used to dealing with a temper, and Ive found myself getting close to sayinguh, things, to people, that I dont want to. Youre becoming a bit of an asshole and you arent quite used to it, eh? I guess. Im not sure. Ive never been like this, or felt anything like it before. Good. said the man, What the hell did you expect? You beat a man to the ground and lock him in a closet it changes you. Now wheres my food? Lets just talk first. I want my food now. I said we should ta- Shut up, the man insisted, and give me my food. Fine, Ben screamed, rot in there you stupid bastard. Eyes livid, Ben slammed the door as hard as he could. It took him nearly ten minutes perched on the sofa, eyes locked on the closet door, to get his nerves settled. I need my food, he heard the man call out. A hint of fear touched the mans voice. His words wavered in a way that Ben hadnt heard since placing him there. Apparently the isolation had finally started to break down the
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mans resistance. Yes, that was the only reasonable explanation. Ben disregarded any other possibilities. ***** Heard anything about your evil twin lately? David asked. He had the goddamn smile on his face that Ben had grown to loathe the past few days. The question wasnt really serious, David just liked to catch the attention of the newer people at the office, to make them look up and ask, Evil twin? He was really just trying to bring Ben out of the shell he was forming around himself. After all, the topic had always been one Ben found a tad amusing to discuss, even if it had always been bittersweet due to the turmoil it had caused him over the years. Oh yes, David said, still smiling at Ben, but enjoying the office attention, hes had one for years. Isnt that right? All his life hes been being confused with someone else. David continued, People have said he shoplifted, started fights, stole womenwho knows what else. Every time he had proof he was somewhere else. Hell, Ive seen people accuse him before when I knew for a fact Ben had been with me during the time they claimed he was doing something bad. The whole idea is pretty funny once you really get to know Ben. The very hint of Ben doing anything but the most noble of acts had previously been met only with bemused smiles. Ben was the model boy scout, as many had referred to him both playfully and angrily during his ten years at the office. These days, though, that label didnt stick as well. Ben began to suspect that Davids real purpose was to attempt to pull him back from the abyss he was clearly falling into. Sure, sure, Ben quipped, pushing himself away from the picnic table, laugh riot. Seriously, Ben, David asked, whats up with you lately? Need to run, Ben said, things to do. Id ask you to join me but I doubt you could keep up. He didnt turn back to see the look on Davids facehe didnt need to. Whos the evil twin? he heard someone at the table whisper.
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Bens pace didnt slow, but his mind froze up. Back at his desk, Ben couldnt work. He kept seeing a frail figure, held down in chains, and begging for food. But this wasnt about what Ben was doing. The man had brought it all on himself. After all, David hadnt gone over all of the things Ben had been accused of. His mind wandered, and, just briefly, he almost felt as if he was back in that police interrogation room. Two officers shouted allegations at him. They said multiple people, along with video surveillance, had identified him at the scene of the crime. They were so sure, so positive, so close to tearing down Bens life, before another murder had cleared him and set him free. All of this was in his head, all of the changing attitudes, the shifting emotions. He needed to get a hold of himself, to prove he wasnt anything like his supposed double. His hands gently shook as he brought them up to rub his eyes. Ben pushed back from his desk and approached Davids. Im really sorry, Ben said. He felt truly himself again, yet when David turned to face him, when he showed him that fat, bloated face, Ben still felt the other thoughts rise up. Why have you been like this? David asked. Call it, maybe, I dont know, a mid-life crisis. I think all this stuff about my double finally got to me. Look, do you care if I come over to your place tonight; hang out with you and Michele? Sure, definitely, you know youre always welcome. With the commitment made, Ben turned and walked away. Back at his desk, he found his thoughts drifting towards the evening to come, towards what would happen, and eventually towards Davids wife, Michele. She was a rather attractive woman with a much slimmer figure than David could ever boast. It had always been a bit of a surprise to those who met her. Just seeing David and his bulk made their marriage seem improbable, and it often roused unsavory conversations from coworkers about the type of woman David shouldve been married to. Oddly, Ben found his thoughts drawn very specifically to Michelle and her beauty as he sat at his desk. He had always talked to her politely, but rarely much more. He normally
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focused his attention more on his conversations with David than anything else. But now he thought only about her, about how much he looked forward to seeing her that night. ***** You arent going to make me change, Ben said. He set down the tray of food in front of his prisoner. The plate overflowed with different meats and bread, Ben had even provided the man a fork this time. You wouldve made someone a nice wife, the man in the closet said. Ben knelt until he could look directly into the mans eyes. You wont beat me. he said, I know who I am and I know what I am. No matter what you think, you cant do anything to me anymore. The mans gaze held him, and while his eyes lacked the intensity they once had, Ben still didnt like looking into them. Maybe I dont need to do anything, the man whispered, I think youre handling all of that perfectly fine by yourself. Ben jerked up with a snarl on his face. He slammed the door shut. ***** When he arrived at Davids, it was Michele who greeted him at the door. Hey Ben, she smiled, come on in. Come on, Ben said, why not a hug? She accepted his embrace with a hint of reluctance, her smile faltering, but she didnt pull away from him. David was on the living room couch. Hows it going? he called. Going good, Ben said. He smiled one last time at Michele and offered her a quick wink before heading in to the living room and taking up a seat next to David.
