Spinetingler Magazine Fall 2017

By Sandra Ruttan

“I’d been a grown-up since age twelve, when my father strangled my mother and took my family, my home, my cat, and any chance at ever having a normal life away from me.”

The teenage daughter of a killer.

“Kevin thinks he’s a millionaire. This jar of pennies weighs a ton, so Kevin thinks he must be rich, but there’s no connection between weight and value. Kevin’s father is proof of that.”

What happens when Santa threatens to put Kevin on the naughty list?

A divorced dentist. A former prostitute. A retired cop. An escaped convict. The daughters of a drunk. These are just some of the characters who bare their souls in this issue of Spinetingler Magazine. How does unimaginable loss redefine a teenager’s life? What does it take for a mother who’s barely coping with life to learn to appreciate her son? What could cause fifty-year-old secrets to surface?

What truths will surface when our diverse cast of characters faces their defining moments? Join us on journeys fascinating and unforgettable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Nov 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370359226

Sandra Ruttan

One of Sandra Ruttan's most painful childhood memories is of her mom driving her and her sister to the town dump, and her stuffed white lamb being pried from her arms and tossed in the garbage. She was a walking disaster in her formative years. At age eight she was hit by a car while riding her bike home and her head was cut open. Just before her ninth birthday she was running along the beach and landed on broken glass, and her foot was partially severed. The muscle had to be stitched back together, leaving some uncertainty about whether she'd walk again, and the doctor was so fed up with her screaming he told her if she didn't shut up he'd cut her foot off. She went to school with the doctor's son, and forever felt sorry for him. After her tenth birthday she fell down a waterfall and almost drowned. Her later adventures included being in Seville when they found 4.5 tons of explosives set to blow up the Semana Santa parade and being in a car crash in the Sahara Desert. There is absolutely no explanation for how she's managed to stay alive as long as she has. Keep up to date at her website, www.sandraruttan.com or http://sruttan.wordpress.com/

Book preview

Fall 2017

Sandra Ruttan, Editor

Contributing Editor

Jack Getze

Magazine Copyright © 2017 by Spinetingler Magazine

Individual Story Copyrights © 2017 by Individual Authors

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Spinetingler Magazine

Published by Down & Out Books

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Lutz, FL 33558

SpinetinglerMag.com

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by Lance Wright

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author/these authors.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

When the Past and the Present Converge: Spinetingler Steps into Print by Sandra Ruttan

Contributors

Fiction: K for Karen by Tracy Falenwolfe

Fiction: That’s What Happened by Karin Montin

Author Feature: Leo W. Banks

Book Feature: Heaven’s Crooked Finger reviewed by Rusty Barnes

Fiction: Trail of Bloodcrumbs by Brandon McNulty

Bedside Stories with James Oswald

Fiction: The Settlement by Jennifer Soosar

Author Feature: Jason Ridler

Fiction: Child Fighter by S.B. Watson

Bedside Stories with Angel Luis Colón

Fiction: Consequences by Bern Sy Moss

Fiction: It’s All Litter To Me by BV Lawson

Author Snapshot: Laura Ellen Scott

Author Snapshot: Con Lehane

Author Snapshot: Rusty Barnes

Author Snapshot: Mindy Tarquini

Fiction: Napa Hospitality by Nick Kolakowski

Fiction: Kevin Robs a Bank by David Rachels

Bedside Stories with Robb White

Fiction: Illusions by Albert Tucher

Author Feature: Eryk Pruitt

Plus…

Want free books? Check out entry details throughout the issue about how to enter to win one of three packs of free books.

When the Past and the Present Converge: Spinetingler Steps into Print

Some might say that this issue is the product of chance. As anyone who’s worked on an e-zine can tell you, these labors of love can become time-consuming and snowball until they’re unmanageable.

That’s what happened with Spinetingler. For years we offered free downloadable issues. The magazine was privately funded without advertising revenue and the editors, website managers and contributors worked for free.

