The First Time I Stop Breathing
by Lena Judith Drake
I feel like molasses,
all heavy-lidded eyes. Somewhere by the crook of my elbow,
you say
I never thought I'd let anyone get this close.
My words answer brokenly, fingers in your hair,
and our dark wine movements make
peace with suffocation.
- - -
Bio: Lena Judith Drake is the editor-in-chief of Breadcrumb Scabs magazine. She is a Creative Writing and Women & Gender Studies double major at Grand Valley State University.
by Lena Judith Drake
I feel like molasses,
all heavy-lidded eyes. Somewhere by the crook of my elbow,
you say
I never thought I'd let anyone get this close.
My words answer brokenly, fingers in your hair,
and our dark wine movements make
peace with suffocation.
- - -
Bio: Lena Judith Drake is the editor-in-chief of Breadcrumb Scabs magazine. She is a Creative Writing and Women & Gender Studies double major at Grand Valley State University.
Tristan
By Sergio A. Ortiz
Breathe,
let the lepers out.
Drift to the edge of my cloud
and speak.
Find the fire, burn
my locust storm.
Persuade me to sleep
in a matrix full of sails that drift
disoriented yet attuned
to the wind.
Touch me like an innocent
man willing to let go
of his campfire
in the middle of this circular
stage,
the classroom
where pupils are attentive
to the magician’s tricks.
Dream and let that dream flood
my vigilant ghosts,
impostors of windflowers
and silk.
- - -
Ortiz is an educator, poet, and photographer. He has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His photographs will appear in The Neglected Ration and The Monongahela Review. He was recently published, or is forthcoming in: The Battered Suitcase, Zygote in my Coffee, Right Hand Pointing, Poui: Cave Hill Journal of Creative Writing, Writers’ Bloc, and Temenos. Flutter Press published his chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009).
By Sergio A. Ortiz
Breathe,
let the lepers out.
Drift to the edge of my cloud
and speak.
Find the fire, burn
my locust storm.
Persuade me to sleep
in a matrix full of sails that drift
disoriented yet attuned
to the wind.
Touch me like an innocent
man willing to let go
of his campfire
in the middle of this circular
stage,
the classroom
where pupils are attentive
to the magician’s tricks.
Dream and let that dream flood
my vigilant ghosts,
impostors of windflowers
and silk.
- - -
Ortiz is an educator, poet, and photographer. He has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His photographs will appear in The Neglected Ration and The Monongahela Review. He was recently published, or is forthcoming in: The Battered Suitcase, Zygote in my Coffee, Right Hand Pointing, Poui: Cave Hill Journal of Creative Writing, Writers’ Bloc, and Temenos. Flutter Press published his chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009).
Flipped
By Bec Zugor
Heads: “That’s it, then. From now on, I’ll make decisions based solely upon the toss of a coin.” Kel kissed his antique 2015 fiver. “You, my friend, will organise my life. Stuff the Corporation and its rules. My life’s been boring for too long; spontaneity is the answer. Now, do I or don’t I?”
Tails: “A fun decision, my silver sage.” Kel filled all the boxes on the Corporation’s Hourly Analysis of Activities/Monday e-form with “NOYB.” Too right. How he spent his days was nobody’s business but his.
Heads: “Spot on. I’d rather have nutriberry jam than SimFish paste anyway.” He ate his breakfast in silence, and raised a glass of soya milk to his wife’s holoshrine. Should he worry?
Tails: Yes. He started to worry; the Corporation could do to him what it did to her. What next? He flipped his fiver.
Heads: “Damn. I wanted tails again.” Tails would’ve meant hiding in his friend Marty’s bunker until he could get an eye transplant and a new ID chip. Heads meant heading for the hills and hoping for a miracle escape from the Enforcers. He gathered some essentials and made his way to the roof of the 80-storey block. The bus arrived. He needed somewhere on the outskirts of the city. N or T?
Tails: “Sector N,” Kel said, waving his hand at the small screen inside the door. Good, they hadn’t stopped his credits yet. The bus was full, so he stood near the door. A blue-skinned Torlanite glared at him, all the while plaiting the tendrils sprouting from her eyebrows. Should he risk a smile? They made fantastic lovers, he’d heard – not that he had time to do anything about it now – and apparently they liked humans.
