Beau chooses Hell

 

This week, Beau takes a look at Angel Luis Colón's HELL CHOSE ME.

“Equal parts profound and profane, HELL CHOSE ME is a damned good read—a vividly imagined pulp nightmare best read through splayed fingers.” – Chris Holm (Anthony Award winning author of THE KILLING KIND)


“Angel Luis Colón levels up in his first full-length novel with superb writing and a voice that seizes you from page one. A dark, dirty, gritty delight.” — Jennifer Hillier, author of JAR OF HEARTS

Get your copy

Twofer Thursday from Beau

 

This week, Beau takes a re-look at ALC's Hell Chose Me and EAA's The Unrepentant.

Hell Chose Me

The Unrepentant

Hell Chose Beau

 

This week, Beau chooses some Angel Luis Colon.

“Angel Luis Colón’s knack for writing colorful, compromised hooligans for whom you can’t help but root has garnered him a loyal following, and his debut novel, Hell Chose Me, more than delivers on the promise of his short fiction. Equal parts profound and profane, Hell Chose Me is a damned good read—a vividly imagined pulp nightmare best read through splayed fingers.” —Chris Holm, Anthony Award-winning author of The Killing Kind

“Fueled by revenge and unapologetically bloody, Hell Chose Me contains all the violent, morally conflicted elements you hope to see in a classic hitman tale. However, this is not your parents’ noir. Angel Luis Colón levels up in his first full-length novel with superb writing and a voice that seizes you from page one. A dark, dirty, gritty delight.” —Jennifer Hillier, author of Jar of Hearts

Get yours

Recovering from disaster

 

This week, Beau takes a look at ¡Pa’Que Tu Lo Sepas!

On September 20th, 2017, Hurricane Maria made landfall on the island of Puerto Rico as a Category 4—a devastatingly powerful storm that left immense suffering in its wake.

The island still hasn’t recovered completely; a victim of continued neglect and the continued efforts of many to demean and frame Puerto Ricans as “other” or “lesser” even though they are citizens of the United States.

Net proceeds from ¡Pa’Que Tu Lo Sepas! will benefit The Hispanic Federation: UNIDOS Disaster Relief & Recovery Program to Support Puerto Rico, a program working to help those still affected by the disaster and ensure continued safety in the face of continued weather-related events that can and will happen again.

With a foreword by editor Angel Luis Colón and 11 stories from veteran and newcomer Latinx authors who need to be on your radar, ¡Pa’Que Tu Lo Sepas! is a loud and proud celebration of Latinx writing, joy, trauma, and most of all, love.

Contributors: Chantel Acevedo, Hector Acosta, David Bowles, Hector Duarte Jr., Carmen Jaramillo, Jessica Laine, Richie Narvaez, Christopher Novas, Cina Pelayo, Alex Segura, and Désirée Zamorano.

“While cause-related anthologies aren’t unusual, what clearly separates Pa’Que Tu Lo Sepas from the pack is the diligence and care the contributors obviously put into their work, and how deftly Angel Luis Colón curated the writers and their stories. This is an important, necessary, lovely collection, one that plunges the reader into the variety of cultures and beauty within the LatinX community. Truly, Sepas is magical, and filled with magical writing. A must-read, now and always.” —E.A. Aymar, author of The Unrepentant

 

Beau and Angel

This week, Beau Johnson takes on Blacky Jaguar.

Blacky Jaguar ex-IRA hard man, devoted greaser, and overall hooligan, is furious. Someone's made off with Polly, his 1959 Plymouth Fury, and there's not much that can stop him from getting her back. It doesn't take him to long to get a name, Osito, the Little Bear. This career bastard has Polly in his clutches, and Blacky doesn't have long until she's a memory.

The sudden burst of righteous violence gets the attention of Special Agent Linda Chen, FBI pariah and Blacky's former flame. Linda's out to get her man before he burns down half the Bronx and her superiors get the collar.

All roads will lead our heroes to an unassuming house in one of the worst parts of the South Bronx, where fists and bullets will surely fly, but maybe, just maybe, Blacky will find a better reason to fight than a car. The Fury of Blacky Jaguar is the story of friends, enemies, and one sweet ass ride. 

