Angel of Manslaughter

By Cindy Rosmus

Angel of Manslaughter comprises a reissue of Cindy Rosmus' classic collection of short stories, originally presented by Fossil Publications. This master's gut-wrenching presentation, each a blow to the head, strips the veneer off fiction, her characters so vivid, the reader swallows hard with every description. She writes of reality with wide range while staying in the neighborhood she knows intimately: Moms and pops and best buds, their desperation, irony, sex and violence. Rosmus writes stark truth better than any today.
The collection is illustrated by Coates Walker, the Emeritus of digital collage and mixed media art form, the perfect match for this author's fiction. Each image convey a powerful connotation of emotion, subversion, technology and the world in which we live.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hekate Publishing
• Release date: Feb 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781912017805

Book preview

Cindy

Cindy Rosmus and I go back a long way. As the owner of Fossil Publications and Black Petals Horror/ Science Fiction Magazine, I was privileged to publish Angel of Manslaughter in its first incarnation in 2006. I was fascinated by the stories then and I think they are just as good and just as timely now. Congratulations, Cindy, on a great collection and on your writing success!

The story, Yellow Mama, of course, was the inspiration for Cindy’s magazine of the same name, which is still going great guns as one of the top hardboiled, dark-fiction e-zines on the Internet. As Editor of YM, Cindy has been keeping readers entertained since April, 2007. I’m glad to see another milestone for a great writer and Editor, Cindy Rosmus.

Ken Crist

Angel of Manslaughter

His eyes were unaccustomed to tears. Mark had no idea where Valerie was or how he would tell her when he found her. The girl reacted badly to a paper cut and had once gotten hysterical when a bottle of red nail polish had shattered in her purse. How would she take this?

Only this afternoon Mark and Rich had been at Shaver’s, downing Bud nips and sneaking a half-joint of Mark’s brother’s homegrown stash outside the back door. He’d slaughtered Rich at pool. According to the doctor on duty, the blade (of Rich’s own knife) had punctured his pulmonary artery just after eleven. Puke Shoes and Sal had found him on the playground between the swings and the Jungle Gym. Like an aging pet that was being put to sleep, Rich had stared helplessly at Puke Shoes the moment before he died.

It was mild for November but would have been too chilly for kids to go trick-or-treating if it were Halloween again. Less than three weeks ago, he and Rich had crashed a costume party, both claiming to be masquerading as Bob Dylan. Rich had gotten so drunk he’d passed out on Valerie’s front steps.

Now Mark was running. Scenes from this night swirled through his mind like capsules on a rambling amusement park ride. He had no idea where he’d parked his car before he'd started drinking. Only Rich would have remembered.

Mrs. Brinkley—Rich's mother—had taken it well at first, but had suddenly fainted on top of their German shepherd. Rich's brother Sean— who still owed Mark fifty bucks for coke— had vomited his midnight snack (not to mention half-a-case of beer) into the bathtub, by accident. Puke Shoes and Sal had rushed off to the police station, leaving Mark to break the news to Rich’s girl, Valerie.

Mark dreaded this most of all. He'd been relieved not to find her at home, until he'd realized she was probably out trying to have a good time. Mark swallowed the horror in his throat. Now, she'd be free from the mental brutality that Rich had always claimed she'd thrived on. Mark had pictured her on a lopsided, sticky barstool at Ricky's or Boxer's Brew or Bar 22, that little joint on the corner of Twenty-Second street that looked like a chapel from the outside. But she wasn't in any of those places.

Nobody but him seemed to like her. Even Mrs. Brinkley—who'd been a devout Catholic since her miraculous cure from cancer —thought Valerie was off her rocker. Sean had dubbed Valerie Screwball but had almost lost an eye when he’d told his brother she could screw my balls anytime. Puke Shoes and Sal kept their mouths shut, making faces behind the couple’s backs instead.

Valerie was probably just hypersensitive, Mark had figured. A recent college grad, she was too intellectual for their crowd; well-read and once a fervent churchgoer. That she’d met Rich at St. Jude's one Sunday morning during his brief reformed period, was the cruelest stroke of luck. The peaceful Rich that she'd fallen head-over-heels in love with had soon reverted back to the drunken brute; then, for some reason unknown to Mark, Valerie had decided to love Rich even more. The more he'd drunk, the less she'd seen of him and, just this afternoon, his friend had boasted of his plan to dump her. They'd even drunk to it.