Tails: Apparently not, and now the whole busload was watching him. Instead, he smiled at the Nuarin standing next to him. He needed to appear casual. “Crowded today, huh?”
“What’s with the coin?” The Nuarin whipped out a tentacle and grabbed the fiver from Kel’s hand.
“It’s a better way of making decisions. You should do the same.” Kel raised his voice, forgetting that he was supposed to be keeping a low profile. “For too long, the Corporation has…” He stopped, open-mouthed, as the Nuarin snapped his precious coin in half with his pincers. Kel snatched the pieces back. He hadn’t expected this. “Do I get off or do I stay on the bus?” he whispered, and flipped. The two halves landed.
Heads and tails: “What the hell does that mean?”
“I’ll show you what it means,” said the Nuarin, lunging forwards and cuffing Kel’s left hand to the rail. He then opened the door, switched on his Corporation laser blade, and calmly sliced him in half. The lower part of Kel’s body fell towards the street below. The upper half slumped to the floor. Eyes wide with shock, Kel used his free hand to try to stop his guts spilling towards the open doorway.
“P-p-please…”
“You can be rebuilt, you know.” The voice came from somewhere near the back of the bus. “If we get to the Medcentre in time.”
“Or you can die.” The Nuarin picked up the pieces of coin from where they lay in the spreading pool of blood, and tossed them into the air. “Tails says we take you to the Med.” The two halves landed.
“I m-may have been wrong about s-spontaneity,” Kel gasped.
Heads: “You lose, so let’s speed things up,” the Nuarin laughed, and aimed his laser at Kel’s neck.
- - -
Bec Zugor has had short stories published in a number of ezines and magazines, including Scribble, MicroHorror and Escape Velocity. She lives in Sussex, England with her husband and two sons.
By Bec Zugor
Heads: “That’s it, then. From now on, I’ll make decisions based solely upon the toss of a coin.” Kel kissed his antique 2015 fiver. “You, my friend, will organise my life. Stuff the Corporation and its rules. My life’s been boring for too long; spontaneity is the answer. Now, do I or don’t I?”
Tails: “A fun decision, my silver sage.” Kel filled all the boxes on the Corporation’s Hourly Analysis of Activities/Monday e-form with “NOYB.” Too right. How he spent his days was nobody’s business but his.
Heads: “Spot on. I’d rather have nutriberry jam than SimFish paste anyway.” He ate his breakfast in silence, and raised a glass of soya milk to his wife’s holoshrine. Should he worry?
Tails: Yes. He started to worry; the Corporation could do to him what it did to her. What next? He flipped his fiver.
Heads: “Damn. I wanted tails again.” Tails would’ve meant hiding in his friend Marty’s bunker until he could get an eye transplant and a new ID chip. Heads meant heading for the hills and hoping for a miracle escape from the Enforcers. He gathered some essentials and made his way to the roof of the 80-storey block. The bus arrived. He needed somewhere on the outskirts of the city. N or T?
Tails: “Sector N,” Kel said, waving his hand at the small screen inside the door. Good, they hadn’t stopped his credits yet. The bus was full, so he stood near the door. A blue-skinned Torlanite glared at him, all the while plaiting the tendrils sprouting from her eyebrows. Should he risk a smile? They made fantastic lovers, he’d heard – not that he had time to do anything about it now – and apparently they liked humans.
Tails: Apparently not, and now the whole busload was watching him. Instead, he smiled at the Nuarin standing next to him. He needed to appear casual. “Crowded today, huh?”
“What’s with the coin?” The Nuarin whipped out a tentacle and grabbed the fiver from Kel’s hand.
“It’s a better way of making decisions. You should do the same.” Kel raised his voice, forgetting that he was supposed to be keeping a low profile. “For too long, the Corporation has…” He stopped, open-mouthed, as the Nuarin snapped his precious coin in half with his pincers. Kel snatched the pieces back. He hadn’t expected this. “Do I get off or do I stay on the bus?” he whispered, and flipped. The two halves landed.
Heads and tails: “What the hell does that mean?”
“I’ll show you what it means,” said the Nuarin, lunging forwards and cuffing Kel’s left hand to the rail. He then opened the door, switched on his Corporation laser blade, and calmly sliced him in half. The lower part of Kel’s body fell towards the street below. The upper half slumped to the floor. Eyes wide with shock, Kel used his free hand to try to stop his guts spilling towards the open doorway.
