Punk Noir Magazine

The Other Side of Town — a Betrayal short by Russell Thayer

Punk Noir Magazine

The Other Side of Town

by

Russell Thayer

The stranger held his hat in his hands.

“There’s been a wreck out on Highway 87.”

I didn’t think to invite him in, but I stood there wondering why they’d sent a stranger to tell me.

“Did Lorna survive?” I could feel my dreams dying. There was nothing in my hands but the edge of the screened door. Porchlight moths fluttered into the house. I knew she was gone.

“They tried to beat a freight train.” The stranger shook his head.

Midge always launched Lorna to bowling night like a bazooka in that Studebaker of hers. 

“Midge had two kids,” I said. Lorna was finally pregnant.

“Midge?” The man frowned. 

“My wife’s best friend. They were on their way to Plainview Lanes. League night.”

“She was with a man,” the stranger said, his eyes on the broken concrete steps.

I let the door close. I found it hard to breathe with my back against the wall.

“What was he driving?”

“A Corvette.”

My best friend.

 

Bio:

Russell Thayer’s work has appeared in 

Brushfire,Tough, Roi Fainéant Press, Guilty Crime Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Close to the Bone, Bristol Noir, Apocalypse Confidential, Hawaii Pacific Review, Shotgun Honey, Rock and a Hard Place Press, Revolution John, Punk Noir, Pulp Modern, and Outcast Press. 

He received his BA in English from the University of Washington, worked for decades at large printing companies, and currently lives in Missoula, Montana. You can find him lurking on Twitter @RussellThayer10

Ask a Policeman — a Betrayal short by Paul Burke

Punk Noir Magazine

Ask a Policeman

by

Paul Burke

I’m gonna tell you something. You might not like it but it’s for your own good. The way your boss Craig is sucking up to you, it’s fucking odd. You must have noticed the way he’s changed, all pally and familiar. Didn’t he used to be a twat? Watch you’re back, Laura. I don’t know what yet but he’s screwed up somewhere and he’s looking to blame you. I’ve seen it before.

I did watch my back. Jimmy was right and Craig had to take the fall for his own screw up. I just didn’t see how clever Jimmy was. I went to him, I trusted him, I slept with him. Now I’m in hospital with a detached retina, three busted ribs and other painful, but apparently minor, injuries. 

Smells like betrayal but here’s the kicker. Jimmy just got promoted to DCI so when I made my complaint, he made me out to be a stalker. My colleagues backed him up. My police career is over. Even my parents look at me like it’s my fault. 

The only unconditional love is your dog.

 

Bio:

Paul Burke is a crime fiction critic (Monocle Magazine, European Literature Network, Crime Fiction Lover, Crime Time) and the presenter of Crime Time FM. His first book An Encyclopedia of Spy Fiction will be published in 2025.

What’s on Your Mind? — a Betrayal short by C. Bauman

Punk Noir Magazine

What’s on Your Mind?

By

C. Bauman

I’m watching a couple in a bar. They smile at each other and share a kiss. I covertly take a picture of that tender moment.

 

I walk to the bathroom and use the toilet as a seat. Facebook invites me to write what’s on my mind. I upload the photo and write:

The man kissing this woman is my husband. Three days ago he ended our marriage with no prior warning and moved out. He made me believe that it was all my fault. He listed all my character flaws, telling me that I only had myself to blame for his leaving. At one point he smirked as I begged on my hands and knees for him to stay. When I asked if there was someone else, he laughed, asking if this was the moment that I was going to get angry. For the last three days I thought that I was going mad. But now I have clarity. I have the truth. 

 

I tagged him and posted it. 

 

Blessed betrayal. It made the pain sharper but at least I was grieving the truth; as least I was free from his distorted history of who I am.

 

Bio:

C. Bauman is based in the UK where he lectures in philosophy, religion, and ethics. He completed a PhD in 2011 but only started writing fiction three years ago. He has written one novel and dreams of getting this published. When not teaching or writing he can be found with an electric guitar trying to channel his inner Eddie Van Halen.

Because Nothing Like This Ever Happens Round Here — a Betrayal short by Kate Axeford

Punk Noir Magazine

Because Nothing Like This Ever Happens Round Here

By

Kate Axeford

Under the dazzle and snap-snap of shutters, he’ll blink as he holds up a photo of Sadie. And for once his daughter will be noticed, her gappy-toothed smile beamed out to the world.

His neighbours will queue to give quotes to the newshounds.  

‘They’re just a normal family. It’s a quiet estate.’ 

‘Nothing like this ever happens round here.’

After the forensic tent swallows his garden and blue and white police tape flutters its warning, marking out lines that should never have been crossed, those neighbours, who joined in the search to find her –  alive, not this way, will take their selfies and post on socials, pictures of themselves by sad mountains. Cards. Teddies. Cellophaned flowers. Brightlovely things that Sadie never owned. 

