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Latest Stories

March 19, 2024
Fantasy Stories Wondering Monk

Just My Imagination

The alarm clock went off and started playing an awful tune. Tom opened his eyes and closed them back, squinting. He reopened one eye and stood up to stop the torture. The phone was on the desk, in the furthest spot from the bed. Although he changed his way of…
March 19, 2024
Science Fiction Stories Ocelotlzin

Earth Is Dead

Recording… It doesn't matter who I was; I probably lived a long time ago, and I am now just a voice someone added to the audio-visual records. What is essential is the recollection of events that lead to the current state. So, a little history needs to be…
March 08, 2024
Flash Fiction Benoit

Some Enchanted Evening

It was a rugby tackle with tears: Chrissy burst in, sobbing and babbling, hugging James. Her face was all wet, eyes wild. What…? My parents split up, Dad has moved in with his boyfriend and I cannot join them. I am shut out. I have lost my dad. Torrent of…
March 08, 2024
Horror Stories Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

In The Hands Of My Legs

The car pulled up in front of the large salon. The neon sign, that sexy broad thing, on the salon'sroof read "Mr. Gil's All-night Salon". The exhaust pipe of the car was pumping solid smoke, theswirls moving from the car and towards the salon.…
March 07, 2024
Mystery Stories Vanessa Leigh Giles

Casualty of Love in the Time of Coronavirus

Chapter 1 Until Death do us Part ‘Ring, ring!’. I answered the telephone and asked, “Hello, good evening. Who’s this? “Hello.” This is Dr. Smith from Red Cross hospital. “Is this Mr. Locke, John?”, he asked, hesitantly scratching his bald head. “Yes, doctor.…
March 07, 2024
Crime Stories Robert Pook

Bar Room Trigger

Another return journey on footpaths so familiar. He strides across each crack in each paving stone. Regular loose drain covers sidestepped. Mapping long ago mapped in Richard’s desolate mind. His pace hastened by the sight of the oncoming storm. Quickening…
March 04, 2024
Horror Stories Ano Chinemerem

Sanctity

Where should I begin? I could begin by telling you about this comely boy, whom every notable person around the streets agrees his smile could charm the bills off one. Between one smile, there was his goodness, his dreams and humanity—a little far ahead?— but…
March 04, 2024
Flash Fiction Emanuel Diaz

Et Mortui Partium

As Rafael stepped out into the rain, it wasn't the ordinary drops that fell from the sky. Instead, it was a storm of souls, each one taking the form of shimmering jewelry as it cascaded toward the ground. Rubies, diamonds, and sapphires twinkled amidst the…
February 29, 2024
Poetry Jing Li Ava

London

‘Am I in London?’ "I am." Where is Elizabeth? Happy living story All of your chapter Bounlance joy Please my heart Power hand Wise mind Our baby Vow vow Love all love Miss I miss Endless wonder Bring us together Love all love Miss I miss For everything My…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Rob Pook

Life Sentence of The Smith

Born nine months after his country won the World Cup.A child prodigy.Cast off at age twenty-four.Husband, father, emigree, away on the other side of the world.The blue-collar life.The dreams of success.The search for fulfillment.The long years of empty…
February 29, 2024
Mystery Stories Joshua Lowther

The Operator

Jason looked over to his right, his eyes barely able to focus themselves on the subject of his attention. His neck ached terribly from the strenuous movement. He was tired. The captain’s gaze came to rest on the rookie sonar operator sitting tense at his…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Salvatore Difalco

The Chute

At dusk, we left our unit with a soft pink bundle. I carried it through the wet streets and into the black woods. I said I’d take it all the way, the bundle, but that we had to drop it in together. My wife’s green eyes flashed. “Don’t make me do that.” I…

The lunch crowd was just starting to die out around the time Marty entered the dingy old diner. No doubt the dive had seen better days, probably before Sputnik caused millions of Russkies to raise a toast to the skies. The joint smelled of greasy burgers and body odor, and the Box Tops were warbling “The Letter” out of small distorted speakers strategically placed around the establishment. Marty had taken two steps inside the door before a twenty-something brunette baby doll in an apron walked out to greet him.

Baby Doll ushered him to a red vinyl booth that seemed to be held together by silver duct tape. Marty slid into the booth and picked up a menu.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” asked Baby Doll. Marty didn't look up from his menu, but said yes, he would take some water. He scanned the typo-laden menu, which looked as though it had been printed around the time Ronnie Raygun took his bullet, when a small blonde girl clutching a stuffed Teddy bear approached his table.

