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#Fiction - MURDER IN A SMALL TOWN - Part One

1/22/2021

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MURDER IN A SMALL TOWN
PART ONE

Rain assaults the windows, and a loud thunderclap shakes the house, a pre-dawn lightning storm and I can’t get back to sleep. Sitting in the kitchen with a coffee and without motivation to write, I let my mind wander in the sound of the incessant driving rain. Perhaps the madness outside can inspire…
           
There’s a loud pounding at the door. With a sigh, I place my cup on the table. At this hour it can only be the police. Nobody else would be so rude. Not even a door-to-door salesperson. I pull back the curtain, but don’t open the door. It’s the chief himself in the flesh, daring to grace me with his presence. He is not wearing a mask.
           
“Mask up. And you people call me a serial killer?”
           
The chief grunts displeasure but does put on a mask. Keeping the chain on the door, I open it enough for him to speak to me. He looks old in the gray sky of morning storm, every bit the Grandpa that I tease him for being even tho we…
           
“What do you want? It better not be about that doll again, I fucking swear.”
           
He shakes his head negative.
           
“We found a body.”
           
“Where?”
           
“Up by the dam.”
           
In Uxbridge? My dam? Should I call Marcus?
           
“I don’t know anything about it.”
           
The chief shuffles his feet and grunts again. The rain increases in intensity and a bright flash illuminates the morning sky. With only a second of delay a cracking boom rips the air. He doesn’t flinch and keeps his eyes on me.
           
“Things…were done to the body. The FBI can’t send anyone yet, some big crime scene up Worcester way. Surprised you didn't know already. Who knows when the feds will send agents and I can't wait that long for answers. So I’m asking you. I need your help.”
           
I can’t help a sigh and shake my head. “You always need something from me don’t you. It’s usually dinner you want. You just can’t stay away.”
           
The chief ignores my barbs and taps a code to activate an app on his mobile phone. He turns the phone towards me and uses a finger to scroll over a set of crime scene photos. Very recent. The victim is a female, late 20’s, blonde, of medium height and weight, the body visibly mutilated. There’s also signs of prior violence, bruises mostly faded but multiple and on several parts of the body.
           
“Why are you asking me? Does she have husband or a boyfriend? A recent break up? Arrest those men, you’ll get the guilty party.”
             
The chief glanced around him before answering. “The husband was in custody for domestic violence at the time of the murder.”
           
Stop. No. “Let me see those photos again.”
           
He displays the screen and waits in the driving rain while I examine the photos for a second time. What did I miss? It looks to be a crime of passion, savage wounds dealt to the body. If the husband paid someone to do this, they wouldn’t have done it like this. The last photo is a close up of the left arm, hand severed high on the wrist.
           
“Were severed body parts found at the crime scene.”
           
“No,” he says. 
           
The earth sways a bit before I gather myself.

“Saul,” I scream. “Get my fucking coat.”

PART TWO COMING SOON
​
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NEW RELEASE - The Oddities on Saturday Night by Gabriel Ricard

12/27/2020

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NEW RELEASE
THE ODDITIES ON SATURDAY NIGHT
BY
GABRIEL RICARD


Moran Press Presents

THE ODDITIES ON SATURDAY NIGHT by Gabriel Ricard

The description from Amazon

PACK LIGHT, DREAM DESPERATELY 

Washed up actors, mass murderers, Christ cosplayers, killer angels, and Viking funerals. Meet the vagabond cast in thirteen new stories from author Gabriel Ricard (BONDAGE NIGHT, CLOUDS OF HUNGRY DOGS). THE ODDITIES ON SATURDAY NIGHT is a travelogue of lost, quietly deranged souls. Like all of us, these characters are just trying to get through the week alive.

You can order the paperback and Kindle edition at Amazon by clicking the cover image in post. You can also get a signed copy from Gabriel Ricard. Simply comment on this post or message him on social media to snag a copy. The final option is to purchase The Oddities on Saturday Night on this website linked below. Thank you for supporting small business, reading, and indie authors. We couldn't do it without the readers. 

​
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#Fiction - MEET THE BUTLER

12/14/2020

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MEET THE BUTLER
​AN ELLA STORY


​A new message alert beeped on Saul’s phone. Tapping the code to unlock the screen, Saul read the text and grunted. Without a word, Saul pushed the recruit forward along the dimly lit hall. The recruit was shaking and stumbled, but Saul did not relent and dragged the prisoner the last few steps to a set of double doors.
           
“Stand up, will you. Pull yourself together.”
           
“Who is this guy I’m meeting? Is he really the butler?”
           