“P-p-please…”
“You can be rebuilt, you know.” The voice came from somewhere near the back of the bus. “If we get to the Medcentre in time.”
“Or you can die.” The Nuarin picked up the pieces of coin from where they lay in the spreading pool of blood, and tossed them into the air. “Tails says we take you to the Med.” The two halves landed.
“I m-may have been wrong about s-spontaneity,” Kel gasped.
Heads: “You lose, so let’s speed things up,” the Nuarin laughed, and aimed his laser at Kel’s neck.
- - -
Bec Zugor has had short stories published in a number of ezines and magazines, including Scribble, MicroHorror and Escape Velocity. She lives in Sussex, England with her husband and two sons.
Nightmares, Secrets, and Museums
By Sergio A. Ortiz
Think of me as Dionysus
resting with a fetus inside my leg
as lasting less than a candle or a rock
Think of me as gusts unexpected
vibrations on earth’s surface
(it does not fancy us here)
Grapes shrivel as leaves fade
to their sepia dwellings
Think of me as wordless translations
of poems breathing in the silent spaces
all over this museum, as secrets
in a secret language
- - -
Ortiz is an educator, poet, and photographer. He has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His photographs will appear in The Neglected Ration and The Monongahela Review. He was recently published, or is forthcoming in: The Battered Suitcase, Zygote in my Coffee, Right Hand Pointing, Poui: Cave Hill Journal of Creative Writing, Writers’ Bloc, and Temenos. Flutter Press published his chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009).
By Sergio A. Ortiz
Think of me as Dionysus
resting with a fetus inside my leg
as lasting less than a candle or a rock
Think of me as gusts unexpected
vibrations on earth’s surface
(it does not fancy us here)
Grapes shrivel as leaves fade
to their sepia dwellings
Think of me as wordless translations
of poems breathing in the silent spaces
all over this museum, as secrets
in a secret language
- - -
Ortiz is an educator, poet, and photographer. He has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His photographs will appear in The Neglected Ration and The Monongahela Review. He was recently published, or is forthcoming in: The Battered Suitcase, Zygote in my Coffee, Right Hand Pointing, Poui: Cave Hill Journal of Creative Writing, Writers’ Bloc, and Temenos. Flutter Press published his chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009).
Subsist
by Lena Judith Drake
she offers her shoulder for her version of a hug. it's not exactly open arms, but it's fresh, clean scraps, it's something. a sharp inhalation of her scent.
it won't stay with you, the warmth. your hand brushes her stomach as she pulls away.
- - -
Bio: Lena Judith Drake is the editor-in-chief of Breadcrumb Scabs magazine. She is a Creative Writing and Women & Gender Studies double major at Grand Valley State University.
by Lena Judith Drake
she offers her shoulder for her version of a hug. it's not exactly open arms, but it's fresh, clean scraps, it's something. a sharp inhalation of her scent.
it won't stay with you, the warmth. your hand brushes her stomach as she pulls away.
- - -
Bio: Lena Judith Drake is the editor-in-chief of Breadcrumb Scabs magazine. She is a Creative Writing and Women & Gender Studies double major at Grand Valley State University.
Alpha Centauri
By Brian Biswas
It was just a short hop from there to Alpha Centauri. I approached on a beam of light and was amazed by the grandeur of the galaxy which unfolded before my eyes: blue planets, gold planets, blue and gold planets, planets shrouded in mist, naked planets, gaseous stars, compact stars, giant stars, stars giving birth to stars, stars spiraling into stars, dark clouds of dust and debris. I came to rest on one of these planets and found it not unlike my own Earth, or rather, an Earth from long ago. I saw green fields and tall pine trees that swayed in a humid breeze. Gently rolling hills dotted with red-and-white wildflowers off in the distance. There were clouds in the sky but they were lime-green in color and translucent, unlike any I had seen before. Two suns were overhead--circling each other in a deadly embrace--their disks of a golden hue, and I recalled that this sector of the galaxy was home to several binary star systems, into one of which I must have ventured. Swarms of yellow butterflies rose before me and I followed them for nearly a mile over a winding dirt trail to a waterfall that overlooked a magnificent valley. I saw no creatures of any kind in the valley and it was then I realized how deadly silent it was out here in this no-man’s-land on a planet in a binary-star system of the galaxy Alpha Centauri. And I was overcome with grief. Alas, this planet was long dead. A land of nevermores. But--no!--even then I was mistaken. Off in the distance something was moving. I saw a dust cloud rising up and a line of horses led by a woman on an Arabian stallion making its way towards a ring of fire. A holy caravan on its way to one of the pyramids of Ishtar. I shielded my eyes from the light of the blinding suns and the image vanished. Sadly, it had been but an illusion. Or rather the memory of an illusion for at that moment I realized this was an image from Earth’s past, when the planet was young and teaming with life and death was an unknown word.
