Taylor’s Candy Shop would be an empty box in seven days.

“Not enough kids like candy anymore, I suppose,” Grandpa Herman lamented to Brandon after his mother dropped him off for the weekend. His parents were on vacation to somewhere he failed to recall — or forgot in the presence of free candy. “I’ve got a week to pack up, kiddo.”

Grandpa’s eyes looked over Brandon and his little sister, Angie. “I have no idea what to do with all this candy. You can’t just throw it away. I guess someone’s going to have to eat it, but I don’t know who? I wish I could think...”

Angie raised her voice: “What about us? — we can eat it, please Grandpa!”

“Calm down, Angie,” Brandon scolded. “He’s going to let us eat candy, you don’t have to beg. He’s putting us on.”

Grandpa Herman’s cane thumped against the floor. “I have some paperwork to finish in my office, kids. Brandon, you let your sister have what she wants — anything at all, and don’t be mean about it. You kids are welcome to anything in the store, really. Help yourself. Everything.”

Angie wrinkled her face at Brandon. She wanted licorice snaps last weekend — they visited every Saturday morning — and he ate as many as he could before she had a turn. Brandon underestimated her ability to cry. Her fits were a police siren, and like a police siren, it brought Grandpa out from his office. This was the first time Grandpa gave them full reign over the aisles and shelves stocked with glass bowls of penny candy.

“Take what you want kids,” he added before he closed the door. Brandon noticed him frown. “We’re closing it down for good.”

Brandon sprinted to the chocolate aisle. He stuffed his hands into the toffee and caramel covered truffles. Angie almost knocked the bowl from its perch when she gathered a handful of Pixie-sticks. She tore through them to coat her tongue in green sugar. “Good job, Angie. Why don’t you break everything?”

Angie groveled, but she was too engrossed in her take to throw a fit. “Meanie.”

The store was darkened, and he had trouble reading the labels. Grandpa’s office light was the only source spaced out across the store in a thin shaft. He stuffed jawbreakers into his coat pockets, gum balls into his jeans, and M&M’s inside his gloves. Brandon’s stride was a rub of candy shells.

“You’re stealing! Mom and Dad said you couldn’t do that. I’m telling.”

Brandon was frantic to quiet his sister: “Grandpa doesn’t care. Didn’t you see the out of business sign outside? It’s all for us, Angie.” Brandon realized what he should’ve done from the beginning and gathered plastic bags from the dispensers at the end of the aisles. “I’ll stock up with these.”

Angie pouted as he continued, this time taking from the boxes of Snickers, Butterfinger, and Hershey Bars. His sister moved on following his example and filling up a bag with gummy bears, but only the red ones. Grandma would’ve scolded them if she were still alive, even spanked them in front of customers: “That costs money, shame on you, shame on both of you! Your Grandpa works hard, and so do I, and we don’t need thieves to run us out of business, especially little thieves like you.”

Children stole from Taylor’s Candy Shop on a regular basis, but Grandpa didn’t have the heart to call their parents or the police. Grandma stayed at home, and Grandpa operated the shop six hours out of each day. Taylor’s Candy Shop became notorious for an easy steal, and Brandon heard the kids at school talk about it. If someone was caught pilfering from the aisles, an apology was enough for Grandpa to forgive them, Brandon learned. “Kids aren’t criminals, they just haven’t learned the right way of things. I can set them straight, even if it takes time and mistakes.”

Brandon discovered the soda fountain at the back of the store. He dropped his bag of candy in the aisle and raced to it. “Mom doesn’t let us drink soda, says it’s addictive, and it’ll rot our teeth out.”

Angie cried out: “Can I have a drink? I can’t reach.”

Brandon watched Grandpa’s office, the door still closed. He poured her a Dr. Pepper and a Coke for himself. As he slurped the fizz, Brandon marched to the office and checked on Grandpa. He didn’t stay inside long, maybe ten minutes to sign order forms and balance the register. Brandon looked at the door and discovered a slip of paper sticking out of the crack. He squinted to read the letters in the shadows: You kids can have anything in the store. I love you both very much. The place is yours.

Something crunched under his shoe. It was crushed into a powder, and he noticed yellow discs spread out on the tiles, what looked to be a sweet tart, except smaller. They came from the bottom of the office door. Brandon put one into his mouth, took a bite, and gagged at the offensive taste. It wasn’t candy. He spat it out and washed his mouth of the bitter taste with soda.