Beau Tackles Nick Kolakowski

Today Beau Johnson brings you A Brutal Bunch of Heartbroken Saps from Nick Kolakowski and Shotgun Honey.

***

“Kolakowski’s got a gift of scratching his readers’ itch for pulpy, gut-wrenching narrative that moves a mile a minute and never lets you go. A Brutal Bunch of Heartbroken Saps is a hell of a yarn that sets the stage for what should be an essential series for fans of the genre.”
—Angel Luis Colón, author of No Happy Endings and The Fury of Blacky Jaguar

“Ruthless, off-the-wall and surprisingly heartfelt, A Brutal Bunch of Heartbroken Saps is much more than a heist book, and showcases the skills of an emerging writer in Nick Kolakowski. Featuring memorable characters, a down-on-his-luck protagonist and a story that’s equal parts insane and sincere, Saps is the kind of book you read fast and revisit immediately to savor the experience again.”
—Alex Segura, acclaimed author of Dangerous Ends and Down the Dark Street

“A Brutal Bunch of Heartbroken Saps is a hell of a ride. Put on the Elvis tunes, or your best glittery suit, and enjoy Bill’s escape from the boys in New York. He’s trying to ditch his life of crime but it’s pretty hard to do when you have a bunch of stolen money in your trunk and a band of people on your tail. Maybe a woman could save Bill’s body and soul, and all that money? Whatever the outcome, Kolakowski’s fabulous writing shines and the twists and turns will keep you reading to the very last page. A wonderful, entertaining read.”
—Jen Conley, author of Cannibals: Stories from the Edge of the Pine Barrens

***

Bill is a hustler’s hustler with a taste for the high life. He pulls off big scores for one of New York City’s more vicious gangs…until he suddenly grows a conscience. However, living the clean life takes a whole lot of money, and so Bill decides to steal a fortune from his employer before skipping town.

With a bag of cash in the trunk of his car, Bill heads west, ready for a new life. But all that money makes him a tempting target for some bad people he meets on the road—and if that wasn’t dangerous enough, some old friends are close behind him, and they intend to make a trophy of his head.

Pursued by crooked cops, dimwitted bouncers, and a wisecracking assassin in the midst of a midlife crisis, Bill will need to be a quick study in the way of the gun if he wants to survive his own getaway. Who knew that an honest attempt at redemption could rack up a body count like this?

A Brutal Bunch of Heartbroken Saps is a gonzo noir journey into obsession, violence, and the power of love.

Buy it here

The Magic Medicine Worked!

Guest Post by Angel Luis Colón

Humor is magic medicine.

I’m not saying it cures diseases wholesale—that’d be naïve and a little Patch Adams-y. No, it’s all about that mental health. Sometimes a little laughter clears the gnarly gunk that builds up between all those brain folds.

I got back into writing thanks to Hurricane Sandy. You may have heard about the intense damage to Moonachie, NJ (a little background). That second town mentioned in the article? Little Ferry? That’s where I lived and still live. We were lucky enough to not be evacuated but we were flooded, lost both our cars, had to replace our heating, and I was treated to a severe bronchial infection that left me bed-ridden and with jacked up guts thanks to some STRONG antibiotics—seriously, I was a mess for a solid year.

Soon after things calmed down, the panic attacks happened. It’d be the dead of night, I couldn’t sleep and boom: heart palpitations, that adrenaline burst when you’re feeling trapped, a few moments of cold water panic talk—gibberish even.

I needed an outlet and apparently the planets aligned because soon after since I found myself reconnecting with a buddy who was making waves in his writing community. I read an excellent novella he put out and was inspired to write again.

And dude, I fucking wrote like a beast. I wrote because my brain depended on it. I workshopped and submitted. I actually put myself out there. At first, it was all the lofty shit I always wondered about—literary or genre tripe that was only cool in my head. The process was helping, but it wasn’t helping enough. The real change would come when I read another book and found out I could write with MY voice. That voice wasn’t lyrical or flowing. It was stilted, dark, and with a little bit of acid. I could be funny and still mean something.

I started getting published. Got nominated for a Derringer within a year. Got an agent within two (still working on getting a novel out, though, so I ain’t that amazing). At this time I’ve got nearly thirty pub credits to my name. I made handshake deals with folks to publish my insanity and garnered a reputation. There are people acknowledging that yes, this weirdo writes (next step: convince them that the writing is good, but hey!).

