Twisted Fiction Press

Archive for June, 2009


by on Jun.15, 2009, under Uncategorized

When Turner blinked in the park in the glare of the morning the hand was still there. It lay on the wood chips where Clint Eastwood had bitten it off at the wrist. The child stood staring at it and a bubble of spit rose and fell from her mouth with every breath. Turner shuffled to one side and glanced around him. The park was as empty as ever at this scant-shadowed time of day. Pale dry leaves lay scattered on the wood chips and the little hand could have been camouflaged among them but for the blood clinging brightly to the edge. He heard Clint Eastwood muttering in confusion at the edge of the playground.
He could see the mother. She was over by the gondola talking on the phone with her back to them. She was tall and very thin wearing black tights and a short jacket. Her knee-high boots had a crack in one heel. The park was empty apart from Turner standing by the seesaw and the child in her parka staring at her hand on the wood chips and the mother on the phone and Clint Eastwood licking the unfamiliar taste of human blood off his muzzle. (continue reading…)

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The God Abandons Antony, by C.P. Cavafy

by on Jun.09, 2009, under Uncategorized

At midnight, when suddenly you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly:
as one long prepared, and full of courage,
say goodbye to her, to Alexandria who is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and full of courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion,
but not with the whining, the please of a coward;
listen—your final pleasure—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of the strange procession,
and say good-bye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

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by on Jun.02, 2009, under Uncategorized

Dale first noticed Lila through the window of the store at closing time. She was staring at something behind him, and it took Dale a minute to figure out that it was the poster of Michael Madsen as Mr Blonde in Reservoir Dogs.
Dale had dedicated the entire bookstore to Tarantino as a way of trying to cash in on the retrospective down at the Odeon. The theatre owed him, after all. Hadn’t movies all but killed the book trade, although Dale didn’t really believe that. He kept his eyes on the girl and slid the drawer shut on the day’s meagre takings. The girl raised her arm and pulled the trigger on an imaginary gun. Dale smiled and acted shot.
The next day she came back. This time, the gun she pulled out from under her skirt was real. Bam! Dale looked down at the blossoming red rose on his shirt and then up again at the girl standing on the dark and empty street.
‘What?’ he said.
The bell on the glass door tinkled faintly. Dale couldn’t see who had come in because he was lying on the floor—he did not remember why. It was the girl. She stood over him, but her eyes were still on Michael Madsen. Her skin looked milky, as white as the moon. Her eyes were too large and too dark. The lashes waved like the tail-feathers of an exotic bird. She’d used mascara heavy with glitter. Then she looked down as if noticing him for the first time—the blood pooling mid-body. Her irises were inky and her lips looked full yet undefined. She knelt beside him, still holding the gun. He could smell chocolate on her breath.
‘You know I’m a fiction,’ said Lila Marc. ‘But you believe in me, anyway—don’t you?’

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