“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
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.”
“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.”
THE ODDITIES ON SATURDAY NIGHT BY GABRIEL RICARD RE-REVEAL OF THE COVER PAINTING
The next release from Moran Press will be The Oddities on Saturday Night by Gabriel Ricard. This short story collection was put on hold due to the pandemic sweeping the globe. As a new normal for business returns, Moran Press is beginning to set a new release schedule.
That means let's start from the top.
Here's the cover painting for Gabriel's new book that will be made into the cover.
Painting by David Graham
A release date will be selected and shared with readers.
Thank you to all for your support during these extremely difficult times.
To those that can afford to do so, kindly buy books in the Moran Press shop or online at Amazon to help me get a budget to re-launch this business. I'm trying to cobble together enough to promote Gabriel's new book. Thank you to any that purchase. I appreciate you all.
Quarantine, No Chill An Ella Thomas Serial Installment
I fled the kitchen for the quiet confines of my car before the whole sick crew could ruin my solitude. With the seat pushed back as far as the lever will allow, I sit with notebook on my lap waiting for the muse to strike. Nervous energy flows from my fingertips down the pen and onto the page. I swear my readers will be able to feel my irritable anxiety when this story posts to the website.
But where is my muse. I feel abandoned in this hellscape time. Trapped in my car in search of enough peace and quiet to pull anomie from my soul and spray paint the morning sky with scathing words. Oh, but what good would it do. Write for the base reason of nothing better to occupy time and space and the void of quarantine, dodging landmines both real and perceived…
A sharp rapping on the driver’s side window startles me, my flailing arm spilling hot coffee on my feet. I scream in pain and face my untimely visitor.
It’s the FBI.
This morning can get fucked.
The agent raps on the window again with the same urgency despite our eyes being locked. He motions for me to roll down my window.
"Haven’t you heard of social distancing? Are you going to arrest me for not wearing my face mask?”
Marcus sighs and holds up a coffee. “Are you going to unlock the door so I can get in or not?”
I take a deep breath and count. One, two, three…ten. I won’t kill Mr. FBI agent. I won’t kill Mr. FBI agent.
I press the button unlocking the doors and another lowering the window. “Get in before you make a scene. I swear men are fucking toddlers. Even FBI agents.”
Marcus circles to the passenger’s side after passing me a coffee. Unscrewing the cap, I take a sip. It tastes glorious. I must admit. He’s an intolerable shit so much of the time, but the man brings the best coffee. It’s the least he can do after making me spill mine.
“What do you want today, Marcus? You know I’m trying to write. This better be good. Can’t I get just ten fucking minutes alone? Who knew being trapped at home means you won’t get ten seconds to pee without someone wanting some damn fucking thing.”
Marcus removes a pack of cigarettes from a blazer pocket and smacks it against his shoulder several times. Letting out a low whistle, he unwraps the package and tosses the cellophane on the floor. He flicks open a butane lighter and puts a blow torch level of power forth to light the cigarette.
“Man, I love this fucking lighter.” He takes a drag and smiles in satisfaction.
“Jesus Christ men are such toddlers. Shouldn’t you wait to light a celebratory cigarette until after we fuck?”
He coughs on the smoke and hacks for several moments while trying to restrain a fit of laughter.
“You’ll always have that blunt sweet talk to seduce me. Never fails. But I’m afraid not today. That’s why I’m here…”
He’s interrupted by a siren and suddenly the day explodes with lights and horns and the calm voice of the police dispatcher giving orders to the town cop approaching Ella’s car.
“What now, Marcus. Be quick.”
The patrolman, whom I do not know, approaches my drivers’ side window. He calmly knocks three times and waits for me to roll down the window.
“Marcus…” I whisper. “Hurry the fuck up.”
The patrolman knocks again and points at his watch. I must act. Closing my eyes, I try to recapture the story I’d been working on before it flutters into the ethos, but I can’t go back. It’s too late. The patrolman raps on the window again. This time harder.
“This is Uxbridge Police. We have a warrant for an object that was delivered to this address yesterday morning. Please cut the engine and exit with vehicle with your hands in the air.”
Stay tuned for the next episode...coming next Sunday night to Moran Press.
READ THE FIRST INSTALLMENT THE MORNING ROUTINE, PANDEMIC EDITION
NEW FICTION THE MORNING ROUTINE, PANDEMIC EDITION AN ELLA THOMAS SERIAL STORY
THE MORNING ROUTINE
Everything is ready. I prepared it last night before drinking myself into a fitful forced sleep. Notebooks, pens, laptop check. Coffee check.
But it’s not happening. Nothing except for that mass of anxiety built inside my mind and soul from being trapped inside. It’s like being in the mental hospital again. Except I feel better, nothing like I used to feel when I did most of those things.