“Grandpa,” he yelled, hitting the door. “What are you doing in there? Are we going to the pet store across the street?”

Angie stepped behind him. “What’s Grandpa doing?”

“I don’t know,” Brandon answered. “Hey, get on my shoulders and look inside.”

Before she agreed, he lifted her up.

“What do you see?”

“The blinds are shut, but they’re open a little bit.”

She was fidgeting and about to fall backwards. Billy insisted: “Look harder, what is he doing?”

“He’s on the floor,” she finally answered. “Maybe he’s taking a nap. He’s not moving. He must be sleeping.”

Brandon let her back down. He read over the note again. “Yeah, Grandpa’s just taking a nap. We can have all the candy we want, and we won’t get in trouble.”

You kids can have anything in the store, the note’s message repeated to Brandon.

Angie crunched on a mouthful of Necco Wafers.

Brandon eyed the Fun-Dip at the register.


"Kids in a Candy Store"
Copyright: © 2009 Spencer Wendleton
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Spencer Wendleton's work has appeared in the magazines Children, Churches, and Daddies, Camp Horror, Thirteen, Midnight Times, Blank Ink Horror, thaneros.com, necrology.com, Morpheus Tales #3, The Monsters Next Door #6, House of Horror Issue #3, and Sex and Murder Issue #2. My first novel, "The Body Cartel," will be released by Damnation Books next September under the penname "Alan Spencer."





This is my story. I hope you’ll believe me because if you don’t, I fear we’re doomed. Yes, I mean all of mankind. The population of the planet will be wiped out. Get the picture? Good. Now listen up. My story is true, I swear it is. No matter how absurd it sounds to you, you must set aside your skepticism and hear me objectively. Got that?

Now then, have you noticed lately that things seem to be… what’s the word I’m looking for? Unraveling, coming undone, unglued if you will.

What do I mean? Just like I said… coming apart. Subtly of course, nothing too obvious or extreme, but there nonetheless.

All right, I’ll tell you. Things like signposts and buildings being slightly different heights than the day before. Things like songs on the radio having different lyrics than before. Things like food and drinks tasting different. Pancakes like hamburger, steak like pickles, beer like orange juice! Can you imagine my shock when I cracked a cold one only to taste pulp in it!

I see by your face you think I’m nuts. I’d probably think the same but that does not necessarily mean I am crazy now does it?

Why am I telling you this? Because I trust you. I believe, eventually, that you’ll see reason. You along with myself make two. Then we’ll make four, and then eight, then a hundred… you get the picture. If we as a race are prepared enough perhaps we can understand and even divert this impending catastrophe.

Now, I’ll continue. So after I noticed the, shall we say… differences, of the world around me I found myself scrutinizing every aspect of daily life. From a fly on the windowsill, which had two heads, to the channels on the TV, which suddenly switched to roman numerals. I mentally categorized each anomaly and studied it thoroughly. I have so far concluded those responsible are some type of residual traces of spiritual matter that are carefully, and deliberately, manipulating reality for their own purposes.

I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but believe me I know what I’m talking about.

What did you say? What possible advantage could they gain from giving a fly two heads? Well, I believe that by gradually altering reality as we know it they will eventually seize people’s perception of what is normal. When everyone is accustomed to purple clouds in the sky and dogs that make no sound and six fingers on their baby’s hands then these… these ghosts, for lack of a better word, will incorporate their own presence into the world. Sure, it might take decades or even centuries but eventually…

What’s that? How will people accept these changes in the world? Simple… they already do. U.F.O.’s, missing people, Bigfoot, the list goes on and on. And those are just some of the better known ones. The Tunguska Event, ESP, spontaneous human combustion, right down to your missing car keys and rap music, although the last one is just my opinion. Shall I go on?

So, now do I have your support? Can I count on you to… ohhh Christ! Let me get that for you. Sorry about that, it’s my fault really. I should have set your head on your shoulders more firmly. There, that’s better, it should stay now. I guess when I murdered you I didn’t think about certain complications.

Anyway, I have to admit that I’m somewhat frightened. If they can alter reality what can they do to me? I mean after all, I’m on to their plans.

