Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 3)

EDITED BY A.P.
MATLOCK

Smashwords
Edition

Copyrights and
Acknowledgements

“Editor’s
Notes” Copyright © 2013 by
A.P. Matlock

“Getting Shot
in the Face Still Stings” Copyright © 2012 by
Michelle Ann
King

“Waking Up from
the American Dream” Copyright © 2013 by
David Annandale

“
The Autobiography of Jeffrey Kline
”
Copyright © 2013 by
Laura-Marie Steele

Publisher—Black
Treacle Publications

http://blacktreacle.ca

Smashwords
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ISBN:
9781301477104

ISSN:
2291-241X

Black Treacle
Publications
269 Charlotte Street

PO BOX 265
SYDNEY

Sydney, NS B1P
1T0

CANADA

Black Treacle
Magazine is a free bimonthly Magazine dedicated to original short
fiction in the Horror, Dark Fantasy, and Speculative fiction
Genres. Released on the first or second Tuesday of each month

TABLE OF
CONTENTS

Editor’s
Notes

A.P.
Matlock

Getting Shot in
the Face Still Stings

Michelle Ann
King

Waking up from the
American Dream:

The Horror Of
Memory in Brad Anderson’s
Session
9

David
Annandale

The
Autobiography of Jeffrey Kline

Laura-Marie
Steele

A.P.
Matlock

What do they
say about best laid plans?

I wanted Black
Treacle to be a monthly magazine but the submission volume is just
not there yet. I’m a little disappointed, as one of my primary
reasons for starting Black Treacle was to provide a venue for as
many writers as possible. With a monthly, that would be a place for
about 50-60; With Bimonthly, it’s half that number.

But it can’t
rain all the time.

One of the
positives of this switch is that we can pay our writers a little
better. I’m hoping the raise in pay-rate may stimulate submissions.
I also have plans to do a little more promotional work than I have
so far. Word-of-mouth is still the best promotion, so tell your
friends about Black Treacle Magazine.

I’m pretty
excited about this issue, as it has our first piece of non-fiction.
Writers, pay attention. This is the sort of thing I am looking
for.

* * *

A.P. Matlock
is a Writer and the
Editor of
Black Treacle
Magazine.

Michelle Ann
King

Dom doesn't
lose his temper as easily as his brother, so normally he's the one
who deals with it when shit goes pear-shaped. But shit has been
going pear-shaped a lot lately, and by the time Dom gets to the
warehouse Marc is already in full swing. Literally--he's gone after
poor Jimmy with a nine iron.

Dom picks his
way across the warehouse floor, cursing under his breath. His shoes
are new, and it's a fuck of a thing to get blood out of tan
leather.

He puts both
hands up, palms out. “Marc. Take it easy.”

On the floor,
Jimmy groans. He's pulled up into a foetal position so Dom can't
tell the full extent of the damage, but his clothes are soaked in
just about every bodily fluid there is. At first guess, Dom would
say the kid's lost his teeth, his fingernails, his bollocks and at
least a couple of internal organs.

“Fuck,” he
says and pinches his nostrils shut. The whole place is going to
have to be hosed down. Disinfected.

Marc grins.
His eyes are bright, glittering in the dim light. He ignores Dom
and addresses Jimmy. “Do you know what the definition of insanity
is, boy? Doing the same thing but expecting it to turn out
different. That was Einstein, said that. Smart man. Not like you,
eh? Because you should know by now what to expect when you fuck up,
shouldn't you? You should know what happens.”

He swings the
club at Jimmy's knee. It crunches, and the kid howls.

“Marc,” Dom
says. Again, he's ignored. Another swing, and the other knee
goes.

Marc pushes
his hair back, leaving a trail of red through the blond, then
brings the club down again, straight into the kid's gut. A spurt of
blood comes out of his mouth, but no more sounds.

“Marc,” Dom
says. Louder, this time. “For fuck's sake.”

Marc spins
round, the club still in his hand. “What? Have we got a problem
here, Dominic? You got something you want to say to me? Some
objection you want to make?”

He lets the
club fly once more. Jimmy flips up and over, comes to rest on his
back. His head cracks down on the concrete and one arm falls,
loosely, over what's left of his face.

Dom exhales
slowly, looks down at the floor. The time for objections is past,
now. “No, Boss,” he says.

“Good.” Marc's
breathing hard and his knuckles are white. “I came here to give
this boy a chance to explain himself, but he decided he'd rather
tell me a fairy story. It was a good one, though. You'd have liked
it. Better than the three bears and the three pigs and the three
fucking billy goats gruff. Magical powers, Dom. That's how he got
robbed. Not because he's a fucking useless bastard, but because
this woman's got magical powers.” He spits into the puddle
spreading under Jimmy's head.

“Her name's
Elena,” Dom says.

Marc looks up
at him. “What?”

“The woman he
was talking about. Elena. I've been asking around, what with all
the shit that's been going on lately, and this is what I'm hearing.
It wasn't just Jimmy, that's the thing. She turned Kelton over last
night, as well. Took the lot. Everything he had. The money, the
gear, everything.”

Marc leans the
club against the wall, then goes to the sink and washes his hands.
“You speak to Kel yet?”

Dom glances at
the mess on the floor. 'Yeah, but you're not going to like it.'

Kelton Adams
is a smackhead, but one of the functional ones. He runs his patch
well, pays up on time, keeps his shit together. Went to university,
still reads books. He talks a lot of bollocks, especially when he's
high, but there's a decent brain under all the shit. Or so Dom
would have said, anyway.

