It’s not like I ain’t changed a tire before, right? It’s just that the bulb light is shot and I got so much shit in the trunk I can’t find the jack. The cold rain is blowing in from the left across the median in dark wailing sheets, and I’m reminded of Jesse James, this little black guy who works in the warehouse moving pallets. We break his balls ‘cause his mama named him Jesse, and he ain’t even no sports player like Milton Bradley or Coco Crisp. But mostly, we give him shit because he uses these old school sayings like “Stop coming at my neck,” and this is sweeping rain, machine gun rain, Forest Gump rain pounding the asphalt like a snare drum and my neck like a cowbell; I got drops coming off my eyelids, and I ain’t laughing now, brutha.

I got an empty box for a hubcap in here, a dented toolbox, a fly reel, an old mini stepladder missing a stair tread, and a blanket with a design of mooses and an elks on it. My mother got it for me when I was like seven, and for some reason I dragged it around all these years. My mother was half Lenape Indian. She used to tell me I had the spirit of a warrior, but my feminine side made me cautious. She said this blanket had my dreams wrapped up in it, and that someday I was gonna make some powerful woman happy.

I work for men. I’m six foot five. I got a granite jaw and deep carved lines around my mouth like judgments. I fix gas compressors, slab saws, and power tools. I keep dirty magazines under my workbench even though the Internet is better, and I wear a blue canvas monkey suit with my name stitched in an oval on my chest.

A truck is coming; I can tell by the drone. Eighteen wheeler. International cab-over shitbucket with a 6V-53 most probably. The lights sneak over the ridge and wash across, and when I look down to the side I see the reflections in the long black puddle snaking along the edge of the breakdown lane, rain making needle dashes in it. He can see it too, I know he can, but the hillbilly-fucker roars right on through, sending up a sheet of gutter flush and road grit.

Prick!

I stalk out to the middle of the highway shouting into the roar of his back-spray. I put up both middle fingers and almost hope he pulls a Michael Myers, screeching those Firestones, fishtailing a bit on the wet asphalt, halting there like a ghost-ship on a black sea, exhaust making twists and threads in the air like serpents and omens.

He does kiss the brakes actually, but I ain’t scared, asshole. Rearviews distort, but don’t lie. He don’t want no showdown between the slick reflection of his tail lights and my long, slanted shadow…that big hulking silhouette standing on the double yellow, arms hanging down, long black hair sketching patterns of rage into the driving rain. No thank you, right? Safer up in the cab there, ain’t it brutha?

I’m back at the rear of my vehicle, wind rising and moaning, black clouds cutting across the moon, and I see that it’s not just the back left tire that’s pancaked, but the right one as well, pulling a monkey-see-monkey-do, starting to belly down and bulge like some pregnant little immigrant. I only got one spare, but I ain’t scared, asshole. I can ride that bastard for at least a few miles before its sunken down to the rim like its twin, maybe a bit after that. Enough to get off 95.

Hopefully.

I lean back into the trunk and force myself not to start throwing shit around. Last time I had the jack out, I think I threw the tire iron back by the dented tin that once had three types of popcorn in it. I should have tucked the little black bitch away in its sheath within the triangular leather pouch that goes in its place under the false-bottom particle board covering the tire well. But I didn’t, and it was irresponsible. That was my nickname growing up: “Irresponsible.” Through dark magic and psychological power of attorney, Mother appointed it Godfather to my chores, my hygiene, my attitude, my study habits. I have tattoos that brag of convictions, but I don’t believe them. I have trust, but it’s an old corpse. I have a soul, but I loaned it to the church. I hear they keep it in a basement cage to contrast the robed and polished ivory standing behind the first floor podium.

I lift the particle board and have to put my back into it, considering all the parts stored under the blanket with the mooses and elks on it. Stuff shifts and tumbles a bit off left making muted sounds in the rain, and I paw around in the dark recess. No pouch. Only what feels like a catcher’s knee pad, a gas can lid with old caterpillar webs caught under the lip, and a moldy Garfield toy I won at the State Fair three years ago, tossing wooden rings into bowls slicked with Wesson Oil.

I ain’t scared though, asshole. I am going to have to drive this shit-can as it is, bumping along the dark highway just the three of us, a pancake, a pregnant immigrant, and one drenched soldier, pressing forward like a band of brutha’s riding this wounded stallion straight into the hardpan. I try to dig for my keys and I can’t get my fingers in, ‘cause leather pants fall in love with you when they’re drenched. There are lights coming over the rise now.