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Michelle hesitated for a few seconds before departing into another room. Michele sure is looking great tonight, Ben said, a broad, lascivious smile on his face.. David glanced over at him, one eyebrow up. Yeah, he started, she sure is. You know, you dont normally talk about things like that, Ben. You always said it felt disrespectful. Oh, sure, youre right. Sorry about that. David let it slide, and fixed his attention back on the football game. Ben had never particularly cared for the sport, or any other sport for that matter, but David adored the game, so Ben had always attempted to join in Davids enthusiasm. The living room itself was clearly Davids domain. Two jerseys hung on the wall, along with three shelves that contained miniature football helmets for every NFL team. There was even a mini-fridge next to the couch to ensure that David never needed to move very far to satisfy his needs. On the coffee table in front of them, a discarded plate full of left over pizza crusts competed for space with an empty bowl, slick from recently devoured salsa, and a nearly empty bag of corn chips. Various sports magazines cluttered the table as well. David was shouting at the screen, telling someone to, dive for it dammit. Go on, dive. I think Ill grab something to eat, Ben said, pushing himself up. David nodded but his eyes never left the screen. Ben went looking for Michelle. He found her in the small office to the side of the kitchen. What are you up to? he asked. She looked up from the computer screen, but there was tension in her smile. Just updating some files. she said, Shouldnt you be watching the game with David? I think I have better things to watch in here. Ben let his smile grow; he took a step towards her, Im struck by how beautiful you are, Michele. What are you doing, Ben?
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Im just making a proclamation he chuckled, nothing more. Why get so uptight about it? You know, he continued, you look rather tense. Here. He moved in closer, reaching out to massage her shoulders, but that was more than Michelle was willing to take. There was nothing subtle about his tone, and Michele lacked the same level of history he and David shared. She pulled back from his hands, and rose from her seat, her face scrunched with anger. Ben had known what his words would do. He knew things that had happened to Michele when she was younger, things, said and done, that David had told him still harmed her to this day. The look that came over her told Ben he had hit every nerve he could with those few, simple statements. Whats taking so long? David shouted from the living room. They both could hear him struggling to get up from the couch. Just briefly, as he stared at the emotions holding Michele in place, the sound of David getting ready to find him in his ears, Ben felt a fierce revulsion at what he was doing, felt an overwhelming urge to make amends and apologize for all of it, but instead he lunged at Michele. His fingers latched onto her wrist, and she screamed, her body crumpling to the floor the second he touched her. Off in the next room, David shouted something. Michele broke into tears as the memories of so much unforgettable abuse punctuated Bens assault. Inside him, Ben felt the voice of reason dwindle into nothing. My God, David whispered from the open door, what the hell. From out of his pocket Ben slipped a pocketknife he hadnt realized he had brought. Michele froze up at the sight of it. Ben could feel Davids slow, bewildered approach from behind. His hand tightened in preparation. ***** He awoke without realizing he had slept. His body came alert with a sharp jerk that cracked his head into the wall behind him. Around him, there was nothing but foul darkness to be found. He tried to stand, to move, but something rattling in the void held his arms and legs in place. This isnt possible, he whispered. He tried to scream, but his voice was too hoarse to produce anything.
