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The Man With A Serpent In His System

written by Jane Marciano

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He darted into the alleyway as the thud of heavy boots clomped straight on past him up the road. Jordan panted for breath, chest heaving, eyes bulging. Only as his breathing returned to normal did he realize that he was still clutching the old woman’s bag. Collecting his wits, Jordan felt inside for the purse and chucked the bag over his shoulder into the road behind him.

Only sixty quid! It hadn’t really been worth the effort. It wasn’t compensation enough for the curses and clawing she’d given him before Jordan had finally knocked her down with a right that’d sent her head bouncing on the pavement. She’d lain there, bleeding and whimpering that if her husband had been alive, he’d have been sorted out. Huh! That was a laugh, he was a match for any man. Gingerly Jordan felt his torn cheek and his fingers came away bloody from the deep scratches. Bloody old hag! Still, he doubted the bitch’d last the night.

The footsteps were coming back his way at a gallop. The policeman must’ve realized the perp couldn’t have got that far so quickly and had retraced his steps. If Jordan was caught, he knew it would be a long, long stretch for him this time. (Continue Reading…)

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What He Woke

by Jess Whitecroft

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The Woke thing was out of control, in Caroline’s humble opinion.

Everything was woke. Lawyers were woke. The media was woke. Even Strictly was woke now, with same sex couples dancing together and all. Blue hair, almond milk, lattes, tofu, lifeboats, LGBTQ or however many letters they had in it these days – all dreadfully woke. The condemnation of tofu as a malign left-wing influence should have been a tip-off really, especially coming from the lips of the Home Secretary herself, but it was still a shock when Caroline discovered that even her breakfast was woke now.

“Avocado toast?” said Tom. “Really, Mummy? You’ll be growing out your armpit hair and buying a pair of Birkenstocks next.”

“Very funny, dear,” she said, and poured herself some tea. Tom had always been a clever boy, quick with a remark. It was just that now he was forty-five and a Member of Parliament, and somehow still under her feet.

This was largely the fault of Tom’s wife, who had yet to learn the role of a politician’s wife. Caroline knew it well, Tom’s father having been the MP before him. When your husband was caught being indiscreet with another woman you took it on the chin and accepted that men were like that. Similarly, when there were financial irregularities, you accepted that politicians were corrupt, and it was ever the same the world over. What you didn’t do was cause a big stink and kick your husband out of the house, especially when kicking him out would interfere with your mother-in-law’s ability to enjoy an avocado in peace. (Continue Reading…)

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Bonesoup

By Eugenia Triantafyllou

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In Greece, we have a saying: You must eat the body part you want to grow stronger. Or maybe that’s just something my grandmother used to say.

After partying with friends until the early hours, Katerina and I take a detour before we go home. The meat market in downtown Athens houses three restaurants and they all open at five in the morning for the workers who unload pounds of meat all night long. There, we sit at a small square table, a sheet of wax paper serving as tablecloth, and I eat tripe soup to cure my endless hangover. But especially my upset stomach. It’s not like the ones my grandmother makes; it lacks substance. But it’s good enough.

Katerina takes a look at my plate and scrunches her face.

“That’s disgusting,” she says. But soon enough she gives me one of her smirks, to show that she means well. Always soft, even when she wants to be mean.

I smile and let the warm, gelatinous broth slide down my throat.

“A stomach for a stomach.” (Continue Reading…)

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Beach Head

by Daniel LeMoal

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“Are you still alive over there?”

Alvy’s voice sounded weak, but it retained the bong-huffing tonality that had been his hallmark since he hit puberty. It grated at me almost as badly as the grains of sand coating my teeth. In my darkness, I could hear the sound of approaching water.

“C’mon Jim,” he continued. “If you can’t talk, just open your eyes for me.”

I opened my eyes, and was immediately blinded by daylight. When my vision adjusted, I found myself staring at a stretch of deserted beach. The seemingly decapitated heads of Alvy and Mikey Burdy lay before me, propped up in the sand.

“What the fuck?” I croaked, as both of my crewmates blinked tiredly at me.

“It’s about time you woke up,” Alvy said. “We’ve been deep-sixed.”

The ocean wind picked up suddenly, blowing more sand in my face. When I tried to raise my hands to shield my eyes, I found myself unable to move. I finally realized that my arms and legs were frozen in place, packed in sand that felt as heavy as concrete. Of course, I panicked. (Continue Reading…)

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Black Bargain

by Robert Bloch

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It was getting late when I switched off the neon and got busy behind the fountain with my silver polish. The fruit syrup came off easily, but the chocolate stuck and the hot fudge was greasy. I wish to the devil they wouldn’t order hot fudge.

I began to get irritated as I scrubbed away. Five hours on my feet, every night, and what did I have to show for it? Varicose veins. Varicose veins, and the memory of a thousand foolish faces. The veins were easier to bear than the memories. They were so depressing, those customers of mine. I knew them all by heart.

In early evening all I got was “cokes.” I could spot the “cokes” mile away. Giggling high-school girls, with long shocks of uncombed brown hair, with their shapeless tan “fingertip” coats and the repulsively thick legs bulging over furry red ankle socks. They were all “cokes.” For forty-five minutes they’d monopolize a booth, messing up the tile table-top with cigarette ashes, crushed napkins daubed in lipstick, and little puddles of spilled water. Whenever a high-school girl came in, I automatically reached for the cola pump.

A little later in the evening I got the “gimme two packs” crowd. Sports-shirts hanging limply over hairy arms meant the popular brands. Blue work-shirts with rolled sleeves disclosing tattooing meant the two-for-a-quarter cigarettes.

Once in a while I got a fat boy. He was always a “cigar.” If he wore glasses he was a ten-center. If not, I merely had to indicate the box on the counter. Five cents straight. Mild Havana—all long filler.

Oh, it was monotonous. The “notions” family, who invariably departed with aspirin, Ex-Lax, candy bars, and a pint of ice-cream. The “public library” crowd—tall, skinny youths bending the pages of magazines on the rack and never buying. The “soda-waters” with their trousers wrinkled by the sofa of a one-room apartment, the “hairpins,” always looking furtively toward the baby buggy outside. And around ten, the “pineapple sundaes”—fat women Bingo-players. Followed by the “chocolate sodas” when the show let out. More booth-parties, giggling girls and red-necked young men in sloppy play-suits.

In and out, all day long. The rushing “telephones,” the doddering old “three-cent stamps,” the bachelor “toothpastes” and “razor-blades.”

I could spot them all at a glance. Night after night they dragged up to the counter. I don’t know why they even bothered to tell me what they wanted. One look was all I needed to anticipate their slightest wishes. I could have given them what they needed without their asking.

Or, rather, I suppose I couldn’t. Because what most of them really needed was a good long drink of arsenic, as far as I was concerned. (Continue Reading…)