Why are you looking at me like that? What the hell are you doing? Sit back down this instant, do you hear me? I said sit down! Get away from me, I mean it. If you take another step, I’ll… I’ll…


"Crazy... or Not?"
Copyright: © 2009 Rick McQuiston
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Rick McQuiston is an avid horror reader and writer who has had nearly 200 publications so far. Currently, he is working on his first novel, a collection of three novellas and more short stories. He is also a guest author and editor of his own zine. www.geocities.com/many_midnights





I return home not to find my woman but, instead, cruel words scratched out on a single sheet of rosy stationery…

Dear Tabatha,


I’ve had fun but now the time has come to explore other alternatives. I’ve met a man and fallen in love with his large penis. I’ll admit you weren’t bad, when you slung the rubber, but there’s just nothing like the real thing, baby. Your suspicions were right about me all along. I did like ‘it’ a little too much. I missed the bawdy feel of a man’s hands and the brush of thick, sweaty hair during rough sex. You were just too soft and tender for me. In addition, your sex gear didn’t come with any extras, if you know what I mean. I don’t know how else to explain it. Other than, you just aren’t man enough for me. I’ll miss your seasoned tongue play, though. There were good times with you, and no one could ever replace the memories that we shared. However, a memory is like a double-edged sword. It’s a memory that has led me back down this path. I’m also into drugs and I’m pregnant with his baby.

Before, telling you the true nature of this dear Joan letter. I’ve taken your Bloodhound, Elvis, to the local pound. I didn’t want to leave him here with you. Elvis, like me, gets lonely. You never spent time with him. Dogs need lots of attention, and you spend your ‘down time’ working out or with that damn 1967 Chevy. You’ve clocked more hours under ‘her’ hood than mine. What person in their right mind chooses to tinker around with scraps of metal over a beautiful woman, ready for some serious loving? Let me ask you something. Has your precious car ever satisfied your womanly needs in the dead of night or early in the morning?

I couldn’t read anymore. I reckon when it rains; it tries to fucking strangle you. A man, I’d rather she’d left me for Elvis. The thought of a man touching her, twisted my heart until it was wrung bone dry of love. I wanted to kill her. However, why go for the kill when you can bring on the pain? Daniela didn’t know who she was fucking with, not yet. It was magick that brought her to me, and it’ll be magick that makes her pay for breaking my heart.

I rip her photograph from the gold frame and shove the letter inside the pocket of my worn Levis. Snatching the Urn of Delogus, I send a dozen of fresh cut roses sailing across the room. I make my way to the back of our bedroom closet. I pop out the hidden panel. Cobwebs finger my raven hair as I step across the threshold of my occult lair. Once inside, I encircle her picture with the silver and crimson Cord of Saturn, while reciting the binding chant of Delogus.

I light the Black Heart Candle, smoke smolders from the wick as a foul stench dances through the dimly lit room. I pick up the Urn of Delogus, detaching the lid, and elevate it high up into the nocturnal air. “I call forth Delogus, the bringer of corruption and hate. I ask that you fill your urn with the blood of evil and condemn her fate. Seal her heart and turn it cold, make her to never love again and grow lonely and old.”

I set the picture ablaze and pitch it inside the Urn of Delogus. “Now let’s just see, how much you love dick or anything else, for that matter. You’ll hate him and you’ll hate his child. You’ll hate everything and everyone for all eternity, once I burn this handwritten letter.” The scorching hate, I felt in the pit of my gut, sizzled down to a dying amber of disgust. If I’m going to go through with this, I’ll have to finish reading her letter to kindle my wrath before burning it.

By now, you’re probably pretty pissed. I hope you’ll, find it in your heart to, forgive me for what I have done. First, let me start by saying, I love you more than life its self. No one has ever made me feel the way that you do in the bedroom, the shower, outside in the garden, or…I think you get my point.


I do not love dick. I actually hate dick, unless you’re the driving force behind it. There’s no man, I don’t do drugs, and I’m not pregnant. I’d never take Elvis to the pound. I love your car. Not because it is a classic, but because it is the first place, we made love. Now with all that said. I don’t think the real purpose of this letter will be as bad as I’d thought that it would be. Then again, maybe it will.

Here goes, today when I was cleaning the garage, I accidentally knocked a can of paint onto the hood of your car. It put a pretty, mean ding in it. I didn’t know how to tell you. I may be wrong, but I don’t think it’s that big of a deal now. Especially, after you just found out, I haven’t done any of the things that you thought I did. I just wanted you to see that there were worse things that I could’ve done than, accidentally, denting the hood of your car. I'm at Judy’s, her number is on the frig, and your dinner is in the oven. When you cool down, give me a call.

