Category Archives: Mystery

(Narrative​) Myself or I Must Die – (Music) – 96374896​-​23

30 Tuesday Jan 2018

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By. Karl Lykken

I see the fear in my eyes, and it tells me that I know I win. For a moment it takes the edge off my excitement until I watch myself reluctantly accept a knife from Anders while I unsheathe my own. Besides, that gash on my cheek must mean it will be my closet duel yet. But then, how could it not be? I feel my blood pulsing with the force of a typhoon even as I watch it drain from my face.

“You haven’t thought this through,” I hear myself say. “The thrill isn’t worth it. You’ll regret it as soon as it’s over. Believe me, I know. Please, don’t kill us.”

I’m disgusted with my cowardice. I decide to aim for my belly, as the shame brought on me calls for seppuku. Unless…

I smile in appreciation of my ingenuity. “You’re trying to get into my head, which would seem simple enough since it’s your head, too. But I’m afraid it won’t work. I won’t doubt myself; my self-regard only grows. Anders, count us off.”

Anders moves to the steps of the arena, and I look past him to the vast field containing all the unmarked graves of my previous opponents. This promises to be the first time my foe will prove worthy of a grave marker. Anders turns back to face me, his eagerness palpable. “Three,” he begins.

I look back into my eyes as my mouth speaks. “This isn’t a charade. I’m you, and I’m scared.”

“Two.”

“I admire your commitment to the bit,” I reply, raising my blade and squatting slightly. “I’d expect no less of myself.”

“One.”

I leap forward only to see myself turn my back and take off in a sprint. What game is this? Obviously, I can’t catch myself on foot, so I come to a halt and grab my knife by the blade. I bring it behind my head, then whip it forward, sending it spinning right into my left hamstring.

I watch myself skid across the sandstone, acutely aware that while I am uninjured, I am also now unarmed. I rush forward, hoping that fall stunned me. I drop roughly to one knee and start reaching for my knife when I realize my body is flipping over. I try to fall backward out of its reach but–gah!

I feel the knife burn across my cheek, and I close my eyes for the briefest second. I reopen them just in time to see my right boot collide with my chest. I collapse backward onto the hard stone, and I feel my fingers on my throat.

This can’t be. I can’t die, not even by my hand. Oh God, this can’t be happening!

Maybe it’s not. I see the bloody knife in my hand, but in my eyes–only terror. There’s no glimmer of thrill, of triumph, of bloodlust. There’s just dread, pure and unbounded. In an instant I understand the thoughts that must be churning through my mind: if I die, then how could I go back and be right here, poised to kill?

It’s a poor time to get hung up on a paradox. I look from my frozen eyes to my unprotected throat, and I don’t hesitate. I strike, leaving myself gaging and gasping. I twist the knife out of my hand and in one swift motion jam it in the side of my neck.

I stare at my trembling, choking future self, and somewhere deep in the core of my being I feel the same horror that I see in my dying eyes. It spreads slowly through my blood, and I jump in fright like a small child at the harsh crack of Anders’ clapping.

“Well done, sir,” Anders says, sauntering gradually toward me. “That was something special to see. We should get you cleaned up, though. It’s almost time for your journey.”

His blithe expression stings worse than my cheek. How is my faithful companion of a decade so undisturbed by the sight of my own corpse lying not two feet from me? It’s more than I can take. I shake violently and vomit, emptying my stomach of everything except the expanding mass of unadulterated fear. I close my eyes and try my best to keep my voice even as I speak.

“Anders, I don’t want to die. I won’t go back. I won’t just walk into my own knife. I won’t do it. We’ll destroy the time machine.”

Anders smiles. “Sir, did you wonder why your future self was unconscious when you came out of the machine?” he asks, pulling a tranquilizer gun out of his coat. “Because I didn’t.”

“What are you doing, Anders? What the hell are you doing?” I try to crawl backward, but my arms have lost their strength. I lie helplessly on the ground as Anders steps up beside me.

“I admit, the fight didn’t live up to my expectations, but I still won’t deny myself the privilege of seeing it,” he says, taking aim at my frantically beating heart. “Honestly, you should feel lucky. That was a once in a lifetime experience, yet you’ll get to live it twice.”