When that was no longer sustainable, Spinetingler shifted into an ongoing publication.

A few months ago, Jack Getze and I had one of our rare phone chats, and we agreed that it was time to think about Spinetingler’s future.

That was when I decided it was time to do another issue and see how much interest there was in a return to that type of publishing format.

Jack had been reviewing material and had a number of stories selected that we set aside for this issue. I continued reading submissions and found more stories I was excited about publishing.

We never set out with a theme for the issue. Some of these submissions have waited over a year for publication, while others were sent to us after I announced we were planning an issue this fall. In spite of the varied circumstances around the material we received I found that many of these stories had similar undercurrents and themes.

Tracy Falenwolfe’s K for Karen is the first short story in this issue and Falenwolfe expertly drives the story forward with actions motivated past events. Albert Tucher’s Illusions intersects timelines as investigators in the present try to uncover the truth about a fifty-year-old crime.

Other stories feature characters shaped by their upbringing or experiences.

As is true in life, the events of the past have a tendency to influence our actions in the future.

The same can be said for Spinetingler. We went through a learning curve when we started out. As we refined our approach we built Spinetingler’s reputation and audience. We had our first issue out in 2005 and by late 2006 it was common for us to have more than 10,000 copies of our issues downloaded.

At the time, Spinetingler benefited from an active blogging community and a strong online presence. In recent years, fewer authors have continued blogging and the writing and reading communities seem more fractured. One by one, the crime fiction community has lost webzines that played a significant part in launching careers and entertaining readers, including Thuglit, Demolition, Crime Factory, Hardluck Stories and so many others.

Without building a revenue stream it was likely that Spinetingler’s return could be its final bow. That’s why we’re excited to partner with Down & Out Books to bring new issues out in print and via e-book downloads.

The writers who are contributing work and entertaining you here are earning a pittance. The staff involved still take money out of their pockets instead of putting money in.

We’ve learned from the past, and asking writers or editors to volunteer their services isn’t sustainable. It also undermines the legitimate value of the time these professionals spend on their work for Spinetingler.

I would like to thank Jack Getze for financing this venture so that the writers could be offered a small payment. I’d also like to thank our advertisers and our readers. It is your support that has enabled us to return with this issue. With your continued support we hope to be able to continue to bring exceptional short fiction and features to you for years to come.

—Sandra Ruttan

Contributors

Rusty Barnes is an Appalachian crime writer and poet living in Revere, MA. He maintains web space at http://www.rustybarnes.com/ and edits the online crime journal Tough http://www.toughcrime.com/.

Former L.A. Times reporter Jack Getze is Fiction Editor for Anthony-nominated Spinetingler Magazine, one of the internet’s oldest websites for noir, crime and horror short stories. His award-winning Austin Carr mystery series is published by Down & Out Books. Big Shoes won Deadly Ink’s David Award for Best Mystery of 2015. His short fiction has appeared in A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp, The Big Adios and several anthologies. If you’d like him to write another Austin Carr, let him know at http://austincarrscrimediary.blogspot.com/.

Brian Lindenmuth likes to talk about books and occasionally reviews them.

Sandra Ruttan co-founded Spinetingler Magazine in 2005. Since then she’s had five novels published, as well as several short stories, interviews and reviews. She has a background in journalism and education and works as a freelance editor and non-fiction writer.

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Back to TOC

Four more days. That’s how long I, Kara Elizabeth Winslow, had to go until I was considered a legal adult. Ridiculous, really, because I’d been a grown up since age twelve, when my father strangled my mother and took my family, my home, my cat, and any chance at ever having a normal life away from me.

Sure, you can call me a selfish brat for telling it like it is if you want. I mean, I’m still here. I have a roof over my head, people who care about me, and money for whatever I want thanks to the miracle of life insurance. But you can’t buy what I want.

My father, he bought a lawyer who convinced a jury he killed my mother in self-defense, which means he’s already served his time, and now he’s out of jail and starting a new life. And my mother, well, she bought herself a spot in a better place, if all those donations she made to the church paid off.

