3:AM Magazine

The Controller told me to sort the good apples from the bad. She told me that good apples were good apples and bad apples were soggy and brown. She told me it would be simple.

A short story by Clare Fisher.

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In the parking lot I could see and feel right away that something was wrong, car-wise. It wasn’t just the smoke from the trunk, or the way the breeze carried the smoke. It wasn’t just the earth tilted at a weird angle, or the size of the birds, or the low sound of their call, or the blank color of the sky. It wasn’t just the incessant hum coming from nowhere, or the sweet sick smell of something like old honey, or the soft vibrations that made my ears ache.

Knausgaard burning, that was part of it.

That was just part of it.

By Nicholas Rombes.

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Not able to stop or control worrying? So restless that it is hard to sit still? Feeling afraid as if something awful might happen? Feeling tired or having little energy? Trouble concentrating on things, such as reading the newspaper or watching TV? Moving or speaking so slowly that other people could have noticed? If you’re 16 or over, this mood self-assessment can help you better understand how you’ve been feeling recently. With each question, think about how you’ve been feeling over the last q̵̧̛̛͙̱̝̣͒͋̔̈́́̾̈́̎̿̚̚͠͠u̷̦̲͗̀̔̀̿̾͠à̵̡̨̧̡̛̳̮̬͎͉̥͔̝̈́̀̍͘͠͝r̴̹̙͚͙̺̀̒̂̑͘͝ą̷̛̜̣̙̺̪̲̻̙̤͖̌̈́͋́̐̀̾̄̐̀̔̋͘͝n̴̛̲̤̙̘̼͓͈͑̆͆͌̂̿̾̏̚t̸̢̤͓̳̰̺̩̤̳̪̪̜̫̲͗̀̈͝ͅi̷͕̥͕̠͓͌̃̍͗̈́̽̄̒̈̏̏̈́͠ņ̷̥͓̜̗̲̯̩̱̹̙͊̓͛̈́̏̄̇̏e̵̛̔̃͆̃͌̈̉̏̆͠.

New fiction by Mazin Saleem.

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In much the same way as people ignore their own noses, Felix Reeve had always ignored the creeping imposition of his cheeks and ears. But whether he ignored it or not, it was a fact: he was folding in on himself.

A short story by Jordan De Visser.

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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.

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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.

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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 […]

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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.

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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.

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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.

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