Teddy had been tied to the telephone pole for two weeks. During this time, he had endured rain, wind, and scorching temperatures, sometimes all in the same day. His fur, once white and soft, had grown stiff and discolored.

After a few days, he had grown used to the harsh weather. He even learned to ignore the pain caused by the dirty shoestring that bound him tightly to the pole. But the one thing that bothered him, the one thing he could not shake, was the loneliness. Teddy wasn’t used to being by himself. Before the accident, he’d always had someone to talk to, to play with, to pass the time with. But this all changed when the drunk driver killed little Tina, right here at this very intersection. The next day, Teddy was snatched from Tina’s room and tied to the pole.

Teddy would rather be tied to a tree in the middle of the forest. At least then he wouldn’t be surrounded by constant reminders of why he was here. When Teddy looked down, he could still see some of the broken glass from the wreck, glinting in the sunlight. To his left, the row of one-story brick apartments where he had once lived stretched down the block. To the right was the liquor store, where the drunk man had pulled out of the parking lot much too fast. Despite the accident, Teddy still watched drunk people come and go every night.

He also saw children playing in front of the apartments. Every day he watched little girls just like Tina skipping rope on the sidewalk, playing with dolls, or chasing each other through the yards in a game of tag. The more he watched them, heard their laughter, saw their smiles, the more he craved a friend.

One night when Teddy was particularly lonely, he decided he couldn’t live any longer without companionship. He rubbed the back of his neck against the telephone pole, rubbed until the already-frayed shoestring snapped. He fell to the ground, rolled over, and then flung himself upright. He walked to the edge of the curb, looked both ways, and then hurried across the dimly-lit street.

Since all of the apartments were designed the same, it was easy for Teddy to locate a child’s window. But he was only two feet tall, and the window was too high. He looked around and found that the children had left their toys scattered around the yard. He located a toy truck, pushed it over to the window and climbed on top of it.

He peered through the window and saw a little girl sleeping in her bed. She looked a lot like Tina, so small and pretty in her pink pajamas. Her room looked like Tina’s too, cluttered with books, toys, and stuffed animals.

Teddy rapped on the window, but his paw was too soft to wake the sleeping girl. He tilted his head forward and used his hard black eye to tap on the window. The girl stirred. He tapped again. The girl sat up. She looked at Teddy and rubbed her eyes.

Teddy motioned for her to come outside.

The little girl got out of bed, walked across the room and lifted the window.

Teddy hopped down from the truck and retreated several feet, motioning for the girl to follow.

As the girl climbed out of the window, Teddy was filled with happiness. He would finally have a friend!

Teddy ran to the curb, but not too fast; he didn’t want the girl to lose sight of him. He looked back, saw her walking towards him through the yard, smiling.

Teddy ran across the street and stood on the opposite curb. As the girl stepped into the street, a car tore out of the liquor store parking lot, tires squealing, headlights sweeping through the darkness. Illuminating the girl’s shocked expression as the car ran her down.

* * *

As the sun went down, Teddy knew it was going to be another long night on the telephone pole. The liquor store parking lot buzzed with activity. Broken glass gleamed in the street from the wreck last night, and a dark red stain marked the spot where the little girl had bled to death. Next to Teddy, tied to a light pole, was the girl’s stuffed unicorn. And while he did provide companionship, he wasn’t the most talkative fellow. What Teddy needed was a friend more like himself.

The shoestring Tina’s mom had reattached Teddy with was just as old and frayed as the last one, and it would only take him a moment to work himself free again. As the streetlights flashed on, and darkness claimed the sky, he watched as parents ushered their children in for the night.

So many boys and girls. One of them had to have a teddy bear.

"Teddy"
Copyright: © 2010 Chris Reed
---------------------------------

Chris Reed is the author of more than 60 stories. He lives in Davison, MI, where he enjoys browsing thrift stores, eating pizza, and waiting for hockey fights to break out, sometimes simultaneously. Visit his official web site: www.ChrisReedFiction.com.

Bill Finley was eating chips and watching football when a voice on the television said, “And now let’s pause for a molestation sentencing.”

