Cactus in my hand
Canker sore feet
One more beer
Before I can think
Dark Exhale by Langdon L Lytle
(2193 words) The cherrywood accent table stood, snuggled, in the far corner of the room. It’s fading polished top adorned by a cluster of snow […]
In His Cups by Scott MacLeod
“If I wanted to meet in a landfill I would have taken the ferry,” said Honus, riding shotgun in the Camaro pointing to the back seat.
Poetry by Roger Darnell
Reality is tenured bullshit—
don’t humble yourself.
Handle everything well—
with poise and precision.
Working for the MOB by Angela Fitzpatrick
I got a job in practice and progressed as far as I could, but I never loved it. Trudging across muddy fields to sit in drafty barns doing VAT returns for farmers gave me no joy, and I decided to leave. A fresh start, I thought. Something different.
Four Poems from the Panopticon by Sean Bw Parker
She never quite knew what anybody meant
in her town of cheerful discontent
La Petite Mort by Susan Hatters Friedman
Phillipe was dead.
Or more precisely, I was pretty sure Phillipe was dead.
I glanced around the hotel room, the sheets twisted on the floor. I tried feeling his neck for a pulse, put my head in front of his mouth for any breath. Like on TV.
Leaving by Greig Parker
She was leaving him, leaving Henry and his spiteful remarks, leaving him for good. The decision was final, there was no going back. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and kept her eyes fixed on the dark lane ahead, which was slick from the winter rainstorm.
Lunch Break by Jonathan Simkins
Rupert watched the red seconds ticker overtake the two black clock hands aligned atop the twelve and decided it was time. It was now or never, he thought.
Green Tea by Bryan Oliver
Abel was waiting. Soon there would be a knock on the door and she would be home. He would scold her for being late, but she would know he didn’t really mean it and that he was just happy to see her. He always was. It didn’t matter when she came so he always waited, even though it was hard sometimes, for Abel was getting on in years.
Skullduggery by Philip Kimbrough
Jones couldn’t remember if that was the exact quote as he dragged his bloody, limp leg across the granite tiled lobby, but he felt that his version was appropriate all the same.
Put Him Down by JD Clapp
“Put that goddamn book down and go take care of him. We ain’t arguing about this again. You ain’t goin’ to some lib college,” he slurs.
The Unbelievable Mr. Spaulding by John Timm
No one ever has ever taken Mr. Spaulding seriously. Not even his coworkers of 17 years, not his neighbors of the the last five.
Central Park East by Kevin Joseph Reigle
She held out her left hand and showed me the ring. The playground was so loud I could barely hear what she was saying. She looked over her shoulder at the young man in an army uniform standing by the benches.
Otter is Dead by Nathaniel Krenkel
Up early for a day at the beach. Beer in the cooler and two weed gummies in my pocket. Bike tires inflated. The doorbell rings.
Shadows, War, Cliffs by Rachel Hawes
Today, in the classroom, I taught seventh graders about the importance of reading on their brain development. I said they should read a book for an hour for every hour they are online playing video games or using social media. Amid rolled eyes and low groans a student struggling to satisfy substratal standards for reading and writing said “But that would mean seven hours of reading a day”.
I know that the young brain has higher plasticity than an older brain and that teaching a mind to think critically and to love literature might help insulate it against the threats of depression or nihilistic nationalistic thinking. A mind engaged with violent video games is only engaged with death.
Nelson Mandela once said “Education is the most powerful weapon you can use to change the world.” But a habit is a regular practice and reading habits are disappearing under the dark shadow thrown by their online lives.
Ashes to Ashes by Gregory Meece
As the friends advanced into the stream, they carefully navigated submerged stones, stepping gingerly on their algae-coated surfaces. Monk supported Angela’s elbow, not because she was a woman but because of what she held between her hands—the remains of her late husband’s body.
