It was an ugly petit bourgeois house in a suburb of Paris, noteworthy only for its proximity to the dump where Marie Antoinette assumed unreal dignities. Bruno Quelcon was the second son of a tedious and mannerless man who lounged around in detective overcoats, dreaming of being a matinee idol, whereas in fact his looks were singularly unremarkable. His wife was a neurotic French bitch who alternated between moaning about food and screaming at her family. The other son, Olivier was a kleptomaniac liar. Perhaps Mr Quelcon had a mistress. But his wife Marie only ever moaned when out of the bedroom. Continue reading ALCATRAZ FETISH by Richard Godwin
Chloe left the money and took the guns. She couldn’t carry everything and she knew that cash would be a hell of a lot easier to come by than a couple of AK47s that was for sure. Continue reading Chelsea Girls by Paul D. Brazill
Christopher Matthews was a dedicated teacher who touched the lives of many children throughout his thirty-five years teaching music. Thoughts are with his family and friends at a small funeral service there on this wet Easter Sunday afternoon, and all the students at St Cecilia’s Academy who have lost a teacher. There are large candles placed around the church which give the illusion of warmth but it is a cold and hollow place. The air smells strongly of mixed perfumes. The last time I was here, it was my last day at school before I was sent away. Too many bad memories, yet my psychiatrist said I should go. If you face pain, she will give you an ointment to stop your wounds from festering. The service starts, conducted by the same priest with the same dreary voice from before. Even the altar boys look similar to the ones before.
After dark, I’ll return to the crimson room at the top of the stairs, my tiny home in the seedy part of town, where the junkies and alkies O.D. on a cornucopia of poisons and feast on freaky visions. But in the early morning or afternoon, I sit in Eros Park and count the myriad objects of beauty. Some mornings, I come to the park about an hour before dawn. I wait for the light, the crepuscular insects, and a glorious, gold sunrise. I take a few deep breaths, close my eyes, and listen to the holy rhythm that soothes me, and imagine I’m floating in a sun-baked ocean or lying in the hot iridescent sand on a pristine beach below a tropical sun. And I listen to the melodious ebb and flow of the turquoise waves. Continue reading THE CRIMSON ROOM AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS By Dr. Mel Waldman
The Perfect Clue was influenced by the films Les Vampires and Irma Vep, the bandolera La Carambada (http://unlikelystories.org/content/bandit-queen), and other unapologetic female bandits, and ‘The absolute rule’, as explained in Jean Baudrillard’s The Perfect Crime.With: Blaine Reininger track of the punk band TuxedoMoon, he has allowed me to use many of his tracksin my video. Christa Hunter has performed with me for ten years and Jeff Crouch who has collaborated with me by email and post for ten years.
*BIO : Cecelia Chapman is a visual artist working in digital media.
This is conjecture, but
The crane was there, of that I’m sure.
The sand hills. Nebraska.
His feathers ruffled as he was facing south
and the northwest wind was a little stiffer than
yesterday, and it got some head gears moving
some atavistic cuckoo clock so he
quit fishing and did that liftoff you just
wouldn’t bet money on, headed south.
Nicky Dolman came out of the men’s room at the Blue Door Lounge wiping his hands on his pant legs.
I parked my car three blocks away on Fern under a street light. My OCD kicked in and I rechecked the glove box and under the center armrest. Both were still empty because I cleared them out two hours ago. Sometimes you have to proof even your own work. I felt under the rear wheel well and the tracker was nice and secure. Continue reading A Mister and his Destiny by Bobby D. Lux
They would lay in wait outside of the shops at the mall in the afternoons. I would catch threatening glimpses of their vivid orange robes as they lingered in shady doorways, waiting for an opportunity to lure me away. I was already on their radar and I’m not sure how I got there. Maybe it was something to do with the weird phone calls; disembodied voices would ask for me using my name, Frank, and then refuse to speak. It felt as though they were trying to bait me, waiting for me to reveal myself to them, through my fear. Continue reading Paranoid by Sonia Kilvington
I was cold to the bone from the winter chill, and then there was that woman . . . her shotgun pointed at me throughout the drive. How she could travel along the snowy road just fine and hold her double barrel one-handed like so, with her other hand firmly on the wheel, I’d never know. Her little sister used to say she was skilled with a gun. I had no idea.