Saul shook his head and knocked on the door. Within moments the double doors swung open to reveal an elderly man wearing a tuxedo.
           
“Just in time for tea. Do come in,” the old man made a sweeping gesture with his arm and stepped to one side to allow the recruit to enter his apartment. Saul led the recruit into the dining room and forced him into a seat closest to the door.
           
The old man took the seat opposite the recruit but did not speak. Saul began serving tea, freshly cut slices of lemon on a serving dish.
           
“That will be all, Saul. Thank you.”
           
Saul gave a slight bow towards the old man and left. The recruit looked from his teacup to the old man.
           
“Who are you?”
           
“You may call me George. I’ve been a servant at Holden Farms all my life. I’ll instruct you in all aspects of being a servant. Cooking, cleaning, ironing, sewing, tending the horses and gardens, hosting invited guests, and most importantly, the specific needs of the master of Holden Farms.”
           
The recruit sipped the tea, a brow furrowed in concentration.
           
“You’re going to train me to be a butler? What about the killing, being an assassin part?”
           
George smiled and squeezed lemon slices into his tea.
           
“I don’t know how to tell you this. Saul was having some fun with you. I’m afraid there won’t be any revenge killing in your future. You’re fate is with me as a servant of Holden Farms. You’ll never leave this mansion again. Just like me.”
           
George sipped his tea and smiled again.
           
“I don’t understand.”
           
“Have a lemon cake. It will make you feel better.”
           
The recruit did as he was instructed, taking a small bite of the cake and waiting for George to explain.
           
“Due to your age and other factors, you’ve been selected as a personal servant to Miss Ella, provided you pass my training course.”
           
“What other factors?”
           
“You’re an orphan. No surviving relatives. Never married. No stable employment. In short, you fit the profile. Nobody will miss you.”
           
The recruit leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his hair in nervous exasperation. “I guess that answers my question about what happens if I don’t want to be a butler.”
           
George nods and sips his tea before answering. “Indeed. No need to go into the grisly details. I’ll leave that to your imagination. But, know this, you best pass my butler school. Failure isn’t an option for you. Some don’t understand the core of what it means to be a servant. It’s more the list of duties you perform.”
           
The recruit ate more lemon cake and contemplated George’s words.
           
“Tell me what the core is if not the duties you have already mentioned.”
           
“Being a servant at Holden Farms means anticipating the needs of the master before she asks. You must become attuned to her moods, whims, and be able to discern how to meet all needs and expectations even when those specifics are not communicated. To be a butler here, you must dedicate your entire being to the happiness of the master.”
           
The recruit began to answer but stopped and sipped his tea.
           
“I guess the only thing I don’t understand is why my age. I’m only 22. I don’t have experience…”
           
George cut him off with a wave of his hand.
           
“Ella doesn’t want someone’s bad habits. Your age is for a reason. You can be molded into the servant she wants. Just remember the core principle. Make Ella happy and you’ll remain alive.”
           
George stood at the same moment Saul re-entered the room.
           
“Well, is he ready?” Saul asked, gesturing at the recruit.
           
“I can’t say for sure, my friend. But it will have to wait until later. We must prepare for the trial.”
           
“If there is a trial,” Saul interrupted.
           
“What happened?” the recruit asked, not understanding.
           
Saul grunted and glanced at George. Receiving no answer, he cleared his throat and returned his eyes to the recruit.
           
“The prisoner confessed.”
           
The recruit started to speak, but bells began to ring, filling the air around them with a tremendous noise. Saul grabbed the recruit by the upper arm and ushered him quickly down the hall towards the main ballroom.
           
“It’s time for a trial,” George said, smiling wide as he opened the doors.
           
The ballroom packed with the residents of Holden Farms. On the stage the bell rung and rung, the volume deafening as George and Saul led the recruit through the crowd. When the three reached the seats reserved for them, the doors slammed shut behind and all the lights went dark.
           
A woman’s voice sounded over the intercom.
           
​“Bring out the prisoner!” 

​

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#Fiction - Happy Belated Father's Day

12/13/2020

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HAPPY BELATED FATHER'S DAY
AN ELLA STORY

​I stare at the telephone and the only thing I get in return is eternal ghastly silence. Ring, damn you. It’s been days and the phone call I’ve been avoiding gets more difficult the longer I delay. The phone apparently won’t cooperate and ring of its own. But what am I afraid of?

Jumping from bed, I grab the telephone from the charging base. Tapping a button to dial a saved number, I put the receiver to my ear. It’s ringing.

“Good morning, Ella. Quite the surprise. How are you?”