Still, there were bumps. All the while I was writing, I avoided something I needed to get off my back—Sandy.

But I didn’t want to write a treatise about trauma. I hadn’t gone through what a quarter of what some did. I didn’t have a kid shell-shocked to the point of hiding in his cubby on his first day back in daycare (one of my son’s friends) because he’d been evacuated by fucking jet ski before he and his family drowned in swamp/river water.

I felt weak. Who the fuck was I to act like my trauma was something to be addressed? Besides, I’m from The Bronx where we internalize and lash out at the worst possible time. That was working great for thirty-two fucking years, why stop then?

And then I read a stupid fake news story about black market semen.

See? Humor?

I got to plotting a silly short story that grew into a silly novel that shrank back into a novella. I created a lead based on me that became a woman that became Fantine Park. The plot went from gonzo garbage to heist to anti-heist to the story of a father and daughter (conveniently as my daughter was on the way).

And then I found myself bringing Sandy into the mix.

Spoilers: the finale of NO HAPPY ENDINGS takes place in front of the Battery Park Tunnel as the worst of the storm came. There was a generator station that exploded near there that was visible from my house (I know this because I saw it). There was such flooding that cars were abandoned and left almost floating in brackish river water. This was an opportunity for me to take a lot of the internalized fears driving my issues and yank them out by the short hairs. I took that fear, those memories, and that helplessness and I put it all into a fucking sperm heist novel because fuck those fears and memories. Fuck that helplessness. It didn’t deserve gravity or emotional purity. That was already what it had.

That helplessness can go live in the absurd like it deserves to. The humor can hold the bad feelings and maybe kill them slowly. I can get a glimmer of hope, maybe even get an award nod that validates all this hard work—win or lose.

***

Angel Luis Colón is the Anthony and Derringer Award-nominated author of NO HAPPY ENDINGS, the BLACKY JAGUAR series of novellas, and the upcoming short story anthology; MEAT CITY ON FIRE (AND OTHER ASSORTED DEBACLES). His fiction has appeared in multiple web and print publications including Thuglit, Literary Orphans, and Great Jones Street. He’s repped by Peter Steinberg at Foundry Literary.

The Long and Short of It

Guest Post by Angel Luis Colón

I’m an ex-marathon runner—meaning I have run marathons, plural.

Yes, I am bragging a little.

I’ve probably peaked at coming in 12,000th place at the finish line or wherever, so it’s not like I’m a pro, but in long distance running there’s some great knowledge that’s entirely applicable to writing: short runs help make the long runs better.

Seriously. You TOO can be the Prefontaine of writing. Well, I can't
help with the bitchin' facial hair. You're on your own with that.

I’ve recently come off putting together another novel while my last one’s being shopped by my agent and my brain is pink slurry. Most folks understand novel writing is tough. It takes a lot out of you and sometimes it feels like a hellish slog—like running a marathon (see what I did there?). And after you’re “done”, whether you’re waiting to reread with fresh eyes or have a friend or editor going through that manuscript, the last thing you should do is sit around staring at your dainty fingers. Unless your day job is hand modeling, then I guess you need to get on that manicuring tip ASAP.

Otherwise? You should be writing, damn it.

But Angel, my fingers, they are cramped and beaten from the keyboard slapping! I will never be generic pair of hands #3 in that Tostitos commercial!

Indeed, imaginary failure of a hand model I am addressing, indeed, but you know what? It’s no excuse.

Now is the time to write a short. Be it flash or the standard short story, this is a chance to work a whole different set of writing muscles. Remember, you just wrapped up plotting 60K or more words—connected a skeleton of intrigue and back story, synced chapter 1 with your denouement on page 354, added whole heaps of background for that fella who was only supposed to be around for six pages but took over the back half of the novel. Think about all that space this novel’s taking up. It’s not too dissimilar to the Monday after a 20 mile training run. Your legs are lead, your core (JESUS CHRIST, YOUR CORE) feels like you’ve been taking blows from Tyson, and you can’t lift your arms over your head. Is it the brightest idea to go out and do 21 miles right after?