I’m still figuring out my Uncle Josh and my Aunt Megan. They didn’t buy me, but they’d been bought, in a way. They’d been one of those child-free-by-choice, zip-lining-through-the-jungles-of-Costa Rica, Mt.-Everest-climbing kinda couples, before taking me in six years ago.

They were even willing to take the cat, but Patches had run away during my mother’s murder and had so far been smart enough to stay gone. I don’t think my aunt and uncle would have gotten more money for taking the cat, but I know they got some for taking me. Given the lifestyle they gave up, I’m not sure they think it was enough. I suppose they’re expecting the difference in karma.

So, bottom line, everyone in my family has a new life since that night. Everyone except me. I’m the only one who’s still stuck back there. The only one who can’t move on. There are still some nights when I sit straight up in bed, convinced I hear my mother’s screams coming from the kitchen.

It takes me a minute to realize I’m in a different house now. A house my mother never lived in, but one where they talk about her as if she had. I don’t call out anymore when I wake up like that. I don’t cry, even when I feel like she’s in the room with me. I don’t want to wake Uncle Josh or Aunt Meg. Why should they have to watch me relive it? They weren’t there, so they can’t know what I saw, what I heard, then or now. Besides, they’re already doing enough, and it isn’t their fault they don’t understand what I want.

I tried to explain it to a boyfriend once. He agreed to choke me, just so I could imagine what my mother had felt at the end. He freaked before I passed out, though, and broke up with me the next day. The black and blue finger marks and the scratchy throat lasted longer than he did, and I was fascinated with them both. Guys who thought they could handle being with me after that…not so much.

You’re going to be late, honey. Like every morning, Uncle Josh rapped on my door and stuck his head in my room. He stopped talking when he saw me, and his eyes welled up with tears. Wow.

I smiled at him. I could have been the cliché. I could have dyed my hair, and worn all black, and tattooed and pierced my body. I could have hidden my eyes behind heavy rings of kohl. I could have cut or mutilated myself to ease the pain, but I didn’t do any of that. Thought about it, sure. But it wouldn’t get me what I wanted.

I unplugged my curling iron. I’m ready.

Uncle Josh was still staring. I saw him glance at the picture of my mother I had tucked into my makeup mirror.

My fingers twitched. I plucked the photo off the mirror and stuck it in my backpack. My mom had great hair in the ’80s. It was long and blonde and feathered away from her face.

Sometimes you look just like her, Uncle Josh said.

Well, it had taken a couple of tries, but I’d finally gotten my hair to look just like the picture, so whatever, mission accomplished. I was also wearing her baby blue cashmere sweater. I’d worn it a few times now that I’d grown into it, but never with the hair and makeup, too.

You have her eyes, Uncle Josh said.

We’d better go. I tried not to sound like a bitch.

The thing is, I know I have my mother’s eyes. I see them every time I look in the mirror. That’s part of the problem. I have my mother’s chin, too. And her feet. And, according to Aunt Meg, her teeth.

I thanked Uncle Josh for driving me to school, and stood with a group of seniors who weren’t really my friends until he left. Then I ran down the alley next to the school to catch the Lanta bus into the city.

We were thinking about going out to eat for your birthday this weekend, Aunt Meg said at breakfast the next morning. Would you like to go on Friday or Saturday?

I have plans with my friends this weekend, I said. I didn’t really have any friends, but I’d heard Uncle Josh and Aunt Meg arguing about what to do for my birthday the night before and I didn’t want them to feel obligated. I hate that their lives revolve around me now. They don’t fight the way my parents used to, but they haven’t been on one of their adventure vacations since taking me in, and I can tell they’re both itching for one.

They could have gone, but they still don’t always know what to do with me. Even after six years they haven’t adjusted to having a teenager around. They more or less treat me like a houseguest who won’t leave. I don’t fault them for it. It had to have been hard for a