Monday, January 27, 2020

J.B. Stevens


The TV flickered blue and crackled and who doesn’t have Netflix?
I blame my-self, but not really
Burning toast reminds me of Mom.
Pawn shops and street corners and "it fell off a truck". Nothing worth the risk.
I unplug the toaster.
I step over the mess. Milk mixed with blood and it looks like Pepto-Bismal.
Tears in bloodshot-eyes. I can’t hear her, the duct tape is tight and strong.
“Stop. I don’t care. Stop.”
My mask is still on. I won’t hurt her, no reason. I don’t like hurting people. I told her, but she didn’t believe me.
Tommy is dead. The woman- fight or flight- we know which one she’s about.
Tommy’s dead, he can’t talk. There’s no reason to hurt her. I hope she understands.
The tape is tight.
The knife is still in there. Deep.
No cash- leave the TV- leave Tommy. Fuck Tommy.
Oxycontins left over from the boob job. Xanax left over from the divorce. It's a good day.
Fuck Tommy. It’s his fault, going in like this is an action movie. Scaring this poor woman. More for me.
Oxy and Xannie and fuck Tommy. A good day.

Chandler Smith reads "Xannie":

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J.B. confesses: "I was inspired to write this poem by two events. First, I read an article about a murderer (who doesn’t deserve to be named). This murderer had an outburst in court where he exclaimed he was the true victim. The second event was this article."

J.B. STEVENS lives in the Southeastern United States with his wife and daughter. His writing has been published by Mystery Tribune, Out of the Gutter, Close To The Bone, Thriller Magazine, Story and Grit, Punk Noir Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Criminal Element, and many others. He can be found online at and

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