That’s a lot of work, but a whole different way of writing. Shorts don’t require all that constant effort. And please, I am in no way demeaning the effort it takes to condense an entire story into 6,000 words or, yikes, 700, but there’s something nice about feeling “done” in a quick turnaround. A short is quite literally running a tempo 5K or a 40 minute fartlek (if you Google the latter, spell it right—don’t go blaming me for what turns up if you’re not paying attention).

I also find jumping back to shorts helps my brain dump out all the gunk that novel writing’s occupied through the weeks/months. It provides me with clarity and less pressure. It gives me something to do while I wait for edits or hear word back on whether I wasted my time on 300 pages of gibberish. What’s better: finishing stories and sending them out to publications! Even if you get bad news, it’s an opportunity to further refine those unused muscles. Bonus: when you’re back to the novel and worried you’re still a talentless hack, the occasional short story acceptance does wonders to breathe a little extra life into you. You don’t have to look very far to see a lot of the writers in the crime community not only came from writing shorts but still thrive there. Look on the back cover of any issue of Thuglit, All Due Respect, or even Ellery Queen and you’ll see the names of critically acclaimed novelists with work they put together in the ‘downtime’. Because ‘downtime’ doesn’t mean writing stops. Writing never stops.

The other perk in jumping back to short form: refining your craft. It sort of goes hand in hand with working on running mechanics. You take the chance to try new things out and see what works and what doesn’t. This goes back to my earlier point that writing short pieces is in no way a simple task. Nothing gets you thinking about word economy like going from the infinite space of the novel to the 2x2 jail cell of flash fiction. Can you fit a three act structure into 700 words? CAN YOU?

Um…got any tips? Because that’s not easy.

All the effort you’ll go through with shorter fiction will help you in editing phase and with later long form projects. You’ll learn to get to the damn point and do it in a way that manages to maintain attention instead of droning on and on about frivolous details that will remain frivolous no matter how much you try jamming them in to pad your word count.

And you don’t have to limit yourself to short stories. Blog, write a review on Goodreads or Amazon, hell, do a guest post somewhere people may actually read the lunatic ramblings you’ve put together about the craft of writing. Man, if you’re the masochistic type, why not craft a workout plan where you’ll write out the dreaded 1, 5, and 10 page synopses? Disclaimer: I take no responsibility in what may happen if you actually attempt writing three synopses of various lengths at one time, but I will pray for you and your loved ones.

There are a lot of options and in the long term, all excellent for your work on that big novel. You’ll find that slapping out 250, 500, 1000 words becomes easier, which will help you handle trimming 15,000 words from 100,000 or adding 25,000 to 55,000. Like in running, there is never a mile that should be considered a waste—even if it’s an ugly one.

***

Angel Luis Colón is the author of THE FURY OF BLACKY JAGUAR. His fiction has been shortlisted for the Derringer and has won an award or two. His nonfiction has appeared in The LA Review of Books, The Life Sentence, and My Bookish Ways. He’s also an editor at Shotgun Honey, home of some of the finest hardboiled flash fiction on the Internet. Find out more atwww.angelluiscolon.com or ignore him on Twitter under the handle @GoshDarnMyLife.

A Conversation with Angel Luis Colón

By Alex Segura

Angel Luis Colón is a writer's writer - he's the guy other writers look forward to hearing read at Noir at the Bar and an all-around good guy. He's also fun to banter with on Twitter. I'm psyched he agreed to let me grill him for a bit here.

Angel's novella, The Fury of Blacky Jaguar, is an insane, noir, high-octane, nonstop read featuring a memorable and entertaining protagonist in Blacky. Don't wait to read the rest of this - you can pre-order the book now, courtesy of the One Eye Press team. When not writing like mad, Angel also seems to find the time to review mystery/crime for My Bookish Ways and edit flash crime fiction at Shotgun Honey. I can't imagine he has much free time. Thanks to Angel for carving out a few minutes to talk with me.

Elevator pitch time - what's The Fury of Blacky Jaguar?

Blacky Jaguar is a cartoonish, narcissistic ex-IRA Provie with a hard-on for Elvis, the 50's, and making things explode.

Someone made a really shitty call and stole his '59 Plymouth Fury. Now he wants it back. Heads will roll.

How'd you hook up with the gang at One Eye Press? How've they been to work with?