Breathless, Mark collapsed against a mailbox, his arms encircling it as if it were his dead friend. A sob squeezed out from between them. Tim McNally…it had to be Tim McNally but, right now, there was no time to think of revenge. That would come later. Sean would want a piece of it. Maybe even Valerie would help, if she could curb her squeamishness and bury her conscience in some vacant lot. Better yet, the churchyard.

Mark's last guess was that she was in J. R.'s, a mellow pub that was two blocks down from St. Jude's. He continued in the direction of the church—a bearded, bleary-eyed bearer of bad news. The angel of manslaughter.

If it wasn't for the moon—wedge-shaped but soggy-looking, like a lemon that had been squeezed into too many drinks—Mark would never have seen her. On top of the church steps, she was huddled against the railing.

As he approached her, she turned slowly and looked up, as if she were never more pleased to see him. Mark Jason Soppeck, she whispered.

But, when he reached her, her face was distorted and dark. Her curly hair (gypsy, Rich had always called it) seemed to grip and shake her shoulders like the paws of some wild beast. Her eyes were set straight ahead.

Mark sat down. I’ve been looking all over for you.

Her profile smiled briefly. Rich stood me up again tonight.

Mark examined his trembling hands, wishing that the right words would replace his haphazard, homemade tattoos. I'm sorry, he said. What an understatement, he thought.

Why did God ever bring us together?

I...I don't know, Val.

She looked at him as if he'd just appeared but raised her voice as if she were addressing a superior being. It's not fair, she declared, that some couples have such an easy time and others are so fucking miserable. How is that the will of God?

Mark wished he had a joint, half a warm beer, anything to ease him through this. He hoped he was still in shock. If so, better to tell her now.

But, the moment he opened his mouth again, Valerie's shoulders slumped forward and a gentle hissing escaped her lips.

In the moonlight, the cat's fur was the color of candied yams with syrup. From the sidewalk, it looked up at Valerie, took a few soundless steps toward them, as if in grateful recognition, then vanished under a black Volkswagen and dashed across the street.

I put my dog to sleep the other day, Valerie said, still leaning forward.

Was he old? Mark asked, against his will.

She nodded, and then Mark realized she was crying. He couldn't even walk anymore—my father and I had to carry him around. I was hoping he'd die right away. But, every now and then, one goes into arrest. And he did. He looked right at me. Looked me right in the eye and said, 'You did this to me, Val. And I thought you loved me so much.'

Mark looked away.

I mean, that's what he would have said, she said, softly, then added, This time, I ran away.

Valerie, Mark began, surprised to hear his own voice.

He never should have had that first drink. On his birthday. The one Francis gave him. Francis was Puke Shoes' real name.

I know he shouldn't have.

He hasn’t been sober one day since.

Behind them were the elaborately-carved, oak doors, and for once, Mark looked to them for inspiration. He realized that, the next time he'd pass through them, his friend's coffin would precede him.

Father Goglia said he shouldn't even have been drinking from the chalice.

He's dead, Goddamnit! Mark said. Rich is dead! Somebody stabbed him!

Instead of shrieking along with him, Valerie's voice dropped to a clear whisper. I know all about it, Mark. Even before you.

They used his own knife on him, Mark whimpered.

Valerie nodded.

It had to be McNally—that motherfucker!

He shouldn’t have left it at my house, Valerie murmured, shaking her head this time.

What?

She smiled down at the zipper of her jacket. He thought I couldn't stand the sight of blood.

Mark had an uneasy flashback of the drunken moment when he and Rich had toasted to his Valerie-less future. Wiry, lively, elfin-featured Rich. Powerful when pushed but certainly not the brightest guy in the world. Not at crucial moments, anyway.

It just wasn't fair, Valerie said, that everything had to fall apart when we were supposed to be the 'Right Couple'. When God brought us together in His own house. But he had to drink Puke-Face's beer. Just one, he said he'd have.

Mark studied the letters that were tattooed on the back of his hand, making sure that they spelled his own name. He wished he were his distant cousin Stanley, instead. He wished Rich could have loved Valerie to death.

He asked to meet me in the schoolyard by his house. Where we used to sit on the swings and talk after church, while his mother roasted a leg of lamb. That's when I knew I’d lost him for good.

Mark looked deeply into Valerie's eyes. Only a pitiable and monstrous logic kept them open now. It was his own fault, she explained, holding out her hands almost timidly. The blood had dried a while ago. The dove-gray of her leather jacket was marbled with red.

Without knowing why, Mark took her in his arms, allowing her to lay her head against his chest. He stroked her wiry hair.

He didn't even kiss the same anymore, she breathed. Was it fair?

No, Mark said,