EATING THE DEFICIT
by Anonymous-9
 

Another harried day in Sacramento. The California state budget was short a trillion dollars. Again. The governor projected a weary numbness as his aides hustled him through the capitol building corridors on the way to a high octane press conference. It was getting harder and harder to say the economy was looking up, and keep a straight face.

A small waiting room was situated beside the press conference stage, and the governor stopped there to have a last minute hair-comb and nose-powder, before facing the cameras. He sank gratefully into a folding chair and waited for the groomer to arrive.

A moment later, a smartly dressed lady rushed in. “Governor, it’s urgent,” she hissed. “Cannibalism has broken out. It’s not limited to the consumption of unwanted children anymore.”

The governor stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it about. “I don’t think I heard you,” he said, as a man wearing a ragged suit rushed by the door, gnawing on a severed arm.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sir. It’s an outbreak.”

The governor poked his head out the door. The senate chamber was a scene of depravity as members tore the flesh from a fallen man. They all seemed gaunt under their fine business clothes, and the energy they summoned to tear at the man betrayed ravenous hunger.

“Has the world gone mad?” he shouted. “Stop this at once!”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you sir, there’s no food. People are starving. Even politicians!”

“What?’ he spluttered. Tap the emergency fund─”

She spat back at him, “Every cent is gone. From spending our way out of the recession.”

“Then raise taxes,” the governor howled, as a great spray of blood and fluids flew out of another victim’s neck ten feet away.”

“Taxes are at a hundred percent,” the aide screamed back. Her pretty blonde hair misted with crimson, but her eyes held the governor’s bulging stare. Her words came distinctly, as though speaking to a child, “Nobody works or produces anymore. Taxpayers left the state long ago. All that’s left is this legislature, and millions of hungry─” Her words were drowned out by cracking and groaning at the senate doors. The wood heaved and buckled under tremendous strain. A massive grinding engine roared behind it all.

The governor put his hands out beseechingly. “What about Washington? A bailout, TARP funds, anything!”

“That’s how we got here,” she screamed back. “The President kept promising foreign backers would—EEEEEYAAAHHHH!”

The great carved doors burst and a military tank rumbled through the chamber. It came to a stop, smoking and chugging, under a pair of gilded Corinthian columns. For a moment, carnage paused. Senators stopped, mid-bite, and let blood trickle down their chins and onto their fancy suits. Above their heads, a Latin motto, lettered on the wall in gold said, “Senatoris est civitatis libertatem tueri.” It is the duty of the senators to protect the liberty of the citizens. But no one was paying attention.

The lid of the tank creaked open and a smallish man poked his head up along with an assault weapon. His eyes widened, but he must have seen mayhem like this before, because he quickly regained composure. Aiming the rifle directly at the governor, he shouted, “We are the People’s Republic of China. And we’re here to help.” The rifle spit red and gold, as screams spiked the air.

A gentle tapping on the governor’s arm coaxed him awake. “It’s time for your speech, sir.” The governor checked the front of his suit for traces of gunfire. There was none. He blinked a few times. No tank, no Chinese military, no cannibalistic chaos—nothing unusual.

The governor reached into the breast pocket of his elegant suit and retrieved his speech.  Tossing it in the trash, he walked out to face the cameras.

END
 

BIO: Anonymous-9 is a repeat offender at Powder Burn Flash. She is the winner of Spinetingler's 2008 Best Short Story on the Web, as well as a nominee for a couple of Derringers and an International Thriller Award. She receives multiple rejections for almost all of her stories before they find the right home. A-9 hums Frank Sinatra's "That's Life" a lot. www.myspace.com/ano9

King of the World
by Liam Sweeny

Cole sat impatiently in the office of the old warehouse on Wharf road. That was the meeting point. He knew the rest of the crew would show; he had the money, over a million tucked in a canvas mail bag. Jack, Mickey and George would be there any minute. They just had to tie up loose ends.

Jack popped through the door, out of breath. He grabbed a chair and sat down, reaching into his overcoat to pull out a flask. He took a swig and looked at Cole, his arm propped on the table.

“Where’re Mickey and George.”

“Full a’ lead.” Jack said as he caught his breath. “Cops aired ‘em out.”

“They onto ya’?”

“Nah, I ditched ‘em good.”

Cole held up the bag. “Going by weight, we got more than a million in here.”

“We’re rich men, Cole.”

Cole nodded. “Jack, we gotta’ lay low for a while-,”

“We’re buyin’ a luxury boat.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“I got a guy; he’s gotta’ trash a brand new one for scrap ‘cause he ain’t got room on his land.” Jack said, “He says he’ll give it to me off-the-books for fifty large.”

“So what, you want to take a cruise?”