One Eye Press has been killing it from the start. Federales, their first one shot by Chris Irvin grabbed me. From there; White Knight by Bracken MacLeod, The Gospel of the Bullet by Chris Leek, Knuckleball from Tom Pitts, The Gunmen by Timothy Friend - all fantastic single sitting reads from some of the best writers on the crime and western front. When I sat down and wrote The Fury of Blacky Jaguar, it was with complete intent to have that story pubbed by One Eye and nobody else.

I lucked out, huh?

As for the working relationship? Ron Earl Phillips is amazing. He's got an eye for talent and an open ear in case I moan (which I don't do a lot of, thankfully...hopefully). I'm so thrilled that this is a great home for Blacky and I couldn't be happier working with a guy like Ron.

You've built a rep as not only a great short story writer, but someone who's really precise when it comes to flash fiction and, for lack of a better word, presentation. I would never want to read after you at Noir at the Bar, for example. How important is that to you - being a strong short story writer?

Well, first, thanks for the compliment. That means a lot, especially from a writer I respect (it's a love-fest!).

Ahem...sorry.

Being a short story writer is incredibly important to me and I believe it should be important to any writer - beginner or pro. It's like weightlifting or marathon training. The short circuits with the sudden bursts of speed or strength help improve conditioning for the big stuff. Flash and short fiction writing is how you work your writing muscles for the marathon sessions. They provide you with the challenge of word economy and of learning basic narrative structure. Without those skills, you're rambling just like I am now.

I know Blacky isn't just a one-and-done character. You have a lot of stories to tell in his world. Can you zoom out a bit and let us know why this character keeps poking at you? Maybe tease what's in store?

He is certainly not a one and done. Matter of fact, his first appearance was in the recently released Shotgun Honey Anthology, Locked and Loaded: Both Barrels Book 3 in a story called 'Love At First Fight'. He's also got a role in the novel I'm working on and will be returning later this year in 'A Very Blacky Christmas'. That story pits him against a very mean lady known as Krissy Kringle and her muscle; Krampus and Attis.

This stuff writes itself, man.

Honestly, I just love the son of a bitch. Not that I want to do anything he does, but it sure is fun to imagine it. I feel like I can get out of hand without explaining it in detail when it comes to Blacky because, for Christ's sake, the man calls himself Blacky Jaguar.

In addition to writing, you also edit Shotgun Honey with a killer crew. While the seat isn't warm yet, can you talk a bit about what that's been like? Has it made you a better writer?

It's been incredible. An absolutely vital learning experience for me. The best part about Shotgun Honey is we demand our stories be short, like, super short (700 words, kids) so it's a manageable task to read through our submissions. What I've learned and been inspired from has been very instrumental in making me a more deliberate writer. I try my very best to listen to my criticism and praise of others. While, yeah, I won't let it get in the way of the voice I've built for myself, there's always room to learn.

Influences - who are yours? Can you see how they play a part in your final product?

My influences are surprisingly not very noir. Top of the head list: Clive Barker, Douglas Adams, Chuck Palahniuk, Ted Lewis, Hunter S. Thompson, Peter David, and Kurt Vonnegut. I'm not very conscious of the exact role they play in my final product, but I do know I do my very best to not ape them. I consider those guys to be geniuses in their own ways and they've influenced me even outside my writing, but I'd be terrified to ever be compared to them.

I think there's a lot of value in promoting the work of others and I get the sense that you feel the same. How important is it for you to be part of a community of writers? Can you share some experiences in the time you've been part of the crime writing world that helped your career?

Dead on. We have to support each other and watch each others' back in this business. I'm in total agreement there. I've been fortunate to have quite a few writers that I respect (and am genuinely a fan of)  give me an incredible amount of support and advice. It's not only been vital in any of my successes, but also in just improving my experience within this community. I know everyone says it, but I don't think I've ever been part of a scene as fostering and friendly as the crime-writing community. Though, you get what you put in, obviously.

Shifting gears - I know you like comics. I love comics, too. Who doesn't? What have you been reading? What did you read starting out? And which character would you kill to write?

I'm so behind on my comics, but Secret Wars has been pretty amazing. I JUST nabbed the first few issues of Black Hood, but haven't had time to dive in yet.

As for my first single issue: Web of Spider-Man vol 1 Issue 8 written by David Michelinie and interiors by Geof Isherwood. The cover, by Charlie Vess, is tattooed on my left arm. The ENTIRE cover sans typography.