I want to get out of this house. But they won’t let me. My stay at home order was court ordered long before pandemic. I’m not going anywhere and haven’t for an awfully long time.
For the things they say about me mostly are true. Especially the thing, so I’ll just get to it. My name is Ella Thomas and I’m a serial killer.
Whew. Now we have that out of the way. I don’t want us to get off on the wrong path by lying to you. I’m having difficulty concentrating and the blunt truth requires the least mental energy.
There’s no artful way to inform you I murdered father on my 13th birthday. I can’t tell you more. There’s no time.
Everyone in the house will wake and my hell will begin. Pandemic chokes the life from my soul and all I want is to shop online.
Something has changed in me. I can doubt it no longer. I don’t want to scare you. Truly I don’t. Pandemic has taken desire to kill from my mind for the first time in my life. Kryptonite? I don’t know but for once my rage doesn’t seek a target to eliminate.
And now I must go. Someone stirs. The day begins and I'm expecting deliveries. A very special item will arrive today. I can't wait to share the secret. Darth Vader, Hannibal, and expensive whiskey. That's all I can tell you.
Enjoy your day even if you made other plans.
READ PART TWO THE ELLA SERIAL FICTION QUARANTINE, NO CHILL
Due to the impact of Covid on society, my small business, and family - I've suspended all submissions of full length collections and novels. It's impossible to plan a book release when all live events are cancelled by the state in this emergency.
Until this pandemic reaches a new normal with events being restored - Moran Press will only accept stand alone short stories between 500-2500 words.
These stories will be posted on MoranPress.com
Terms will be simple - a cash amount, starting at $10 for 500 word micro fiction, for each story up to $25 for 2500 words.
*Originally I had called for short stories up to 5k word stories, but that will become it's own post and unique call for submissions*
To submit: Submit work via email as Microsoft Word attachment (include word count in body of post) to MoranPressGroup@gmail.com
Dark literary fiction in the tradition of Poe, Kafka, and Shirley Jackson (to name a few).
The purpose of these stories is to provide entertainment to the readers of Moran Press.
Like many Americans (and others around the world), I've been on mandatory shelter in place order for some time. Millions are stuck at home watching endless hours of television. It's been difficult for me to concentrate on reading.
To give readers out there another option besides television, Moran Press is offering FOUR Kindle Ebooks free. I picked a memoir, a novel, a collection of short stories, and a poetry collection to give readers a free tour of small press literature.
I also picked titles that read fast and you can digest in short bursts to adjust for the new paradigm of anxiety and concentration troubles.
LOVE AND QUARTERS by Gabriel Ricard
Gabriel Ricard’s 2nd poetry book is about coming to terms with the good, the bad, and the reliably hideous. The world is a badly run 1890s-style asylum, but at least there’s a lot of good stuff on TV. Love and Quarters goes deep into love, depression, high adventures in the great outdoors, and whatever the hell else may happen while in transit.
ELLA by Stephen Moran
Dexter meets Lolita in this genre bending thriller Ella Thomas is a beautiful 20-year-old writer haunted by a traumatic past. Trapped in a small-town where everyone knows her secrets, she flees on a road-trip across America in search of adventure and to find the man that holds the key to understanding the violent days of her childhood.
Two mysterious men stalk Ella on the odyssey from Massachusetts to Las Vegas - an FBI agent named Marcus that suspects her of being a serial killer and an assassin called Mr. Brown with a familiar face she can't quite remember.
At the core of her journey of self-discovery is the search for Ray Holden. Everyone tells her he is dead, but she refuses to believe it and her insistence on finding him sets off a chain of events that culminates in a shocking final turn.
Follow her journey to learn the answers to the burning questions. Who is Ray Holden? And more importantly...
Is the FBI correct? Is Ella Thomas a serial killer?
Find out in ELLA.
THE MOURNING AFTER by Charles Bivona
The Mourning After traces the fractured narrative of the writer's life. From his childhood in the aftermath of America's Vietnam War, to his academic years in the shadow of 9/11, the portrait that emerges from this arresting collection is one of devastating loss, deep love, and unique introspection on what it means to be an American.
ORIGIN OF A SERIAL KILLER by Stephen Moran
Are killers born or made? Journey into the psyche of a killer to discover the dark secrets of a twisted mind. Read the journals and stories seized by the FBI and written by a serial killer Ella Thomas with the ominous moniker, The Butcher of Vegas. What makes her kill? Find out in Origin of a Serial Killer. Her words. Her stories.
CLICK THE COVER IMAGES TO DOWNLOAD THE FREE E-BOOKS AT AMAZON.