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He felt no anger, all he could conjure was a deep sadness at the pain he had caused. Hours passed that way before he heard the sound of a door opening somewhere close by. Calm, steady footsteps approached, and a light pierced through Bens eyes and forced his gaze away. A small tear ran through the front of the man before hims shirt, a few drops of red accenting it. The man knelt down, letting his arms drape across his knees. His fingers were stained with more of the dark red. You didnt get it, Ben, he said. How did you do this to me? You never asked me why I came to see you. Before you jumped me and shoved me in there, you never asked. What happened here? I needed cash, Ben. the man smiled, Had you just given it to me none of this wouldve happened. I didnt know that just being close to each other makes us rub off on each other a little, that it would ignite a fury that let you get the best of me, or make me soft with that selfdoubt of yours. But of course, being a pussy isnt hard to deal with; its handling rage when youve never even been mad before. That corrupts a person. All I needed was a big enough window to escape through, and you were kind enough to give it to me. Good thinking on those chains, by the way. the man chuckled, No way in hell was I about to get out of those. You killed David? Ben whispered. The man pulled a severed ear out of his pocket and tossed it into the closet. Here, he said, a present for the days of isolation ahead of you. What are you going to do? Who knows? the man smiled, Things that come naturally to me I figure. One thing I can say for certain, the man leaned down, letting his gaze grab hold of Ben, Im getting the hell away from here. Dont worry though, Ill be back every few days to feed you, keep you going, but thats all youll get.
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Bens muscles tensed as a sudden rage welled up inside him. He jolted against the chains that held him down, his lips pulled back into a snarl of rage. It didnt last though, leaving him as quickly as it came. I can already feel you wiggling your way into my mind, the man backed away from him, making me want to let you go, to be kind to you. A little distance between us should take care of that. Thanks for the cash, Ben, and the tail. Cooped up in there, a guy starts missing some action, and she was a fine one. The closet door slammed shut before Ben could say anything else. He didnt scream. There was no point in screaming. He had been his other half just long enough to understand how meaningless a scream would be. But Ben was not the same as the man he had held captive. He didnt have the same desire to live his other hadnt been able to let go of. Ben began to fumble around the closet floor, searching for the fork hed brought with the mans food tray. It wasnt hard for him to find it. He drove the fork as sharply as he could into the soft skin of his neck. Outside the closet door he heard calm footsteps falter. He shoved the fork upward again. The man outside stumbled closer to the closet. Ben ignored the searing pain, all he could see was David and Micheles faces. Breathing became nearly impossible, yet he still managed to dig the fork in deeper. He heard a fist slam into the other side of the door, and then fingers sliding down the wood. Knees struck the carpet. Ben fell on his side, his nose filled with the awful stink, his neck torn into nothing, each breathe full of liquid. His other half tried to say something, his lips pressed up against the bottom of the door, but it was lost to the wet gurgles of his passing.

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Concrete Jungle Safari

By kj a stray rifle bullet exiled from a barrel gutters a bank mogul's mousse helmet hairdo, & brain matter sprays onto the ground as though the entire blundering flock of pigeons-that scatteredcontracted a textbook case of bloody diarrhea just before they disappeared into the horizon like a handful of stale popcorn tossed to the air on a blustery, autumn day. the crowd that was once a mob of unrelated passersby hoped to genitals that the ensuing silence would last long as a gluttonous Kodiak Bear's dreams in a cooling winter. before they could lament their dropped lattes, blubbers from a young girl of dark beauty seduced every eye to her body where the ricochet had nosedived into her shin; while the sniper took a sip from his glass of water after cursing at the maple syrup oozing from the girl's leg for ruining any plans he had of stopping for coffee somewhere.

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tissue boxes for shoes

By kj she prayed, wished, and longed for the sort of thirst the grass in a back yard has when it sips a man's bones for taking liberties with a sharp spade. she'll hold no more water, this flooded, female delta who weeps for a warped sort of retail therapy, & snatches tissue after tissue after tissue in hope that the cold morning will come when she will strut her rain bedraggled stuff in a glitzy pair of brand name flats while she stoops to heft a fucking newspaper. if she truly desires them she should take up gardening, cross her fingers & toes, start daydreaming, & ask the soil beneath her feet to reward her, for the blood running from her foot, with weeds, dandelions & crabgrass in all its hateful, hues of blue. then she'll have a deep, girly need for tiny, sassy cathouse shoes.