- - -
Brian Biswas has been published in the United States as well as internationally. His most recent publications are in Weirdyear, Cafe Irreal, and Iconoclast, He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina with his wife and two children. You can read more of his work at http://www.brianbiswas.com
By Brian Biswas
It was just a short hop from there to Alpha Centauri. I approached on a beam of light and was amazed by the grandeur of the galaxy which unfolded before my eyes: blue planets, gold planets, blue and gold planets, planets shrouded in mist, naked planets, gaseous stars, compact stars, giant stars, stars giving birth to stars, stars spiraling into stars, dark clouds of dust and debris. I came to rest on one of these planets and found it not unlike my own Earth, or rather, an Earth from long ago. I saw green fields and tall pine trees that swayed in a humid breeze. Gently rolling hills dotted with red-and-white wildflowers off in the distance. There were clouds in the sky but they were lime-green in color and translucent, unlike any I had seen before. Two suns were overhead--circling each other in a deadly embrace--their disks of a golden hue, and I recalled that this sector of the galaxy was home to several binary star systems, into one of which I must have ventured. Swarms of yellow butterflies rose before me and I followed them for nearly a mile over a winding dirt trail to a waterfall that overlooked a magnificent valley. I saw no creatures of any kind in the valley and it was then I realized how deadly silent it was out here in this no-man’s-land on a planet in a binary-star system of the galaxy Alpha Centauri. And I was overcome with grief. Alas, this planet was long dead. A land of nevermores. But--no!--even then I was mistaken. Off in the distance something was moving. I saw a dust cloud rising up and a line of horses led by a woman on an Arabian stallion making its way towards a ring of fire. A holy caravan on its way to one of the pyramids of Ishtar. I shielded my eyes from the light of the blinding suns and the image vanished. Sadly, it had been but an illusion. Or rather the memory of an illusion for at that moment I realized this was an image from Earth’s past, when the planet was young and teaming with life and death was an unknown word.
- - -
Brian Biswas has been published in the United States as well as internationally. His most recent publications are in Weirdyear, Cafe Irreal, and Iconoclast, He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina with his wife and two children. You can read more of his work at http://www.brianbiswas.com
OLD RAICH CARTER
By Julian Fairbanks
I suppose as a child growing up in an aristocratic family, back in the late seventies to what I deemed normal, regular indigenous folk would have said that I was a very lucky little boy leading a charmed upbringing. Actually, for the record, that was the polite version of how they deemed my childhood.
The reason I am telling you this before we get onto the awful truth about old Raich Carter, our gardener - famous for ruling his modest household with a rod of iron. I thought, to give you a clear picture of the times, I would fill you in a little about my myself as I grew up in the splendour of Kuntly hall.
As an only child, and friendship wise, I never had any dealings with the local children as such - and from an early incident in my life I had no wish to.
I can remember the day I was fully tainted against local types like it was yesterday. I mean, mummy always told me how much better I was than those born without a title, but as a child, innocence and goodness can blur your vision, before you experience the negative aspects of life for yourself; like in my case, I realised that the world was not all rosy in the garden, after my first incident with working class people.
Ronaldson, the family chauffer, had decided to bring the Bentley into the village for a service, and mummy and I thought it would make a smashing adventure to tag along in the backseat and pretend we were stowaways on the high seas.
After we arrived at the garage we decided to part company with Ronaldson until the repairs on the vehicle were complete. The mechanic was an oily man, and his appearance upset us somewhat.
So to get away form the dreadful man, Mummy informed Ronaldson, that she and Crispin (my good self ) would be taking Tiffin at the Analy Tea Rooms at the end of the village.