“Happy belated Father’s Day, Hannibal. I’m sorry I didn’t’ call, but it’s been a very rough time. Quarantine life isn’t for me.”

“Do not fret on my account. I’m happy you thought of me. But you sound troubled, Ella. Are you eating? Sleeping? How’s your sexual appetite? Regular and vigorous sex is a key to a sound mind and spirit. Tell me what troubles you.”

I sigh. All the explanations I planned fizzle in my mind upon hearing his voice. “I haven’t killed anyone since quarantine began. Something…happened to me? This pandemic is kryptonite. All this death and not one by my hand. I feel helpless.”

“I see. Quite natural really. This phenomenon makes us question our very existence, attacks the foundations of who we think we are when we’re alone in the night. Let me ask you, are you having the nightmares about the day you killed your father?”

Can I speak this? Even to Hannibal? “No. It’s from before that day.”
​
A short silence punctuated by a sharp inhalation of breath. “Close your eyes, Ella. Do it this instant. Tell me what you see. Don’t think, just tell me exactly what you see.”

I do as Hannibal bids.

“It’s the Father’s Day before my 13th birthday.

I woke bathed in sweat in the middle of the night. There was a clanging of pans from the kitchen, so I jumped out of bed. I crept down the stairs. I was very afraid and still trapped in the nightmare of father the noise interrupted.

I entered the kitchen. My father was face down in a pool of vomit and blood. He looked dead and for one moment I thought the deed was done. Excitement flooded me as I knelt in the vile sticky wetness to check if he was alive. When I place my hand on his neck to check for a pulse, he grabbed my wrist.
His eyes snapped open and he vomited again. My father was not dead.

I can’t remember a thing that happened the rest of the day. It’s a blur of violence and I don’t want to talk about all that right now. You already know what he did to me.”

After a short silence, Hannibal asks. “You’ve never told anyone about that day, have you?”

I shake my head, trying to will the images from my brain. “No. Not even Ray.”

“I won’t be hurt if you can’t tell me,” Hannibal says in a low voice.

I light a cigarette and take several deep drags before I answer.

“I poisoned his whiskey. When he was busy doing whatever he did in the basement most nights, I poured enough poison to kill three men into the bottle and I watched him drink every single drop, but the damned drunkard just wouldn’t die. It’s like the fucker was immune to poison from all the alcohol he’d consumed in his life.

“You tried to murder your father on Father’s Day?”

I let his question remain unanswered while I smoke in silence. I don’t need to tell him more about that day. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

“Thank you, Ella. If you wish to end the nightmares that plague you about Father’s Day, you must tell Ray everything.”

“But, H. Ray is dead.”

There’s no answer from the other side of the line. I wait and crush the cigarette into the ashtray, but still nothing from H. Removing the phone from my ear, I check the screen. The phone is off, the screen dark.
​
“Ray, I tried to kill my father before I met you. I think that’s why the universe put you into my life…”
I can’t continue. The tears overwhelm me, and I place the phone back on the nightstand. I get under the covers and close my eyes. Sleep comes for me, returning me to my eternal nightmare.

________________________________________


Puzzle Image by anncapictures from Pixabay 
​

I hope readers enjoyed the story. Another new story coming very soon. To those looking for last minute gifts, books make perfect gifts for holidays, birthdays, and any special occasion. Give the gift of reading!

Thank you for supporting small business in time of pandemic. Moran Press can only continue to operate with support from readers. I thank you for taking time to visit the website!

ORDER BOOKS IN TIME TO SHIP FOR CHRISTMAS
EVERY ORDER PACKED WITH FREEBIES AND EXTRAS

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TITLE RELEASE DATE - The Oddities on Saturday Night by Gabriel Ricard

12/9/2020

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RELEASE DATE SET
DECEMBER 26, 2020
THE ODDITIES ON SATURDAY NIGHT

At long last, I'm pleased to announce the release date for the short story collection from Gabriel Ricard, The Oddities on Saturday Night. This book was a long time in the making. Pandemic put a lot of the world on hold and my small business was no exception. Much of my small business process was put on hold or closely by order of the state - including the lifeblood of small presses: live events. 

I've had to re-invent things at Moran Press - including a new focus on hand-sewn chapbooks (more of that later). Words are beginning to come to life again and a new process forming on how to get words into the hands of our readers.

This book is the culmination of a lot of work and determination by the entire team to see this through to the finish line despite the incredible adversity life has thrown at us all in this rollercoaster year of 2020. We are both pleased and relieved to finally see this book in print. The excitement is palpable - in no small part due to the core of the project: the cover art by artist David Graham. The art captures the whimsy, humor, and stark look at modern life present in the fiction. He nailed this cover and I'm so happy to present it to the world. 

