Jeanne Duval tried to stop herself from scratching her arm, a thing she did compulsively whenever she was nervous and there was no way to pace. Sometimes she scratched so much she drew blood, which at least would be appropriate today. Jeanne looked at her collage of photos covering the gallery wall.
I’m sitting at my desk having a drink and cleaning my gun in the second floor office loft when I hear the footsteps running, not walking, up the wood stairs. Continue reading Moonlight Gets Served By Vincent Zandri
My school is small, so everyone knew and wouldn’t shut the fuck up for the longest weeks until I had to practically beg them to stop talking about my dead sister. You ever had to convince someone you were okay? That you weren’t going to blow your head off or mow down the entire school with an AR? That shit’s more likely to drive one to madness than the original problem. Continue reading Fish Hook by Hector Duarte, Jr.
His latest work, Phoebe Jeebies And The Man Who Annoyed Everybody, is a love story/satirical tale told through the colourful prism of Bracha-Vision.
PMM got in a few words with the man.
PFatMWAE is, as its title tells us, a book filled to its evil brim with ways of poking fun at the seriousness of fellow humans and their choices to conform to the 9 to 5 life, why did you choose to focus on cultural pranksterism and its way of exposing the hypocrisy and desperation in a bid to enlighten or enrage others? Continue reading “A seriously dark place” – PMM Interview with Ryan Bracha
Pauline Williams really hadn’t wanted to talk to her brother. Not for a while, anyway. She’d been giving him the cold shoulder recently. She’d had more than enough of Billy’s shenanigans over the years, so she started to ignore his text messages and calls. She’d even unfriended him on Facebook. But when she found out he’d been in an accident, her resolve soon wilted. Family was family, after all. Continue reading Yesterday’s Wine by Paul D. Brazill
Father Trevor rolled the rosary beads round in his hand for the twentieth time in the last twelve minutes. He knew exactly how long it had been, since the hands on the old wooden clock hanging just overhead ticked down loud, extra noisy, reminding him. He could see that both the hands and the digits had been painted on the clock’s face years ago, bold and dark green, against a pale cream colored backdrop, making them hard to miss. Under the ancient timepiece sat the calendar with the day’s date circled in red; December 31, 1949. Continue reading The Abyss by Lisa Ciarfella
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