Keith Rawson

Keith Rawson is a little-known pulp writer who lives in the alkaline desert waste of southern Arizona with his wife and very energetic daughter. His stories have appeared in such publications as Plots with Guns, Needle Magazine, Out of the Gutter, The Lineup, CrimeWav.com, Powder Burn Flash, A Twist of Noir, BEAT to a PULP, and many others. He is a staff writer for Spinetingler magazine and BSCreview and along with Cameron Ashley and Liam Jose he edits and publishes Crimefactory magazine. You can find him stroking his over-inflated ego at his blog Bloody Knuckles, Callused Fingertips.

Therapy

“something’s been up with
the wife lately
I can’t figure it out?”

“I don’t know if you’d call it
a distance or a gulf
something has come
between us”

“I can’t put my finger on it,
but whenever, we kiss or she
goes down on me
she uses too much teeth”

“something……?”

“no, that’s not a herpes blister
now shut up, I’m not paying you
to talk.”

Cigarettes

…..I’ll walk in
just like I have, the past
300 nights

And I’ll ask for a pack
of cigarettes:

“marlboro lights, box”

and you’ll ring me up,
swipe the box under
the red laser scanner

and you’ll whistle
at the digital display

“$6.86….damn, I think it’s
time to quit, don’t you?”

I’ll smile pretty
(or as pretty as I can with
my gritty brown teeth)
nod
and pull the gun.

I’ll press the .38
to your
forehead

and say:

“empty the fucking register”
(normally you’d frown and tsk tsk over
language, I’ve seen you do it
to the neighborhood kids)

And you’ll shiver,
your hands will tremble
you’ll stink up

your kiosk

with piss.

Vocation

I slam the trunk shut
And listen to him struggle,
Legs and feet
Fists and arms
Pounding.

I listen to him scramble
I listen to him curse
Screaming that he didn’t
Want to die

Alone

I light my last Camel,
My head going shallow
Eyes fulla drifting
Yellow and blue stars.

I crumple the pack,
Toss it out into the dessert,
Hear it roll, driving
Some small animal
From its hiding spot.

I gag on smoke
And
The trunk man screams,
Again,
Incoherent
About how he’s shit himself.

Last Memory Of Dad

He said,

“Just make it easy on yourself.”

I said,

“I can’t”

He said,

“Look, you’re not getting any more money out of me
while I’m alive.

So use the pillow and squeeze, then the inheritance is yours.”

I said,

Blink, blink

Eyes open, eyes closed,

and squeezed.