They ain’t white and glowing.

They’re circus red and neon blue, rotating in sick pulse up along the slow rise of the craggy rock-face and making the road signs flash like mirrors. Now I’m groping in my pockets a bit more desperate-like, and I’m looking in the trunk, shadows moving off and back like the gauzy wings of some dark beast.

I see the popcorn tin winking through the advancing streaks, the catcher’s knee pad with a broken buckle and “Macgregor” written across in white flaked cursive, some empty Deer Park bottles in the outer crevices, a stepladder, a pickle barrel, a length of frayed manila rope, a spade shovel with paint drops splattered up the shaft, a ripping saw, a roll of plastic, and an old blanket with mooses and elks on it, wet with more than the rain, only partially covering the parts underneath it now, the most noticeable – the dainty hand with the pale curling fingers sticking out from under the edge by the lock release.

I move the blanket back over her, thinking how much she’d looked like mother, with those penetrating eyes and imperial shoulders.

They all looked like mother.

I pull the trunk lid down, but it catches on something, the edge of mother’s blanket perhaps, and from within the sounds of the recoiling hinge pistons beneath the trunk lid I hear the hiss of her laughter.

I have been irresponsible.

The blue and red lights wash straight across my back now, making the landscape grin and laugh and revolve like some lunatic carousel. The engine cuts off, and I hear a door open in the rain. Then there’s the distinct wet grit of boot soles finding purchase on the blacktop, approaching footsteps, the snap of his poncho in the wind, and I can imagine him pulling down the brim of his hat with one hand, and the other unclipping the strap across the top of his firearm, The Lone Ranger, Superman.

A ripping saw makes a poor attack weapon.

I never could find that tire iron.

My secrets are naked.

And I’m scared, asshole.

THE END

* * *

Michael Aronovitz’s debut collection Seven Deadly Pleasures was published by Hippocampus Press in 2009, and his debut novel  Alice Walks is coming out through Centipede Press in June of this year.  Aronovitz has his short story, “The Girl Between the Slats” appearing in S.T. Joshi’s  Searchers After Horror Anthology later in 2013, and his short ghost story, “How Bria Died” was featured in Paula Guran’s The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror, 2011.  Aronovitz has published short fiction in Weird Tales, The Weird Fiction Review, Polluto, Kaleidotrope, Nameless (coming soon), Black Petals, The University of Tampa Press, Philly Fiction, Demon Minds, Metal Scratches, Death Head Grin, Schlock Webzine, Lost Souls, The Turks Head Review, Fiction on the Web, and many others.  The piece of flash fiction you just read titled, “The Matriarch,” is currently the first pre-chapter in Aronovitz’s newest novel in progress.  Michael Aronovitz is a Professor of English and lives with his wife Kim and their son Max in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania.

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Thanks

bg

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Enjoy!

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“Hello?”

“Is Ruth there?”

“This is,” Ruth said, shifting to seduction mode.

“This is Randy. I saw your ad on ‘Stranger Hook-Ups.com’…” Randy trailed off, not sure what to say next. He’d only connected with three strangers so far.

“Hi, Randy. What are you interested in?”

He took a moment to reply: “Ah, well, in your ad it said that you were looking for younger men, and I like older women, and…”

“Wonderful, Randy. How young are you?”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“I’m sixty-five, but you won’t believe it after you see what I can do. When can you come over, Randy?”

“Is tonight good?”

“Tonight? An old woman like me can’t wait. I need you now, Randy.”

That web site was the best $25 he’d ever spent.

“I’ll be right over. Where’s the address?”

#

Ruth was waiting when Randy walked in thirty minutes later. She had changed into a loose-fitting robe, and her sparse white shoulder-length hair had been neatly brushed and held behind her ears with bobby pins. Her make-up was limited but well applied, just enough foundation that the wrinkles and sallow skin she hadn’t hidden too well in the photo were barely noticeable in person.

Randy didn’t care. He would have put a bag over her head if he had to.

An old joke with a new twist had permanently embedded itself into his mind: “What do mopeds, fat girls, and old ladies have in common? They’re fun to ride, but you don’t want your friends to catch you doing it.”

His friends never caught him; they didn’t know about his few clandestine meetings with old women from the web. Even his girlfriend didn’t know about these trysts. He told them he volunteered to assist the elderly, and that was true. He was there to help the poor old things out.