Thank you to the readers for supporting us all these years and I do hope you love this book as much as I do. It's truly beautiful. I can't wait for you to see it. 

Book drops Saturday Night, December 26th.  Leading up to that night will be livestreams and other social media appearances by author and published. Be on the lookout for a chance to win a copy of the book FREE courtesy of Moran Press. 

The chapbook edition of the book, GOD IS ON YOUR SIDE and other handsewn chaps are available now from Moran Press. Be sure to place book orders today to receive in time for Christmas!

Thank you for supporting small business and reading. 

Stephen Moran
Owner of Moran Press

​
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#Fiction - PREPARATIONS FOR A TRIAL - An Ella Story

11/16/2020

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PREPARATIONS FOR A TRIAL
AN ELLA STORY

Today there will be a trial at Holden Farms. If I can manage to pull myself together and summon the energy necessary for the show to happen at all. I’ve been avoiding the library since the beginning of pandemic. Trapped in this small-town hell without hope of escape forced on me by endless stalkers watchers FBI Agents and the help. Instead of my writing routine, I waste energy trying to be alone and have failed completely.
           
The morning of a trial I make the coffee. There are no servants around. Not a sound in the house besides me clanging around in the kitchen. I place a notebook, a pen, my coffee, and an ashtray on the kitchen table. I will write. I don’t give a damn if I light the words on fire ten minutes after I finish, I will put words to paper no matter what comes today.
           
Lighting a cigarette, I put my feet up on a chair and stare out the window at the FBI van across the street. There’s no sign of movement. Are they sleeping on the job? How unprofessional. I’ll be sure to mention it at our next meeting. What would Marcus say, he always did his job. I take a deep drag and force my attention back to the notebook.
           
It all begins in the library. I don’t expect you to understand, just to know. When I finish this story, I’ll add it to my shelf with all the others. Endless dozens of stories from many years. The story begins the routine.
           
My phone buzzes with a new message, but I ignore it. I won’t look. I do not want to know. Nothing will stop me from finishing this story. I want to be ready for the trial. I’ve been promising you all a trial for weeks and months, but hell if I can summon what it takes to open that library door.
           
Eureka! Opening the notebook, I write at the top of the page.
 
MY STALKER’S HOME ADDRESS: A REVENGE TALE
           
I know what I must do. It’s what I was born to do. Get revenge. One of these days my enemies will be seeing me. If you want justice, you gotta do it yourself. There’s only justice for rich men in America.
           
Revenge is a dish best served often. I’ll write your name in my little black book and soon you’ll disappear. Nobody will even know you existed. I’ll have you erased after I kill you. You’d be amazed what money can do. With a few phone calls and well-placed bribes, your identity can be wiped from memory. And it’s official, I have another name to add to the list. After months, I have a new story.
           
I rip the page from the notebook and crush my cigarette in the ashtray. I’m ready.
           
Before I can change my mind, I approach the door to the basement. My stomach drops as I get close. So much horror down these stairs. Could I tell you even if I had a million years to explain? But there’s not time now. I must do this. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I close my eyes. Conjuring an image of the library in my mind, I turn the knob and open the door. Stepping forward into the darkness, my foot flails in space and I fall. I fall and fall and fall and suddenly, I’m on the floor of the library.
           
I get to my feet and scan the room. There’s nobody here.
           
“Hello?”
           
The echo of my voice sounds unfamiliar. It’s been too long. A shiver passes over me and I try to shake the negative thoughts away. Approaching the bookshelf with my stack of stories, I place the notebook page on top of the others.
           
“There. It is done. You are added to the list. You will stand trial.”
           
I close my eyes once more. I’m ready. I’ve been lost in the wilderness of pandemic for so many months, but I really think I’m ready.
           
“Good morning, Ella. So good to see you.”
           
I spin to face him. “George!!” He hasn’t aged. Pandemic hasn’t harmed a gray hair on his head.
           
“Shall I pour you coffee?”
           
“Oh, George. It’s been so long. I’ve forgotten everything it seems.” I take a seat at my writing desk and wait for George to pour coffee. He wheels the cart to a spot next to me and serves coffee.
           
Next, he clicks on the television. It’s a replay of game six of the 1986 World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Mets. “The market opens in an hour. I do hope you enjoy the baseball game.”
           
“I always do, George. Please do me a favor and send Saul to me. There’s something I need taken care of immediately.”
           
