Mystery Tribune / Issue Nº1: Spring 2017

By Mystery Tribune, Lynne Barrett, Dan Fiore and 4 more

Spring 2017 edition of Mystery Tribune Magazine is an exciting collection of the short fiction, essays, book reviews and interviews by some of the best voices in mystery and suspense. 

The issue features:

• Stories by Lynne Barrett (Edgar Award Winner), Bill Soldan (Best American Mystery Short Stories 2017), Tai Matsumoto, Teresa Sweeney, Paul Heatley and Nick Kolakowski.


• Essays by Katharina Hall, Rosemary Johnsen and Elena Avanzas Álvarez (Los  Angeles Review of Books). 


• Interviews and Reviews by David Joy and Thomas Andes. 


• Photography by Angela Kasalia and more.

An elegantly crafted 180 page quarterly issue, and with a beautiful layout designed for optimal reading experience, our Spring 2017 issue will make a perfect companion or gift for avid mystery readers or fans of literary crime fiction. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystery Tribune
• Release date: Apr 1, 2017

Book preview

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ISSUE NO. 1

MysteryTribune

SPRING 2017

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MysteryTribune

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P.O. Box 7638, New York, NY 10116 / email [e-mail]

To subscribe go to mysterytribune.com or call 917 526 7433

Publisher and Managing Editor

Ehsan Ehsani

Associate Editor

Fanny Kellerman

Cover Illustration

Gosia Herba

Design and Art Direction

Leo Lipsnis

Subscriptions and Advertising

Rachel Kester

IT Manager

Jack Rodriguez

Contributors

Bill Soldan, Paul Heatley, Teresa Sweeney, Dan Fiore, Tai Matsumoto, Emily Balistrieri,

Lynne Barrett, Nick Kolakowski, Rosemary Johnsen, Kat Hall, Elena Avanzas Álvarez, David Joy,

Tom Andes, Angelika Kasalia, Yann Gilquin, Sergey Ishkov, Claudia Hantschel, Luca Garello

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Contents

ISSUE NO. 1

SPRING 2017

Editor’s Note

Ehsan Ehsani

Publisher and Managing Editor

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The ingenious British photographer Phillip Toledano once told New York Times The power of single image has diminished. Indeed, the constant, relentless tsunami of different images, dancing in front of our eyes in a beautifully crafted web feed, can be more potent and powerful than a solitary photograph on the wall of our living room.

In reflecting on Toledano’s statement, we see some similarities with the world of mystery and crime fiction. For too long, we have published anthologies or crime fiction in a mono-style form and have used mostly a single medium: Words. In order to inspire, excite and thrill fans of the genre, however, perhaps it is time to experiment with a new approach. Creating a well-curated tsunami of literary short mysteries, fine art photography and sophisticated essays, has indeed the potential to create a more powerful experience.

Fortunately, our team of contributors for this issue considered this an idea with merits for experimentation: Whether this, in reality, is wishful thinking or a solid idea for publishing mystery is irrelevant. What matters is that there is enough enthusiasm on the inside and sufficient demand on the outside to make this idea a reality. What you are holding in your hands is the first product of our intellectual factory. How will we talk about it, I wonder, in time?

Fiction

Houses Burning

by William R. Soldan

After work on Fridays, I stop to pick up my son, T. J., for our weekend visitations, though it’s only called that on paper. I’m the last person he wants to be around, so I usually don’t see much of him until Sunday afternoons when I bring him home. Today, he tosses his backpack on the seat and climbs into the truck with the same expression of resentment and contempt I’ve grown accustomed to seeing on his fifteen-year-old face. It seems to be permanently fixed there lately, as if he feels compelled to remind his mom and me that we’ve ruined his life.

Donna followed him out and stands on the porch, watching us, but she doesn’t wave. We’ve been separated almost five years now, and she still hasn’t forgiven the pain I caused her. The both of them. It’s my fault T. J. has been getting into trouble. He’s out of control, she says. You broke him, you fix him. Every time I pick him up, I can see the temporary relief. It’s all in her body language, like she’s about to dust off her hands after a grueling week of hard labor. Like she can finally relax. For the next two days he’s your problem.

Have him there on time, she yells to me. Seven a.m.

