A Story For Sunday: Friday The Thirteenth by B.R. STATEHAM

near to the knuckle‘He turned around and glanced at his partner.  The monstrous goon was standing directly in front of the burning headlights of the Ford Mustang, big mitts for hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks, and fully outlined like some black silhouette of a nightmare.
He smiled at that thought.
It was Friday the 13th.’

Read the rest here at Near To The Knuckle.


PULPLOGO (1)My beloved in Ziggy—transplendent be his name!—there are some troubling trends of late in our nation. Despite the ubiquity of our faith—it’s rare to see anyone not wearing a lightning bolt, admittedly, whether on a chain around their neck or in a discreetlapel pin—I am hearing reports from the periphery of our great lands that give me pause. Not since the great Pope of Pop laid his head down for the interval of rest has there been such dissension, or at least not since the great Reformation when we reconciled the Duke with the Starman and all was hunky dory once more from Colorado’s coast to the great basin of Beijing, cool as the ocean that is our heart.’

Read the rest here at PULP METAL MAGAZINE.

A (Halloween) Story For Sunday: The Endless Sleep by Paul D. Brazill


Anita watches the dowdy girl shuffle through the group of smartly dressed young men, carrying a big green bag and dragging her club foot behind her.

The girl struggles onto the bar stool, making sure that her lank, brown hair hangs down to cover her scars. She vainly tries  to attract the attention of the barman, who is flirting with a beautiful waitress. And then the dowdy girl ties back her hair to reveal the scars that lattice her face and the barman rushes towards her with disgust and fear in his eyes.

Anita feels a shiver rip through her as the dowdy girl smiles. She turns and sees the red faced and red haired man in the expensive suit tumble out of the toilet toward a group of Heehaws. She listens  as they talk about cars and houses and making a killing in The City.  She hears them laugh about the  Ukrainian whore they’d used like a toy, like a blow up doll. They  say they’d covered  her with mayonnaise and pushed her out of the ginger one’s limousine, leaving  her naked in the street.

Anita listens to them talk and bray. She hears them draw straws to find out who is going to try and pork the pig in the corner. The cripple that looks like Frankenstein’s daughter.

Anita watches. She listens. But does nothing. She supposes that’s what ghosts do. That the dead bear witness.

A white flash.

Anita is outside the ginger one’s car.  The car park is deserted except  for the limousine. She can’t remember getting there. She never can. It’s like a dream. Except Anita knows that this is real. She doesn’t sleep anymore. She is always awake. Always.
She sees the dowdy girl in the back seat of the car.  On her knees between the ginger man’s legs.

She  hears him abuse her, threaten her.

And then she sees the knife in the girl’s hand and hears the ginger man scream. The snow starts to fall like confetti  and the dowdy girl giggles like a child.


It’s spring.  There’s blossom on the trees.  It reminds Anita of Japan.  Singing in the karaoke bar with the Japanese rock star.  The nights that never ended.

The dowdy girl is outside a bookshop. Anita sees her tie back her hair, pick up her bag and walk in.

A white flash.

Inside  the shop. The clink of wine glasses. Chatter. Laughter.

The dowdy girl is talking to a suntanned, handsome man. A  writer.  He is telling stories, anecdotes. Laughing at himself. The audience- mostly women- laugh too. The dowdy girl asks a question. The writer laughs. They all laugh.

A white flash.

A hotel  room. The writer is drunk. He sits on the bed with his shoes in his hands. The dowdy girl is next to him. He says:  I really don’t mind the scars. She grins. He lays back. Closes  his eyes. She takes the knife from her bag.

Anita feels cold.


A suburban  house. Suburban  street.  People are   having barbecues on their lawn. Sunbathing. The man and woman  drive away in the big black car.  They shout: be good. The teenage boy and girl, twins, smile at their parents and then turn and glare at the babysitter. The  dowdy girl.

A white  flash.

The twins are laughing at the dowdy girl. Making  ugly faces.  Mimicking  her limp.

They go upstairs. Screeching  with laughter. The dowdy girl takes a CD from her bag. Puts it on.

She takes a revolver from her coat as the song plays.

Robert Gordon. ‘The Endless Sleep.’

Anita feels frozen. And she wonders if the dowdy girl knows that  she is there. Watching.  This  girl with the limp. With the scars.

This girl. Her daughter.

The girl that she had  tried to drown in the bath one drunken, drug fuelled night. The girl Anita had always  blamed for  men leaving.  For her career ending. For her life collapsing.

The girl that took revenge on her mother in a Phoenix hotel room. Threw  her over the balcony. Broke  her neck . And toppled after her.

A white  flash.

A bedroom.  Messy.  Posters on the wall. Beer cans.

The song plays down stairs.Over and over again.

The twins are cowering on the bed. Screaming. The dowdy girl is smiling. Pointing the gun.

And again, Anita bears witness.

(c) Paul D. Brazill

The Endless Sleep previously appeared at Flashes In The Dark

A Story For Sunday: A Twist Of Noir by Eric Beetner

Cormac Brown at A TWIST OF NOIRChristopher Grant‘s late great A Twist Of Noir was one of the first places to publish my yarns, and was the home to writing from all sorts of top crime crime writers. Including Eric Beetner who went all capricious when he came up with this:

‘Keith and Jake were two of the sorriest excuses for criminals you ever saw. Individually they couldn’t find their own asses with a flashlight and a map but together there was something about the yin and yang of the two opposites that held them together and made them a team.’