All of my love forever,
Daniela


The Urn of Delgous quivers, the Black Heart Candle flickers and sparks spring forth from a lake of darkness. The stink of destruction swipes its finger under my nose. Fire licks at the flesh of my fingertips. Daniela’s words are reduced to ashes. Tears escape from my eyes as I realize, once ignited, the flames of vengeance aren’t so easily controlled.



"Heartless"
Copyright: © 2009 Donna Jean Lyons
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Donna Jean Lyons is a retired steelworker, who recently escaped a maximum-security women’s prison for the criminally insane. She was last spotted fleeing the secluded mountains of West Virginia, dragging behind her a freshly acquired girlfriend and being followed by her two tick-infested Hell Hounds. Her true whereabouts remain a mystery. Donna Jean’s uncensored stories have shown up in House of Horror, as well as a bloody tale in the anthology Creature Features. Her writing is forthcoming in issue #10 of The Monster Next Door.





"Why have you brought me to this place of sorrow and bitter memories?" The man trembled, beads of sweat glistened upon his brow.

"Bitter for you, Papa? I think not, but for them... perhaps." The serene voice gently chided him.

"What do you want from me, after all these years? Why have you come back?"

"I needed to see you one last time, Papa. You're tired from the walk. Come sit down for a while. Lean back and rest against Mama's headstone."

"We will talk, but not here. It's late. Please take me back to the house and I will explain if that's what you wish."

"You knew they were coming that night, didn't you? Those men, bent on exacting their blood money, seeking revenge for your mistakes."

"I don't know what you are talking about." He wondered how she knew.

"I saw them, Papa. I watched them burst through the door, heard them yelling for you to pay up or die.

"You couldn't have seen that. You were gone by the time they arrived."

"Oh, but I did, and so much more. You planned it well. I saw you place the knife in their car. I followed you as you ran next door, lying your way inside."

"Impossible! You weren't there."

She ignored him, continued to speak. "The words flowed from your mouth, begging the police to hurry. You knew the cops would track them down; discover the evidence of 'their' crime. How long had you rehearsed such a scene?"

"Don't bring the memories to life, I beg of you."

"Do you remember how Mama begged? Can you see once again the pool of blood as she lay dying?"

"How do you know this? You weren't there." Desperation crept into his voice as memories flowed, unbidden.

"I saw it all, Papa. I heard her voice, pleading to no avail, telling my brother to run and hide."

"Please stop. I still hear his screams at night. My dreams carry me along a river of blood."

"But you still dream, Papa. A luxury they no longer possess. Why did you treat me differently? Perhaps that is the question I'd like to ask most of all."

Anger overcame fear now, hatred rose above all other considerations. "Is that why you've come here, to seek the answer? All right. You are the essence of your mother's betrayal. I found I couldn't live the lie, studying your face each day, wondering who stared back at me."

"Rest your hand against my brother's tiny headstone, Papa. Why did he feel your revenge?"

"My son... so much blood. For that I weep." He fought against the vision called up before him.

"And for Mama? Is there not even one tear for her?"

"What do you want from me?"

"I would think the answer obvious, Papa. I've brought you here to join us. Do you see Mama, her throat slashed by your hand? And brother, his nightclothes stained with the blood you spilled? Can you see me, Papa? Can you see the gaping hole in my chest, the emptiness within? Lay your head down upon my grave and rest. We've been waiting to embrace you."


"Family Reunion"
Copyright: (c) 2009 Laura Eno
---------------------------------------------
Laura Eno (http://lauraeno.blogspot.com) lives in Florida with her husband. She has written two YA fantasy novels and a paranormal romance, but lately feels compelled to write in the dark fantasy/horror genre. Her flash fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Twisted Dreams, The Monsters Next Door, Flashes In the Dark, 10Flash, The New Flesh, Everyday Weirdness and MicroHorror.





Brian’s mother likes to cut herself with sharpened slivers of coconut shell. I climb the fire escape and watch her through the dirty window most early afternoons. Sometimes she uses a thin paring knife and whittles her flesh with new, wonderful holes.

