Virgil told me, or George told Cathleen, that he died in the bath, darkness all around him and then he smiled a small smile and he lit a match and you could see his lips, wavering between folds of night and in the small waves of the bath, his snot yellow teeth pin point refractions.
A short story by Sarah Coates.
I dreamt my recurring dream where it’s summer and I’m driving with the windows down and the wind in my hair, then I glance up at the rear view mirror and see my mother sitting in the back, as if saying: Yes, here I am. I’m always with you!
An excerpt from Long Live the Post Horn!, Vigdis Hjorth’s new novel.
Until the end of September, 3:AM Magazine will be open for fiction submissions that are 1,000 to 5,000 words in length, double-spaced, and in .doc format (no PDFs please). For qualitative guidance, consider the younger pieces in our fiction archive. Send your work to mark.desub@gmail.com with a brief note in the body of your email […]
He says, ‘Freeze!’ ‘You got me,’ says the suspect, ‘What took you so long’? Falotico says, ‘Now that I’ve got you, who have I got?’ ‘You know,’ says the suspect in a soft voice. ‘No, I don’t. You tell me.’ The suspects says, ‘I’m Sam.’ ‘You’re Sam? Sam who?’ says the detective. ‘Sam. David Berkowitz.’ After the arrest, police officers search apartment 7E, 35 Pine Street, Yonkers. The space is a mess, the walls covered with satanic graffiti and cryptic messages: ‘Hi. My name IS MR WILLIAMS AND I Live IN this hole. I have Several Children who I’m Turning Into Killers. WAIT TIL they grow up. My Neighbors I have NO Respect For And I treat them like shit. Sincerely WILLIAMS.’ ‘This ain’t the Garden of Eden / There ain’t no angels above / And things ain’t what they’re supposed to be / And this ain’t the Summer, this ain’t the Summer / This ain’t, this ain’t, this ain’t the Summer of Love.’
Read an extract from Steve Finbow‘s The Mindshaft.
I decide to eat the rest of my burger in my car. I get an email from my publisher inviting me to the book fair in Montreal. I don’t like the book fair; it makes me feel like a performing monkey. A ghostly, thirty-one-year-old monkey that no one can see. I pretend I didn’t read the invite. I’m an invisible monkey in an old Mazda. I decide to go buy some groceries. I buy frozen veggies, potatoes, a big box of rice, bread, milk, meat sauce, spaghetti, and tomatoes. I feel like getting drunk tonight. The girl at the cash gives me a big smile, asks if I’d like a bag. “You just saved my life.” She thinks I’m funny. I think I’m ugly.
Except from Tatouine by Jean-Christophe Réhel, translated by Peter McCambridge and Katherine Hastings.
Though they have pored over El Imparcial each morning since last Thursday, men with sticks and youths with mangled faces, they know the death toll from the capital will be worse than the press will ever be allowed to write of. It was supposed to have been the day to celebrate the body and blood of Christ. And while last Sunday some of them were at mass, with demands that gods speak of this violence, here there are two bodies that were brought through something that they can tend to.
A short story by Ricardo Wilson.
6.4 My leader spread his hand, took up earth, and with full fists threw it into the ravenous gullets, setting our feet on their emptiness, which seemed real bodies, profane wretches turning themselves to ensure pedestrians are kept away from trucks and lorries. All equipment must comply with the EC Directives set out in BS 5228. The straight way is lost, but concierge services are your ally to help navigate life in the world’s most exciting city, carpet to wall, bespoke drawer set, mirrored vanity unit, cinema room, the baseless fabric of this vision are indicative only and are melted into air, into thin air.
Read Tom McCarthy‘s contribution to the Denizen of the Dead anthology, edited by Stewart Home.
I knew that my guest had seen. Why, she said. But there is no Why when you can see down the beam and into the colours of being. Once they have seen the lights converge the Why will dissolve into nothing.
A short story by David Hering.
Ahead of us the spine of a desiccated leviathan, the freeway curved and plunged into pelvic convolutions. Pleased by this easy drive, by the hypnotism of the journey, a kaleidoscopic landscape activated by speed and made rhythmic by road signs, I nonetheless allowed a small part of my mind to wonder where our pilot, the rabbit, might be aiming. Puzzled more than concerned, I again sat up so as to scrutinize my co-passenger and our driver.
A short story by Nick Norton.
I had lived the longest at the village house and could remember the time of arriving at consensus in our opposition to individualism of any kind. Favoritism was out. Babying, out. We didn’t ask about each other’s pasts. But there were, somehow, things we all knew about Rosie.
A short story by Jacqueline Feldman.
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