#charlesbukowski #hankchinaski #bukowski… An Evil Town by Charles Bukowski, whereby Frank Evans, a balanced man, moves from town to town. Time and again he is shocked by the perversity he sees around him. When his privacy is again threatened, this time by a hotel clerk, he loses control. We love almost everything by Buk,…
#RobertBurtonRobinson #realwritersmarket… She took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor and went to Suite 1419. There was no sign. Nothing to indicate whose office it was. She reached into her purse and took out the slip of paper with her notes on it. Yes, this was supposed to be it. Robert Burton…
#BrianAuspice #realwritersmarket… I pull over at a diner. I order the special. “Here’s your hot mess,” some raggedy red-headed skank in a skimpy skirt and loose top says to me as she hands me a plate with a burger on it. “This tastes like Syphilis,” I reply after the third bite. Two bikers in…
#MichaelAllenRose #realwritersmarket… …the insect reaches out his inordinately powerful forelimbs and grabs the bat. It chitters gently at my son, who backs away, tears of rage and confusion still in his eyes. The beetle points one of its mandibles, and my children run inside the house, to safety, as it turns to me and stands…
#philiployd #realwritersmarket… The year was 2075 and the problem with illegals was only getting worse. Illegals taking jobs; illegals committing crimes; illegals sucking up government resources and contributing nothing to society. The year was 2075 and the country had had enough. The crackdown was on. There was a great wall in the country. It had…
#NateWaggoner #realwritersmarket… “I get home and Kremplus is dumping rotten meat out the window and screaming. I tell him he has to get the fuck out right now and he punches me in the face. I pull a knife from out the kitchen draw. He says, You better put that knife away or I’ll sue…
#SamuelJAdams #realwritersmarket… I jilted a lover once—I was caustic, young, and cold and I didn’t think things through—and a few days after the jilting this lover left a dead squirrel on my doormat, a chubby and fluffy Eastern gray slashed open at many angles to dispel the calm of a silver-lighted Sunday morning in mid-October.…
#BronwynMills #realwritersmarket… One night in Lisboa, Ö. went into a fado bar. He went in late, to take shelter from cold, damp weather. The place was darker than the grave; and inside sitting at a table, he saw an older man eating a lovely fish soup. The music was rising to a wail. The singer…
#AminaGautier #realwritersmarket… When the blood calls, you must answer. It sings in your veins, fills the drums of your ears, entwines itself in the coiffure of your curls, and always it surges, surges, surges. The blood calls your daughter’s name. The blood sings of the bier that was meant to be her bower, chanting…
#SethFried #realwritersmarket… “In the seventh grade, I starred in a play written by my school’s gym teacher. That year, Mr. Whitley had bullied the school board into letting him teach a section of drama so that they would be forced to raise his salary on a technicality.” Read the whole frog-eating story at the…