Bill stopped chewing. Had he heard that right? Molestation? He’d seen programming interrupted for all types of crime, everything from petty larceny to murder, but this was something new.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Kathy. When his wife didn’t answer, he looked at the couch where she lay and realized her eyes were closed. She’d been so withdrawn lately. Bill tried to remember the last time they were intimate. Ever since Taylor was born, their relationship had gone quickly down hill. Now only his daughter gave him any attention. She lay curled up on his lap, face nestled in his chest, a miniature version of her mother.

Bill turned his attention back to the television. The screen turned bright yellow, then super-novad to white. Bill put up his hand to shield his eyes. The light dimmed. When he took his hand down, a man wearing a blue Party uniform and black sunglasses was staring at him. “This is Child Protective Services, responding to allegations of child molestation. How do you plead?”

Bill squinted his eyes, used his free hand to point to his own chest. “Me?”

“Yes you.”

Bill didn’t want to look guilty, but he was having a hard time breathing normally. A charge like this was serious, and often dealt with very harshly.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Bill said, shifting nervously in the metal viewing chair. “There must be a mistake.”

“We don’t make mistakes,” the man said firmly.

“But—”

“Look at your left hand.”

Bill looked down and found his left hand resting on Taylor’s backside. He felt a flash of guilt, and moved his hand onto the arm of the chair. He looked back at the television, at the man on the screen. Although the glasses obscured his eyes, Bill knew there was evil in them. Could feel their stare boring a hole right through him.

“He touches her like that all the time,” Kathy said.

Bill turned to see her sitting up, and realized her sleeping had been an act.

Bill snapped his attention back to the Party member. “She’s lying! She’s just jealous because Taylor loves me more!”

“Taylor!” he said, shaking the child awake.

The girl looked up at him drowsily. “What?”

He pointed to the TV and said, “Tell the man I’ve never hurt you!”

The girl rubbed her eye with her little fist, looked at the man on the TV, then back to her father, confused.

“Hurry!” Bill pleaded. “There isn’t much time!”

“Let go of the girl, Mr. Finley,” the man said.

Instinctively, Bill pulled Taylor closer.

Kathy appeared beside him. She took hold of Taylor’s arm. “You heard him,” she said. “Let her go.”

He relinquished his hold, and looked into his wife’s eyes pleadingly. “Why, Kathy?”

“You’ve neglected me since she was born,” she whispered. Then to Taylor: “Come with Mommy.”

Bill watched as Kathy led their daughter out of the room. He looked back at the television.

“William Adam Finley,” the man said, “I charge you with first degree criminal sexual conduct, a crime punishable by death.”

Before Bill could blink, a surge of electricity shot from the television to the chair. Bill’s muscles tensed. His eyes bulged. His clothes began to smoke.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the main on the television said, as Bill’s hair burst into flame. “Anything you say can and will be used to defame your character after your death.”

The man paused, listening for something to document, but Bill’s charred lips produced no sound. His head was now just a black cinder, his body a smoldering shell of ash.

“The accused has declined to speak,” the man said.

The seat of the chair dropped open, and Bill’s remains tumbled down a long shaft, and disappeared into the darkness. The seat swung back on its hinges and clicked back into place.

Kathy led Taylor back into the room, brushed the residue of ash off the seat, and propped her up on the chair. “How about some cartoons?” she said.

“Where’s Daddy?”

Kathy ignored the question, and changed the channel to 100. A large, brown bear, with big blue eyes, dressed in pajamas and a nightcap was sitting on a bed. A window behind him revealed a black, star-filled sky. “Hi, Taylor,” he said.

“Hi,” the girl said shyly.

“Do you know what time it is, Taylor?”

Taylor shook her head.

“It’s sleeeeeepy time,” the bear said. He put the flat of his hand to his mouth and feigned a yawn. “And do you know what we do when it’s sleepy time?”

“Go to sleep?”

“That’s right. So close your little eyes and think about nice things.”

Taylor closed her eyes. The bear continued: “Things like ice cream… and cookies… and presents… and Mommy…”

“And Daddy,” Taylor said.

“No,” the bear said softly. “Not Daddy. There is no Daddy.”

Taylor’s eyes popped open. “But—”

“There never was any Daddy. There’s only Mommy, do you understand, Taylor? Only Mommy.”