The Katydid by Johanna R Nauraine
I can’t help thinking about what it would be like if my family were here. We’d be running around like meth addicted squirrels, buying last minute crap for each other. I have to admit, I’ve always thought that craziness was kind of festive
The P.A. and the Actor by Casey Stegman
“I’m sorry,” Melvin the actor says, trying and failing to get his hands free of the zip ties. “I didn’t think this would happen.” “Believe […]
Dancing Crows by Garth Upshaw
Last night I dressed as a crow and
Went dancing at the Coffin Club (in Portland, Oregon)
Crows are smarter than you might think
And can solve puzzles with sticks and strings
But have no equity in their homes
So will be in bad shape
Come the crash
Sweet Home Britannia by Scott MacLeod
“I can’t protect you this time, kid,” said Honus. “I’ve got the Brit leaning on me so close I can smell kidney pudding.”
Stand Your Ground By Kevin Lynch
The morning sun hadn’t quite breached the skyline as Carl Jensen rolled past the “Il Pericolo Villas” neighborhood sign, through the open security gate, around the clubhouse and swimming pool, and towards the back of the community where the duplexes were.
Season of All Natures by JT Peifer
Anxiety stalks your bed, and you flee youthwards. Stand up out of the bed in your parent’s house and walk to the door. Blast of mountain air. Don’t stop as your mother instructs the hired help. You will walk to the airstrip in this dream.
Not A Russian Short Story by Jason Escareno
The finger is not on the meat saw, which is where he cut it off. But then I see one of the butchers with the finger. It’s on a Styrofoam tray and he’s showing it to a kid, saying, this is what we do to kids who poke holes in the meat packages.
There Was No Sense Of Doom by Olga Maslova
Only an unrestricted attraction Conversations effervescent ethereal Demon in the Celestial Ether singing to Queen Tamara Tamara, your ex-girlfriend your touches exploratory charting me fingers […]
Notorious Flirts by Anita Bushell
Looking at her watch she saw it was 4:45. His plane would have landed in San Francisco, and he’d be at the apartment by 5:30. She went to the kitchen and found a vase in the cabinet above the stove. Of all the tulips at the market she chose earth red. The color would please him, she thought. She unwrapped the flowers, filled the vase with cool water, and carefully arranged them so they were welcoming and full. She opened the cabinet once more and found gin, vermouth, and Martini glasses.
Getting Burned by Virginia Betts
~From Burnt Lungs and Bitter Sweets, by Virginia Betts, 2023~ (2937 Words) ‘Well!’ exclaimed Kecks, as she slammed the door, shaking the house to high […]
Poetry by Tom Stuckey
There might as well be frost on the walls and the carpet.
I still live there even though you all moved on.
Kevorkian Gardens by JD Clapp
Sandra is fixing her mother some toast in her messy kitchen, when her mother began clanging her bell from the guest room again.
The Revelation by George C. Glasser
1966: Mickey was on the flight crews of radar planes out of Sacramento, California. Most
of the time they flew sentry over the Pacific Ocean in four hundred-mile legs from the Bering
Straits down to the Mexican border
True Love in the Funny Pages by Louis Kummerer
”Get wise to yourself, sister. The guy’s a bum.”
Mabel, Gladys’s co-worker at the five-and-dime lunch counter, was at it again about Danny, Gladys’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Mostly off again, because Danny was already married to Sandra.
“Cripes, you’re seventeen,” Mabel groused, “He’s twenty-five, two kids. He’s never going to leave his wife.”
But what did Mabel know? Mid-thirties, two marriages, two divorces. If Mabel ever knew anything about true love, she’d forgotten it long ago.
Poetry by Virginia Betts
March Winds Sick of shifting scenes on Winter desert sands and never learning where to land; picking up a ticket to another destination uninvited, empty […]
Poetry by Damon Moore
In day-glo colours worn
by cyclists
I entreat the time zones. A calf
head-spaced in a metal gate
wants to live,
Poetry by Stephen Grant
The haphazard is hazardous enough, as the chaos of light mocks our
conceit that god is on our side. She isn’t and never was. It’s a myth.