Karl Lykken writes both stories and software in Texas. His flash fiction has appeared in Theme of Absence, The Flash Fiction Press, and Every Day Fiction.

Yosa Buson is a musician from Northern California. 

(Narrative) Hand of God – (Music) Polaroids

20 Wednesday Dec 2017

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By. DL Shirey

Day clicked on and the city was about its business. Perpendicular streets, buildings in workaday beige, multistory windows with gray reflections of smudged, flat sky. Block upon uniform block, an automatic map I followed from here to there without thinking.

Then came a movement from above; two movements, from opposite edges of sky.

These were not clouds. They were too dark and well above where clouds should be. Huge, elongated shapes were suddenly moving toward each other at incredible speed. As space closed between them, their silhouettes bent, knuckling together like the letter C. And when the open tips collided, I expected a cataclysmic boom. It didn’t come.

All this occurred in two seconds, and the suddenness of the event made pedestrians cower. Dozens of people on the sidewalk around me dropped briefcases and coffees. I raised my own arms in reflex as if my bony wrists and splayed fingers might protect me from shadowy apocalypse.

I saw what happened next quite clearly. I was on Front Street with only a flat stretch of park between the river and me when, what I could only describe as the Hand of God, touched ground on the other side of the water. I don’t know which made me fall to the sidewalk first, that the ground shook violently at impact or because I was overwhelmed by the colossal size of Her thumb and finger. They blotted out distant mountains the instant they landed, but were gone just as quickly, racing sidelong to opposite horizons in the blink of an eye.

My brain had barely a moment to register what I’d witnessed, the impossibility of it all. Two gigantic digits, each a mile wide and their length stretched endlessly from above. A second later they were gone, fingertips raking the ground away from each other.

That’s when gravity changed.

Our world thrust upward and I could feel myself pressed to the sidewalk, like the city had pulled closer to the sky. Something tectonic had definitely occurred, although there was no fracturing of pavement or rumble under ground. The force of movement was completely silent, but the reactions on the street were not: cars screeched to a halt, and those that didn’t collided with the stopped vehicles. People picked themselves up, screaming in panic, and ran in every direction.

I was dazed, urging myself to wake from this dream. But no, another shadow filled the sky. The tip of an index finger hovered directly overhead, drawing closer and closer. It struck the ground in the middle of the manicured lawn in the park next to me. The impact was soundless, the vibration nauseating. But the finger didn’t linger, instantly retracting from where it came.

Everyone stopped.

Just a glint of light anticipated the object which next slammed into the grass. In the exact spot where the finger had pointed a huge metallic cylinder knifed its way into the turf. I don’t know how much of it was buried, but it stood three stories from the ground. It was capped by something twice that height, a mammoth red ball.

It had only been a few seconds since the finger had come and gone, but there was an unsettling permanence to this giant orb; its mere presence seemed indomitable, yet it neither moved nor made noise. In fact the only sound I could hear was my pulse pounding in my ears. As my heartbeat slowed and my heaving lungs finally found enough air, I noticed hushed conversations around me. Instead of fleeing, people were being drawn to the object, as if its invincibility was magnetic.

Everyone around me began walking toward it, but I hesitated. In twos and threes they brushed past me, awestruck, eyes gazing up at the monumental sphere. Crowds began to fill the park, drawn to the huge folds of grass that surrounded the half-buried marker.

I just shook my head and began backing slowly, taking small, scared steps, bumping into the waves of people being blindly pulled to the center of the park. Behind me someone yelled, “Are you all crazy?” putting voice to the growing panic inside me.

I turned to run, but too late.

The sky dimmed again and an enormous face domed the heavens. A lipsticked grin parted over orthodontically-wired teeth and a deafening, shrill voice filled the world, “Hey Siri, give me directions to Starbucks.”

DL Shirey lives in Portland, Oregon, writing fiction, by and large, unless it’s small. He has been caught flashing at Café Aphra, 365 Tomorrows, ZeroFlash, Fewer Than 500 and others listed at www.dlshirey.com.

A Series of Pipes is a Nashville, TN based musician. 