“Hi, Randy,” she said, crossing the room, hand out. Her hand looked mottled and yellow. He paused, unsure. She wanted to shake? He shook her hand and had to stop himself from recoiling. She smelled. More than the others. He would have to breathe through his mouth.

Ruth lingered on his hand. “You seem very…promising. Why don’t you go ahead and get undressed? Sit on the edge of the bed.” She motioned to the hospital-style stretcher-like contraption that was pushed against the wall.

Randy liked how it was going so far. Sure, she might not smell good, but if he was right about where this was headed, he wouldn’t be able to smell her too much. He pulled off his t-shirt and dropped his jeans to the floor, then pushed his boxers down to his ankles and stepped out of them. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for his adoring audience.

From the bedside table, Ruth produced a gag, blindfold, and handcuffs. “I like it this way,” she said, putting them on the sheet next to him. The plastic mattress cover crackled under the weight of the newly exhibited toys. Randy smiled even wider.

“I’m game.”

Ruth slipped the blindfold over his head and fastened it over his eyes, then tied the gag around his mouth. Finally she climbed onto the bed next to him and roughly pulled his hands behind him. Randy tried to say “careful,” but the gag kept him from speaking clearly. He heard Ruth grunt in reply, then the handcuffs clicked around his wrists and he felt the bed rise again around him as she slid onto the ground.

Ruth kept her robe closed as she knelt down in front of him. She leaned forward, mouth open, grateful she had come up with the idea of the gag. It kept them so much quieter. The handcuffs had been a more recent idea — the second one had almost dislocated her shoulder trying to get away. The blindfold completed the look, and seemed to keep them distracted with other thoughts until she really got down to business.

She took her first bite, savoring the tender flesh and stringy muscle. The body on the bed writhed and twisted, and Ruth turned to the other thigh, trying to find the artery so that it would be over quickly. She preferred to eat in peace, and the convulsions of the dying just took that much pleasure away. The blood spurted past her, and she dug in, feeling his strength begin to ebb away as she continued her meal. Randy was beyond the point where he could fight her, so she slowed a little. The more leisurely the feast, the better, she thought, slowly stripping the flesh from his bare legs. She would save the best for last, as usual, ignoring the urge to go right for his brain. It always tasted better when she could linger on it.

#

Her room considerably cleaner and the scraps disposed of, Ruth sat back in her reclining chair and relaxed. It had been a good afternoon. She picked up the cross-word puzzle book and began working on the expert ones. She never had finished one, but she wasn’t worried. She’d had plenty of time to work on them since she died, and she didn’t think she’d have to give up her hobby any time soon.

The phone rang again, and she reached for it, hands flexible and pain free. It was another man from the ad she had placed. She smiled and politely turned him down. She’d had her fill for the day, she told him. Maybe he could come by tomorrow?

THE END

* * *

Katherine Sanger was a Jersey Girl before getting smart and moving to Texas.  She’s been published in various e-zines and print, including Baen’s Universe, Spacesports & Spidersilk, Black Petals, Star*Line, Anotherealm, Lost in the Dark, Bewildering Stories, Aphelion, and RevolutionSF, and edited From the Asylum, an e-zine of fiction and poetry.

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Also, I’d dearly love to see more (any) MP3 readings and images

Happy writing,

Bosley

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I remember watching her dance, just after the first time we met. Her movements were so sure, so smooth. She told me afterwards she danced with her eyes closed, feeling her way through the movements by instinct. There was nothing in the world she loved as much as the moment the rhythms flowed through her, she once told me. Not even me? I asked her. She just laughed.

There was little left of that grace in the frail creature she became. Unable to walk or hold objects, she had become translucent. Uninterested in eating and unable to sleep, she was never truly awake to living the way she once had been. It was as if, without the dance, there was nothing of her left. She shrivelled into herself.

Even now, she had an unearthly elegance. Frozen in the doorway, I watched for the last time, her body pirouetting from the neck down in a final breathtaking performance of lifelessness.

THE END

* * *

Rebecca L. Brown is a British writer. She specialises in horror, SF, humour, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost.  Purchase Rebecca’s e-books on Amazon.com now: Fever Book One: Fever in the Blood and  Fever Book Two: Blood Lust; visit her WordPress blog here.

