‘Every vibration that ever moved through this place is still resonating,’ Karl told me. I was in awe of him then. We stood in Monty’s which had been the Marquee. Sometimes we even had a pint if we had busked in the tube along the way, but they were so strict about it now. You … Continue reading THE FINAL COUNTDOWN… 4… I’ve Told Ev’ry Little Star by Graham Wynd
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.
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 … Continue reading The Gouger by Eric Westerlind
Stan gets out, taps on the door, three distinct times.
“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.”
“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, … Continue reading ELC: The Universal Flood by Eric Westerlind
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 … Continue reading GLASS CEILING by Frank Quinn
Tara and Chris had rented the Amvets Hall for the wedding. The room’s sliding partition was closed for the event. On the other side of the accordion wall, a group of senior women were holding their weekly knitting club meeting.
I followed her, having nowhere else to go. She was shining like a wax doll under the bus shelter lights, looking like she’d melt. I sat down next to her and lit a Marlboro, feeling the drops of rain crawl down my face like insects.
Keshav Singh was convinced that katars would be suitable for the task. Brass knuckles; kubatons; switchblades would not do the trick. On the other hand stilettos, karambits, or combat knives perhaps performed the job too well. Though they did not exactly fall under the category of “concealed,” he believed he had found the perfect compromise … Continue reading Mosh Pit Massacre by Dustin He