(Narrative) The House in the Stove – (Music) – leftovers

26 Sunday Nov 2017

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By. Gary Beck

It has always been cold. We never could afford a stove, so we tried to keep warm wearing the leavings of one hundred strangers. But if we never quite succeeded in losing the chill that made our fingers stiff and clumsy, there were times when life was rich and full. One of these times was when I was five years old. A man knocked on the door. My mother opened the door and asked what he wanted. He said that he represented the welfare agency of the city, and that our name had been given to them in order to provide us with assistance. At this, my father, who was listening from the bedroom, mustered the little dignity that remained to him and said: “Sir, I have made many mistakes in my life, but I have never permitted myself the degradation of accepting charity.” He returned to the bedroom with the haunting thoughts of pride and his children, who were never warm.

The man turned to go and then he noticed me. “Are you cold, son?” He lifted me and placed me on his knee. “I’m going to tell you a story,” he said. “Once there was a family who lived in a great big black stove. They ate coal and wood, and drank kerosene. Sometimes they were hungry, but generally they had enough to eat. One day, though, there was a great noise and the stove shook and fell on its side. After that it was carried away somewhere and dropped with a terrible thump. The family was very frightened. Soon they began to grow hungry. They waited for a long time, becoming hungrier and hungrier, when suddenly the door to the stove opened and someone gave them food.” At this point he looked at his watch, muttered something, put on his coat and said: “I’ll have to finish the story another time,” and went out the door.

Three months later I contracted pneumonia. The doctor told Mommy that I was going to die. My brother Jimmy came to see me and told me that when I died they would put me in an oven. Then I could live in a stove and be warm, just like in the story.

Gary Beck resides in New York City.

Biocratic is a musician from New York City. 

(Narrative) Mistakes Made – (Music) Hide and Seak

20 Tuesday Jun 2017

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By. Pat Berryhill

Particles hung in the sunbeam and she recalled hearing somewhere, sometime, dust is nothing more than an accumulation of dead skin cells and that’s why it could feel greasy. Staring at the window wasn’t the same thing as staring out the window and people mistook the two where she was concerned. They would ask, “Isn’t it a gorgeous day?” or “I believe that’s the little dog from next door. He wanders over sometimes. Isn’t he cute?” Occasionally, it was more personal… “Are you watching for him? You know he isn’t coming.”

Some would try damn near anything to goad her into talking, but it never worked. She had no interest in going outside either. Anything that transpired past the glass with the crisscrossed metal mesh and the metal bar shutters, stopped existing for her long ago and she knew, oh so well, he wasn’t coming today, nor any other.

 

She saw it like an 8mm film reel in her head every night, fighting sleep and ultimately succumbing to the Trazodone. Dinner was at their favorite Italian restaurant, the bougie place with low light and small portions. He wore his noir slacks, dark grey shirt, and midnight matte tie. With his shiny black hair and naturally blue eyes, whispers followed him as he walked through a room. She had on her crimson couture dress. It was mid-thigh, sleek, and form fitting with spaghetti straps. The fabric felt good and was thin. She went sans panties or it ruined the line of the silhouette. She had black, 6 inch heel, Loui Boutons and a black Coach clutch. He made the remark that she need only to let her golden messy bun fall in curly cascades around her green eyes and dinner would be in tonight. Tempted, she still opted to go. They had reservations and on a Friday, they were hard to come by on short notice. She had managed tonight’s in a week’s time. Besides, she wanted to remain in good standing with the owner and chef.

If they had stayed in, if he had left his phone in the car, or had taken it with him to the bathroom, things could have ended so differently, but he didn’t. The phone vibrated and she glanced down. It was a message from Alice. “Tomorrow, I am all yours. Tom is taking the boys to the zoo, doing that hubby thing.” He had told her he was working all day tomorrow. It was why he wasn’t staying at her place tonight. When he returned from the bathroom, the Cannoli was in a to-go box, the table was cleared, and she was waiting at the bar. He paid and they walked in the drizzling, humid, Summer rain to his Beamer.

Less than two minutes on the road, she asked, “So what’s going on tomorrow?”

“Oh, just going over the upcoming case with the partners. We want to be certain all I’s are dotted and t’s are crossed for this new client.”, he replied.

She half snorted, but still spoke calmly, “You lying son of a bitch.”

“What?”

“Okay, who is Alice then?”

