All posts by Jason Michel

The Dictator and Grand Poobah over at the irreverent PULP METAL MAGAZINE, Jason Michel has been turned on, tripped up and stumbled over all around the world on a self imposed exile. He is a hack purveyor of penny dreadfuls and flash nightmares of daytime who now lives in France. For his sins.

Blood and Botany by Simon Maltman

“Pass us the rake Brian, would ya?”

“Two seconds mate… there you go.” Continue reading Blood and Botany by Simon Maltman

Games the Wealthy Play By Walt Giersbach

Lorraine was a game that Nathan played with great relish.  Not a childish game, but a sport called life.  

First, there were odds.  Odds that her husband, Dexter, wouldn’t discover their affair.  The husband was a tedious vice president at some import company, but he had been a Marine.  Nathan had visions of Dexter walking in at the height of their ecstasy and maiming him in some strange military way. Continue reading Games the Wealthy Play By Walt Giersbach

Pirate Witch Wench By Alex S. Johnson

Suggested by a song by Brecht and Weill

I sweep, I scrub and I work the grit from the nooks and crannies.

I see the evidence of your dirty couplings and weird indiscretions. Continue reading Pirate Witch Wench By Alex S. Johnson

The Bridge by Simon Maltman

Part 1

I opened the door into my small and let’s say minimal office at just after half nine that morning. As usual, I had made the short journey on the metro from Chodov to Pancrák, grabbing a take out coffee and the morning papers on the way.

I opened the blinds and sat down at my desk. I leaned back and felt fresh and ready for the day. At that time, we had lived in Prague for about three years and it still felt new and exciting. Continue reading The Bridge by Simon Maltman

The Gouger by Eric Westerlind

Martin Skyrelli draped a red cloth over the standing mirror in his house because he could not stand to stare at himself any longer, and he had been doing so for days. Before that, less. You’ll recognize his name. No stranger to public sin—Skyrelli was a corporate gouger who’d find small monopolies on life-saving products and charge enormous amounts to the desperate. Continue reading The Gouger by Eric Westerlind

Bingo Night, Part II by Vincent Zandri

Stan gets out, taps on the door, three distinct times. Continue reading Bingo Night, Part II by Vincent Zandri

Bingo Night, Part I by Vincent Zandri

“All I’m saying, Tony, is this. Those old people living out their days at the old folks home across the road got cash coming out the wazoo. They play bingo, they don’t play for small change. They got pots worth ten grand or more.” Continue reading Bingo Night, Part I by Vincent Zandri

ELC: The Universal Flood by Eric Westerlind

“I am Ernesto Luis Cardeñia, Argentine poet, an early dreamer. I sit at the edge and describe. The planes beyond, believe me—the disjunct in time here is huge at the edge of man’s space, where the wildness has been made farm and the farm has been made city and the city is dead within. Ah, our amniotic tastes ruin it.

My blood is easy and loose. My death is easy. ‘Poet Ernesto Luis Cardeñia is charged with poetic research on the surface of Mars. He studies the dung beetle and the prisoner. His final poems are addled and incoherent as though he’d become rabid; as if something were devouring him. He wrote, autobiographically, this description of himself.’”

– Forward to Thus Follows the Course of Empire, by Ernesto Luis Cardeñia Continue reading ELC: The Universal Flood by Eric Westerlind

GLASS CEILING by Frank Quinn

Money has a smell all its own. A flat scent of eager hands and disappointed dreams. Miriam loved the smell of cash. Not the flat crisp hundreds the ATMs spat out but the odor of well-worn bills. The battered twenties and tens that made their way through the club, eventually landing in piles on the corner of her desk. Continue reading GLASS CEILING by Frank Quinn

My Blue Mistake by Brian Morse

Will this be the one that gets me killed? I’ve asked myself this question no less than one hundred times before. I’ve also never given much thought to death, but now that I’m dead, I have all the time in the world to think about it.   Continue reading My Blue Mistake by Brian Morse