Read the rest HERE.

A Story For Sunday: MOONWALKING AT THE GRAB-A-GRANNY INN by Karl Koweski

rogue‘Culley didn’t consider himself a criminal.  Criminality carried the eventual obligation of justice and punishment.  Culley preferred the term “outlaw” when describing himself to Hoyt, his cohort in crime.  He liked to think he existed outside the law the way the Amish lived outside the realm of technology.’


A Story For Sunday: Waiting To Take You Away by Jason Michel

PULPLOGO (1)‘ Dark.


The man blinks five times. Twice slowly with effort. Three times fast. His eyes are adjusting to the light of the room. There is no sunlight here. The sun has gone a long, long way from here. There is the smell of damp from the aged and tired wooden table to the side of me. The natural whiff of decay.’

Read the rest HERE at the ever splendid PULP METAL MAGAZINE.

A Story For Sunday: The Long Drop by Jake Hinkson

KNOCKOUT AFTER KNOCKOUT FROM BEAT TO A PULP ! ! !‘Two days ago, I woke up with my face buried in the green industrial carpet of a hotel room. I was still in my police uniform, but my mask was crooked and my black cape was wrapped around my throat. When I pushed myself up, my head slopped around like a goldfish bowl. Taking a deep breath, I looked around the room. It wasn’t familiar. I don’t have x-ray vision like some of the guys at my precinct—Sergeant Benavidez can even see through lead—so all I had to go on was the room I was in.’

Read the rest here at BEAT TO A PULP.

A Story For Sunday: What’s In The Cellar ? by Jeanette Cheezum

THUMP - New Story Up At THRILLERS KILLERS N CHILLERSA few years ago, over at the late, lamented THRILLERS, KILLERS N CHILLERS, Jeanette Cheezum gave us this chiller:

‘1940: Deep in the woods of Georgia.

If it rained or snowed no one would come down to check on Lucy. She wore diapers, sometimes only one a day until she turned four. The weight of the soiled fabric made it easier for her to slip out of them. She stomped her feet in the urine puddles because it felt good to her feet. Sometimes she could play in the wash tub that sat under one of the windows. The man had dropped a hose down the wall and put water in there for her to sit in, once or twice a month. There wasn’t much else to do down in the cellar. Except hold onto her rag doll and lay on her old mattress on the floor.’

Read the rest HERE and check out the rest of the site.

A Story For Sunday: The Writing On The Wall by Col Bury

tknc-header-1‘Sarah Brinkley was too timid for the Job and soon realised it wasn’t for her.  To be honest, deep down she had known all along.  She’d learned quickly that working Moss Side and Longsight certainly wasn’t for the faint-hearted.  Anyway, they’d frozen her pay, and upped the retirement age and her pension contributions, so there wasn’t much point in sticking around as she’d probably never get to see it.  And she certainly wouldn’t miss the goddamn paperwork, that’s for sure.’

Check out the rest of this cracking yarn at THRILLS, KILLS N CHAOS.

A Story For Sunday: A Red Lipstick by Cormac Brown

‘Gold, black, green and purple spots. When they are part of an Impressionist painting, they are beautiful, but Lara’s skin is not a canvas by Monet. No, in the dingy light of the diner bathroom, her arms and legs look like they’ve been touched by the brush of DeSade or Torquemada. She winces, not at her reflection, but at the pain in her sore jaw and the tenderness in her lips.’

A blast from the past at the late, great A TWIST OF NOIR.

Cormac Brown at A TWIST OF NOIR Check out A RED LIPSTICK BY CORMAC BROWN and check out the rest of the site.

A Story For Sunday: Just Like Dillinger by Bill Baber

locked and loaded‘Don’t ask.  Don’t, because I couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that killing two junkies in a Tucson alley for the cash they had just gotten from cashing some paltry government check wasn’t worth the needle ride it might cost us. Jimmy and me must have been stupid. It was the kind of thing that always happened when we took a couple of downs mixed with a forty or two.’

Read the rest here at the well-smashing SHOTGUN HONEY.

A Story For Sunday: Small Miracles by Liam Sweeny

SpelkLiam Sweeny is over at Spelk Fiction with Small Miracles.

‘The sun was dripping down the canvas of the pale sky, dragging dusk through the gnarled fingers of the row of dead poplars lining the hedge past the field. Roy’s rough hands were stinging from splinters in the shovel handle.’

Check it out!

A Story For Sunday: Last Exit by Chris Leek

btapChris Leek’s Last Exit is classic hardboiled stuff over at BEAT TO A PULP.

People say life begins at forty. It doesn’t. The fact is it’s been going on all the while, only you’ve been too busy to notice; forty is just the age when you start to worry about how much of it you have left. I looked up at the Williamsburgh Tower just as the hands on the clock there crawled past midnight and Monday turned to into Tuesday. Like death and taxes, time is relentless.

Read the rest HERE.