Bio: Ian Rogers
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
Cracking Eggs
“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?”
Bio: Stephanie Vann
Stephanie Vann is currently a full-time archaeology postgraduate research student. ‘Cracking Eggs’ is her first story for Shred of Evidence.
One Last Drink
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.
Bio: Fredrick Obermeyer
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.
Ubiquitous
One shot, center mass, and down he went.
Just in the last three years, I’d been forced to move five times as police department after police department switched to voiceless dispatching. Although my equipment was top of the line, it still couldn’t intercept communications sent out over secure IP networks.
White Crosses
The first time I ever saw white crosses to mark the scenes of fatal crashes was the day we moved to New Hampshire. My wife, Lindsey, pointed them out as we drove along Route 101. She wasn’t impressed. “Oh my God. How fucking depressing.â€
A Matter of Taste
“…so Billy says, ‘But Mommy, I came straight home!’ Then in the next panel here he draws this dotted line showing all the places Billy went to on his way home! See, he stops at the playground, runs through the sprinkler over here, plays with a dog…” Ralph chuckled softly at the newspaper funny pages and wiped a small tear from the corner of his eye.
Bio: Peter Larson
Peter Larson recently had his first published work appear on EspressoFiction.com. He spent many years living in New England but now resides in Las Vegas, where he dedicates his time to wearing sandals. More of his hopefully humorous stories can be found under his profile at Writing.com.
Learning Scales
Ben straightens his back and adjusts the heavy new briefcase in his left hand before he rings the doorbell of this non-descript house. He’s never carried a briefcase before, yet somehow a briefcase seems necessary to give him an air of authenticity. Dana helped him pick it out. They sat in front of the computer for an hour and ordered it online, along with the other things they’d need, and then they climbed into bed and she was crying. And although Ben is used to her tears, it continues to disturb him in a way he cannot explain.