There is always more to do than time to do it, a nuclear stockpile of deeds
awaiting annihilation, but really of no moment. Love is in the doing,
Lorena’s Revenge by George C. Glasser
I was meeting a client at a financial district restaurant in Frisco. He failed to mention it was one of those exclusive dimly lit oak-panelled joints where the New Montgomery Street movers and shakers discussed business over bland meals, puffing contraband cigars, and sipping twenty-year-old single malt scotch. The maitre d informed me that there was a dress code, flagged a waiter over, and condescendingly said, “Jacket and tie for the gentleman.”
Forever Hands by Kirk Boys
It thrilled him. Watching the young barista’s slender fingers work the steamer, gently pour the hot milk atop the espresso. She had strong, working hands, but they were well cared for, pink at the pad.
Don’t Put Kincaid Barber in a Novel and Kill Him by Patrick Whitehurst
Steven Amshen wrote pulpy, mystery books. The old bull liked to plunk away, hunt and peck style, on his beat-up laptop. He camped out at the Barnes and Noble Starbucks, hung there for hours, and told anyone who’d listen about his chosen career. Only what he had to say to Kincaid felt more like a death sentence. From that day on the Grim Reaper took pleasure in teasing him.
Schooled in Wisconsin by LA Carson
Her cargo is heavy and unwieldy, but the young woman moves with confidence, wheeling it to the edge of the dock, then onto the pontoon’s deck.
The Statute Of Limitations by George C. Glasser
After over fifty years on the run, Bart was 80 years old when his past caught up with him. Everyone he knew was shocked when they saw the headlines in the morning papers.
Poetry by Paris Rosemont
BEHIND closed doors you pump her—full of air,Your pretty little Polyester Girl;
The Ballad of Shorty, Jack, and Spud by George C. Glasser
Jack said, “Do you guys mind if I put some music on the stereo?” By that time, they were well on their way to zombification, unable to utter a word, and mindlessly nodded their heads.
Dance of Vengeance by A S Deckard
The city’s neon lights glowed, casting a black web that trapped the fools daring to venture into its depths.
Compound 1080 by George C. Glasser
Jack’s was one of those little roadside cafes where all the customers knew each other and the waitress had their orders on the rack the minute she saw them pull into the parking lot.
Epitaph by Shane Joaquin Jimenez
When he opened his eyes, a figure was sitting bedside, watching the IV bag drip through the tubes feeding into his veins.
Emmerich Runs Down His Mojo by George C. Glasser
Standing outside on a stifling Summer afternoon, he watched a stocky Black guy move his belongings out of the building. The man walked up to him and said. “You should play the bass guitar.” Emmerich stood there as the man rushed up the stairs, came back with a bass guitar, handed it to him…no case… just the guitar, and said, “Now you gotta run down your mojo.” He stepped into a battered pickup truck and drove off without another word.
Dunnottar by Rob McClure
A blueberries-and-cream sky speckled with wheeling white seabirds. Herring gulls and fulmars and puffins and kittiwakes rising from sheer cliffs on three sides. The men had followed the refugee coordinator from the car park down the slope onto the peninsula and then up the long steep walk through the ravine called St. Ninian’s Den. Walls of rock soaring above and white sirens squawking warnings from on high.
The Devil Talk Compact by Dennis Kaplan
I felt her hand on my back. Our legs were entwined, she was pulling my hair, faithfully remembering every line, just as I was remembering mine.
3 Poems by Jonathan Cant
It’s Les Murray’s nightly 4am show.
It’s Stephen King’s Pennywise hiding in the sewer.
Molly And The Hitchhiker by George C. Glasser
As far as hitching a ride out of town, it was as if he were invisible. At the end of the day, he was always the last person standing at the Interstate onramp. When he felt all was lost, his luck turned, and he got a ride to Benson and started hitchhiking to Bisbee where he knew people.