So needless to say, Spidey would be my dream project.

Writer, editor and reviewer - you do the reviewing part for MyBookishWays, one of my favorite book sites. How did that come about and what kind of writing muscles does that flex? Do you find it tricky to have to review the work of people you may have to interact with in another role?

Funny enough, I asked. Kristin Centorcelli (editor in chief of My Bookish Ways) tweeted a call for reviewers, so I emailed and asked if I could lend a hand. Hopefully, I've been a help!

And yeah, it's at times tough to switch back and forth from fiction to reviewing, but it helps me more often than not. My brain likes to be bounced around.

You know, it's not like I haven't felt a little worried about my reviews, especially in light of the fact that I do know some of the authors, but I try my best to keep it professional and to put as much thought as I can into any critique or praise I provide. Thankfully, corporate dayjob trained me to flip that switch easy.

Give me some tracks that would be on the soundtrack to BLACKY JAGUAR. What did you listen to while writing this book?

To name a few:

Attitude by Bad Brains

Rebel Without Applause by Every Time I Die

Devil's Dance Floor by Flogging Molly

Woo Ha! Got You All In Check by Busta Rhymes

Buzz Bomb by Dead Kennedys

Lots of angry punk, hardcore, and hip hop.

In closing - name-drop a few authors you think deserve more attention and why.

I've got to give a big shout out to the Polis Books bench: Rob Hart, Terrence McCauley, Dave White, Patti Abbott, and that Alex Segura fella. Absolute beastly lineup of books from great writers coming out over there.

Other writers I think deserve attention: Jen Conley (my fellow Shotgunner), Chris Irvin, Bracken MacLeod, Renee Asher Pickup, Josh Stallings, Patrick DeWitt, Sara J. Henry, Thomas Pluck, and Todd Robinson (GO BUY THE HARD BOUNCE).

I also can't leave out Brian Panowich, Paul G. Tremblay, and Chris Holm. Good lord, these guys have written some fantastic, fantastic stuff this year.

Folks need to search all these writers out and consume their output, it's good for your brain - maybe.

AJ Hayes Winners - Conley

Earlier this year, we lost a talented writer and magnificent crime fiction community member. When AJ Hayes passed away, we wanted some way to honor his memory, so we came up with a flash fiction challenge in his name.

THE AJ HAYES MEMORIAL WRITING CONTEST

Holly West, Eric Beetner, and I put out the call and read through many, many submissions.

The winners were announced at the recent Noir at the Bar in LA. Read more (with pics!) here.

We had, as I mentioned, dozens and dozens of submissions, thanks in large part to the love and admiration folks had for AJ Hayes and for the generous donations people made for the prize money.

Today and tomorrow, we're running the three winners of the contest so that you can enjoy their fantastic prose.

Thanks again to all who donated, submitted, and otherwise supported this nod to AJ Hayes.

1st place $100, 2nd place $50, 3rd place $25.