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How Far Can This Go?

By Douglas Allen Rhodes Youre drunk again. Every night its the same with you. You go to work, and you say to yourself: Im not going to drink tonight, Im just gonna take it easy. But then the rush hits, table after table of obnoxious, fat housewives who want nothing so badly as to take a little bit of their disappointment out on you. Their steak is overcooked, their husbands dont find them attractive, their soup is cold, their children didnt turn out right; they want to speak to your manager. You take their insults because youve convinced yourself that you dont have a choice, because youve told yourself that you need this job. You know that starting at the bottom of a new restaurants food chain isnt worth it. So, you shove it all down inside; you bottle it up and you start to think about just how good that vodka is going to taste when you get home. Of course, its not going to taste good. You always buy the cheapest crap, never anything like Goose of Ciroc. Its not that you dont prefer those, but when one drinks as much you do, the top shelf is just a little too lofty a place to find yourself every night. Its 2:00 in the morning. Your wife went to bed right after you got home, like she always does; and youve spent the last two hours swilling down rotgut vodka and surfing the internet. Youve already done the porn and checked in on the forums and newsgroups you frequent. Now youre just stumbling through page after random page of mediocre bullshit. It didnt used to be like this. You used to have so much god damn fun when you drank. You had friends. There was always a party, or a bar, or some reason to be drinking. Now there are just pages and pages of other peoples loneliness shuffling in front of your face as you numb yourself down to a level that will let you sleep. Lately its gotten harder. Your legs hurt when you try to lie down. You toss and turn all night. It bothers your wife something horrible, and she always recounts to you the next morning how much she suffers because of you. She tells you she loves you just as regularly as she always did, but lately its begun to sound more like shes trying to convince herself. You dont really care though. Youre tired of it all. Tired of life. Not of living, but of life. Youre tired of being the burned out man that the hopeful little boy you were grew up to be.
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In front of you, on your self-assembled computer desk, sits a straight razor. It has a black wood handle, and its blade is just as sharp as its name implies. Youve been possessed by a feeling of dread for months now. You regularly run to your living rooms windows to see if anyone is in your driveway. Every ring of your phone makes you jump. Theres something on its way, some impending doom that you can feel in your spine. You know its coming, but you dont know what form it will take. So, youve been buying knives. Youre carrying them with you too. You started with a folding razor knife, a box cutter like the ones used in 9-11. Its always in the little pocket on your jeans right hip. You tell anyone who asks that you carry it for work, for those times when you have to open a croutons or peanuts box. It makes sense. You dont have as much luck explaining things when you start carrying a switchblade. This latest one, the straight razor thats sitting on the desk in front of you, you picked up at a flea market while your wife was buying a ten-pack of bras. Its beautiful. As soon as you can find a decent sheath for it youre going to start keeping it in your boot. For a long moment you sit and stare at the knife. You dont pick it up; you just admire it, its perfect functionality, the timelessness of its being. The glass in your hand is three-fourths empty, and you drain it the rest of the way. Theres a wonderful lack of burn in the way the vodka slides down your throat after youve had five or six glasses of it. Its the feeling of drunkenness without joy. A quick trip to the kitchen and your glass is full again. You think youre going to go back to the internet, but the razor is waiting for you. It wants to be held. It wants to be used. You take a long drink of your not yet chilled vodka and set down the glass. You pick up the razor. It feels good in your hand. You open the knife, and its blade snaps eagerly into place. It almost hums with the excitement of what it can do. You look around the room for something on which to use it, something upon which to release the razors power. The phone book catches your eye. With long, sweeping strokes you begin to shred the book. The razor never so much as slows as you slash it back and forth through the multi-colored pages. In minutes the book is gone. Hundreds of tiny pieces of its pages litter your floor. The razor wants more, and you find yourself wondering just how far can this go. Almost without thinking, you head for the side door of your house and open it. The night air is