The Importance of Refrigerating Your Brain by Nathan Copeland
It was the usual coffee shop: obnoxiously tiny cups but the coffee was strong. He liked the way the barista flirted with him, and he’d just learnt that his name was Max. Classic barista name.
WE JUST WANT LUV by Catherine Roberts
All in a line, we walk the streets,
Kick dead balloons at our feet,
CUDDLE CUTIES of 1939 by Russell Thayer
“Mickey wants a date tonight,” said Delores. “He asked me straight out. Bouncing on his heels like some mush-faced Boob McNutt.”
IN COGNITO (and two more poems) by Jonathan Ukah
How I long to be dead to these people,
to assume what they want and be me
to be a body without identity,
a face, a shadow among the substances,
ANOTHER MAN DONE GONE by George C. Glasser
In 1952, Billy lived on a brackish black water creek banked by swamps and scrubland about a mile or so down a dirt road from the highway where he caught the school bus.
PUNTA NEGRA by Louis Kummerer
“70 kilometres upriver. Dangerous country,” Guillermo warns me as I step into the canoe, “A bad place for gringos.”
Short Story: RY ON HAM by Scott Tierney
Trouble? It was my first time working this supermarket delicatessen. A newly hired recruit, not yet a smudge of grease up my apron nor an aversion, at least openly, to working minimum wage. So it was somewhat galling that the two guys leaning at the counter had already labelled me ‘trouble’.
Poetry: MIDWAY by John RC Potter
It was peace and it was war;
you were an angel, you were a whore.
It was heaven and it was hell;
I was not fallen, but I had fell.
You were a crazed kamikaze pilot,
and I a battleship on the ocean blue;
you wanted to sink me where I lay,
for I was too close to the truth of you.
It was a battle and it was a truce;
you were too tight, you were too loose.
It was very hot and it was very cold;
I was not selling, but I was sold.
Poetry: AMY, I ALMOST THOUGHT WE WERE SAFE (after Amy Jannotti) by Angel Rosen
I was built wrong, too, we were both rushed out
short circuited and our dysfunction
given names from the top of someone’s pile
you needed a heat lamp
Short Story: LAISSEZ LES BON TEMPSROULER (Let The Good Times Roll) by George C. Glasser
Somehow, it didn’t surprise Mat that Marcel would make his final exit when he was on top of the game and said, “I still have all those photos and recordings I did when he took me on that trip to the North Mississippi Hill Country to visit those old Bluesmen he knew. I was just thinking about producing an album. I was going to contact him about it, and wouldn’t you just know it, he up and died on me.”
Poetry: ON PURPOSE (and other poems) by Michael Pollentine
I’ve had thoughts of giving up writing
And forgetting myself
Give up the struggle to resonate
And hide from the world
Not so much from negative reviews or
More likely
Rejection
Short Story: DOWN THE DOGS by James Jenkins
“I want it done and I want it done to-fucking-day! My wife is back in the morning, Garthy. Don’t let me down!” roared Tyson Boswell, before slamming the phone down in its receiver.
Flash Fiction: MAY THE BRIDGES YOU’VE BURNED LIGHT YOUR WAY by Danila Botha
She was beautiful, like an anemic Snow White, with long dark hair and Betty Davis bangs that she often cut herself, so they were charmingly uneven. She wore orange lipstick and dark liner on her full, doll like features. If she was a little taller, she would’ve been a famous model, but as it was, she wanted to be a musician.
Short Story: WELCOME HOME by George C. Glasser
Sometimes, things never work out. Max was discharged from the Army in 1975 and promised a security job in Honduras. By the time he arrived, the company folded. Stranded and low on funds, he managed to hire on a rust bucket banana boat as a deckhand headed for Maimi.
Short Story: CINE CON CARNE by Russell Thayer
As she glanced about the room, looking for a seat, she noticed an arm waving at her from behind a phalanx of Roman soldiers gobbling hotdogs around one of the large commissary tables. The arm was connected to a young woman with cropped black hair.