“Really? Are you kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”, she asked blank faced.

“No, you don’t, but you don’t realize this how funny this is sweetheart. There is a perfectly innocent explain-“

“Well, I know I’m not amused. I’m sure her husband who is taking the kids to the park wouldn’t be amused either.”

“The zoo.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s taking them to the zoo.”, he replied and half grinned.

“I’m so glad you find this humorous. I really am. Know what? That’s it.” She had that tone in her voice. Not yelling, but distinctly different than before.

“What do you mean that’s it?”

“I can’t stay in this car with you one moment longer.”

She’d always been passionate. He loved that about her. Occasionally, it had it’s down side. In one fluid motion, she reached for her seatbelt with one hand and the door handle with the other. He, knowing she would leap from the moving car, lunged with his right hand to grab her arm and his left hand jerked the wheel into the oncoming traffic by just eight inches. The pickup hit the Beamer and the car was no match for the old metal Ford. Her airbag deployed. His did not. She came to and realized he was badly injured. Not knowing where to apply pressure, there was so much blood, she called 911 and said, “I’m so sorry, babe. Help is on the way. It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be alright.” She realized he was trying to say something and leaned into his lips to listen.
She met Alice and Tom at the funeral. Tom was his cousin. And Alice? She was Tom’s wife. A legal secretary that was going to temp that day, help out. After the funeral, she said her thank-you’s to family and friends. She saw him placed in the ground. She went home and sewed her mouth shut with a sewing needle and silk thread. Neighbors called the cops when they saw her at the mailbox the next morning and she attempted to smile, the stitching pulled and tore a bit, causing crimson rivulets to run down her chin.

The hospital cut the silk thread, but couldn’t make her talk. She’d been hearing the last words he spoke since the day after his death. They came out the telephone when friends called with condolences, out the Pastor’s mouth at the funeral, out her air vents in the car, they echoed down the empty halls. Now, out the doctor’s mouth at monthly med checks and other patients’ mouths in group. From under her bed at night as she fought sleep, before she saw it all again…

“I’m so sorry, babe. Help is on the way. It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be alright.” She realized he was trying to say something and leaned into his lips to listen.

“I’ll have your lying tongue.”

Pat Berryhill lives and works in Winston Salem, NC. She has been published in Change Seven Magazine, Cultural Weekly, and will be in the soon to be released anthology The Devil’s Doorbell. She is also the founder of the NC Writer’s Collective.

Hectana is a musician from Russia. 

(Narrative) Baby Bird – (Music) Glimmer

29 Monday May 2017

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By. Justin Zipprich 

Stuart was on his way home from work when he first saw the black cat sitting in a nearby driveway.

He was in a traditional community with almost identical one and two story homes lining the streets. In most cases, seeing a cat out in the wild wasn’t too strange of an occurrence, but It was when he realized that something odd hung from the cat’s mouth that he found himself struck. He took a step forward in an effort to bring the scene into focus.

 

It was then that he realized that it was a bird’s body that hung from the cat’s mouth. The baby bird’s head was completely hidden inside the cat’s hungry jaws while its wings, soft body and tail feathers hung freely. The scene was equal parts troubling and intriguing.

A shiver went down Stuart’s spine every time the helpless foul twitched, suffered. Perhaps most disturbing was that Stuart could still hear the bird desperately tweeting from inside the cat’s hungry mouth.

Stuart felt a tiny moment of hope when suddenly the cat’s mouth opened just a little, allowing the bird to jimmy its way to safety. Clearly too injured to take flight, the bird tried its best to hop away, gaining only a foot or two before being scooped up again by the hungry cat. It was the beginning of the end as the bird tried one last time to struggle before the cat gave the bird a final jerk, breaking the delicate bones in its neck. The little bird body went limp.

Not needing to witness what would happen next, Stuart moved on as the cat continued to devour its meal, the predator consuming its prey.

The scene actually seemed to sadden Stuart. He seemed to feel a fraction of sympathy for another living creature, and he didn’t understand it, he had never felt this way before. Perhaps it was because this was the first time that he had seen the cycle of life coming to an end with his own two eyes. Who was to say that one creature had the right to take the life of another? He didn’t like the idea that an adorable house cat could take the life of an innocent and bubbly sparrow but he also realized that it was just the way things were sometimes. But they didn’t always have to be.