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crisp and cold. Snow blankets your yard, a pristine landscape as yet undisturbed. You set out for your neighbors house, leaving your door open. Youve never really talked to your neighbor all that much besides the occasional hello. Shes an old, black woman, and she mostly keeps to herself. The only light coming from her house is a dim glow from the kitchen. You reach her side door and, without stopping your stride, you ram your shoulder into it with the full weight of your body. It cracks and gives a little, but you have to hit it a second time to force it open. The door gives way. It bursts open, slamming into the wall behind it and sends you sprawling forward onto the small set of stairs it reveals. You dont even notice the way your right knee hits the edge of a stair square on, or that your head hits the corner of the doorframe at the top of the stairs. All you can think of is how much better this is than just sitting on your drunken ass waiting for nothing. From somewhere off in the upstairs you can hear the sounds of the old woman stirring. A smile hits your lips, and you pick yourself up and begin to race through her house looking for the staircase that will lead you to her. Hello? her old voice calls down, Whos down there. Across her living room you spy the stairs. Light spills down them and you hear your prey stumbling around. In a full sprint, you take the stairs two at a time. At the top, you can see the old bitch. Shes dressed in a faded flannel nightgown and a flimsy blue robe and slippers. A hairnet covers her head. Who She starts to ask something but youre on her by then. The razor moves on its own, flying up to gash across her left cheek. Blood trails in its arc as it slides through her ancient flesh and out towards the wall. It makes the most amazing splatter, contrasting bright red against dingy white. The old woman screams a high pitched banshee shriek and stumbles away from you. Her hand shoots up to cover the wound on her cheek. She loses her balance and falls. Youre on her instantly, laughing. The razor bites into her again, slashing across her leathery looking forehead. It drags a little this time, sticking just slightly on the bone of her skull. This is life. This is living: taking her safety away from her, taking her tired comfort and turning it
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into nightmare. The razor slides out of her flesh. You dont even pause. With a backhand motion you take it across the center of her face. Its three inch blade cleaves her nose off, and the momentum of your strike hurls it across the hallway and through an open door. The old woman screams and wails. Her arms try to fend you off. She claws at you and tries to shield her ruined face. Theres a ferocious strength to her that you would have thought impossible in someone so frail, but its nowhere near enough to stop younot even enough to slow you down. You slash the razor back and forth across her flailing arms. It gouges deep, bloody grooves into them. The old womans right hand tries to block you and the knife takes off about three fourths of her ring finger and all of her pinky. Dark sprays of arterial blood splurt out from the stumps of her fingers. She begins kicking and backpedalling, trying to craw away from you. You reward her desperation by slashing the razor across her midsection. It cuts through her ancient nightgown and slits her open from breasts to navel. The cuts not deep, but its effect on her psyche is devastating. The old woman begins to shake. She curls into a fetal ball and lets out a series of staccato yelps. Her arms wrap up around her head, and the blood from her right hand stains her matted, gray hair a deep shade of crimson. You stop for a second and take it all in. Rising up to your full height, you tower over the frantic mess of a woman. She disgusts you. You cant even hate her; shes too pitiful. You kick her hard in the side and feel ribs snap under your boots intrusion. Its time to finish this and move on. With relish, you raise the blade high. The glow of the hallways naked light bulb glints off of its crimson stained steel. It truly is a thing of beauty, perfectly made for what it does. You hold the blade up, just a few seconds longer, close your eyes, and breathe deeply. The razor comes down, cleaving through the skin of her right forearm on its path to her throat. Its blade travels easily through the old womans neck and embeds itself in her right arm, notching into the bone. You can hear her begin to convulse and gurgle, but you dont wait to watch the old biddys death.
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This night isnt over. Youve much more to do. You descend the stairs one at a time, allowing an eager anticipation to build in you, and head for the shattered doorway. The night air has grown crisper, but its no longer cold. You burn now. You burn with a furious excitement that is only known to killers. Around you the world still slumbersnothing has changed for them. It is only you that has forever transformed. You walk back across your lawn and past your house. The side door is still open, but it hasnt woken up your wife yet. You head across your other neighbors back yard and up onto the small porch that shelters their side door. Just like you did before, you ram your shoulder into the door; but this door is solid, and it doesnt give at all. You try it two more times, making little progress. The door frame has begun to crack; perhaps another hit or two will do the trick. A mans voice interrupts you. What the fuck do you think youre doing to my house? You spin around and jump at him. Hes pretty good sized, and hes holding a baseball bat at the ready. Your attack catches him off-guard a little. He still has time to swing the bat, but not enough time or space to get a good arc on it. The middle of it catches you across your cheek. Your world disappears for an instant. All you can see are white streaks racing away from you. The hit knocks you just far enough to the side that you miss your target. The ground is rude and unforgiving as it catches you, forcing the wind out of your lungs. You drop the razor. Your neighbor doesnt give you a minute to regroup. He brings the bat down, full force, on your back and left side. Now, asshole, he screams, try to break in my house. You reach for the razor. He sees and runs around you to kick it out of reach. You try to get up, but you do little more than get your back arched before he slams that damn bat back into you. This hit is worse than the last two. Something gives on your side. You lose your breath again and crumble to the ground.
