Posts

Newton’s Butterfly: An Oral History, by David Rachels

By
Image
  Nicholas Freeman, county sheriff: The incident began during the opening hour of Elderwood’s 3 rd Annual Juneteenth Festival when 25-year-old Chance Gondry of Elderwood chained himself to the statue of Ambrose Collingwood on the courthouse square. He had gotten a bullhorn from somewhere, and he started shouting about “principles” and “Galveston” and “the real Juneteenth” and about how people would tear down that statue over his dead body, which didn’t make any sense because nobody had said anything about tearing down the statue. Everybody was just trying to enjoy the festival, and Chance was definitely making that hard to do. Will Prescott, the accused: Chance Gondry was an asshole, and he was being too loud. I just wanted to shut him up, and next thing I knew he was dead. Thank god I had a lawyer who knows all about science. Ephraim Foster, mayor: It was a terrible, terrible tragedy, really, really terrible. He was such a fine young man, and in the prime of his life, too. Th...
Post a Comment
Read more

ALL

By
ALL: New story posting tomorrow not today. Thanks for your patience.
Post a Comment
Read more

Sugar Pie Honey Bunch, fiction by Steve Liskow

By
Image
  F rank bent Mandy over the counter, one hand clamped over her mouth and his other groping under her skirt. I came in the back door, the key in one hand and the trash barrel in the other, and saw the fluorescent light reflecting off the tears on Mandy’s cheeks and casting jagged shadows on Frank’s face. Before they could see me, I pushed the door open again so it slammed behind me. By the time I mounted the stairs to the store proper, Mandy was gone and Frank held the day’s receipts. He nodded at me, his eyes like cinders. “All the registers are cashed out, Jerry, so you can take off.” I dropped the keys on the counter and went back downstairs for my jacket. I waited until Mandy appeared from the restroom, her face a frozen mask except for her eyes. “I saw,” I whispered. “Are you all right?” “Compared to what?” She was a year older than me, and a few inches shorter. Even in the flats the store made all the women wear, she had beautiful brown legs. I smelled fear...
Post a Comment
Read more

Shriek of the Week, fiction, Nick Mamatas

By
Image
J eremy Spokane—a mondegreen more than a pseudonym—had plenty of reasons to dislike metal. To despise it. There was that “Say You Love Satan” guy out over in Northport who killed someone over a drug deal, and how every teenage dirtbag on the island, from Seagate to Montauk, actually loved being implicated. The long-hairs loved it when the cops beat the shit out of them too; chicks dig battle scars and contusions. Jeremy, his hair long in the front, great swoopy bangs over his eyes, was less enthusiastic about being called a devil-worshiper and getting punched in the face. There were the endless guitar solos—virtuosos, sure, but in the service of what? Not even Satan, just baby baby baby and sometimes flowers sad in the rain, girl. Power ballads to play during tearful slow dances at prom in memoriam of Jenny and the Craigster who got their heads chopped off in a drunk driving incident two Saturdays prior while on their way back from Laser Zeppelin at the planetarium. And then there wa...
Post a Comment
Read more