He rubs the
back of his neck. “He said she was a goddess. Immortal Death, the
goddess of time. I think that was the exact quote.”

Marc looks at
his watch and lets out a hiss of annoyance. The glass is cracked.
“Are you serious?”

“I'm just
telling you what he said. He wasn't making much sense.”

“No shit. How
bad was he hurt?”

“He wasn't.
Not that I could see, anyway.”

“So he just
let her clean him out and walk away? Didn't put up a fight?”

Dom shrugs.
“He said he did. He said he killed her, but it didn't make any
difference. Don't ask me, Marc, I don't know what happened. There
was blood all over the flat, but it wasn't his--there wasn't a mark
on him. Kel can be handy with a knife when he needs to be, but if
she'd lost that much blood she'd be dead. So, I don't know. Maybe
she sacrificed a goat or something.”

Marc snorts.
“Right, yeah. A black mass. Voodoo. Maybe that's how she does it.”
He steps over the body on the floor. “All right, let's get this
sorted out. Find out where our little voodoo princess is hiding. I
think it's time we started telling some of our own stories. Like
the one about what happens when you pick the wrong people to fuck
with.”

Dom makes some
calls. Nine times out of ten, that's good enough in itself. If
Marc's looking for you, you don't want to be found. Most people
decide they've had a good enough run and quietly slip out of the
game.

But this one?
No. She doesn't disappear. She doesn't even keep out of the way.
She turns over their bookie, another couple of dealers and one of
the legit-front shops--a florist, and who the fuck robs a florist,
for fuck's sake--then walks right into the warehouse while they're
unpacking a shipment.

“Hi,” she
says, like it's some kind of make-up party. “I'm Elena.”

She's
tiny--five foot and a fag paper at most--with short, dark blonde
hair. Nicely curvy. Other circumstances, Dom might have shown some
interest.

Marc stares at
her like she's a cockroach that's dropped into his beer. Terry puts
down the crate he was hauling and puts his hand on his gun.

The woman,
Elena, just stands there. She's still smiling, like she's waiting
to be asked if she wants a glass of wine or something.

Dom's gun is
in a shoulder holster, but it's easily visible. Marc's is tucked in
his waistband.

She acts like
she hasn't noticed. Or doesn't care.

“You must
really have a death wish,” Marc says, and she laughs like that's
the funniest thing she's ever heard.

“Shut up,” he
says, but she just keeps laughing.

All the guns
are out now, including Dom's, but it doesn't seem to bother her.
Maybe Marc's right. Maybe this is what it's all been about. A death
wish.

Well, if she
wants to get killed, she came to the right place. After Jimmy, Dom
had a nice slick metal floor put in, with a drain in the middle.
There's plenty of plastic sheeting on the shelves, and they own, in
one form or another, all of the other units on the estate. No
neighbours to worry about any strange noises.

“I heard you
wanted to talk to me,” she says.

She's got a
bit of an accent, but Dom can't place it. Vaguely American, vaguely
Irish, vaguely something else.

“Yeah,” Marc
says. “Something like that.” He looks her up and down. If she's
armed, it's well-concealed. “So you thought you'd drop in, eh? Come
and have a nice chat?”

She grins.
“What can I say? I'm a thrill-seeker. Sometimes you feel the need
for an adrenalin rush, you know?”

“Well,” Marc
says. “I'm sure we can oblige.” He raises the gun. “How's that for
starters?”

She looks at
it critically and makes a so-so motion with her hand. Marc's face
darkens and Dom knows this is going to get ugly.

“Hope you
enjoyed yourself, then, love,” Marc says. “Hope it was worth it,
because now it's time to pay the bill.”

“Wow,” she
says. “Anyone ever tell you that you sound just like the guy off
that show about the--”

And then Marc
shoots her in the face.

The force of
it knocks her off her feet and throws her back against the wall.
She hangs there for a second, pinned against the spray of her own
blood, then crumples.

“Fuck,” Dom
says. He didn't even get a chance to put down the plastic
sheeting.

Terry puts his
hands on his hips and looks down at the body. “That was a bit of a
waste, wasn't it? She weren't a bad looking lass. And we still
don't know how she was getting away with--”

“It doesn't
matter now, does it?” Marc says. “It was getting on my nerves, just
listening to her. Well? Don't just stand there, get the--”

His voice
fades out, becomes muffled. Dom's ears pop and his stomach clenches
as if he's just gone down the drop on a rollercoaster. He hates
those fucking things.

“Hi,” a voice
says. “I'm Elena.”

Dom swings
round and nearly falls over, because his feet aren't where he left
them. He's back standing by the shipping crates, instead of over by
the door. Over by the body.

Which is gone.
Or, to be more precise, is back standing upright and smiling.

“What?” he
says.

Marc is next
to him again. Terry's back where he was, about to stack another
crate on the pile. He drops it.

“What?” Dom
says again. The smell of smoke and blood is gone.

Marc stares at
his hand, which is empty. The gun is in his waistband. He snatches
at it, nearly drops it.

“Careful
there, cowboy,” Elena says. “You don't want that to go off while
it's still stuffed in your pants, do you?”

Marc gets a
proper grip on the gun, lifts it up and points it at her again. To
his credit, it doesn't shake. Dom still feels as wobbly as fuck.
Like he's just been through an earthquake, or something.