I hate this day and everything it stands for, but I must do something tonight. I can’t bah humbug today, can I? What will he think of me? It’s bad enough the bartender is staring at me and dissecting me. I have moped around this bar for the last three days, trolling for men and waiting for Valentine’s. Sipping a martini at three in the afternoon in an empty bar in my sweat pants makes him stare all the more.
“Another?” he asks.
The drink isn’t empty, but I guess he can’t think of anything else to say. Why doesn’t he ask for my number for my phone or room? He’s big in the shoulders, and I can imagine him without a shirt. I like that vision. When I glance at him, his eyes contain no mirth, and he doesn’t seem playful.
“Make it a beer,” I blurt out, pushing cigarette butts in circles around an ashtray. I use a match to make a pile of the ashes.
“What kind?” he asks, looking annoyed.
“Does it look like I give a damn?” I reply, crossing my legs and smiling at him. Leaning my chin on a palm to give him a good look at my eyes, I smile coyly. I’ll win him over yet.
Grabbing a bottle from the cooler, he pops the top and puts a Budweiser on a coaster in front of me. When a small bit of foam lands on my arm, I lick it and smile at him again. Still, his face doesn’t show a hint of a smile. Stubborn man. He increases the volume on the television, which is showing some celebrity gossip show. The images of various famous couples and their preparations for Valentine’s remind me of my own plans or lack thereof. I light a cigarette and ponder.
“Are you staying in here for dinner? We don’t serve holiday dinners at the bar. I need to know if you want a table reserved.”
“No, I’m having room service. I’m expecting someone,” I answer, letting the cigarette burn without touching it. “Can I ask why you do that with the cigarettes?”
On the TV screen is a picture of a Las Vegas casino and what appears to be Ray and a woman standing atop the steps of a main entrance, holding hands before cutting a ribbon. I mash the cigarette out with my thumb and feel a tear coming.
“No, you may not.” I stand up. Throwing cash on the bar, I stride out of the room. I don’t want him to see me cry. Walking to the elevator, I wipe the tear away. I don’t have time to cry. I have preparations to make.
I shall wear the green dress since it’s Ray’s favorite color. First, I will lay in the bath for one hour. Routines are important to me. My father taught me about habit before I could shoot a gun. After my bath, I apply lotion all over my body until every inch is smooth. The scent of apricots fills the room as I dress and pull the stockings over my legs.
I have a bit of spare time before room service arrives. Should I write in my journal? Maybe write Ray a last minute letter? Do I have time for that? No, all of that is out of the routine. I need to brush my hair, to make it shine, to look my best. Can’t disappoint Ray, can I?
In a few short months, I shall be in Vegas. The excitement builds up, but I want dinner to go off without a problem. I paid the man extra to make sure everything is perfect, but you never know these days. Service is terrible at best in most cities. Here is to hoping Dallas exceeds my expectations.
I hear a knock at the door, and my heart quickens. The night begins! Slipping on my pumps, I run to the door and look through the peephole. A bell-boy with a cart stands there. Opening the door, I lean against the frame, locking eyes with the boy and motioning with a finger for him to enter. He is small but not slight, and I like his light brown eyes, which keep darting about the room.
“Just you tonight?” the boy asks.
“Set the table as instructed. No questions.” I cross my arms as the boy places the plates on the table.
With a pop, he opens a bottle of champagne and puts it on ice. He lights a candle on both ends of the table before moving a few feet away. I walk up to him. His shoulders tighten when I lean in and give him a kiss on his rosy cheek.
“Anything else?” His voice is scratchy and thin.
“That will be all.” I walk him to the door and lock it behind him. Turning off the lights, I leave the room in candlelight.
I pour a glass of champagne and look over the table. There are two settings, both plates hidden by silver covers. The champagne adds to the drinks already consumed, and I feel heat in my face.
“It’s time,” I say to the room.
I lift the covers to reveal a dinner of seared lamb chops with asparagus and roast potatoes. The meal is perfect. I cut into the lamb and smile. It’s rare, so the meat pulls away from the bone with little effort. My smile fades when the vision of the TV from earlier pops up in my head. I sample the meat but can’t taste it. I feel tears again, and this time, I can’t stop.
“The lamb is perfect, isn’t it, Ray?” I whisper. My voice sounds odd. I’m struggling to swallow the food as tears begin to fall.
“I saw you with her, Ray.” I manage to take a gulp of drink.
I force the meal down with more wine and then I sit as the candles burn.
“Ray, I hope you enjoyed dinner. Wait until you see my present.”
There is no response. The empty room surrounds me, staring at me and putting lonely fingers around my throat. “RAY!” I scream as loud as I can. I snuff out the candles with my fingers and lick the wounded skin before screaming again, “RAY!!!”
CUSTOM HOMEMADE CHAPBOOKS $5 SHIPPED TO A US ADDRESS
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