‘She seemed so happy,’ they’ll lie. ‘How could we have known?’

Under the gaze of a two-way mirror, he’ll ‘No Comment’ questions, only showing emotion as he contemplates years behind hoops of barbed wire and locked metal doors.

His neighbours queue up to give quotes to the newshounds.

‘We never saw anything.’

‘How could we have known?’

‘No, nothing like this ever happens round here.’

 

Bio:

Kate Axeford (she/ hers) social works by day and plays with words by night. She lives in Brighton and loves the sea.

What’s a Man to Do — a Betrayal short by John Rutherford

Punk Noir Magazine

What’s a Man to Do

by

John Rutherford

Dick, the money wasn’t good enough,

I warned you off this case,

and now you’re lying at the docks

with a bullet through your face. 

I told you not to mess around

with the import-export game,

not to ask too many questions

about men with certain names.

But of course you wouldn’t listen,

you’d been paid to do a job,

how were you supposed to know

I was connected with the mob?

I’ve taken money from the gangsters,

I’ve got two kids in school!

A son who wants to go to college

and a girl to beauty school,

and I’m faster on the draw than you,

with that old forty-five,

you never had a chance with me,

not when you were still alive. 

Now you’re lying at the docks

with a bullet through your face,

and I’ll go home tonight,

and my wife will say the grace

and I’ll eat my leg of lamb,

twenty-grand the richer,

and think about you every time

my wife passes the pitcher.

But I’ll sleep soundly, deeply,

because no-one will know who

put one in Dick last night,

what’s a man to do?

Bio:

John Rutherford is a poet living and writing in Beaumont, TX. His work can be found in The Concho River Review, The Basilisk Tree, Texas Poetry Assignment and in his 2023 chapbook Birds in a Storm.

Forgiveness Might Smell Like… — a Betrayal short by Margo Griffin

Punk Noir Magazine

Forgiveness Might Smell Like…

by

Margo Griffin

…the hint of musk and scant scent of an ocean breeze that clung to my scarf, remnants of my fiancé’s Tim’s Old Spice aftershave and Suave deodorant that refused to follow him out the door that night.

“Only kissing…no touching.” 

“Does it matter?” 

“I thought you were with her.”

Truth is, I had an impromptu entanglement during my office’s holiday party while my fiancé Tim attended a destination wedding. He didn’t get a plus one and neither did his ex, Mindy, a ruse, I convinced myself, hatched up by the bride and groom.

I arrived soused in delusion, so three peppermint martinis pushed me over. I checked the bride’s Instagram when a photo popped up of Mindy smiling broadly as she hugged a man whose back was to the camera. I convinced myself it was Tim, and impulsively pulled an obliging co-worker into the copy room where I kissed him and took a selfie and then hit post.

Betrayal emits a foul odor, like spoiled eggs and overdone fish, and Tim couldn’t rid himself of the stench. So, I wrapped my scarf around his neck, and stamped my memory onto his lips, and wondered what forgiveness might smell like.

 

The End

 

Bio:

Margo has worked in public education for over thirty years and is the mother of two daughters and to the best rescue dog ever, Harley. Margo’s work has appeared in places such as, Bending Genres, MER, Wild Roof Journal, Maudlin House and Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her on Twitter @67MGriffin.

Sealed with a Kiss — a Betrayal short by Natalie Nee

Punk Noir Magazine

Sealed with a Kiss

by

Natalie Nee

Why does your shirt smell like vanilla?

You know I hate vanilla.

And I thought you did, too. But your tastes must have changed, and apparently, so has your interpretation of your marriage vows. 

I go about my morning as the sun wakes up, pretending betrayal doesn’t linger in the very fibers of your cheap, JC Penney wardrobe. I hum while stuffing the shirt in the washer, smiling as I add a cap full of scent beads. I heard smiling can trick your brain into thinking you’re happy. I don’t know if I’m trying to trick you or me. 

You kiss me with that filthy mouth that uttered lies of love before leaving for work. I wave out the window, and go about packing my bag. I collect my makeup that will help me find someone new, the cash you thought we needed in case of an emergency––back when we were a we––and even pack you a dinner. My last act of service. 

I unzip my makeup bag, and retrieve my lipstick. Ruby red. I apply it carefully, like battle paint; for this means war. My note, sealed with a kiss, reads:

You know I hate vanilla.

Bio:

Natalie Nee is a bibliophile, former ghostwriter, and latte enthusiast. Natalie’s short story, “Saudade”, was recently selected as one of Across the Margin’s Best Of stories published in 2023. Her other poems and essay have been published by Roi Fainéant Press, Half and One, 50 word stories, and HerStry literary magazine. She’s cooler on Twitter (@novelnatalie).