Excited and no doubt a little high from the excitement of our marvellous adventure, we contemplated the anticipation of a jam scone; and if we were very naughty, perhaps two jam scones.
However our fervour was to be short lived as we were accosted by some local boys from across the road. I remember thinking to myself how dirty and unwashed they looked. Grubby tykes no less, as I myself was bathed by our bathroom maid thrice daily.
I can remember how Mummy and I were to be most upset by these uncouth vagabonds as they hurled terrible insults at us.
I had never heard the words, “spoilt cunt,” before. It was most upsetting.
“Mummy, let us take our leave of these awful types. They look so poor,” I wailed to my Mater, who herself shared in my distress.
After that, due to who we were, we had the local constabulary arrest those responsible for making me cry, and had them horse whipped. It made me feel an awful lot better to know that they were writhing in agony. I only wished at the time that I had been a few years older with the muscles of a gentleman, so I could have whipped those boys myself.
But, as you can see from that little adventure, mummy had quite a wild streak about her. And it was after that incident that brought a simmering tension between my father and Mater to the surface.
I can remember overhearing my father complaining about mummy to old Raich Carter. Raich was very much my fathers confident; probably because Raich hardly ever said anything. And when he did speak, it wasn’t much.
Raich, I suppose, at the time, was in his early fifties, with a thick shock of white hair. His face was thin and ferret like, he had a sharp nose and ruddy cheeks, and in his stocking feet would not have reached more than five feet four. His body was thin with a wiry strength. His accent though not on a level with the families, still held a level of breeding. Why on earth he was just a common gardener was anybody’s guess. But as I said, he held breeding, one could see that, and unlike the other staff in the family employ, we did not treat him like dirt.
“How do you do it, Raich. How do you make your wife respect you?” my father whined inside the potting shed. They were sharing belts of brandy from Raich’s hip flask.
After what seemed like an hour, or so it felt like, old Raich finally answered. “How do you mean Mr Crookshanks-Forbes-Spicer?”
“You know, stop her gallivanting into the village on wild adventures,” father replied.
Unbeknownst to my father and Raich, I was hiding in a large Terracotta pot watching all of this.
Again Raich took and age to react to my fathers enquiry; and when he did It is something I will never forget. For a man not known for showing even the slightest vestige of emotion, I can remember being quite surprised to witness a wry smile surface on old Raich’s thin lips. Without replying he balled a wiry right freckled hand into a fist where I could see the whites of his knuckles, to which he showed to my father.
My father understood by this gesture, that the wise Raich would discipline his long suffering wife if she ever dared gallivanting off into the village without his permission. Understandably, my father was very impressed.
Life was never the same for the family after Raich departed this knowledge to father.
Two major events happened in the following years into my teenage hood. Firstly, my father hit mummy in the face one day, and she promptly hit him back. After that, father was to question the wisdom of old Raich’s words. And not long after that, the second major event that happened came after the police found Raichs’ wife’s battered and dismembered corpse inside a large cooking VAT on his stove.
Raich was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Throughout his trial he refused to speak.
And during his incarceration he never spoke. And even on his death bed old Raich never spoke, so nobody was any the wiser as to why he did away with his wife.
A few years back a local reporter asked me to comment on the grisly murder. All I could quote was: I guess Mrs Carter must have sneaked into the village without old Raich’s consent.
- - -
My name is Julian Fairbanks, I'm 40, Irish, totally insane and I believe my writing reflects this. I write dark humour. I have an army of short stories in reserve and am currently working on my third novel as part of a satirical trilogy.
By Julian Fairbanks
I suppose as a child growing up in an aristocratic family, back in the late seventies to what I deemed normal, regular indigenous folk would have said that I was a very lucky little boy leading a charmed upbringing. Actually, for the record, that was the polite version of how they deemed my childhood.
The reason I am telling you this before we get onto the awful truth about old Raich Carter, our gardener - famous for ruling his modest household with a rod of iron. I thought, to give you a clear picture of the times, I would fill you in a little about my myself as I grew up in the splendour of Kuntly hall.
As an only child, and friendship wise, I never had any dealings with the local children as such - and from an early incident in my life I had no wish to.
