SHORT FICTION: THE CATHCART CIRCLE JOB by GORDON BROWN Sep17

SHORT FICTION: THE CATHCART CIRCLE JOB by GORDON B...

When the parcel arrived that morning, I hadn’t had time to open it and consigned it to the top drawer on my bedside cabinet until later that night when, whisky in hand, I retrieved it and opened it to reveal a sheaf of typed paper. The front page read: The Definitive Guide—How to Rob a Train. A Manual By Thomas Lionel Walker Armstrong The memory of Thomas comes flooding back with the force of a slap to the back of the head with a shovel. Thomas Lionel Walker Armstrong had once given me a lift in an ancient Fiat 500, saving me from some men who wanted to rearrange my facial features with menace. My ride with him had been short but painful on...

SHORT FICTION: MY SIDE OF THE MATTER – HILAR...

I swear to you I never meant to hurt anybody. With all that’s gone down in the past week, I understand why you think the worst of me. Right now, I probably seem like a combination of Darth Vader and Charles Manson thanks to the Fake News Media. Please don’t believe the stuff you read, and especially don’t listen to that stupid TV reporter who called me the Pogo Stick Killer. He’s a jackass who was mad that I wouldn’t give him an interview, that’s why he slapped that stupid name on me. Then everyone on the Internet looked up from their cat videos for a minute and thought it was funny. I don’t even own a pogo stick. And I am not a killer. To...

Short Fiction – COCKTAIL WEENIES AT SEVEN

“Let me tell you something about old miserable bastards, Honey. Once, they were young miserable bastards.” “It’s a drink, it’s some finger food, it’s neighborly.”  “But I don’t want to be neighborly, he’s a prick.” “We don’t know that for sure. He gardens, you can talk to him about that.” “You can tell just by the way he gardens, he’s a prick.”  “Let’s change things up a bit. Maybe he just needs someone to ask him over. You know, to get through that tough façade. From what I gathered, he hasn’t socialized with anyone since his wife and child died and that had to be—what?—thirty years ago.” We must’ve been gathering in totally different...

SHORT FICTION: SPINE (Inspired by an Actual One-ti...

“Mr. Hammett, Mr. Chandler, the lens is up here, please.” I swear, photographing a bunch of mystery writers is as tough as bridal parties, only without the kids sticking out tongues or scratching their business. I gave a three count so nobody would get caught blinking and pressed the shutter. They all gave me eyes except those two. Dashiell Hammett was staring three guys over at Raymond Chandler, who had his attention downward like he was wondering if he left the gas on. And what was with Hammett? Was he shooting daggers at Chandler or just feeling his scotch? Not that I’d been counting. I stopped at his third. I dated my exposed plate with...