Marty looked up at her, blinking. “Mister?” she inquired, utterly unfazed by his adultness.

Marty nodded, signaling that she had his attention.

“Do you got a quarter?”

He grinned uneasily, looking around to see where the child's mother was. He spotted her, standing up at the front counter paying her bill. “Suppose I do,” he said. “What are you gonna do with it?”

The little girl's eyes lit up. “I'm gonna put it in the gumball machine and get me a gumball. Hopefully it's a red one.”

“You like the red ones, huh?” he asked, producing a shiny quarter.

The little girl nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“The red ones are the best,” he said, winking as he held out the quarter.

The little girl snatched the shiny coin. Already turned and halfway to the gumball machine she said, “Thanks, mister!” Marty looked back down at the menu, trying to make the important decision of just what to have for lunch. It was a difficult decision. Should he have the open-faced roast beef sandwich? Or maybe a mushroom swiss burger? Or a double-decker cheeseburger. And then, even after he'd made his selection, there would still be sides to consider; mashed potatoes with brown gravy or a helping of French fries?

He was still weighing his options when Baby Doll reemerged with a green, plastic cup of ice water. She sat it down on the table beside the napkin-rolled silverware. Still peering down at his menu, Marty asked, “What's good here?”

He looked up at Baby Doll, her big brown eyes twinkling, a ready-made howdy-do service smile plastered on her features. “Everything's good here,” she chirped, her voice annoyingly happy the way only morning people who actually liked Mondays could manage.

“What do you suggest?” he asked, trying again. “What do you eat here?”

She flashed a perfect brilliant-white weather girl smile and said, “I eat here every day. Mr. Thompson lets us eat on a discount. It's not much, but at least it's something. Every little bit helps, you know?”

Marty showed her a fake smile. “But what do you eat?”

“Oh, I only eat salads,” she said. “With little chunks of chicken, French dressing, and extra croutons.”

Marty shook his head. “No, no, that won't do for me.”

Baby Doll's face twisted in confusion. “Why's that?”

“I hate vegetables.”

“My little brother hates vegetables, too,” said Baby Doll, as if she was trying to comfort him about something he should be embarrassed about.

“I really hate vegetables,” said Marty. “I hate them more than anything.”

Baby Doll bit her lip. “Anything, in the whole world?”

“Pretty much,” he said. “But pickles are the worst.”

Baby Doll smiled as if she might laugh. “I didn't think anybody hated pickles.” She said it in a judgmental way that made it sound ridiculous, as if he was the only son of a bitch on God's green earth that hated the briny bastards.

“Yep,” he said. “I hate 'em.”

“Why's that?” inquired Baby Doll, her order pad and pen held steady at her chest.

“Who can say? I'll tell you what—I'll just have the double-decker cheeseburger. Is that pretty greasy?”

Baby Doll looked unsure of what her answer should be. “I guess... Well, not too greasy. Do you, uh, do you like greasy cheeseburgers?”

Marty laid the menu back down on the table, still looking at the girl's soft China doll features. “Shit yeah,” he said. “Who doesn't love a good greasy cheeseburger? Otherwise, what's the point?”

Relieved, Baby Doll shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Good,” she said. “Mr. Thompson makes the greasiest burgers you've ever seen. The grease just drips off of 'em. They're real messy. Some people love that, but then others...”

Marty nodded. “They don't care so much for that.”

“Right,” she said, repositioning her pen to write. “What kind of side would you like?”

“I'll go with the French fries.”

Baby Doll smiled. “I'll bet you eat 'em with gobs of ketchup.”

Marty grinned. “Guilty as charged. I drown 'em in it.”

“I thought so,” she said, nodding happily. “I'll get your order in and it'll be out in a jiffy.”

He stopped her. “One more thing.”

She looked back. “Yeah?”

“No lettuce, tomatoes, onion, and above everything else, absolutely no pickles.”

She nodded in a perky way that made him wonder what she would be like as a sexual partner. “Got ya, boss. No pickles.”

At all,” he said. “Seriously, no pickles.”

She smiled big, flirting just a bit. “Or what, mister?”

He grinned back. “Let's just say I'll be really displeased.”

“Well, we don't want that,” she said, still flirting. “After all, I want my tip.”