Taylor was confused, but the bear’s soothing voice soon lulled her eyes shut again.

“Say it with me, Taylor: Only Mommy… only Mommy…”

“Only Mommy,” Taylor said, her voice barely audible.

“That’s right,” the bear said. “Only Mommy.”

Her lips parted to repeat the mantra, but she soon fell asleep as Mommy stroked her hair.

"The Accused"
Copyright: © 2010 Chris Reed

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Chris Reed is the author of more than 60 stories. He lives in Davison, MI, where he enjoys browsing thrift stores, eating pizza, and waiting for hockey fights to break out, sometimes simultaneously. Visit his official web site: www.ChrisReedFiction.com.

I’m looking for Linda. Have you seen her? She likes to spend her afternoons here reading magazines and drinking coffee. She says you guys have the best coffee in town. She...she...Ha. Haha! HAHAHA! HEE-HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Sorry about that. I had to shift the marbles. Cat’s Eyes to the right, Steelies to the left. That’s the way they work best. If they get bunched up in the middle they make me laugh. And it always seems to happen at the most inappropriate times. I laughed at Linda when she broke up with me. I was devastated, but I laughed anyway because the marbles had slipped. The Steelies were on the right that time. It’s hard to keep them on the correct sides because there’s moisture in there and it makes things shift.

But it’s not always bad. Sometimes things work out. Sometimes the marbles stay put and everything’s fine. Sometimes I go days without having to take my ball cap off and reach in there to rearrange them. It hurts when I poke around too much. Sometimes I touch the wrong spot and it makes me wet my pants. One time it happened on the bus. I got up at my stop and there was a big puddle on the seat. I think the Cat’s Eyes had slid to the back that time.

The worst pain I ever felt was the day I was eating hot peppers and I felt the Steelies shift. I took off my cap, and without washing the pepper juice off my hand first, I dipped my fingers through the hole in my skull. Once that juice hit my brain it was like my whole head went up in flames. I ran through the restaurant screaming and knocking tables over. It must have been a sight. Anyway, I grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and tried to spray my head with it but my aim was all off. So I handed it to this cook who was just standing there staring at me and I said, "Put the fire out!" But he just kept staring at the hole in my head with this stupid look on his face. I don’t eat there anymore. If they can’t help their customers, they don’t deserve my business.

So now I carry a spray bottle in my pocket in case that ever happens again. I keep hoping I’ll run into Linda somewhere so I can show her my spray bottle. Show her how smart I am. She’s the one who told me I’m crazy. But I ask you, would a crazy man know the proper way to situate these marbles? Would a psychopath have the mental capacity to understand why they work in the first place? Would a man of questionable cognition possess the capability to learn from his mistakes, to realize that vacuum cleaner parts don’t work, that the nuts and bolts, while roughly the same size as marbles, tend to get lodged between the skull and the frontal lobe, and sometimes even wedge themselves beneath the corpus collosum, causing me to… to… Parumph! Parumph! Parruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!

Sorry about that. Had to shift the marbles again. Now where was I? Where’s Linda?

"Marbles"
Copyright: © 2010 Chris Reed
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Chris Reed is the author of more than 50 short stories. His fiction has appeared in a variety of small press publications including Black Ink Horror, Chimeraworld 5, and the Cutting Block Press anthology, Tattered Souls: The Provocative Boundary of Fear. When not writing, he spends his time browsing thrift stores, eating pizza, and waiting for hockey fights to break out, sometimes simultaneously. He lives in Davison, MI, with his photographer wife and their two enigmatic children. VILE VISIONS, his first collection of fiction, is now available at his Web site: www.ChrisReedFiction.com.

Psychos. The whole town was full of them.

All Mark had to do was look out the window and he could spot them everywhere. And yet Joan had the nerve to call him crazy. So he had a bit of an anger problem—who didn’t? Joan told him he lacked patience. But just because he got a little agitated while waiting in the checkout line at the market didn’t necessarily mean he had a problem. So what if he blared his horn at an old lady who was driving ten miles under the speed limit? Maybe someone needed to wake her up. No, he wasn’t crazy, just tired of other people’s BS.