“Something or someone?” George asks with a sly grin before leaving the room.
           
I rip a fresh page from my notebook and write an address in all-caps. Saul enters the room just as I’m folding the piece of paper.
           
“You look beautiful this morning, Ella.”
           
“Cut the chit-chat. Go to this address and do what needs be done,” I say, handing him the paper. He stuffs it into a pocket without looking at it. I’m sure he has the address already. “And be back in time for the trial. You know what time.”
           
“I do.” He bows and leaves. I know I saw him smile.
           
Opening my phone, I finally check the message. It’s from Ana.
           
“Well, are you ready? It’s time for a trial.”
           
I begin my reply but erase the sentence and replace with two words. “I’m ready.”

____________________

I hope you enjoyed the story. 

Readers are invited to a Trial at Holden Farms. Posting to Moran Press this week. 

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#Fiction - In Darkness, Mourning

11/14/2020

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IN DARKNESS, MOURNING
AN ELLA SHORT STORY


There’s no light in the sky. A cold steady mist pelts the window, obscuring my view into the garden. I woke early from nightmare, something about father. It took some moments before I realized it was morning, the ash sky of morning blocking the sun. Now I’ve been sitting here on my stool for an hour watching water stream down the windowpanes.
           
Saul enters with a tray and approaches me cautiously. After these many years, he knows if I’m in a mood…
           
“How long have you been awake? I would have come in sooner.”
           
“It’s okay, Saul.”
           
He nods and takes a seat on an ottoman across from me. “I’m shit at this job. It’s not what I do best. Why don’t you send me to deal with your stalker?”
           
Closing my eyes, I take several deep breaths to calm my nerves. He won’t upset me this early in the day. “Let it go. I need you here.”
           
He shrugs and lights a cigarette. “If you want to waste my talents playing butler it’s your business. But send someone else to put a scare into the psycho bothering you online. It will make me feel better.”
           
Sigh. Men. Why can’t he just do as I tell him?
           
“I’d like you to see to my breakfast.”
           
With a tilt of his head, he rises and leaves the room. I wait for him to shut the door before returning my gaze to the garden. The morning sky has darkened, clouds thick with thunder and violence. In the distance, the rapidly approaching storm rumbles and roars its warning song.
           
A ripping flash ignites the sky with only a brief pause before the cracking thunder shakes the house. My bedroom lights flicker and another bolt of lightning strikes, even closer this time, blinding my sight. I close my eyes, but the white spots remain, swirling around my brain. Images from memory mix with the bright searing spots, the day so long ago I rode horses in the rain with Ray. But that moment explodes into a million shards of light, burning a portrait of father on my mind like some evil shroud of Turin.
           
No, I won’t let those thoughts plague me today. There’s going to be a trial and I have to pull myself together. What would George think?
           
Saul wheels the breakfast cart into the room. He put on a black tux with bowtie. The man simply can’t help being a colossal shit.
           
“What are you doing and how the hell did you fit in George’s tuxedo?”
           
He bellows with laugher and begins serving breakfast of eggs, bacon, and hash browns. “I did not steal George’s clothes. What kind of monster do you think I am? I paid a tailor and everything like a regular guy with a job does.”
           
“Don’t get smart with me, you little shit.”
           
I pick at the bacon while glaring at him. I do not need this today. “Everything better be ready since you appear to have so much free time.”
           
“Holden Farms is ready for the trial. Why would you ever doubt me when it comes to getting ready to kill folk? That’s what you pay me to do.”
           
​I sip at my coffee and once again stare out the window into the garden. In a few hours I’ll open the gates of Holden Farms. You’re all invited to the trial of a local cop. You don’t want to miss this, I promise. 

 COMING SOON - THE NEXT INSTALLMENT

PREPARATIONS FOR A TRIAL 

Thank you to all that took time to visit. I hope you enjoy the story. 

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#Fiction - THIS IS THE WAY - Ella Meets the New Recruits

10/30/2020

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THIS IS THE WAY


 
Saul steals glances at me in the mirror as he attempts to fix the bow tie wrapped around his thick neck. His stamps in frustration and I smile. Rising from the desk, I approach the mirror and wait for him to stop. With a grunt, he drops his arms to his side.
           
“I’m not cut out for this domestic shit. I’m a killer in case you forgot.”
“Oh, how can I forget? You never tire of telling me.”
           
Without waiting for me to ask, Saul gets on his knees so I can fix his bowtie.
           
