Twisted Fiction Press

Tag: JS Breukelaar


by on Nov.12, 2009, under Flash

by J.S. Breukelaar

Bobby left the apartment and went to find the DJ, but the DJ had left the building. At the end of the hall, he pushed through a door and began to climb the stairs, dark drifts of dust at the edges. At the top of the stairs, he pushed hard against another door, stepping over butts and condoms jizzed to the spongy threshold, the smell so sad, and the door opened to the night and there she was, up on the roof, sitting with her back to him high above the silent streets.

‘Listen to me,’ the DJ said.

He wiped his eyes and went toward her until he reached the edge. On the long empty road far beneath her dangling legs some shadows moved and some didn’t.

‘I’ve played in Varanasi. The band set up on a ghat beside the piles of white ash. Ram, my roadie at the time—I picked him up in Cairo—had to kick aside a human femur to hook up the amp. Once I played in the Rio favela, the decks set up on an overturned bathtub on the roof of someone’s kitchen, and twice I blew a marine outside of Fallujah for some scag, but I don’t remember the first time. The second time I met you I wrote you a song, but I lost it, and the remix isn’t as good. Out of one song comes another, each dream a little death. I got the giggles over a mass grave outside of Kladovo, it’s the way it hits you sometimes, but it only hurts when I laugh. I slept in a Malaysian body parts depot or tried to, just to put myself in the mood for our homecoming tour. But you never came. I heard you on a radio interview once. You called in with a question. I was down Sonora Beach at the time. I’d dropped the mic down into a dumpster for some unique samples, the wind blowing across the dunes through the ears of a rodent. But all I got were the sounds of teeth on metal. You wanted to know what song I would play to someone who had just been born.’

Bobby sat down beside the DJ on the ledge, his legs dangling into space next to hers, and the wind gusting all around. He knew she would not let him fall.

J.S. Breukelaar is a Sydney based writer.
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Blue Moves on Scribd

by on Oct.23, 2009, under blog

The first chapter of TFP’s co-editor, JS Breukelaar’s novel-in-waiting, Blue Moves, is posted up now on Scribd:

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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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Dead Celebrity

by on Mar.19, 2009, under Uncategorized

Dead Celebrity FACT 1: I go by the name of DJ Person, except in Jersey where they call me Poison. You probably heard about my Desert Storm tour, playing to the devil dogs outside of Faluja because in my opinion, the music scene in Baghdad is not what it was. So. The ongoing arrangement I have with Jimmy the Shoe reaches its use-by date toward the end of summer, 1993. Jimmy drops by the Jersey studio to welcome me home. One minute we’re doing Bollie and Bolivian Brown, the next I’m lying in a ditch in Ridgewood. A couple of kids nudging my legs with their Nikes, kneel down to feel for a pulse, jump back. I open my eyes behind my ‘Bans and watch them pointing at all the places on my body that still hurt. They go through my pockets, stare at the tell-tale dreadlocks. Then the penny drops—shit, it’s that DJ. The older girl jumps up, says run for it. I grind my teeth and will my arm out—a forest fire bearing down on my chest—grab her by the ankle. Pee runs down her legs, trickles warm across my knuckles around her ankle. I tighten my grip. With my free hand, I take off the ‘Bans, show them what Jimmy did to my eyes. Drool bungies from the lip of her kid brother. I float off for a time on the nausea, my heart’s on fire, a chill so bone-deep I shiver. Feel the cell-phone drop back onto my chest to land on a broken rib with an incredibly painful thunk. I wait for the wallet but it doesn’t come and I wince on the inside—I was that savvy once. I hear her whimper but will she find the strength to scream? Or barf all over me instead. Time is not my friend. My ears fill with the bloody tears I weep at the fear of not being alive. Sounds like the beach. Places I’ve been. I hold on tight to her bony ankle. Turn to the child.
‘Learn,’ I say. ‘To forget.’
(continue reading…)

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