Tin.Can.Goat

(One of my submissions to the Boise Weekly Fiction 101 contest, 2008.)

“If the Devil knocks twice, don’t answer.”

“Twice? Why twice? What if he only knocks once?” she said, pulling laces tight.

“Knocks once to view the body, twice to gather the soul,” he said.

She shouldered her purse, stuffing in bills, “You’re a mess.”

“Only on Sundays, when I’m happy.”

She walked to the door and he leaned back. The steel pulled slow from beneath the cushion. It felt alien in his hand, cancerous. He thumbed the hammer; listened to the click. “Devil likes gathering on Sundays and he’s knocked once already. We gotta prepare your soul before he knocks again.”

(One of my submissions to the Boise Weekly Fiction 101 contest, 2008.)

He fired, pumped the spent shell, and smiled.

“Little close,” I said and rubbed my ear.

“You bitch too much,” he said and swung the barrel over my head. “Like your wife.”

“So you said.”

“Bagged that bird.”

“So it seems.”

“Careful where that mouth leads you.”

“So you said.”

He eyed me level. “You be careful.”

“As I should.”

He walked ahead, legs parting wheat as if water. I held careful and didn’t shake much aiming that slick barrel. I whistled. He twitched. I fired.

I walked to his corpse, kicked dust in his eyes, “Say hello to my wife.”

(One of my submissions to the Boise Weekly Fiction 101 contest, 2008.)

Crucified as Peter, black birds tapped and pecked at hollow eyes.

A man stood before him, fag in hand; hot smoke shimmied the air. The sweltered man lacked water, but the man offered him none. His supplies were spent. Ammo low. His revolver rusty.

The man did not speak and the crucified did not listen. They were soldiers—grey clouds amidst a blue sky—one caught; the other, done running.

The man loaded a cartridge and spun the cylinder. He shook as he pressed the barrel against his temple. He kissed the dead man and whispered “Mea Culpa, brother.” then fired.

(One of my submissions to the Boise Weekly Fiction 101 contest, 2008.)

Daddy, come home, I’m scared.

It’s shadows, turn on the lights.

It’s the crack daddy, it’s watching me.

Change rooms, it’ll be all right.

He stopped for milk, a nudie, and beer. Kid was old enough to watch himself now. Jumping at shadows, crying at the dark. He’d never acted like this at that age.

At home the child sat on the grass, door ajar; mosquitoes and moths highway’d in and out.

Why aren’t you inside?

The crack is watching me.

He pointed to the crack, scoffed, scolded and yelled, but dropped the essentials when his gaze met the crack’s stare.

(One of my submissions to the Boise Weekly Fiction 101 contest, 2008.)

Mother shunned and Heaven repressed, even the Devil took note to step wide. Weren’t of a respect, but a fear of them irons—lightning from his hips, thunder in his hands—smitin’ men quicker than God’s finger; reloading just as fast. The Devil coveted those irons—such power—and in his scheming, sent forth a woman who owed him a favor.

A last night of a man’s weakness—sweet lust—welcomed with outstretched arms. She poisoned his mind with Hemlock and ravaged his body with knives.

To Lucifer she nodded—fingering them irons—a warning so simple; stay outta the way.