“Happy now?”
“Men can be such intolerable babies. Do you ever shut up?” He opens his mouth to reply but I put a hand over his lips. “Not today. Just don’t. We have new recruits to interrogate. I need you to look the part.”
           
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond. I finish with the bowtie and motion for him to rise. He’s a handsome man in a tuxedo, but I won’t tell the little shit, or he’ll put on airs all day.
           
I exit the bedroom and don’t need to look behind me to know Saul follows. No matter his endless complaining about wearing the tuxedo, examining the new recruits brings Saul as close to what you might call joy as he can experience. I mean, he is a certifiable psychopath so I can’t claim he feels real emotions. I’d be lying.
           
As we approach a set of double doors, Saul gets in front of me. He swings the doors open with a flourish as my name is announced.
           
“Miss Ella Thomas, Master of Holden Farms.”
           
I enter the room, my heels on the hardwood floor the only sound. The recruits are bound to upright gurney like contraptions, duct tape enforcing mandatory silence.
           
“You may not call me Ella. Ever. If you remember that, you just might live to see lunch.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, tho,” Saul says, putting a cigar into his mouth. He approaches the closest gurney to him and rips the duct tape from the prisoner’s mouth. “Well, what’s it going to be? You were explained how this works by the butler.”
           
The man glances at Ella, but Saul steps to the side blocking the view.
           
“I’m not sure I understand the options.”
           
Saul lights the cigar and grunts with displeasure. “This doesn’t bode well for you, meat. It’s not rocket science. You were convicted by a jury of your peers of violent crimes against multiple women. Somehow you were given parole after only six months of a ten-year sentence. Something about cutbacks due to pandemic. Ella has revoked that parole. You have two choices. Join her or die.”
           
Saul scans the room. When he’s sure all the men understand, he returns his attention to the first prisoner.
           
“Yes, the butler explained that. But he didn’t tell us what join her means. Join her for what? What am I agreeing to do?”
           
“You will hunt down rapists and murderers. Men like you. You will do this to atone for your sins. Or you will die.”
           
The man clears his throat and takes some time to collect himself. “Let me see if I understand. To atone for my sins against women I’m to become an assassin of men like me and in all other times perform servant duty for the women of Holden Farms?”
           
Saul smiles and blows smoke into the man’s face.
           
“This is the way.”
​

NEW INSTALLMENT COMING SOON
A TRIAL AT HOLDEN FARMS 

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#Fiction - The Search for Darth Vader - Part One

6/14/2020

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THE SEARCH FOR DARTH VADER
PART ONE


“Open the door. This is Uxbridge Police. We have a warrant.”
           
Heart pounding in my temples, I roll the window down a few inches. Marcus isn’t moving or giving the smallest indication he’s going to stop this charade.
           
“What can I do for you officer? It’s quite unusual for you to be here alone. Where’s your backup?”
           
The patrolman glances about, but nobody pays us the any mind. Scuffling his feet on my driveway, the tall thin patrolman shut off his shoulder radio transmitter and leans towards the car.
           
“I’m looking for Officer Whitten. He went missing a few months back then quit the force over the phone and hasn’t been heard from since.”
           
I tilt my head to get a better view of the patrolman. Pale blue eyes, nervous and shifty scanning every which way but me. “Okay?”
           
“His credit card was used to order an item of E-bay. It was shipped to this address. A Darth Vader collectible.”
           
This is about that Darth Vader doll?  
           
“Are you serious, officer? You’re here for the doll?”
           
His gaze finally finds mine, eyes hot with sudden anger. “I’m here for my friend. Is he here?”
           
I don’t know an Officer Whitten but, I do have the item in question, so I open the door. Slowly. I step from the car and lead the way towards the side entrance. The patrolman follows close behind me and Marcus at a casual distance, a toothpick lodged in the corner of his mouth. Putting my hand on the knob, I glace at the patrolman over my shoulder.
           
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for back up?”
           
He shakes his head in the negative and I push the door open leading into the kitchen. The stench of stale beer, cigarettes, and marijuana force me to put a hand over my nose. There’s a body on the kitchen floor, a young man passed out in a pool of vomit. At the wooden kitchen table, a young woman sits naked on a chair reading a tablet and smoking a cigarette.
           
“Ella, who the fuck is this?”
           
“A cop, Ana. Don’t be rude. He came for the Darth Vader doll.”
           
“The fuck you say?”
           
“I’m here for my friend, Officer Whitten,” the patrolman cut it.
           
Sighing, I ask him to produce the warrant. Without a word he hands it to me.
           
“This warrant is for the doll.”
           