“I wanna’ lay low, like you said. We grab our dames and go down to the Caribbean for a few months.”

“Jane will never go for it,” said Cole, “She didn’t like this idea to begin with.”

Jack slapped Cole’s arm. “Tell her it’s only for a week. The heist won’t be in the papers til’ tomorrow… We can leave tonight - just tell her we never went through with it.”

Cole thought about it. Jane did need some relaxing.

“Okay,” he said, “but she’s gonna’ find out eventually.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “Eventually. Let’s worry about right now.”

*     *     *

They sailed for the Bahamas that night. Everything was easy. Cole felt like the king of the world, and Jane seemed to be enjoying herself. Jack and Marion lay on the deck, peering up at the stars. Cole stood against the rail, peering out at the expanse of ocean as it meant the stars. God, they were so big, so many out there. Jane bounced up next to him, in nothing but her swimming clothes.

“Let’s swim, Cole!” She exclaimed.

“I don’t know… we’re awfully far out here… plus we can’t see…”

“That’s okay, buddy,” Jack said, “I’ll leave the light on. You’ll be able to find the boat.”

Cole was hesitant. But the look on Jane’s face; he hadn’t seen it in years. Carefree, every bit the flapper he hooked himself to in the first place. And he was king of the world! Why couldn’t he swim in his ocean?

Jane jumped in, and that settled it. He stripped to his boxers and jumped in after her. The water was surprisingly warm, and he could hear the splashes coming from Jane’s swimming. She had a lead on him, but he caught up to her eventually. They held each other, playfully kissing each other. They could barely see the light from the boat. He was thinking they should get back when the light went out. He heard the roar of the motor over the waves. He and Jane shouted, but no one could hear them. Eventually the sound of the motor couldn’t be heard over the waves.

*     *     *

“Was that your plan, Jack?”

Jack looked over at Marion. “They were both swimmers in high school. I knew they wouldn’t be able to pass up a swim in the ocean.”

“How’d you know they’d both go together?”

Jack took Marion in his arms.

“Cause I’m the king of the world, doll,” he said with a smile, “and you’re my queen.”

BIO: Liam Sweeny is an author from upstate New York. He has one book, Anno Luce available at amazon.com and bn.com. His second book, Anna's Book, is due out around August.

Daddy, May I Please Have This Dance?
by J. F. Juzwik
 
I don't know how to begin to thank you for this day, my dearest.  It has been so special since the second I opened my eyes.
 
When I awoke, it was so wonderful to hear you in the kitchen making our breakfast.  The smell of pancakes, bacon and coffee brewing filled the whole house with long-forgotten magic.
 
It has been so long since we even had a meal together--so long since you felt strong enough to leave the sanctity of your room.  When mommy left us to be with that awful man, I was so afraid for you.  I did tell you that everything would be alright someday soon, and I wasn't lying to you, was I.  At least you know I would never do that.
 
I remember that dark day like it was yesterday, as I'm certain you do as well, my pet.  You had prepared a lovely breakfast, as was your habit in those days, and she had sat there and watched and said not a word.  After we'd finished your delightful meal, without so much as a moment's hesitation, she began to laugh and stated she was leaving us to spend her life with a man she had met at the mall.  Who leaves the loves of their life to spend what time they have left with someone they meet at a mall?  As I have always tried to tell you, Father, sometimes there is no accounting for taste.
 
She had already packed a few things, and instead of taking them and leaving with some shred of dignity, she sat back and waited for the awful man to come and pick her up here.  Here.  At our home.  I was beyond horrified at the audacity of this woman, and I could see the pain creeping in and beginning to consume you.  I couldn't bear to see you weep, so I hurried to wait in the awful man's car for them so we could discuss this matter rationally and calmly.
 
She needed to understand that the die had been cast, and, even if things didn't work out as planned with the awful man, her return would not be permitted since this was no longer her home.  The awful man needed to understand something too.  His interference in our previously idyllic lives was not going to be tolerated.  We spoke at great length and I can assure you--they both understood.  Neither will darken our doorway again.
 
Our going into town for lunch and a movie this afternoon was such a sweet surprise.  When you asked the waitress to bring a cake with eleven candles, and you both sang to me, I believed I would faint with happiness.
 
And now, waiting for the musicians and guests to arrive for my celebration, I am grateful for this time alone with you to let you know how much I appreciate all that you've done to make this my most special day ever.

I should probably mention that your new lady friend that you invited to my party will be unable to attend.  I paid her a short visit while you were napping after lunch and we had such a pleasant chat.  She wasn't aware that your heart had been broken in the recent past and that her current intrusion into your life was ill advised.  But, after I explained it all to her in the greatest of detail, it became crystal clear.  What it is that you need--all that you need actually--is family right now.  Family.  The love of family is what heals the wounds of the heart and mind.  Family.  Only.
 
