3 AM: London, New York, Paris is a brutal a beautiful collection of short fiction focused around three of the world's great cities.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
Contest!
Magazine of the Dead is running its first ever contest. The rules are simple: write a story inspired by this phrase:
Atomic Neologism
The story must be in some way related to that phrase (it can be quite a stretch, we’re not picky) and must contain the phrase somewhere in the text. Send the story to us. We will post all entries we receive, then our panel of gold ribbon judges will choose a winner. The author of the best story will receive a pile of loot (mostly books).
Cheers Deadites.
Atomic Neologism
The story must be in some way related to that phrase (it can be quite a stretch, we’re not picky) and must contain the phrase somewhere in the text. Send the story to us. We will post all entries we receive, then our panel of gold ribbon judges will choose a winner. The author of the best story will receive a pile of loot (mostly books).
Cheers Deadites.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Judge, Jury
Judge, Jury
By RJ Astruc
“Pedophile,” says the woman in the red hat.
She points at the space above Gavin’s head with a long, bony finger and curls her lip like a wolf scenting weakness. Off-balanced by the groceries in his arms, Gavin takes a step back, shrinking against the supermarket’s wall.
The woman seems amused by his fear. She’s a tiny thing, skinny and hunched, but her hatred makes her appear larger. She says the word again, louder, a rising hysteria in her voice: “Pedophile.”
Let he who hath no sins, Gavin thinks wishfully, pushing past her and on up the road. The woman is clearly no saint herself. A cluster of petty crimes buzz about her hat like tiny fireflies—a couple of shoplifting convictions, a few loitering charges, and a single break-and-entry that glows a malignant purple. Of course, in her mind these criminal infringements must all pale in comparison to his. Gavin remembers hearing that back when there were still jails, it was the pedophiles who were most likely to be killed or beaten by their fellow inmates. And most likely to find justice—or judgement—in their cells, hanging from a bed-sheet noose.
No matter what they say about the new law, not much has changed, he thinks, looking over his shoulder. The woman is still following him, still pointing, still shrieking. My own fault, Gavin chastises himself, walking faster. Should have waited a few hours until nightfall, when the rest of my kind—the eternally guilty—crawl out of the shadows to shop and feed.
“Leave me alone,” he shouts over his shoulder. “I didn’t do anything. It was years ago, Christ.”
But it’s too late. There’s other people coming, now. Unfriendly faces appear in doorways, in shop fronts, their eyes fixed on the criminal abomination that hovers above his head. They’re joining in the—the hunt, Gavin realizes, with growing horror. There’s almost twenty of them trailing him by the time he turns the corner. The charges recorded above their heads warn him that some have prior lynching convictions, have been involved in vigilante behavior, have murdered…
He starts to jog. He loses a can from his grocery bag but doesn’t stop to pick it up. Not a pedophile, he wants to say. Statutory rape. But how to explain that to the masses? Gavin searches for the right words, the case he’d put before the jury of his peers.
An adolescent mistake, your Honors. I was nineteen, she was seventeen; her parents were out; we sat on the couch; we kissed; we fumbled; it was a cold night and we were thankful for the warmth. After the court case—I pled guilty, guilty, guilty—we got back together and year later she had a child, mine; he died from leukemia at four. Klara lives in New York now, married to a painter; we trade cards and memories every Christmas...
Except the words don’t come when he opens his mouth, to shout his almost-innocence to the crowd that chases him. Because that’s the way of the new law, this new transparent justice, where the people—the masses, the mobs—take the roles of judge, jury and, when they can, executioner.
Gavin drops his bags and runs. He’s had a lot of practice.
By RJ Astruc
“Pedophile,” says the woman in the red hat.
She points at the space above Gavin’s head with a long, bony finger and curls her lip like a wolf scenting weakness. Off-balanced by the groceries in his arms, Gavin takes a step back, shrinking against the supermarket’s wall.
The woman seems amused by his fear. She’s a tiny thing, skinny and hunched, but her hatred makes her appear larger. She says the word again, louder, a rising hysteria in her voice: “Pedophile.”
Let he who hath no sins, Gavin thinks wishfully, pushing past her and on up the road. The woman is clearly no saint herself. A cluster of petty crimes buzz about her hat like tiny fireflies—a couple of shoplifting convictions, a few loitering charges, and a single break-and-entry that glows a malignant purple. Of course, in her mind these criminal infringements must all pale in comparison to his. Gavin remembers hearing that back when there were still jails, it was the pedophiles who were most likely to be killed or beaten by their fellow inmates. And most likely to find justice—or judgement—in their cells, hanging from a bed-sheet noose.
No matter what they say about the new law, not much has changed, he thinks, looking over his shoulder. The woman is still following him, still pointing, still shrieking. My own fault, Gavin chastises himself, walking faster. Should have waited a few hours until nightfall, when the rest of my kind—the eternally guilty—crawl out of the shadows to shop and feed.
“Leave me alone,” he shouts over his shoulder. “I didn’t do anything. It was years ago, Christ.”