But Joan wore the pants in the family, so he relented and sought the counseling she’d requested he seek. The doctor explained that Mark needed to relax, to see the beauty in things, and not focus so much on the negative. But after two months of Freudian psychobabble and failed hypnosis, he didn’t feel any different, except in the wallet, which was now two hundred dollars lighter. So he cancelled his next appointment, telling Joan he was “cured” and didn’t see the sense in wasting any more money. The doctor had warned him that cutting his treatment short could cause him problems. He threw out words to describe the possible side-effects, words like “dangerous” and “unpredictable,” but Mark knew that was just the doctor’s way of scaring him, to keep his lecherous fingers in Mark’s bank account. The whole thing was a joke.

But to make Joan happy, he pretended to be better, pretended to have more patience. It wasn’t easy biting his tongue every time some jerk cut him off, but it was better than paying alimony.

He and Joan were on their way to dinner to celebrate his “recovery,” when the pick-up truck in front of them stopped abruptly. Mark slammed on the brakes, but the car plowed into the truck’s rear end, caving the tailgate in.

Mark’s first impulse was to pound the steering wheel and curse the jerk in front of them. For a split second, he considered the implications: Losing control would prove that he wasn’t “cured” of his “condition” and he’d have to return to counseling. But it would be worth it to ream this guy good. Mark had a lot of pent-up anger, and this was the perfect opportunity to blow off some steam.

But as the door of the truck swung open and the big, burly driver climbed out, an inexplicable calm came over Mark. Suddenly everything was perfect—the sky was blue, the sun was out, and it was great to be alive. Despite his initial fury, Mark couldn’t help but smile, even as the truck’s driver reached over the damaged tailgate and grabbed an aluminum baseball bat.

“Mark!” Joan said. “Back up! This guy’s nuts!”

But Mark made no attempt to disengage his front end from the truck’s rear bumper. Something about their union was suddenly so right, so natural.

“Mark!” Joan screamed, grabbing his shirt sleeve. “Put the car in reverse! GO!”

The bat came down against the windshield, crushing it inward, but Mark didn’t flinch. The spider-web pattern in front of him was just too pretty to look away from. The second strike hit the passenger window, spraying Joan with broken glass. Mark watched it tumble across the car’s interior… glimmering like diamonds.

The man with the bat reached through the window and grabbed a fistful of Joan’s hair. She yelped and kicked as he yanked her out of the car and slammed her to the pavement. Mark watched without emotion as the man brought the bat down once, twice, again, again. Blood and brain matter flew up and splattered the man’s face and neck, speckled his white T-shirt. He looked just like a painting, more striking than a Rembrandt.

A small crowd had gathered, their wide eyes and gasping mouths reminiscent of that masterpiece by Edvard Munch. The doctor had been right—everywhere Mark looked there was beauty, and it was time he slowed down to enjoy it.

Mark closed his eyes and listened as sirens sang in the distance like sweet music.

"Patience"
Copyright: © 2010 Chris Reed
---------------------------------

Chris Reed lives in Davison , MI , with his wife and two children. His fiction and poetry have appeared in a variety of small press publications including Black Ink Horror, Aberrant Dreams, and Killer-Works.com. Aside from writing, Chris enjoys frozen pizza, Seinfeld reruns, and hockey fights. He is also the artist/writer/creator of Used Addictions, a comic book about a cigarette butt, an empty wine bottle, and a used condom. Visit his website: http://www.chrisreedfiction.com/.

The boxer danced from side-to-side, bobbing and weaving as she jabbed at the shadow on the wall. Her success allowed her to have the most hi-tech gym equipment money could buy, yet she rarely used it; she found shadow boxing to be the best form of training, even more effective than a traditional sparring partner. She was good, and her record proved it. Her possessions also proved it. The six-bedroom house, the cars, the jewelry. She had it all. It was only a matter of time before someone tried to take it.

She was about to reach for her towel when a voice behind her said, “Don’t move.”

Against the stranger’s command, she turned around.

“I said don’t move, are you deaf?”

The man in the ski mask and black jacket was not tall, and not very big, but he had a gun. In his other hand was a pillow case full of her belongings.

“Where’s the loot?” the man said.

“I don’t have any,” the boxer told him.

The man scoffed. “Yeah, right. Rich broad like you? You probably got a safe around here somewhere loaded with cash, and I want it. Now!”