Poetry: HOW TO LOCATE A DESERT ISLAND by Issac Cordova
Breathe stale air with dried lips
Summer heat with a night mix.
So bright, find a tree or two
Shade from a nuclear sun
Short Story: THE EDUCATION OF ROSEALVA Y GOMEZ by George C. Glasser
In 1979 the porno business was booming in San Francisco and a local pornographer was murdered. The editor called Rosealva into the office and said that he wanted her to look into a rumored connection with organized crime.
Short Story: HANK & BETH by A.R. Bender
The racetrack bugle call blaring out the intercom speakers jolted him out of his reverie, followed by the sight of horses galloping from the paddock to the track. He checked the odds on the Tote Board, scrubbed his stubbly gray goatee, and tried to figure out if he wanted to bet on it. Finally, he decided to pass because he was already forty bucks down and fifty was his limit. He’d handicapped a promising 8-1 shot on the morning line coming up later in the card, and a $10 win ticket on it might put him even or better for the day.
Short Story: HITTING HER MARK by Russell Thayer
Patting her pale stomach and the dark pile of hair where her long legs met for pleasure, Vivian calculated it must be her sixth visit to Tully’s private getaway cave, with its bare walls, dark-stained Venetian blinds, and wide, comfortable bed. An assistant director at Paramount, Tully had money. He always tipped her a sawbuck just for showing up, and he treated her swell during the hours they spent together. When he called the agency, Tully always asked for their prettiest girl.
Short Story: HEARTSTRINGS by M.E. Proctor
They clapped, whistled, and hooted. The guitar player had a hold on the audience. His songs were all right, the banter between them was better. Max leaned against the back wall. He was tempted to go to the well-appointed bar in the foyer to get a drink, but he had a job to do. Most of the people around him held glasses and plastic cups that they put down on the floor when the urge to applaud came over them. It was a civilized venue, not one of these roadside watering holes where bottles and fists were likely to take flight and crash. The urbane, and urban, nature of the converted cinema presented difficulties.
Short Story: CHARLIE & LOUISE by George C. Glasser
The last time Charlie saw his father was at the train station at the onset of World War Two, and from that point, he and his mother were on their own. He was near four years old then, and the memories of his father were more like fragmented dreams – a person he vaguely remembered.
Short Story: BLUE ROB’S LETTERS by Paul Kimm
Robert Boulton had no friends that any of us knew of. I reckon his mum and dad were his only friends. That kind of kid. It made me feel sorry for him, but only as a secret. Absolutely as a secret. You couldn’t feel sorry for Robert, or anyone, openly.
Short Story: BLASTING MOLLY ROCKETS by Danila Botha
When she woke up in the doorway, the rusting metal felt cold against her cheek, like an ice pack against a slowly puffing bruise. It almost made her miss her mother, for a second.
Flash Fiction: THE BUBBLEGUM INCIDENT by George C. Glasser
Fritz was a writer who only got a job to earn enough money to finance his next move and pay the rent. He was a degenerate gambler of sorts, but he figured it was better to bet on himself than to play the odds at a card table or on the ponies. At any rate, he liked to write.
Poetry: OUT TOO LATE OR TOO EARLY by W. Barrett Munn
I knew better than to be out so late
so you can say it was my own fault
and I did lie about being eighteen at fifteen
but you didn’t see her in the moonlight, sitting
there on her porch, a little
older, a little wiser, a little
Poetry: TOURIST TO THE SUN (and more) by Virginia Betts
Fired-up for take-off,
wearing my asbestos suit, designed to deflect,
I bring with me a cabin full of un-marked baggage for the hold.
Short Story: THE INVISIBLE WOMAN by Virginia Betts
Kitty shouted, all right, she was coming! On her way! Bloody people, whoever they were, knocking on her door in the early morning. Why didn’t they just leave her alone?