Big Sister — a Betrayal short by Lisa Thornton

Punk Noir Magazine

Big Sister

by

Lisa Thornton

He tasted like oranges. The small kind they call clementines. Sherrie never told her that. Or how the curls on his chest rose and fell while he slept. Sherrie said he drove fast and drank bourbon. Sherrie said he bought rounds for the bar when it was late, and he was winning at video poker. Sherrie said she’d never get a man like that. Not with that stupid face. Face like a cow, Sherrie said. What do you need a man for anyway, Sherrie said. Sherrie said no man wanted a girl with so many books. A girl with a backside like a barn and no inkling for fun. Sherrie said maybe if she’d learned to dance. Or got a nose job back in high school. Sherrie said just look at her when Clementine picked her up last Saturday night. Like a bump on a log, Sherrie said. And he did look at her. And when Sherrie went to get her purse, he mouthed the words I’ll be back and when Sherrie passed out on the couch later, Clementine didn’t go back to his car. She never told Sherrie about that.

 

Bio:

Lisa Thornton is a writer and nurse. She has work in SmokeLong Quarterly, Reckon Review, Pithead Chapel and other literary magazines. She has been shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award and Bridport Flash Fiction Prize. She livesin Illinois with her husband and son and can be found on Twitter/X @thorntonforreal.

Burn Baby Burn — a Betrayal short by David Milner

Punk Noir Magazine

Burn Baby Burn

by

David Milner

Once I’d grown accustomed to his body odour and its unnerving liquid like presence…

“I’ve fallen in love with Eva.”

(Breathing is a challenge in his company).

“You’ve barely known her a fortnight.”

I realised that I liked him. Needed him.

“I’m in agony.” Peer Richard tightens his grip on the mop’s wooden handle. “I’ve written her a letter.”

We’re on toilet cleaning duty. The counsellors always put us together for the TD’s.

Everyone hates him. Given the chance the other peers would set him alight to appease the wrath of the Rehab’s idle gods.The counsellors think he’s too clever by half. He quotes Montaigne, Epictetus too fucking much for us. He has the pallor of the truly haunted.

I take the envelope.

We’re all fakes here. Mostly to ourselves. The counsellors insist that we share truthfully in the group sessions. I believe we try.

The washroom is situated in the basement. In the harsh glare of the strip lighting Eva is ironing a pair of leggings. She’s a petite, dark-haired, doe-eyed dual diagnosis whatever beautiful addict.

“Read the letter out loud for me.”

Her look burns me up.

“A kiss first.”

I’m here to help myself.

End

Bio:

David’s stories have appeared in print and online at Duality Books, Spillwords Press, Impspired Magazine. His plays include, I’m Still Here, performed live on Resonance 104.4FM Radio, and Shinwell: An Extra Break For Breakfast, published by Impspired Books. He adapted and directed his story, Into the Breach, as a short film for the Rise of The Resistance festival, screened at Bloomsbury Theatre and Wellcome Collection. A founder member of the punk band Vee V V (Edils Records), David finds his stories when he’s out and about, or they find him. He lives in South London.

Forgiveness Was Not On the Cards — a Betrayal short by Laura Cooney

Punk Noir Magazine

Forgiveness Was Not On the Cards

by

Laura Cooney

When I pulled The Fool, The Seven of Swords and The Hanged Man in succession I knew I’d been right about who’d swapped the real notes for the fakes in my bag. 

​Madame Pomelo, slammed her hand on the table. “Betrayal! Who has betrayed you?”​

​I swallowed, perhaps Kristal was right, maybe she was a mind reader after all.

​“Well, it is clear you need to take action, is all,” she said to my silence. Card four, more swords, produced an, “Ah.”  Five, an “Oh, ” it was enough. 

​“I am sorry.” she said. 

​She knew I understood the cards, it was the look on my face. I’m thorough, tarot was fascinating. I slipped a note across the table, and watched her pocket it; ah, not a true mindreader after all. 

​Daz was surprised when I called saying I had a ticket for the next flight. The first thing she asked was how I knew where she was, and that confirmed the whole thing. No-one gets away with that kind of shit with me. I always have last word. 

​“Now Daz,” I said, cool as a cucumber. “You know I always do my homework.”

 

 

Bio:

Laura Cooney is a writer and spoken word poet from Edinburghwith work published both in print and online. Her second chapbook; No Trauma/No Drama is due August 2024, courtesy of Backroom Poetry. Find her on all socials @lozzawriting and at www.lozzawriting.com. Laura is currently working on a noir, yet cosy, crime novella and is seeking representation. When she’s not writing, she’ll be found with her daughters, as close to the sea as possible, seeking shells. There will be ice-cream!