It’s over. We all heard the shots. Two, one right after the other. It’s Christmas Eve and the street surges with holiday shoppers, protecting you in their midst, a gathering the cops ignore. Those of us gawping form a semi-circle around the glass doors of the bank, a rapt audience. Our stomach-churning, naked curiosity is understandable, even welcome. Somebody says,

Rawls walked out of the joint the week before Christmas. Cold wind fixing to edge more lines into his face. Chrissy was waiting for him leaning against her car, still looking mighty fine. She’d been visiting him inside all the time, but seeing her outside was different. Sure, parts of her seemed more susceptible to gravity than before—but that didn’t bother him much.

In 2013, Shotgun Honey launched its first imprint, One Eye Press. The idea was to offer a line of novellas and short story collections, and our own anthology series Shotgun Honey Presents. That imprin...

Who am I? Call me Charlie. When people need something to go away, I’m the guy they call. Blood, bodies, punk bitches, and snitches. I take care of it all—one-stop shop to make lives easier or make lives end. Just gotta pay me. And keep your fucking mouth shut. I don’t market myself. I don’t put cryptic ads on Craigslist. Don’t need to.

ALT: a puppet wearing a chef 's hat looks out of a window

You head to his house with intention, approachin’ it all sneakin’ and surprise like. Cut your chopper bike’s engine down the end of the street. You go in the way you have your entire life: hot. Push his rotted door open like it's your own. You carry a heavy case. His narrowed eyes, his tight mouth, tell you it would’ a been smarter to carry what’s inside the case in your waistband, or hand.

“It’s tight,” Denny Cullen said, picking at the polyester blindfold that cut into the soft skin under his eyes like a noose. Wink Easman stood behind Denny, his wide frame and swollen belly pressing against the younger man’s back as he fixed the knot of the blindfold and patted him on the shoulders like a coach attempting to soothe a rookie quarterback.

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Ryan stood next to the open casket, waiting for his older brother, Paul, who hadn’t shown up yet. The room, with its yellow walls and lights that were too bright for the occasion, was crowded. A group of his father’s friends from the retirement community, clustered in chairs, reminisced about Joseph Granger, the tall man who made them laugh. Former schoolmates of Ryan’s huddled in the back, laughing about old times.

Come gather round me, I’ll tell you the taleof the Haint Hound Killer, what come from La ValeThree nights he rode horseback, up from Cumberland waythree nights of the Haint Hound’s howlin’ and bay I could feel him comin’ in the way the wind blew. The sparrow’s flight told me it’d not be long before I was discovered.

When we moved to the new cave, Dook became my first and best homie. My tribe bounced around a lot, trying to dodge the cold and get grub, you know? When we found this cave, Dad was stoked. Then, we found this whole other tribe already living there. A small one, but, like, seriously? They were short, stocky, had, like, the biggest brows I’d ever seen.

We a pleased to release WHAT THE RAIN REVEALS by Ken Brosky. A story of loss and mystery set in What to Expect inside... In the Driftless Area of Wisconsin, where rolling hills and hidden valleys guard secrets as old as the land itself, a missing child’s case threatens to slip into oblivion. The leads have dried up. County resources are stretched thin.

In the Driftless Area of Wisconsin, where rolling hills and hidden valleys guard secrets as old as the land itself, a missing child’s case threatens to slip into oblivion. The leads have dried up. …

Sloane and Jess were at a laundromat in a strip mall in North El Paso wearing clothes that belonged to a dead man and watching their jeans run through the spin cycle. The sun was up and the sky looked big the way it can in certain parts of Texas. It was filled with smoke from the wildfires raging to the northeast of the city.

A Guest Post by Author M.E. Proctor

Here I am—another beat city bloke emerging from the London tube. I breathe out the soot and engine grease I’ve inhaled underground, and queue up for my morning dose of americano with extra shot of depresso. Busy station—cafes and bakeries, mechanical voice soundtrack and miserable commuters dragging themselves to be swallowed by glitzy office blocks for the next nine hours.

The man was already half in love with her before she even said his name. “Danny,” she drawled, letting the syllables melt like rum over ice. “You smell like driftwood and other people’s mistakes.” He laughed too quickly—shoulders tight, eyes flickering like they’d misread something. A laugh that begged: please, let this stay simple. She leaned in, close enough for him to catch the synthetic coconut oil in her hair.

Later, once all requisite reports had been properly filled out, it was determined that the break-in had occurred at 9:30 a.m. Timing, as the sage has pointed out, is everything. Most especially when police forms are done in triplicate. Perhaps if it had been a weekday during the school year, the escaped murderer and bank robber extraordinaire Norman Peters might still be alive.

I saw death in his eyes. Doug sensed it too. “Stay,” he said, gripping my shirt. Sand scattered from his hands and down my front. “I can get help,” I said, not believing there’d be time. Swallowing, Doug shook his head. His lips were dry and crusted. His eyes sunken. The baking heat of the desert does that to a man.

Submissions / Daydream believer Days Hours Minutes DAYDREAM BELIEVER Stories Inspired by the Songs of the Monkees DAYDREAM BELIEVER —an anthology of crime fiction short stories inspired by the song…