The young man balls his hands into fists and takes time before responding. “We know Officer Whitten’s credit card has been used several times traced to this address. He must…”
           
“Ella, give the officer the doll and he can be on his way,” Marcus says from the corner of the room, a cigarette replacing the toothpick in is mouth.
           
The cop faces Marcus, body tense with his hand resting on his firearm. “This isn’t your business mister, please remain quiet.”
           
Marcus puts a finger to his lips and slowly shows the officer his FBI credentials. “You’re in over your head. Take the doll. Give it to your boss. Tell him you didn’t find anything else. Do you understand?”
           
The cop swallows and nods.
           
“Just give him the doll? Fine. I don’t give a shit.”
           
I lead the way down a short hallway to the spare bedroom, stepping over beer bottles and cigarette butts to reach the door. Giving it a shove with my shoulder, I step into the room ahead of the patrolmen.
           
The bedroom is empty save for a lone bookcase against the far wall. A ceiling fan spins at low speed, a thumping sound punctuating each rotation. Tied to one of the fan blades is a rope fashioned like a makeshift noose. A toy plush Darth Vader doll is tied to the rope and swings round in endless circles.
           
“Take the doll. There’s nothing else for you here.”
           
The patrolman ignores the doll and approaches the bookshelf. The only object on the shelves is a golden urn. Turning to me, a look of confusion on his face, the cop attempts to speak.
           
“Is this Officer Whitten?” He manages to ask in a low voice.
           
What? I burst into laughter. Removing the doll from the noose, I join the patrolman at the bookshelf before the urn.
 
“Don’t be so dramatic. You think I have an incinerator in the basement?”
           
Marcus laughs and lights the cigarette.
           
“The ashes are my father. I’m surprised you didn’t know. It’s in my file.”
           
The patrolman doesn’t understand and I’m not sure if I’m surprised, he doesn’t know or just so sick of this small-town life that I can’t be surprised anymore by the complete incompetence of the local police.
           
“My condolences,” the patrolman says.
           
Marcus lets out a low whistle and appears at my side. “That will be quite enough. The patrolman was just leaving.”
           
The patrolman takes the doll from me and starts backing up towards the door. Does he think I’m going to kill him?
           
Suddenly bells began to toll, the sound rattling the house. Gong. The bells sound like some evil twisted church where the organist is on acid and screaming in foreign languages.
           
The naked woman reading the tablet stands, putting her device on the kitchen counter. Pulling a button-down shirt over her shoulders, she walks to Ella’s side.
           
“It’s time for the trial. Are you coming?”
           
The patrolman clutches at the doll, fingers white with exertion. “A trial?”
           
His voice cracks and his backward progress is stopped by the door.
             
“The trial of Officer Whitten. You can be in the front row.”
           
The bells ring and ring and the patrolman lets out a scream as the lights go out. 
​

THE SEARCH FOR DARTH VADER - PART TWO
NEXT SUNDAY NIGHT 8PM EST

THE ELLA WORLD

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#FICTION - Serial Killer Fantasy Camp for Wayward Boys

6/9/2020

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Picture

NEW FICTION 
SERIAL KILLER FANTASY CAMP
FOR WAYWARD BOYS


 
“If you were held prisoner and couldn’t avoid being killed, which serial killer would you choose to do it? You can pick from any throughout history. Hannibal. Jack the Ripper. Dexter. It’s like fantasy football, but fun.”
           
I check my reflection in the camera’s mini display screen before continuing.
           
“It seems you had a reaction to Dexter. Your eyes moved or am I just imagining it. You want a Dexter ending? Like you saw on television? I can make that happen. Just say the words.”
           
Silence.
           
“Allow me to continue. I could disembowel you, Hannibal style and ask at just the right moment, “Bowels in or bowels out like Judas.”
           
Still and only silence.
          
“You’re not amused? Not even a little? I’m sorry. I will continue with our tour though madmen over the centuries. Would you prefer a classic? I can wear a Jack the Ripper mask if that will make you feel more comfortable. Does the thought of being killed by a woman ruin the fantasy? I do apologize. I promise to do my best to entertain even with my limitations. You know, being a woman serial killer and all.”
           
My phone beeps and flashes with incoming messages and email. I press the buttons on the side and hold until the screen powers off.
           
“I’m sorry about that interruption. How rude. We don’t want that. Where were we – the classics. Yes, I’ll stay with male serial killers. Whenever I mention Aileen Wuornos or other female killers, men lose interest. I can see it in their eyes. No! I don’t want to be killed by no damned woman. Get me a real damn killer like Ted Bundy or Richard Ramirez. Fine. You want the Jeffrey Dahmer ending? Men *always* demand the Dahmer ending. Tedious if you ask me, but this is your fantasy camp after all.”
           