You needn't concern yourself about her anymore, Daddy.  I rectified that situation.
 
Do you like my new dress, my sweet?  I secretly saved all my allowance to be able to buy it myself so I'd have something extra special to wear for you today.  All this beautiful white lace--it's almost completely stained crimson now--your blood pooling around me, warm and soothing.
 
The musicians and some of the guests have begun to arrive. Why are you all just standing in the doorway?  It's alright to come in now and just set your presents down on the big table.  You may use the big knife I've brought down to begin cutting the cake.  You might want to give it a quick rinse first though.
 
We won't be joining you right away however, because once the band gets set up and begins to play, Daddy and I will be having the very first dance.  It's just the two of us now, you see, as it should always have been.
 
 
BIO:  J. F. Juzwik has had a crime fiction novel, a horror short, and several crime shorts published.  Her thriller will soon be appearing in an anthology.  She is a member of several writers' networks and maintains a blog for both writers and readers at jfjuzwik.blogspot.com   Information on all her projects can be found on her website at jfjuzwik.webs.com

Snapped
by Kia Storm

Blood splattered walls. The phone hangs off the hook. Dan is sitting on the bed holding a large shiny slaughter knife. Not sure of whether to scream or run, I hesitate. We lock eyes. I dash for the door, but Dan blocks me. We stand awkwardly, staring at each other. “Are you going to kill me?”

Dan seems appalled by the question. “Jesus, Tom,” he says slowly. “You’ve been my best friend since the age of ten. Why do you think I called you?  You’re the only one I can trust.” 

Dan’s knife hangs freely in his hand, so I snatch it. My own hands are trembling, and I struggle to keep the knife from doing the same. I feel a panic of shockwaves through my body. I stifle the need to shake him, to strike him hard until he passes out. Instead I camouflage my emotion.  In the army Dan and I had been shown how. We vow to do our duty, to never run away, and to never desert our friends.  Dan had refused to leave me and carried me bleeding.  We killed so many, and for Dan, he would never be the same.

“Tell me what happened?” My Gaze rests on the loveliest woman. She is lying on the bed covered in blood. She is half naked. Even in death she looks beautiful. I feel sadness in my heart, and I struggle against tears.

“I stabbed her fifty times. I counted each stab. She made me that angry.” Dan stands up and walks towards the bed. “I loved her very much.” He sobs, running a shaky hand through her hair before asking me for a cigarette.

My fingers stiffen around the knife. I meditate to the rhythms of deep breathing. As he looks at her, I raise the knife from behind. I try to talk myself out of not using it. I see myself stabbing him again and again, but then I lower the blade.  

“I said, you got a cigarette?”  I remind myself I’ m not a monster.

“Yeah, sure.” In my mind I hear her screaming and pleading for her life.

“I wasn’t ready to be a dad, but she wouldn’t abort it.” Dan blows a puff of smoke in the air. “What am I going to do without her?”

“Pray for your soul.” I dial 999 and speak through gritted teeth.

“You think I´ll go to prison? I’ve hit her before, but never this brutally. I just snapped, man. The knife was just lying around. You always warned me about my temper.”

We hug each other, and again a thought comes back to haunt me. I raise the knife above his back. I close my eyes. I wanted him to die in the same way she did.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Dan said.

I loosen the knife from my grip. We sit and wait for the police. Dan mumbles about how sorry he is.

I weep for her, for our love, and for my unborn baby. She promised she would leave him, and now I´ll never know what she was planning to do.

“I need you to stand by me,” he said. “They are going to kill me in there.”

I lay the knife on the bed beside her. I kiss him goodbye on the cheek. I knew then I didn’t have to hurt him.  I wasn’t a monster.

BIO: Kia Storm lives in England, where she occasionally daydreams about sky diving over the Pacific Ocean, climbing Mount Everest and dreads the day when she will have no choice but to grow up, well at least that’s what her friends tell her anyway.

Other work by Kia has appeared in numerous on-line venues including, Down Dirty Words,  Blink Ink , Thrills Kills n Chills , The Lip Stick Pages, and various others. Her short story, ‘Run Coward Run,’ was published in “Twisted Dreams Magazine”, 2010 Issue. The Invisible Alien Watcher has been featured on http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/author/kia-storm/the-invisible-alien-watcher/

A Withering Rose
by John Atkinson

It was one of the worst storms he had ever seen this side of the English Channel. The rumble of the hired 1970 Alfa Romeo was barely audible over the rain hammering the road, and the windscreen, with forceful vigour. The map lay crumpled in a heap on the passenger seat, momentarily legible in the flare of light as he lit a cigarette. The car eased its way up the mountain road, headlights searching for the Hotel Sanguine, the location of tonight’s pick-up. A simple job really, and such a let-down for his final act. Thomas had always wanted to go out with a bang, not wither away into a late retirement, but with the Cold War tirelessly warming up, that didn’t seem to be much of an option anymore.