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He hits you two more times in rapid succession, across your shoulders. You can feel yourself slipping away, blacking out. Suddenly, hes screaming, and the bat lands in front of you in the snow. Against the insistence of your body that you lay still, you rise up and turn to see whats happening. Your wifes on the bastards back, screaming and clawing at his eyes. Hes got her by the wrists and is trying to pull her loose. You struggle to your feet, the sharp and angry pain in your side stabbing you. You pull your switchblade out from your back pocket. The blade slides out the front of the knife with a reassuring scrape and locks into place. Its triangular, with an open, central bloodlet, and theres serration at the base of the blade. You put it between a couple of the assholes ribs, pull it out, and put it into his throat. He lets go of your wifes wrists and she falls to the ground. His eyes and mouth are wide and confused. Behind him, the side door of the house is open and his wife is running at you, screaming and waving a butcher knife. There are two kids in the doorway, a boy who looks to be about seven and a really young girl. You put your shoulder down and ram the woman. The impact is enough to slam her away, but she still gets her knife into your back. You dont really feel the blade; but you know its been inside you. Your already weak knees begin to buckle. Your neighbors wife falls back onto the stairs of the porch, hitting her head on the top step. For a second, shes stunned. Its the only pause you need. Youre on her instantly, slashing and stabbing with your switchblade. You tear gashes in her face and throat, shredding her. Behind you, your wife is screaming. You look up at the children and smile through lips that drip with the blood of their mother. A siren sounds. Another one joins it. You steal a look over your shoulder to see police arriving, but it doesnt really matter. You crawl over the mothers corpse head for the little boy. His sister runs inside. He doesnt run though; it looks like he cant. You pull yourself up to your full height and take a step towards him. Something hits you hard in your side and slams you into the wall of the porch. Your wife has her arms wrapped around your waist and is screaming something unintelligible at you.
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You bring the fist that holds your switchblade up into her midsection, burying the blade into her, and knocking her back. The little boy is crying now, but he still hasnt moved. Stop; or Ill shoot. someone barks at you. You tower over the boy and laugh as you raise the knife. Three hard impacts draw you into a twisted arc. You can feel a burning inside your body, like trails of liquid fire are running through your chest and stomach. Your mind

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Contributors
Kevin Brown won the Permafrost Literary Journal's Midnight Sun Fiction Contest, the Touchstone Fiction Competition, and placed third in the Cadenza Fiction Contest. He was nominated for a 2007 Journey Award, and has published in Space & Time, Murky Depths, Twisted Tongue, Morpheus Tales, Horror Express, sub-TERRAIN, Rosebud, and Underground Voices. Joseph M. Gant is a Scientific Glassblower by trade but a writer by passion. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs, The Stray Branch, Lines Written w/ a Razor, and Dark Gothic Resurrected. A long time student of traditional Tibetan religion and culture, he resides in the Delaware Valley where he sweats over words and plays with glass and fire. He sees the Compassion in Wrath, Renunciation in Irreverence, and Wisdom in Desire. He aims to write from these perspectives, making the innate holiness in everything perceptible through poetry. kj lives in orange county with his golden hound, Mr. Bear. he loves the way that candy looks boiling in great vats before being packaged in some other part of the factory. he wants everyone to know that hugs have no shelf life, and neither does merriment. have fun while it lasts. Doug McIntire is a central Texas horror author who has been published in several magazines and podcasts. You can find out more about him and his writing at www.DougMcIntire.com. You can also find him on Facebook, MySpace and Twitter. David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in the Stockholm archipelago with a woman, five selfish cats and a stupid dog. He has a BA in History from Oxford, and an unconnected MA in philosophy, much later, from Stockholm. Details of his available books, chapbooks, and over 850 poems in or forthcoming at 370 places online or in print over the last couple of years, are at his blog at htpp://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. He never submits by snail mail since he has little money and since he loves, or at least doesn't have anything against, trees. Among things forthcoming is a chapbook called nobody wants to go to heaven but everybody wants to die from Poptritus Press in summer 2009 