I was driving my taxi down the street, eyes open for a fare, any fare, even short haul, because there was nothing coming over the radio from dispatch. The weather was unseasonably warm for that late in the fall; dry too, so there was no rain or cold wind pushing people into cabs. The moon was bright, there was a gentle breeze, and folks were more inclined to enjoy the evening by taking a leisurely stroll to wherever they were going.
Todd Cameron lives in Vancouver, Canada. He has a story in the summer issue of Demolition, and another accepted for the winter issue of Spinetingler.
I’m sure you know the feeling…the chill in the neck when you glance over your shoulder and realize you’re being followed. When no matter how many side alleys you turn into and how much you speed up or slow down, the same shady silhouette remains forty feet or so behind.
Kajsa Wiberg is a freelance writer, translator, and horse trainer. Her stories have appeared in The River Walk Journal, Long Story Short, Prose Toad, Chick Lit Review, Flash Shot, and Insolent Rudder. She is a script reader for Blue Cat Screenplay and a book reviewer for Eclectica. She lives in Cardiff-by-the-Sea, CA, where she’s at work on her second novel.
“I should have done this a long time ago.”
“Yes, you should have.”
Dennis gripped the steering wheel tighter and shot a reproachful look at Angela. She raised her gloved hands blamelessly. “Hey, I agree with you, boss,” she said brightly.
Ian Rogers is a writer, artist, and photographer. His short fiction has been published or is forthcoming in Cemetery Dance, All Hallows, Broken Pencil, Not One of Us, and Dark Wisdom. For more information, visit www.ianrogers.ca
“That’s when I realised that if I didn’t kill her, someone else would. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “You killed her?”
Stephanie Vann is currently a full-time archaeology postgraduate research student. ‘Cracking Eggs’ is her first story for Shred of Evidence.
They found Fire Chief Reginald Morrigan dead early one winter morning, drowned in a large bathtub full of bootleg gin inside the town firehouse. For five years he had been using the firehouse in Calerton, New York as a front to make rye, gin and scotch and to sneak good Canadian whiskey and beer into Upstate New York right near the American-Canadian border.
Ed Dugan and the other firemen dragged Morrigan’s alcohol-soaked corpse out of the tub, laid it down on the floor and waited for the local meat wagon to come pick it up. The whole firehouse reeked of booze and it made Ed’s eyes water. Seeing the chief like that also filled him with anger. He had to wait outside the fire hall and light a cigarette, ignoring the cold that bore right down into his blood and bones.
He knew who had done this. It was the Rogan family, Irish mafia that had come up from New York City. Although they hadn’t left any message, Morrigan’s body made the message quite clear. Stay out of bootlegging trade or else you’re next.
Fredrick Obermeyer lives in Cooperstown, NY. He enjoys writing science-fiction, horror, crime and fantasy and has had stories published in the Dead Inn, Alternate Realities, Planet Relish, Fedora, SDO Fantasy, the Fifth Di and Forgotten Worlds.