Michelle heard the crunch of the tyres on the gravel path, even over the pounding of the rain, before she saw its headlights sweep through the windows. The slightly yellowish light gave the pale white of the walls a waxy pallor and made the walnut panelling and check-in desk seem worn and washed out. A minute or so after the lights died and the engine silenced she saw a man enter. He was soaked through his expensive suit, as crumpled as he was wrinkled. The rose that hung from his lapel was ruined both by its age and the rain. His nicotine stained yellow-white hair was swept back over his head. He could have been distinguished once, she thought, maybe even handsome. Not anymore.

Thomas knew that he was gracing this little hotel with his presence; he straightened his cuffs, smoothed back his hair and drew himself up to his full six feet. He sauntered over to the check-in desk and gave the girl his winning smile, a smile so many young girls had swooned over in his long years serving her majesty’s government. He made a show of asking for the best room, hinting that the girl would be more than welcome to join him later. He left her simpering and smiling demurely at him as he ascended the stairs, a picture of dignity and allure.

Michelle was repulsed; the man had all but asked her to join him upstairs! She was both offended and disgusted that such an old man could be so lecherous and forward with her! ‘That’s the English for you’, she thought to herself as she began again to clean the dust and grime from the hotel’s lobby.

Thomas was disappointed with his room; he was used to luxury rather than the Spartan emptiness of this small box. He placed his suitcase on the chair by the mirror, opposite the bed, and changed his suit for the dry Armani in his suitcase. He took out the manuscript for his memoirs and placed it on the desk, smiling a little at the prospect of all the trouble, and red faces, it would cause in Lubyanka Square to have his life’s work in the public eye. He gave his shoes a quick once over and smiled as he saw his face in the gleam. He transferred the ailing rose from his damp suit to his new lapel and began to make his way down the stairs. An entrance such as his was wasted on the audience; merely the same girl from before, now serving behind the bar, and his contact stood nursing a Cognac. Thomas frowned at Karl; the man had never had taste, dressed in a brown suit and tweed hat he looked every inch the cheap communist Ruskie he had come to despise. He stood next to Karl and barked his order of Bourbon on ice.

Michelle poured slowly, keeping her eyes on the old man.  Now he was dry and in a new suit he looked even worse, she thought, like a man dressed for the grave. She felt the distaste begin to show on her face and momentarily turned her head aside so as not to let the old man see just what she thought of him. Thomas saw the girl shyly glance away from meeting his gaze, he smiled to himself and took the brief moment of privacy to nudge Karl and slip the envelope containing the money into his hand. At the same instant he felt Karl slip a few sheets of paper, folded, into the inside pocket of his jacket. The hand-off made, he slowly drained his glass of the whiskey, keeping his eyes fixed on the cleavage of the serving girl. Once the glass was drained he headed upstairs, with a meaningful look at Michelle.

Naked he lay in the bed, he cursed to himself as he looked at the clock on the bedside table and realised it had been an hour since he left the bar. ‘Maybe that Ruskie is taking his goddamn time finishing his drink’ he thought to himself, and laughed as he realised how desperate that sounded. No, he was in full control and she would not be able to resist the mystery that surrounded him.

A few minutes later the door to his room slowly opened and in crept the serving girl, clad in a sheer purple night gown and seemingly nothing else. She put a finger to her lips to signal silence and moved towards the bed, crushing the fallen rose beneath one foot. She slipped between the sheets as silently as a wraith and made no noise, of pleasure or otherwise throughout their brief lovemaking.

Once it was over Thomas drifted off to sleep, content and assured in his own unfailing allure and masculinity. He awoke a few moments later when he felt the knife slip between his ribs. His eyes locked on to the piercing blue eyes of the girl, he saw the disgust in them and knew Karl’s treachery. He turned his eyes away from her and they  fell upon the last thing they ever saw; his name, Thomas Berringer, consumed by flames as his manuscript burned in the fireplace.

BIO: John Atkinson is an avid reader of both horror and fantasy. The only thing he enjoys more than staying up late to read a story is staying up late to write one. Influenced mainly by the works of Stephen King and H. P. Lovecraft he seeks to create an atmosphere of dread and intrigue in his stories. Rather new to the trade he hopes to establish himself in the business and hope you enjoy his stories! He doesn’t like marmite.