And Baby Doll turned and walked back to the counter, making a point of swishing her ass as she did. Marty watched her as she walked away, nodding his head to some crusty old banjo-laden country song about broken hearts and cowboy boots.

 

 

About eight minutes passed before Baby Doll appeared at his table again. While waiting, Marty had tolerated the grating music playing, occasionally glancing up at a muted soap opera on the old black-and-white TV hanging at the front of the room. Baby Doll sat the plastic plate, piled with French fries, down on the table. It smelled good and Marty was ready to dig in.

Seeing that he had drained his water cup, Baby Doll asked, “Would you like me to get you a refill?” Already anticipating the answer, she picked up the cup before he could speak, and she turned and walked away.

Marty inhaled the pungent fried potato smell and reached for the ketchup bottle. He unscrewed its lid, dumping a ridiculous amount of the stuff onto his fries. He then lifted the hamburger bun to apply ketchup there, as well. When he did, he was horrified to see three slices of neon green cucumber affronteries to humankind sitting there atop his cheesy burger patty. He forced himself to avert his gaze, fighting back the feeling that he might vomit. He slid the plate away from him.

“Goddammit,” he said, his stomach still turning from the unexpected pickle sighting.

A moment later Baby Doll returned with the condensation-coated cup, now fully refilled. He looked up at her, their eyes locking, and she knew instantly that something was wrong.

“There a problem?” she asked.

He nodded, looking down at his defaced burger. “I'm afraid so,” he answered grimly. He looked up at her. “It's all fucked up.”

Baby Doll cocked her head like a puppy hearing a high-pitched sound, wrinkling her brow as she did. “What do you mean?”

Marty raised his hand and pointed at the plate. Her eyes tracked from the tip of his finger to the burger sitting a few inches away.

“Go on,” he said. “Take a look at it. Look under the bun.”

Confused by what was he happening, Baby Doll reached out and pulled back the bun, revealing the nasty little bastards in all their abominable glory. But she still didn't understand. She looked at him questioningly.

“Pickles,” he said. “They're all over the damned thing.”

She started to laugh, unable to control herself. “That's it? That's the big drama?”

Marty glared at her. “I told you—I really hate pickles.”

And he stood up.

 

 

It was just after two when Sgt. Malone pulled his cruiser into the diner's parking lot. He switched off the red lights and climbed out of the car, walking over to where the other officers were congregated. They turned to him.

“What 's the story here?” asked Malone.

“Nine people dead inside,” responded the cop. Malone had never seen him before and figured him a newbie.

“How'd they do it?”

The cop made a face. “Shot up the place, blood all over the walls, everywhere. It's a goddamn slaughter party. It's like the fuckin' Wild Bunch in there.”

Malone nodded, letting it sink in. “Robbery?”

“It doesn't appear to be,” said the young cop. “There appear to be other motives.”

Malone nodded again. “Surveillance cameras?”

“No, sir,” the young cop said. “But there was another thing—a really strange thing—that I gotta show you.”

“Take me to it,” said Malone, already on the move towards the diner's entrance. He read a sign in the window as he did. “Their sign says they got the best burgers in town. You figure that's true?”

“Beats me,” said the young cop, leading the way.

“I kinda doubt it,” said Malone. “Everybody always says that. Then you get the burger and it's just a regular old burger.”

“Right,” said the cop, not paying attention. He led the older officer into the blood-drenched crime scene. He walked towards one of the bodies—a young Amish man with a dingy Duck Dynasty beard lying there on the tile—and squatted down over him. “I want you to see this,” said the cop.

Malone knelt down beside him, looking at the bloody corpse. That's when he noticed that the corpse had something covering its eyes. “He's got something in his eye sockets,” he observed.

The younger cop nodded. “All of 'em do.”

Malone reached down and plucked the tiny object from the dead man's eye. “Well, hell. It's a goddamn pickle,” he said. “What do you make out of that?”

“I have no fucking idea, sir,” the cop said, trying to parse it all out. “Maybe someone just really hated pickles.” The two cops remained there squatting, laughing at the improbability of the scenario.

 

End

 

Andy Rausch is the author of 30 fiction and nonfiction books. His novels include Mad WorldElvis Presley: CIA Assassin, and the forthcoming M-Company in The Axis of Evil (with David C. Hayes). He has also written a short story collection, Death Rattles, and a novella collection entitled Riding Shotgun and Other American Cruelties. He is a regular contributor to a number of publications including Shock CinemaScream, and Diabolique. He resides in Parsons, Kansas.

 

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