Tag Archives: b.r.stateham

Cracker by B.R. Stateham

He was nailed to the wall.

Literately.

Not a stitch of clothes on. Nailed to the white painted wall with arms and legs splayed out. Nails, about a dozen of them in each arm and leg, held him firmly on the wall about six feet off the dull colored gray cement floor. A dead carcass on a virgin white canvas-covered wall. Blood, dark . . . almost black . . . from the gapping hole in his neck ran down his chest and one leg, pooling on the floor beneath him in a grim lake of past deeds.

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Lamenting Souls by B.R. Stateham

Evil burns in colors sullen, Pilgrim.

Aye, Fellow Traveler. In the eyes of a wizard Evil smolders in colors dark and menacing. All life shimmers and glows. Trees. Flowers. The animals of the forest. The denizens of the watery deep. Dragons. Man. All life shimmers a color and a hue unique to its own. Even Magic, Pilgrim. Magic glows in colors unique to the brand of magic used.

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Talking Smitty! – P D Brazill talks to B R Stateham

B.R. writes like a shadowy back alley. He nails his words to the page with a sledgehammer.
& as for Smitty, well, Smitty damn well smoulders in his stories. Dark eyes & an even darker heart. If your stairs creak at night just hope it ain’t Smitty.

P D B recently chewed the literary fat with him.

PDB: Your character Smitty has really captured people’s dark imagination. How did he come about?

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This Makes It Even/Dues Paid by B.R. Stateham

This Makes It Even

We were cruising on Wilmont in the ’91 Z-28 Camaro ragtop and enjoying the first truly summer day. The sun was out and hot. There was a slight breeze stirring the trees lining Wilmont and young girls were strutting their stuff in tank tops and scandalously short cut-off raggy blujeans. It felt good to be alive. Funny how one’s luck can change in the blinking of an eye.

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Do it quietly, Smitty by B. R. Stateham

He rolled out of his CTS Caddy and closed the door softly.  Reaching inside his sport coat he pulled out a pair of dark aviator’s sunglasses and slipped them on.  An odd gesture, considering his eyes were as black as a moonless night in Hades itself.  Glancing to his left and then to his right he checked out the pedestrian traffic.
It was a Sunday.  Young mothers were out pushing strollers, paired with other young mothers.  Talking and gesturing Continue reading

Sisters by B.R. Stateham

She was sitting slumped back in a dinning room chair, a hand holding a cold compress on the back of her head.  Dressed in a black skirt, black jacket and white silk blouse, with dark wine-red heels on slim. petite feet. A very expensive looking ruby necklace worth a small fortune adorned her long, perfectly chiseled neck.

She looked like old money.

Not in the sense of time or age.  But old in the sense she rolled in dough.  Lots of it.  And had had it for years.

A mass of brown hair, curly, had been thrown over her left shoulder as she held the compress on the right side of her head.  Maybe in her early thirties she was well built, trim. With an athlete’s body.

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Just Stupid by B.R. Stateham

Frank brought Stevie Toomey into the windowless cubicle of the interrogation room, kicked a chair out from underneath a table and sat the kid’s ass down into the hard wooden chair rather unceremoniously.  The room was just four bare walls, a small table sat in the middle of the floor underneath a very bright light, with two chairs facing each other.  From the ceiling a single light hung down from a long black cord.  The light was powerful enough to look at the bottom of the Marianas Trench .  From San Francisco .

The kid—Stevie—weighed about one and thirty five pounds, thin as a bone and as pale as freshly mixed bread dough.  The harsh bright light shining down directly on the table made the kid blink his eyes and squint.  Sniffling, using the back of one handcuffed arm to rub across his dripping nose,  he continued squinting as he bent forward a little to focus and see me sitting across from him.

“Turner!  Frank!  Jesus, am I glad to see you.  Listen , I . . . I’m innocent!  I didn’t kill no one.  No one!  I was just stupid, that’s all.  Just stupid!”

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Tough Way to Order Carry-Out by B.R. Stateham

The smell of hamburger, onions, and stale cooking oil was everywhere.  We, my partner and I, stood in the kitchen of an empty restaurant staring at him in mute silence.  Hanging out of the air duct above the fryers—one big bare ass.  Glaring white, almost glowing in a neon way, dangling like raw meat in the air above our heads.  The idiot tried to rob the till of a restaurant by taking clothes off and rubbing his body with oil so he could slide down an air duct above the deep fryer.  I thought I’d seen it all as my partner, Frank, frowned and grunted, “Tough way to order carry-out.”

But there was more.

How do you get a dead stiff out of an air duct?

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