He replayed the scene over and over in his mind during the duration of his walk. The sadness, the finality of the whole thing, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. The scene also made him think about his own life. Had he made the best decisions in his adult years? Was there anything that he should try to change in an attempt to become a better person? Perhaps he should change the way he thought about the world; maybe this change of heart would make the world a better place. He had a lot to think about.

When he arrived home he officially decided that it was time to turn over a new leaf. Things would be different from now on. Ready to fully commit to his new way of thinking he began the process of unlocking the fortified door to the basement. It was time to let Margaret go, she had been chained down there for long enough.

Justin Zipprich is a freelance writer living in Los Angeles. He is proud to have his previous work published by Necrology Shorts, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Fiction and Verse and Whisperings Magazine as well as an honorable mention in Allegory.

Go Cozy is a band from Washington, DC. 

(Narrative) By Blood a Clown – (Music) In the Black Lagoon

16 Tuesday May 2017

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By. Stephen D. Rogers

Don’t you just hate clowns? The obscene face paint. The colored wigs. The baggy costumes. What are they hiding from? Who do they think we are?

My mother was a clown. She did birthday parties for kids. I had to come along, even though I didn’t know anybody there. People would ask me who I was.

“Nobody.”

 

“Well, where’s your grown-up?”

“I don’t have one.”

“How did you get here then?”

“I hid in one of the cars. They didn’t even see me.”

Even if my mother overheard the questions, she couldn’t interfere, limited to squeaking her bicycle horn.

Honk, honk.

Clowns live by rigid codes of behavior.

Seriously. If my mother had ever talked while in character, the matter would not have been taken lightly. She’d have been exiled by the clown community. Left to die.

She couldn’t explain me. Couldn’t apologize to her customer. Couldn’t yell at me for threatening her livelihood. Not at the birthday party, anyway.

Home was a different story. That’s where I’d experience the rage behind the impassive face.

But then today, on our way up the stairwell, she must have tripped on her oversized shoes and because I heard her tumbling until she hit the bottom.

I pressed my ear against her lips to hear her ragged breath, getting some of her makeup on me. I could feel it, the oily sealant that turned me into a clown.

I touched my face. As a clown, I had the power to become silent at will.

“Sorry, Mom, but I can’t call 911 if I can’t speak. What do you think would happen if I just honked, honked?

“Why, they’d just laugh!”

Stephen D. Rogers is the author of Shot to Death and more than 800 shorter works. His website, www.StephenDRogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

The Drunken Draculas are from San Diego, California. 

(Narrative) I GUESS WE ARE TOO – (Music) Already in Progress

02 Tuesday May 2017

Posted by in Mystery, Poetry, Science Fiction

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By. Irene Meklin

Lynda Willerson, the reports said, suicided on the edge of a cliff. But my heart? What did it say? My heart said that Lyn was murdered. How do I know, you ask? Well that’s simple: because she’s sitting right next to me.

Lynda Willerson, the reports said, had a knife found in her heart. But it was the heart of the assailant that truly was broken. He even took the time to write his name in her blood on her forehead. How considerate of him. How considerate of him.

Lynda Willerson had been said to love Luke, but he did not love her back. The truth is, it was the other way around.

Lynda Willerson, the rumors stated, had tried to show her devotion to Luke by scrawling his name as she lay dying. But it was Luke who truly wanted to show his affection. I guess that was the only way he knew how.

Lynda Willerson, her mother said, had been quiet for weeks before, contemplating. But Lyn was only at the cliffs to meet the rising sun. I should know. I witnessed it all.

Lynda Willerson, her friends said, had been an amazing person. I guess that was the best compliment they had ever given.

Lynda Willerson, the police said, had been alone. But how could she have been alone when I was right next to her?

Lynda Willerson, her teacher said, had never talked to Luke. I guess telling him he should back off didn’t count as talking.

Lynda Willerson, the investigators said, had no fingerprints on her body. I guess crazed psychopaths left no fingerprints.

Lynda Willerson, her brother said, never thought things through and realized the consequences of what she was doing. I guess to a six-year-old, ice cream flavors are very important choices.