About a month ago, T. J. was at a party in a vacant house, and it got raided by the cops. They confiscated an impressive array of recreational goodies, but all the minors got off easy, slapped with a year probation and one hundred hours of community service. He’s lucky, I told him, getting a taste of the law while he’s still young enough to get a smack on the wrist. Best get it out of his system now.

He’ll be there, I say, but I’ll have to drop him early so I can get to work. Been getting some overtime.

Long as you’re not late on your payments, I couldn’t care less what you got, she says, then turns to go in the house. She’s dolled up: a skirt and silky blouse, her golden hair curled like she’s heading out on a date.

She seeing anybody? I ask T. J. as I back out onto the street, less because I want to know and more because I want to see how he feels about it if she is.

Sometimes, he says.

Anyone decent?

Compared to who?

He’s earned that much, so I let it slide. Right, I say.

And that’s the extent of it until we get across town to my place.

The neighborhood I live in is quiet most days, but with the hushed quality of somewhere always on the verge of detonation the moment the sun goes down. The street bottoms out in a deserted valley lined with burned out factories and brick buildings that were once gas stations or barber shops but now stand empty, their lots littered with windblown garbage and broken glass. All up and down the hill are gnarled trees, houses in varying states of disrepair, and the occasional grass lot. The bungalow where I lay my head is a real capital S shithole, but I’ve got electricity, the plumbing works, and the roof doesn’t leak when it rains. And it’s cheap, so I have no complaints. There are shootings every other night, last week one right on this block — a kid not much older than T. J. The asphalt beneath the streetlight on the corner is still red with his blood. Donna used to get on me about it, living on this side of town. When are you going to move someplace else, so I don’t have to worry about my son when he’s there. But like other things, she’s given up on that. Still, as soon as we pull into the driveway and he jumps out and starts up the buckled sidewalk, I make the effort I never made when it counted most.

Hey, I was thinking I’d get changed out of these work clothes and we could go get some tacos, or maybe a pizza.

He turns and almost scoffs as he removes his backward ball cap and reshapes the bill between his hands, then puts it back on over his greasy brown spikes and rubs his slim jaw, like he’s considering the possibility. One of his fake diamond earrings catches the headlights of a passing car and sparkles like a star.

Nah, I’m good, he finally says, moving back toward me. I could use a couple bucks, though.

It’s early enough, only about five-thirty, but the autumn sky has turned the livid color of a bruise, and I know he’s going out to do things he shouldn’t be. But he hates me enough, I tell myself, and he’d go regardless, so what the hell. Handing him a ten, I say, Try not to be out too late, all right? I need to have you there first thing tomorrow. You don’t show up, you’re looking at six months, your mom tells me. Maybe longer. And I’ll never hear the end of it.

He looks at the ten-dollar-bill, like he wants to ask for more, but then decides not to push his luck. Yeah, he says. I hear you.

Then he starts away, and I’m staring at his back as he jogs across the street and cuts between two boarded up houses.

*

I wait up until just past midnight for him to get in, and when he does, he stinks like liquor and weed.

Are you trying to get yourself locked up, or what? I say. Christ, T. J., use your fucking head for once.

He stands there looking annoyed, as if to say, Can we wrap this up already?

You know what, forget it, I say. I’m done.

He goes to his room without a word. This house isn’t much in the way of amenities — one floor, a couch, a TV, the basics — but there are two bedrooms, so at least he’s got his own space, something I never had when I was his age.

I always leave before they do, so as not to follow through with any of my bright ideas. The lead pipe in the back. The pistol beneath the seat.

After about a half hour, once I’m sure he’s asleep, I put on my coat and leave, taking the long way, like I often do, a chance to talk myself out it, to find a better use of my time. But within twenty minutes I’m parked in an alley across from Donna’s.

There’s only one light on in the house, upstairs, and a car in the driveway beside hers. A yellow Mustang I haven’t seen before. I’ve been doing this for a long time, coming here, sitting behind the wheel of my truck, and I’ve seen different cars parked there. I always leave before they do, so as not to follow through with any of my bright ideas. The lead pipe in the back. The pistol beneath the seat. Yet I keep returning. Though I haven’t had a drink in years, so lack even that poor excuse, here I am.

I’ve never considered myself a good man.

*

This month we’re working Saturdays at the packaging plant to meet a missed quota. Eats away my weekends, but