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Hekate Publishing - Cindy Rosmus

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74 pages

English

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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.

Informations

Publié par	Hekate Publishing
Date de parution	07 février 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781912017805
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0272€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
Forward
Angel of Manslaughter
Image - Woman looking back
Baby Chicks
The Base and Despised
Image - Lady Manslaughter
Cut Buddies
Injun Bobby
Image - Lisburn
Mikey’s Dad
Image - Dummy
Epitaph
Hangovers
Image - Lady Gloves
Backwards
Image - other paths to superhumanity
Suicide Mission
The ‘Sidge’
Image - Eye
Eat The Worm
Image - Voice Recognition
Yellow Mama
Il Pagliaccio Morto
Image - Morse Code
The Taste of Blood
Image - picture for the future two-way transfer
About the Author, Cindy Rosmus
About the Artist, Coates Walker
Angel of Manslaughter
BY CINDY ROSMUS
Initially copyrighted 2006 by Cindy Rosmus and published through
Fossil Publications
Cover image and all internal art work by Coates Walker, used with the artist’s permission.
Second Edition Copyright © 2020 Cindy Rosmus
All Rights Reserved
Hekate Publishing First Edition, 2020
ISBN EPub and Mobi 978-1-912017-80-5
Hekate Publishing US
74 John Drive
Farmingville, NY 11738
anthony_knott@hekatepublishing.com
https://www.hekatepublishing.com
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, or business institutions is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
Stories in this collection have previously appeared in the following publications:
“Angel of Manslaughter.” The Village Idiot , No. 19, June 1993.
“Baby Chicks.” Hardboiled , No. 34, Summer 2005.
“Cut Buddies.” Hardboiled, No. 19, November 1994.
“Injun Bobby.” Shockbox, No. 9, Winter 1993-1994.
“Mikey’s Dad.” Collected in Sleeping with Dionysus: Women, Ecstasy and Addiction , edited by Kay Marie Porterfield, The Crossing Press, 1994. First appeared in The North American Review, Vol. 276, No. 1, March 1991.
“Epitaph.” Vicious Circle, Vol. 1, No. 2, Fall 1993.
“Hangovers.” Oui, Vol. 20, No. 3, April 1989.
“Backwards.” Fritz, Vol. 3, No. 1, 1993.
“Suicide Mission.” Lunatic Chameleon. May 2005. From www.lunaticchameleon.com.
“The ‘Sidge.’ ” Hardboiled, No. 27/28, December 2001.
“Eat the Worm.” The Unmentionable, No. 13, 1991.
“Yellow Mama.” Hardboiled , No. 32, November 2004.
“ Il Pagliaccio Morto .” Hardboiled, No. 17, February 1994.
“The Taste of Blood.” Previously unpublished.
INTRODUCTION
Before I leave this earth…
Before they stick nails in my coffin, there are two things I vowed to do.
First, put out this collection of stories. There’s something for everybody: bloodlust, just plain lust, a serial killer’s “coming of age,” childhood memories (and oh, what a childhood it was !), jail bait, jealous wives, a late-night visit from a mischievous muse, even a “leap of faith” in the right direction. And more.
This is for all of you, whom I love, God most of all.
And, the second thing I vow to do…
Well, you know who YOU are!
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