1st Place: Angel Luis Colon SHOTGUN WEDDING

2nd Place: Ray Nessly THE BALLAD OF BILLY HAYES

3rd Place: Jen Conley THE REPAIRMAN


***

The Repairman 

by Jen Conley

On a November afternoon, when Erin Lewis was on maternity leave, a repairman arrived on her doorstep holding a large gray tool bag. She was expecting him because her husband had arranged for the dishwasher to be fixed. His dirty white truck sat in her driveway under a heavy gray sky.
“I’m a little late,” the repairman explained and although the voice was perfectly normal, something about it nagged at her.
“It’s fine,” she said and stood back to let him in.
“Just in there?” he asked, nodding towards the kitchen down the hall. When he passed by, his scent made Erin shudder. She couldn’t place it, but somewhere deep inside a dark bell went off.
In the kitchen, the repairman placed his bag on the floor next to the dishwasher. She asked if her husband had described the trouble.
“Yep.” He swung around and underneath the roughened skin, the graying beard and balding head, underneath the girth of his large body, she suddenly saw who he really was: Bill Vinson. She was thirty-eight years old, lucky to have gone through therapy and lucky to have pulled her wrecked mind together and lucky to have met Kevin on a train to New York and set up this life: a nice marriage, a decent colonial house to live in, and a healthy two-month-old daughter.  I was worried about you but you did good, her mother said often.
Now this man, Bill Vinson, stood in her kitchen with his tool bag and his repairman’s clothes, smelling slightly of stale alcohol. He must drink at night before bed, Erin thought.
“Cooking dinner?” he asked, eyeing the raw chicken next to the cutting board. An onion and two carrots lay next to it.
“Yes,” she said.
“Well don’t let me get in your way. Just tell me to move. I’m easy as a summer breeze.”
He turned and bent down in front of the dishwasher. She had a sudden urge to kick him.
But then, from the sound of the baby monitor, Erin heard her sleeping daughter move.
“Let’s see…” he said.
Erin walked to the far counter and withdrew the long knife from the holder. The knives were new and sharp. She returned to the cutting board and began to chop the carrots which had been peeled earlier. She went down hard, making little dents in the wooden board. Her daughter moved again but Erin continued cutting.
“This is an easy fix,” the man muttered.
Erin picked up the onion, hacked off the sides, and ripped off the outer layer. Within seconds, she was chopping it to pieces.
“Now don’t cry,” she heard him say.
She stopped cutting. He was standing behind her.
“Onions,” he said.
Her bones rattled.
“I gotta get something in the truck.”
Erin said nothing.
When he was gone, she looked up and stared through the kitchen window. The backyard trees rocked in a gentle wind. The memory returned: she was fourteen, locked in a room with Bill Vinson, a twenty-year-old, still hanging out at high school parties. She’d told her mother that she had gone to her friend Jamie’s house and Jamie had told her parents they were going to the movies. There was liquor and Bill was cute and he was talking to her about the band Molly Hatchet and soon they were in a room, her shirt undone. Then it went bad. She was too small to fight it off. She cried and asked him to stop but her head was spinning from the booze. To make things even more horrid, when he was done, someone popped out of the closet and snapped pictures of her on the bed. She never did figure out who took the photos for the room was dark and the flash popped three times, brightening the walls for each wretched moment, Bill and the mystery guy snickering. They left her there in tears. She managed to get out and get home, her mother finding out days later when Erin confessed she was worried about pregnancy. It turned out she was lucky.
Now Bill was whistling. Erin lifted the plate with the raw chicken and slid it onto the wooden board. She began slashing through the meat, piece after piece. Her daughter moved again and let out a brief whimper. Erin looked at Bill, crouched like a gopher, fiddling with the dishwasher. She returned her focus to the chicken and began to hack at the meat. Years of pain. Embarrassment. Kids had found out, had seen the photos, and she’d been teased and labeled a whore. “It’s nothing new,” her mother had said sadly when Erin cried to her. “It has always happened to young women.” Life had been thrown off, as if she were kicked off the paved road, thrown to the side. She suffered.
Now she could slice his throat. Stand behind him and take her knife and cut straight through. Blood would spurt against the open dishwasher, gush to the tiled floor. His body would droop, slip down, die.
How she had been shamed and had lived with it. He deserved this death, she thought, standing behind him, the knife in her hand. He deserved it.
Bill scratched the back of his head. Muttered to himself.
She stepped closer. How she had wished for this moment. How she had sat with her tears, her fury, all those years ago. I want him dead. Dead.
She moved closer. The hair thin on his skull.
Her daughter moved.
Erin licked her lips, gripped the knife’s handle.
There was a little murmur from the monitor, a little cry.
Then Bill Vinson slowly turned his head and saw Erin holding the knife. His big body fell back against the counter and he sat cornered, his hands up. “Whoa, whatever I did…”
His eyes flickered and she knew he recognized her.
And that was good enough.
She put the knife down.
Her daughter’s wail bellowed through the monitor.

***

Jen Conley's stories have appeared in Thuglit, Needle, Beat to a Pulp, Shotgun Honey, Out of the Gutter, Grand Central Noir, Big Pulp, Literary Orphans, All Due Respect, Protectors, Plots With Guns, Yellow Mama, All Due Respect and others. An editor at Shotgun Honey, she’s been nominated for a Best of the Web Spinetingler Award and shortlisted for Best American Mystery Stories 2012. She lives with her son in Brick, New Jersey. Follow her on twitter @jenconley45