Standing, I stretch my limbs before reaching a hand beyond the camera. Searching, my hand finds a face and I get a fingernail under the tape covering the mouth. Yanking my arm up, I rip the duct tape from the man’s mouth.
           
Screams fill the room. This is always my favorite part. The screams.
           
The screams continue and he bucks against the restraints, but it’s futile. I’ve been wrapping these men tight to the table Dexter style for years. He’s going nowhere, I can assure you.
           
I push the camera aside so the man can see my face.
           
“Stop screaming. Stop. You sound hysterical. You need to stop and tell me the ending you want. It’s the rules. You must follow the rules. Why pay all this money to take part in my fantasy camp if you don’t want to play the right way? This isn’t okay. Now, pull yourself together. Stop acting like a sniveling shit and *tell* me what ending you want.”
           
The man tries to compose himself but continues blubbering. Men always ruin these moments if you let them. I slap his face a few times. Hard.
           
“Snap the fuck out of it you little bitch.”
           
To my surprise he stops crying immediately, arms going still at his sides.
           
“Dexter,” he manages after some time.
           
I close my eyes and smile. Finally, he chose. After all this time, I can begin.
           
I walk to my desk to retrieve my phone. Tapping at the screen, I open the music player app and being my playlist.
           
“There’s this song I like to play to get me in the mood.”
           
Only Girl in the World by Rihanna blares thru the speakers. I twirl and dance and make my way towards the bed. His eyes follow me, fear forcing tears down the side of his face. I sing to him
           
“You can come inside (yeah)
And when you enter, you ain’t leaving
Be my prisoner for the night, ooh.”
 
I stop by the side of the bed and lean close to his face. Pressing my mouth against his ear so he’ll hear me over the music, I scream, “I’m sorry. But I lied. You’re not getting the Dexter ending. I want to tell you all about my routine. I’m so proud of it. After years and years, it’s almost perfect.”
           
I tap my phone to change the song. It’s Landslide by Fleetwood Mac.
           
“I want to talk about the woman you raped and murdered.” There’s a tear in my eye and I wipe at it with my elbow. “She was a mother. An artist. A wife. A piano player. And you took it from her.”
 
“Oh mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?”
 
“I’ll never get over it, what he did to me. I could have had any dad in the world but instead I had him. I can think of many troubled broken men that would have been an upgrade. Darth Vader had one good moment of redemption in a life of evil murder, that would have been preferable to my father.”
The song ends and the final one begins. Tears stream down my face.

“I remember the day mother died. It began for real immediately after the funeral…”
 
“Peace through pain is precious
‘Specially when it’s done by you
Itching is the pulse inside
Creeping up to come alive
It’s just doing what
It’s gonna do.”
 
I don’t know how my knife got into my palm, but the entire world erases and I’m alone inside my mind. The song pounds in my brain and the image of my father rises like a zombie in my brain.

“No. It’s not going to happen anymore,” I scream and plunge the blade into his side. Blood spurts from the wound, splashing my hand with sticky hot wetness. Hand covered with blood; I pull my hair from my face so I can make eye contact with him.
“I have the best doctor I could hire in the other room ready to keep you alive. You’re going to get the ending you deserve.”
Yanking the knife from his body, I wipe it on the sheets.
           
The screaming begins again, his voice cracking in agony.  
           
I’ll watch this scene on video tonight when I’m alone. Whiskey and weed and this man’s endless screaming.
           
But there will be no mercy. And he won’t die today or quickly. This has just begun. I turn to him, trying to get his attention through the screams and thrashing. He can’t focus so I simply walk from the room.
           
The doctor waits on the other side for me. Without a word, I motion for the doctor to tend to the prisoner. The doctor rushes from me, glad to be out of my presence I’m sure. He’s not one of my toys. He’s far too useful for that. And that’s more than I can say for most men.
           
My phone beeps. It’s Ana.
           
“Well, is he still alive?”
           
Instead of answering, I send her the video from my phone.
           
A few minutes later I receive another text.
           
“Very good young Padawan. You’ve graduated to the next level. Perhaps you’re ready to confront Darth Vader after all. I’ll see you tonight, my love. Kisses and murder. Always, Ana.”
           
I close my eyes and smile. “It’s gonna be martinis and madness tonight. I can just feel it. Do join us for dinner, friends. It will be to die for…promise.
           
​Sunday night dinner at Holden Farms. 8PM. Arrive hungry and ready to be entertained.”


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