But it’s too late. There’s other people coming, now. Unfriendly faces appear in doorways, in shop fronts, their eyes fixed on the criminal abomination that hovers above his head. They’re joining in the—the hunt, Gavin realizes, with growing horror. There’s almost twenty of them trailing him by the time he turns the corner. The charges recorded above their heads warn him that some have prior lynching convictions, have been involved in vigilante behavior, have murdered…
He starts to jog. He loses a can from his grocery bag but doesn’t stop to pick it up. Not a pedophile, he wants to say. Statutory rape. But how to explain that to the masses? Gavin searches for the right words, the case he’d put before the jury of his peers.
An adolescent mistake, your Honors. I was nineteen, she was seventeen; her parents were out; we sat on the couch; we kissed; we fumbled; it was a cold night and we were thankful for the warmth. After the court case—I pled guilty, guilty, guilty—we got back together and year later she had a child, mine; he died from leukemia at four. Klara lives in New York now, married to a painter; we trade cards and memories every Christmas...
Except the words don’t come when he opens his mouth, to shout his almost-innocence to the crowd that chases him. Because that’s the way of the new law, this new transparent justice, where the people—the masses, the mobs—take the roles of judge, jury and, when they can, executioner.
Gavin drops his bags and runs. He’s had a lot of practice.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
An apology and a couple of ads.
Like a father who has left his starving child to die, I have no idea how to apologize for leaving you all with no updates, no reasoning, no clue as to what's going on. We're back to breathe new life into this project, but hopefully not too late. We're down to two main editors here. It's been plain crazy for everyone involved, and this started to become less of a priority. For that I am truly sorry. On that note, I hope you forgive us and are willing to give us a second shot.
The zombie anthology, oh man where to begin. A lot of you got tired of waiting and pulled your submissions. I understand that completely. We're working very hard to finalize this project and bring it to you. Let us know if you have pulled your submission and wish to come back on board, or if you would rather not wait for us anymore. Again, I apologize and let's get this show on the road!
-Joshua Weston
Co-editor, Magazine of the Dead
Now on to some good stuff.
Steven Shrewsbury, a friend of everyone who reads or works for MoTD, has released the book HAWG through Graveside Tales. Click the cover to read more about and purchase it. The plot, as explained by the website goes a little something like this:
"Blue collar tough Andrew White knows that in the rural community of Miller’s Fork bad things are best left in the dark. He soon learns that monsters wear many shapes.
In a populace rife with of vice and deception, something has broken loose… something hidden and feral. Set free from a neighbor’s barn, a force rampages through the locality. Hungry and insatiable, the berserk wrath unleashed from Mr. Solow’s shed is holds a darker secret than anyone could imagine.
Only a factory worker, a twisted biker, an unsure sheriff, and a wounded addict stand in the way of the beast. Can they put aside their differences and defeat what lurks inside them in time to defend what they love?
Come, peer inside the souls of Miller’s Fork and see if they possess the courage to stop the primal fury that is…HAWG."
You might remember Steven from his submission "Always Faithful", published here June 5th. Steven is a very talented (and totally disturbing) writer and we at MoTD wish him nothing but the best.
Another friend to M0TD, Christopher Allan Death, has been busy over in his neck of the woods as well. He's been on this site several times and has a novella coming out and some other projects in the works. Read about him at his MySpace page.
The zombie anthology, oh man where to begin. A lot of you got tired of waiting and pulled your submissions. I understand that completely. We're working very hard to finalize this project and bring it to you. Let us know if you have pulled your submission and wish to come back on board, or if you would rather not wait for us anymore. Again, I apologize and let's get this show on the road!
-Joshua Weston
Co-editor, Magazine of the Dead
Now on to some good stuff.
Steven Shrewsbury, a friend of everyone who reads or works for MoTD, has released the book HAWG through Graveside Tales. Click the cover to read more about and purchase it. The plot, as explained by the website goes a little something like this:
"Blue collar tough Andrew White knows that in the rural community of Miller’s Fork bad things are best left in the dark. He soon learns that monsters wear many shapes.
In a populace rife with of vice and deception, something has broken loose… something hidden and feral. Set free from a neighbor’s barn, a force rampages through the locality. Hungry and insatiable, the berserk wrath unleashed from Mr. Solow’s shed is holds a darker secret than anyone could imagine.
Only a factory worker, a twisted biker, an unsure sheriff, and a wounded addict stand in the way of the beast. Can they put aside their differences and defeat what lurks inside them in time to defend what they love?
Come, peer inside the souls of Miller’s Fork and see if they possess the courage to stop the primal fury that is…HAWG."
You might remember Steven from his submission "Always Faithful", published here June 5th. Steven is a very talented (and totally disturbing) writer and we at MoTD wish him nothing but the best.
Another friend to M0TD, Christopher Allan Death, has been busy over in his neck of the woods as well. He's been on this site several times and has a novella coming out and some other projects in the works. Read about him at his MySpace page.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