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UPDATE: Please think twice before you send anything into CoTs that has plot points based on killing, torturing, or otherwise harming another person due to anger or frustration. (Or stories featuring a protag dealing with the guilt of such an act.)  This is especially hard to pull off with female ‘victims’.  In general, it often seems inorganic to natural storytelling — plus, not all that interesting.  Pretty please?

Update the Second: CoT can always use editors, podcasters, cover artists and  of course slush readers.  So consider donating your time or talent (or even both at once).

– Bosley

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Under the surface, Red had dressed up with care, not so much for the prince, but for someone else, someone who had watched her safe passage to grandma’s, through the woods, year after year, someone whose penetrating gaze had started to warm up her skin ever since she had matured, someone who had filled her dreams, banished her nightmares. She had dressed up for her wolf, the wolf that she would see for the last time tonight.

It had started to rain when she saw the wolf. He was standing still in the middle of the path, eyes flashing red, and yet dimmer than ever—a sad look she had never seen on him. She kneeled by his side, the wet pebbles giving in under her knees.

The wolf told her with his eyes, “Stay with me.”

“I’m destined for the prince,” she said. “That’s what I’m told.”

The wolf told her with his eyes, “Be mine.” But he also stepped back, unblocking her way of leaving.

Later that night, in a little shack at the outer-skirt of the woods, an old woman sat by the fireplace, drinking beer and eyeing the grim man who waited by her side, rifle on his shoulder, the man who had promised to pay enough money for a year worth of beer, all for that teenage girl, Red Riding Hood…who never arrived.

THE END

* * *

Anahita teaches at East Tennessee State University, her fiction has appeared in Bosley Gravel’s Cavalcade of Terror, Every Day Fiction, Lorelei Signal, Mirror Dance, and a few other magazines.

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And chose a night of ghoulish doom,
To raise a teacher from the tomb.

“Please make me temporal”, he cried
“The whenwolf”, the dead man replied.

“Weave me into a causal chain!”
“The whywolf.” “Fine. I don’t complain,

But please, good man, complete the spell-
Make in the end me personal!”

“The whowolf!” – Vanished at this cry,
The wolf had changed into a guy.

THE END

* * *

Frank Hagelberg is a computational physicist at East Tennessee State University. Born, raised and trained in Germany, he moved to America in1990 and taught at SUNY Albany and Jackson State University prior to his present position. He is married and has three children. His interests include nanoscience, chemical dynamics, and werewolfs. Grammatical transfiguration is his first poetic approach to one of these themes.

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Father also says that I was too young to remember the accident. But I do. I remember it all. I remember the shrieks of fear. I remember the way the knife flashed as it sliced down. I remember the warm blood dripping from my mother’s cleaved head onto my own.

Of the two memories, I like the second one the best. Thinking of her death makes me feel good and warm inside. I was sad she was gone, of course. But I am happy I watched it happen.

I once told my father I remembered and what I remembered. He brought me to a doctor. But this doctor didn’t poke me with needles or examine my ears. He just asked lots of questions. Father stopped talking about mother after that. But it didn’t matter, because I still remember.

I also remember the day I died. That too was wonderful. Father found me as I was taking some feathers away from a bird I had caught. I had made catching birds into a kind of game. At first I was just catching them, but I wanted something to remember each catch. So I would collect their feathers. And the blood still on the ends of the feathers looked so pretty.

“You must stop!” He insisted. He looked so frightened.

“Why?” Was all I could think to ask.

Later that night, Father came into my room and told me that I was going to go somewhere to make lots of friends. I asked where, but he put a pillow over my face. I tried to stop him, but I felt something cold on my neck. This time, I made him remove the pillow. I did not scream, but gurgled a laugh as I watched the blood flow from my neck, down my chest, and onto the blankets. It was so beautiful.

Now, I wait by my grave for the friends my father has promised me. At first, he didn’t want to keep his promise, but I made him change his mind. I’ll have so many friends, I could have a collection of them. And when I do meet them, I know exactly what we will play.

THE END

* * *

Tawny Demase grew up in the Great Northwest, always dreaming of things greater than reality. For the lack of mythical powers, she settled with imagining all kinds of scenarios; Whether they be adventures on the high seas, crawls through crepuscular dungeons, or romances within fantastical palaces, Tawny delighted in every venture. Naturally, this led to sharing her mind’s rambles to any willing ear. Now, she aspires to share her stories with a grander audience, you.

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