Flash Fiction: DON’T KNOCK IT TILL YOU’VE TRIED IT by Bridgette James
A male colleague and I had walked past her without realising that it was actually a woman leaning against the electricity pylon: statue-like.
Short Story: THE BEST BATCH YET by George C. Glasser
In 1965, to avoid being conscripted into the Army as cannon fodder, Ed, a streetwise kid, joined the Air Force during the Vietnam War. After […]
Short Story: AMOR FATI (Love of Fate) by George C. Glasser
On one day, you’re riding high, and the next, you’re on the skids. The highlife all seemed like a dream when Sid thought about where he was at that moment – 1982 – the US was in the middle of a recession.
Poetry: A BEAUTIFUL DAY by Jonathan Ukah
mass of wet flesh
in silent scuffle
nudges and squeezes
against one another
in a hot train
Flash Fiction: THE PROBLEM WITH FUNERALS by B F Jones
Like a Pollock painting with a haemoglobin firehose…
Short Story: TRUE STORY by Angi Plant
I should feel relieved that you’re finally going. And I am. Except I don’t really believe it, yet. From first being honest enough to say the words that I want you to leave and go back to your place, there’s been a barrage of bloody everything. Texts from you. Your sister. People accosting me in the street. Outside the church. For fucks sake you’re a grown man. Accept it and leave me the fuck alone.
Flash Fiction: HARRY IN JAIL by Ben Newell
He wracked his brain trying to figure out what it could be. Had he fucked something up? Missed an important deadline? He didn’t think so.
Flash Fiction: SHITE & SWEAT by Scott Cumming
She thought ah wis a right selfish c*nt and then ah only went ‘n’ fuckin’ proved it.
Short Story: EMILY IS HEARING VOICES by Hannah Glickstein
The middle-aged woman in heavy red clogs and a pinafore resumes sympathetically gazing. Her sixteen-year-old tattooed and pierced patient sits in judgement, counting five more seconds; pretending to take the walrus seriously.
Short Story: THE PRODIGAL SON by George C. Glasser
The older he got, the more responsibility fell on his shoulders. Before school, he had to shovel the shit out of the pig sties and slop them, then feed and clean after the other animals, eat breakfast and walk a mile up the road to catch the school bus. After school, all he had to look forward to was repeating the morning chores.
Short Story: LAST NIGHT IN MEXICO by George C. Glasser
San Francisco, hippies, Vietnam War, and riots all seemed like distant memories from some obscure past life
Xmas Flash: PEACEMEAL by Norman Thomson
Christmas, Easter, Summer Solstice, whatever, we’ve had a good run, Nigel muses. PeaceMeal’s premise remains compelling: Gather accomplished chefs from rival countries facing heated conflict. Marshal their feuds in a live studio cook-off; invite audience tastings. Salute the platters. Momentarily, sport and compromise unite belligerent nations.
The best gritty noir novels full of poetic lines, dirty realism, and dark humour
The best gritty noir novels full of poetic lines, dirty realism, and dark humour
POETRY COLLECTION: Walking Towards The Noise by John Bowie
Written in and out of lockdowns, this collection features poetry, written mask on and mask off, for those who feel life’s complexities towards love, endurance and survival.
POEM: Drinking Buddies by Michael Pollentine
You’ll find as you get older
More of your friends will die
He said that to me
When he wasn’t making racist jokes
OUT NOW: Where Angels Fall (The Noir Collective Anthology)
WHERE ANGELS FALL is a Noir Anthology featuring three feature-length stories by the creators of the Crime Syndicate, Tom Rollins and Black Viking Thrillers
OUT NOW: Dead Birds & Sinking Ships by John Bowie
‘’…a nod to the disenchanted travellers who speak the truth. Shaping poetry
that conveys days struck by melancholy
and unmistakable pain.’’
Bristol Noir Anthology (Launch editions 1+2)
Bristol Noir Anthology launch editions (1+2) featuring writing from some of the best new and established crime, noir and dark fiction writers from around the World.