Free All Due Respect Issue #1 by Mike Miner, Chris F. Holm, Todd Robinson, Renee Asher Pickup, Paul D. Brazill, Travis Richardson, Walter Conley

he would love to reenter.
    “That sounds perf—”
    “Oh, honey. Hey, beautiful!”
    Across the street Razmig and Melik loiter around his Cooper, laughing. They both have gelled hair and wear tight T-shirts and gold chains. Melik lets out a predatory whistle.
    “Who are those guys? Friends of yours?” Vicky asks with a half-smile.
    “Um, co-workers,” John says, staring at his toes.
    “Really? I thought you were a doctor?”
    John holds her gaze for a second. Vicky’s eyebrows tighten as if she is trying to imagine what line of work would have hooligans like that on the payroll.
    “Hey, hotpants,” Razmig shouts with an accent. “You’re looking sexy.”
    The weight returns as John’s shoulders slump. Why did he even entertain the daydream that he could have coffee with someone like Vicky? Not ever in this life.
    “Private practice,” John says, tucking the rolled mat under his arm. “See you Thursday.”
    He turns toward the street without waiting for her response. Crossing, he wills himself not to look back.
    Melik and Razmig wait for him with moronic grins plastered across their faces. So proud of themselves, believing they are comic geniuses. Woe to the audience who doesn’t laugh at the great Armenian duo. They have another job for John. Another victim who needs to be preserved until they get whatever it is that they want. They wouldn’t be smiling if one of their own was fucked up.
    His chest begins to ache as his muscles and joints tighten. The last hour was in vain. Vicky, yoga, all of it, nothing more than feeble escapes from reality: a putrid swamp he wades through, chin deep, searching for an exit that doesn’t exist.
     
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    Travis Richardson was born in Germany, raised in Oklahoma, and currently lives in Los Angeles. He has worked over 20 jobs in fields ranging from secret bus rider to television postproduction to university fundraising. His novella Lost in Clover was listed in Spinetingler Magazine’s Best Crime Fiction of 2012. His stories have been published in online zines including All Due Respect, Shotgun Honey , and Powder Burn Flash as well as the anthologies Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes and Malfeasance Occasional: Girl Trouble . He edits Ransom Notes, the Sisters In Crime Los Angeles newsletter and sometimes shoots a short movie. His latest novella, Keeping The Record , will be out in January 2014 through Stark Raving Group. The story concerns a disgraced ex-baseball player who dodges creditors while dealing with steroid side effects as he takes a cross-country journey to stop the man who is about to take the only thing he has left in this world, his all-time home run record. Find out more at tsrichardson.com

 
    The Church of
the Sad Sisters
    Mike Miner
    T HERE WAS ONLY ONE way to get there. A treacherous path through a rainforest infested by poisonous snakes. Built centuries ago by Jesuit missionaries trying to bring Christ to the natives, instead they brought disease and death. The convent remained abandoned for years until a group of nuns reclaimed it.
    It stood at the foot of the Santa Maria Mountains and took its name from them. Peaks the color of bone rose out of the jungle surrounding it. When visitors approached the front gate, the tall stone buildings loomed, the cliffs leaned as if trying to protect the property, shield it from the world. Gargoyles danced on the roof of the church, struck rakish poses. There was an old rumor that the creatures visited the chaste nuns in their dreams, performed devilish acts.
    There were a lot of old rumors about the Santa Maria Convent, known also as La Iglesia de las Hermanas Tristes. The Church of the Sad Sisters. Some wondered if it even existed.
    The sisters wore light blue robes that brushed the ground as they walked. Long sleeves covered hands always joined in prayer. Perfectly white coifs framed their faces and draped down their necks. Few people ever laid eyes on these women.
    A rickety, slippery rope