Lately, she’s been collecting insects in paper cups packed with wet soil. After she bleeds the wounds, she takes a pair of tweezers, removes an ant or beetle, and squeezes them inside her mutilations. Then carefully analyzing their movements, she transcribes observations in a black and white notebook entitled, Recipes.

By the time her two children disembark the school bus, she’s wearing clothes again and fresh-baked cookies are cooling on the rack.

Her youngest, Emily says the chocolate chips look like bugs.

I smile when she eats them.

Brian hugs his mother. He doesn’t notice what comes crawling out from beneath her sleeves.



"Grub"
Copyright: © 2009 Angel Zapata
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Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta, Georgia. His flash fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on Powder Burn Flash, Every Day Poets, Flashes in the Dark, Thrillers, Killers & Chillers, The Absent Willow Review, House of Horror, and Flashshot. He is husband to his blond goddess and father of four boys obsessed with all things ninja. Visit his blog: http:///





Nadine Jernigan ain't nothing like her ma. Some folks claim they ain't even blood related, that her real mother went missing five days before Nadine's birth. Whiskey Pete's been planting rumors about how them Jernigans are some kind of clan of cannibals or something. You'd think, if they was cannibals, they would've eaten a newborn baby. Besides, everybod y knows Pete's about as full of shit as an ole out house.

Back in grade school, the Jernigan boys, Loody and Dew, put a snake in the coat closet. The preacher's little deaf girl got bit. She didn't die, but that's only cause her daddy kept an anti-venom kit by the pulpit. Ever since then, all sorts of wild stories have been conjured up about those Jernigans. Hell, they ain't even allowed to step foot in church. Now that's bad, when a family is banned from the house of the Lord.

It's a shame, though. Nadine has the best singing voice in these hills. She's pretty, too, got that long red hair and fair skin like a porcelain doll, she does. Like I said, she ain't nothing like her ma. First time I met Ma Jernigan, I thought she was a man. Still ain't convinced otherwise. I mean, how do we know for sure she gave birth to those kids? She's so fat, can't notbody tell if she's pregnant and she sure didn't give birth in no hospital. We ain't even got a hospital within two hundred miles and Dr. Kent claims he ain't never worked on none of them Jerningans, not even when Loody got his arm torn off by the tractor.

Sometimes, you can hear Nadine, singing on the cliff, her voice echoes through the valley and it makes ya want to rescue her from them lunatics. There's been quite a few fellas who claim they’re gonna steal her away, but just when they get up the nerve and make a plan, something terrible happens. It’s like a curse. One guy was attacked by an fox. Killed in his own backyard. Can you believe that? A small red fox. And that ain't even the worse one. There’ve been others. I thought about going after her myself, but shit like that makes a man think twice.

I keep dreaming about her, though. That long red hair, those beautiful green eyes, that voice. Sometimes, I swear she's singing to me. I mean, I think I hear her singing my name. I'm not even sure she knows my name. How could she? We've never met. I've just seen her, when she sits on that cliff. I know, it ain't right to spy on a person, but I had to see if all those stories about how beautiful she is were true. They're true all right.

One time, she saw me. I was startled by a copperhead and made a lot of noise, scram bling away from the damn thing. Nadine looked my direction and smiled, like she thought it was funny. I managed to scare the snake away, stomping about like I did, making a fool of myself.

I've been admiring Nadine for years, but only got the nerve to get that close once. No other woman has had this much power over me before. I'll be thirty-three this year and haven't found a wife. Down deep, I know it's cause my heart belongs to Nadine.

I set a trap on the cliff last month. Right where she normally sits, thinking I could catch her, but all I caught was an orange cat. It was a pretty little thing, big green eyes, but I turned it loose. Part of me wanted to bring it home, but a cat like that is probably somebody's pet and I figured it'd find its way. Cats always do. I ain't heard any new stories about men dying, trying to rescue Nadine, lately. They're just rumors anyway. Maybe I will get up the nerve to take Nadine away from them Jernigans. They must be holding her prisoner. Why else would she stay up there?

Hear that? That's Nadine singing. Let me get on up the hill, so as I can get a better listen.

Did you see that?

Damn, I think that was Loody, or maybe it was Dew. It was one of them boys all right.
Here he comes again. Duck down. He’s got two arms, must be Dew.


What in the world? Jesus! Ma Jernigan is half man. What do you call them things, succubus?