Lynda Willerson, the judges said, had no one present to witness her murder. I guess a witness has to be an adult.

Lynda Willerson, I said, had been murdered. I guess now she’s joined me.

Luke Caters, we said, had murdered us all. I guess he had a taste for pretty girls.

Luke Caters, we said, would be shown what it was like. I guess it will be his first -and last- time.

Luke Caters, we said, would be gone by midnight. I guess he’ll hope he’d never met us.

Luke Caters, we said, deserves what he’ll get. I guess we’ll deserve so too. But who can touch us here?

Luke Caters, we say, is dead. I guess we are too.

Winner of the RAVSAK Hebrew Poetry Contest (2016), I live in the San Francisco Bay Area. My prose was previously published in SmokeLong Quarterly.

Thymme Jones is a musician from Chicago, Illinois. 

(Narrative) Do Not Enter Morin Woods – (Music) Delirious and Devoured

23 Thursday Feb 2017

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By. Ryan Sonneville

The sun would rise and sluggishly set
Underneath, families entered the altar in restless sweat
Well in hand, returned flowers from ancient dead
Their repeated texts, cries, prayers wed

They repeated in antediluvian hoods:
Do Not Enter Morin Woods

 

My son cut his combatant’s blade
On the backs of timber and armored plates
In the pursuit of honor, he avoided text
Waylaid warring armies, discarded violent sects

The horizon promised foreign goods,
Yet he kept away from Morin Woods

Ships and horses brought him here
To this frozen shore laced in fear
Twisted wood, marked – left lifeless near
The ice seized ship, its captain dead, fewer less adhere

His withered face told of the years
Cutting to flesh, holding back tears
He vanquished elder oaths, went where he pleased
For distant realms and treasure yet to seize

Repeated words from his infancy stood:
He knew to keep from Morin Woods

Many years had passed, as did his wealth
The knight looked to fortune while eluding health
Siren songs would wake his slumber
Calling him, sword in hand, to look for another

The sails were frayed, the hull creased and tattered
There was no hope to leave this frozen island
Rock, dirt and decay were his flock
From this he could raise no kin, no means, no stock

Yet on the distance sat, dark trees to beckon few
Unless their mind fooled by their aim most true
He could take what others could not
Into the darkness, trembling for what all men sought

For these worldly goods,
He would enter Morin Woods

With torch lit and sword in hand
He walked assuredly into this remote land
To claim what none have yet, he turned again
One day, they would sing of who he had been

With not a word, the man did not return
No comment of where is body or soul did churn
Lost to time in an unspeakable realm
Left with no son to carry his battered helm

The natives sat, in ornate hoods,
They knew not to enter Morin Woods

Ryan Sonneville is a teacher and writer.

Manet is a band from Norway.

Welcome to Fictional Pairings!

16 Thursday Feb 2017

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The world feels rather cold and dreary as of late. With dark, nefarious forces seeming to occupy ever crevice of the internet, self-imposed exile from the real world to a digital sanctuary is increasingly difficult.

We hope to remedy that in a small way.

I have been employed in many jobs I hated with a passion. The drudgery of each hour wore down my body and soul; punching that time card at the end of a shift was the only satisfying sound in a day populated by mechanical noise and boredom.

When I finally shuffled home, I grabbed a drink, opened a good book and dropped the needle on my record player. Orwell, Tolkien, Aldiss and Moorcock transported me to new worlds; my dinner and alcoholic spirits helped compliment their words and give me the energy to face another day.

We want Fictional Pairings to act as a similar escape.

This online magazine will pair together music bubbling in the underground with fresh new flash fiction. These pairings are meant to be enjoyed like a morning cup of coffee and pastry: little bits of joy and pleasure in an otherwise formidable environment.

Fictional Pairings doesn’t make any money and isn’t intended to. We hope to share fiction and music we love with a wider audience. While we have little in the way of cash, we do plan to pay writers for their work. The pittance won’t be putting anyone through college, but we hope it endears amateur writers to our project.

We would love to hear from you and read your work. Science fiction, mystery and fantasy works is our true love, but we plan to publish many forms of fiction. See our Submissions page for more details on what we share and how to get your work into our hands.

Fictional Pairings looks forward to helping bring a little more light into this world.