I can remember the day I was fully tainted against local types like it was yesterday. I mean, mummy always told me how much better I was than those born without a title, but as a child, innocence and goodness can blur your vision, before you experience the negative aspects of life for yourself; like in my case, I realised that the world was not all rosy in the garden, after my first incident with working class people.
Ronaldson, the family chauffer, had decided to bring the Bentley into the village for a service, and mummy and I thought it would make a smashing adventure to tag along in the backseat and pretend we were stowaways on the high seas.
After we arrived at the garage we decided to part company with Ronaldson until the repairs on the vehicle were complete. The mechanic was an oily man, and his appearance upset us somewhat.
So to get away form the dreadful man, Mummy informed Ronaldson, that she and Crispin (my good self ) would be taking Tiffin at the Analy Tea Rooms at the end of the village.
Excited and no doubt a little high from the excitement of our marvellous adventure, we contemplated the anticipation of a jam scone; and if we were very naughty, perhaps two jam scones.
However our fervour was to be short lived as we were accosted by some local boys from across the road. I remember thinking to myself how dirty and unwashed they looked. Grubby tykes no less, as I myself was bathed by our bathroom maid thrice daily.
I can remember how Mummy and I were to be most upset by these uncouth vagabonds as they hurled terrible insults at us.
I had never heard the words, “spoilt cunt,” before. It was most upsetting.
“Mummy, let us take our leave of these awful types. They look so poor,” I wailed to my Mater, who herself shared in my distress.
After that, due to who we were, we had the local constabulary arrest those responsible for making me cry, and had them horse whipped. It made me feel an awful lot better to know that they were writhing in agony. I only wished at the time that I had been a few years older with the muscles of a gentleman, so I could have whipped those boys myself.
But, as you can see from that little adventure, mummy had quite a wild streak about her. And it was after that incident that brought a simmering tension between my father and Mater to the surface.
I can remember overhearing my father complaining about mummy to old Raich Carter. Raich was very much my fathers confident; probably because Raich hardly ever said anything. And when he did speak, it wasn’t much.
Raich, I suppose, at the time, was in his early fifties, with a thick shock of white hair. His face was thin and ferret like, he had a sharp nose and ruddy cheeks, and in his stocking feet would not have reached more than five feet four. His body was thin with a wiry strength. His accent though not on a level with the families, still held a level of breeding. Why on earth he was just a common gardener was anybody’s guess. But as I said, he held breeding, one could see that, and unlike the other staff in the family employ, we did not treat him like dirt.
“How do you do it, Raich. How do you make your wife respect you?” my father whined inside the potting shed. They were sharing belts of brandy from Raich’s hip flask.
After what seemed like an hour, or so it felt like, old Raich finally answered. “How do you mean Mr Crookshanks-Forbes-Spicer?”
“You know, stop her gallivanting into the village on wild adventures,” father replied.
Unbeknownst to my father and Raich, I was hiding in a large Terracotta pot watching all of this.
Again Raich took and age to react to my fathers enquiry; and when he did It is something I will never forget. For a man not known for showing even the slightest vestige of emotion, I can remember being quite surprised to witness a wry smile surface on old Raich’s thin lips. Without replying he balled a wiry right freckled hand into a fist where I could see the whites of his knuckles, to which he showed to my father.
My father understood by this gesture, that the wise Raich would discipline his long suffering wife if she ever dared gallivanting off into the village without his permission. Understandably, my father was very impressed.
Life was never the same for the family after Raich departed this knowledge to father.
Two major events happened in the following years into my teenage hood. Firstly, my father hit mummy in the face one day, and she promptly hit him back. After that, father was to question the wisdom of old Raich’s words. And not long after that, the second major event that happened came after the police found Raichs’ wife’s battered and dismembered corpse inside a large cooking VAT on his stove.
Raich was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Throughout his trial he refused to speak.
And during his incarceration he never spoke. And even on his death bed old Raich never spoke, so nobody was any the wiser as to why he did away with his wife.
A few years back a local reporter asked me to comment on the grisly murder. All I could quote was: I guess Mrs Carter must have sneaked into the village without old Raich’s consent.
- - -
My name is Julian Fairbanks, I'm 40, Irish, totally insane and I believe my writing reflects this. I write dark humour. I have an army of short stories in reserve and am currently working on my third novel as part of a satirical trilogy.