There’s Nadine. Why are they bowing down to her like that?

Christ! What’s she doing? Is she going to fuck every one of them? Why doesn’t she scream or fight back? She acts like she likes it. I always thought she was a prisoner, but…

Fuck! I think she heard us. Come on let’s get the hell out of here!

Shit! My leg! My leg is caught in a trap! Come back! Don’t leave me here! Help!

Nadine! No!

Nadine, For the love of God! No...


"Nadine and the Boys"
Copyright: © 2009 P. J. Ray
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P.J. Ray is a musician from North Carolina with poetry and fiction in: elimae, Word Riot, and MicroHorror, among other small press zines.





Wanna know what a dead boy looks like?

Anne Wilson knocked on her friend's door. "Can Amanda come out to play?"

Amanda and Anne were best friends from kindergarten. They were both eight now, and the summers were filled with normal kid stuff... most of the time. Anne had begun to act funny lately though, so Amanda tried to get out of playing, but her mother ruined it for her, saying 'of course she should go and enjoy this fine summer day.'

"So, what are we going to do today then Anne?"

"We are going to the park. There will be lots of other kids there to play with."

They strolled along, not really even talking much until they got to the park. Anne ran over to the merry-go-round where another school mate was playing. Her name was Cindy, and she was a little mouse of a girl, way smaller than Anne.

Anne smiled and winked at Amanda and brought her hands around Cindy's neck, squeezing for all she was worth. Amanda bounded over and struggled with Anne, trying to break her hold. When she finally got her off of the girl, she reproached Anne with words an adult would use... never, ever, how dare you, what do you think you're doing?'

"Oh come off it, she doesn't feel that anyway. I enjoy hurting things that can't fight back." she said.

Amanda was, at that moment, very afraid of Anne, but she said no more and continued playing at the park until summoned to dinner by her mother.

The next day, Anne came to Amanda saying she wanted to show her what a dead boy looks like. When they arrived at an abandoned house, there were police cars all around. Amanda followed Anne to a room where a little boy lay on the floor, bruises on his neck and she thought of the park the day before.

"I did it, and if you tell anyone about it, I'll say you did it." Anne said with such force that Amanda had no doubt she'd do it.

On the way home, they stopped at little Brian's house, Amanda thinking they would pay their respects to his aunt, but when the woman opened the door, Anne said, "Is Brian here?" But "no, Brian won't be playing anymore, they found him dead," the woman said, and Anne said, "Do you miss Brian so?"

That night, Amanda stayed the night with Anne because her mother had to be out of town, and Amanda was still too afraid to make excuses, so she just did as she was told. Amanda wanted to play on the school grounds, so they ended up breaking in, and Anne wrote notes about murder on the blackboard.

The police came around and wanted to talk to both girls separately the next day, knowing that they were the ones who broke into the school, being seen by some other children.

Amanda and Anne refused to say they'd done any wrong, and being coached the last night by Anne, their stories were much the same and so nothing was made of it and they were both let go, but the officers were suspicious and watched them as best they could.

One week later, the two were at an abandoned work site, where lots of children played among the large stacks of concrete and muddy hills. They found a child by the name of Sam there, and Anne coaxed him behind some debris. When Amanda finally climbed back there, Sam was already dead. Anne carved an A into his chest with a razor. "If you tell, it'll look like you did it; after all, your name starts with an A too."

When the neighborhood began to look for missing Sam, it was all too much for Anne; they just weren't doing it right. "Sir," she said to a policeman, "I've seen Sam over there many times, playing in the dirt with his little cars." And she pointed to the place where she knew they'd see him.

It was all too much for Amanda also, and so she caved in and spilled the beans about the whole ordeal of Brian and Sam, throwing in the strangling of Cindy for good measure. There was a trial and Anne was found guilty of murder.

"Brian didn't have a mother, so he won't be missed, and murder isn't that bad, we all die sometime anyway."


"No Sugar, No Spice, Nothing Nice"
Copyright: © 2009 Chris Bartholomew
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Chris Bartholomew
Publisher - Static Movement e-zine www.staticmovement.com
Head Writer, Serial Killer Magazine, http://serialkillercalendar.com/
Member; The Dark Fiction Guild Member; International Order of Horror Professionals.
MySpace http://www.myspace.com/horristchris
Credits http://www.staticmovement.com/Credits.htm