sometime. Early 2010 an anthology called laughing at funerals will be appearing with Epic Rites Publications, there's also a 50 poem chapbook from Epic Rites called hellbound which is appearing July 2009. For Epic Rites he edits the chapbook series and the e-zines lines written w/ a razor and the thin edge of staring, as well as selecting work for the radio network. B.L.Morgan is the author of the notorious John Dark Books known for extreme violence and extreme bad attitude. Books currently published in that series are Blood And Rain, Blood For the Masses & Blood On Celluloid. Over the next two years scheduled to be published are the novels You Play,You Pay, Night Knuckles, Gray World & Blood And Bones. If you like your reading to be taken to the extremes this is the author to come to. You Have Been Warned! http://johndark1985.googlepages.com/home Douglas Allen Rhodes lives and works in Akron, Ohio. He is a former Marine, an ex-convict,
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and an alumnus of Kent State University. His short fiction has appeared in Why Vandalism?, Microhorror, and Twisted Dreams. His poetry has published in Midnight Screaming, Worlds Within - Worlds Beyond, Breadcrumb Scabs, and The (&). He scripted an upcoming issue of Bluewater Productions' horror comic Vincent Price Presents, and his novel, Sex and Murder, is available from Wild Child Publishing. Philip Roberts lives in Overland Park, Kansas and holds a degree in Creative Writing with a minor in Film from the University of Kansas. As a beginner in the publishing world, hes a member of the Horror Writers Association, and has had numerous short stories published in a variety of publications, such as the Beneath the Surface anthology, Byzarium webzine, and The Tabard Inn. More information on his works can be found at www.philipmroberts.com. 28-year-old William Andre Sanders resides deep in the Appalachian mountains of Southwestern Virginia. His community is home to the location for the 1980's hit movie Dirty Dancing. In 2005 he published his first psychological horror short story "Eyesight Of Insanity", which appeared in Seasons In The Night issue #5. Right now the author is devoted to weaving dark poetry, but he hasn't taken his eye off potential stories just yet. Turning 29 in September 2009, Andre hopes his love for writing horror will one day lead him to accomplishing the dream of publishing his first novel.

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Call for Submissions

Sex and Murder is a magazine for the darker side of fiction. We want your most disturbing tales. We want you to peel back the thin veil of humanity to reveal the monstrous, give us the truly horrific, and scare us silly. The genre isn't necessarily important, if your tale is set in the old west, so be it; if it's a tale of dark fantasy, that's great as well. What is really important is that it is well written, tight prose that pushes the boundaries of whatever genre it is set in. We accept short fiction, flash fiction, art, and poetry. Short fiction should run between 2,000 and 8,000 words. Flash should be less than 1,000 words. As for poetry, well, simply put, we don't want rhyming poetry, period. Art must be sent as a .jpg file. One piece of art, per issue, will be chosen for the cover. All submissions should be sent via email to editor (at) sexandmurder.com. Short fiction should be sent attached as either a .doc or .txt document in standard manuscript format. Include your name, address, email address, and approximate word count in the left corner of the first page and at the top of your submission email's body. With that said, let's deal with some specifics. First off, blood and gore are great, we want blood and gore, but blood and gore, no matter how extreme, must be intrinsic to the plot, not simply thrown in for violence's sake. The same goes for sex, if it's in there it better have a purpose. At the same time, the absolute lack of either or both doesn't mean we don't want your story. There are plenty of ways to be truly terrifying without the slightest trace of either. We don't want rambling diatribes or thinly veiled hate speech, neither one is interesting. Submissions that are chosen for publication will be published on the website, in a variety of downloadable formats, including pdf, lrf, epub, and prc formats, and in a print publication. We are a non-paying market. Hopefully that will change in the future. Author grants first electronic and print publication rights, as well as the right to electronically archive the piece for one year. At the end of that year, the author may request that the piece be removed from the website. We accept simultaneous submissions, but let us know in the body of your email. Also, unlike many markets, we accept reprints. Please send no more than one piece of short fiction or flash fiction per submission. Send no more than five poems per submission. All work must be original. Finally, do not submit more than once per month.

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