He thrust the gun towards her, but the boxer didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled.

“You’ve made a big mistake,” she said.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m not alone.”

The man watched as the boxer’s shadow grew larger behind her, so large it filled the eight-foot-high wall. Then it peeled itself off the bricks and stepped onto the floor.

“Jesus!” the man gasped as the shadow moved toward him.

He raised the gun and fired, but the faceless, featureless thing kept coming. He backed up against the opposite wall, and unloaded the clip, putting all six bullets into the gut of the monster’s body. He thought he heard it laugh as its long arms reached for him and grabbed him by the neck. The burglar dropped the gun and the bag, grabbed the pitch black wrists and tried to pry them off. But the thing was too strong, solid as the brick that spawned it.

It wrapped its fingers around his throat, and squeezed.

The boxer wiped the sweat from her face and flung the towel over her shoulder. She opened a bottle of water and took a drink as she watched her partner choke the last breaths of life from the intruder’s limp body. “Don’t wear yourself out,” she said. “We still have one more round of sparring left.”

"Intruder"
Copyright: © 2009 Chris Reed

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Chris Reed lives in Davison , MI , with his wife and two children. His fiction and poetry have appeared in a variety of small press publications including Black Ink Horror, Aberrant Dreams, and Killer-Works.com. Aside from writing, Chris enjoys frozen pizza, Seinfeld reruns, and hockey fights. He is also the artist/writer/creator of Used Addictions, a comic book about a cigarette butt, an empty wine bottle, and a used condom. Visit his website: www.ChrisReedFiction.com.

Richard sat in his car, watching with pent-up anger as his co-workers stood in the parking lot, puffing on their cigarettes. Richard had nothing against smokers – if they wanted to kill themselves, that was their business – but he did have a problem with their second-hand smoke. It drifted past his window in great noxious clouds, forcing him to hold his breath while the poison floated by. He thought about rolling his window up, but it was nearly ninety degrees outside and his A/C was broken. He would bake.

The air inside the shop was thick with hazardous fumes that burned his nose and made him dizzy. The building’s ventilation system consisted of a single exhaust fan, its rusty blades so caked with grime they barely spun. And the company-issued particle masks were a joke. Richard’s ten-minute break was his only reprieve, his only chance to snatch a few token breaths of fresh air before heading back into the haze of acetone, paint thinner and mold release agents. And it had been enough until spring arrived and the jerks with the coffin nails climbed out of their cars and started polluting the air with carcinogens just as dangerous as the fumes he sought to escape.

Nearly as annoying as their smoke was the group’s conversations, which usually consisted of opinionated statements concerning the previous night’s football game (“The Lions need to fire Matt Millen.”), the war in Iraq (“We ought to just nuke them towel-headed fucks and get it over with.”), or – how profound – the weather (“Ain’t no such thing as global warming.”). But today, a new topic dominated their discussion – the recent disappearance of several female joggers. And even though the police suspected foul play, these morons were convinced they had it all figured out. According to them, the women (“bitches”), all of whom were married, had simply run away with other men.

As Richard watched the smoke and the ignorance spew from his co-workers’ mouths, he decided he’d had enough. It was time for the payback.

He started his car, the engine groaning and rattling in protest, and pulled out of his parking space. He drove past the small group of men to an empty spot on the other side of their vehicles, and then backed his car in and killed the engine. Now they were downwind of him. And it only took them a few moments to notice the smell. Richard giggled as he watched the men turn toward him, their faces contorted at the stench of what he had in the trunk.

Or, rather, who he had in the trunk.

And even though they all wore athletic pants, sports bras, and running shoes, it was rather obvious that they hadn’t exactly “run away” with him.

"Downwind"
Copyright: © 2009 Chris Reed

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Chris Reed lives in Davison , MI , with his wife and two children. His fiction and poetry have appeared in a variety of small press publications including Black Ink Horror, Aberrant Dreams, and Killer-Works.com. Aside from writing, Chris enjoys frozen pizza, Seinfeld reruns, and hockey fights. He is also the artist/writer/creator of Used Addictions, a comic book about a cigarette butt, an empty wine bottle, and a used condom. Visit his website: http://www.chrisreedfiction.com/.