Genre: Arthouse/Noir/Fantasy/(slightly, morbidly)Philosophical
Words: 394
Theatre Peripatetikos
In the largest city, with the most of lights, exists a long, wide, alley that none ever find. It’s at the middle of everything, where it remains impossible to find. But, it’s only a turn, then walk downhill, and slightly off to the right. There is not a soul to be heard, not even the pigeons squawk this far in.
Genre: Prose/Arthouse/Fantasy
Words: 583
Bohemian on Relic Lane
There’s a store in a long forgotten alley. An imagined relic, existing only in a time long since passed. The yellowed stone wash exterior is coated in cobwebs, and caked dust. The place is so old that it has no screens, or special glass. No alarm company boasts their stickers upon the splintered door. No camera, real or faked, to record passers who zombie on by. These things are all just simply not needed in place such as this. The only protection are the sepia strained horizontal blinds which are falling apart with the strain of their age.
The little store, bohemian by nature, remains unnoticed by those who don’t wish it. But, if you happen to look; if you happen to need it – You’ll see coloured light shining through from behind those falling apart blinds.
Author’s note: This short fiction has been written for women’s cross arts magazine, ‘Dainty as Fuck’ which will be available soon in Melbourne, Victoria. I loved the concept of this mag, and I highly recommend it, once it is released.
Credits and Thanks: I want to thank Julie North and Anna Gibbons for being lovely enough to give this story a read-through for me prior to my sending it for submission. They took time from their day to do it, and provided me with valuable feedback thinking that I would never be able to credit them. I greatly appreciate it.
Genre: Arthouse/Crime
In Six Inch Heels
By: Danielle Milliken
The sound of Sierra’s delicate, pink, six inch heels clacking on the tarred road of the small dark alleyway, echoed around the graffitied walls as she walked. The small silver clutch bag shook in her grasp despite holding it tightly into the folds of the red overcoat which held down the flared skirt of her pink and silver dress.
Sample: (I think it’s better than a summary.)
On a road with no stop signs, or speed limits, the Harley Davidson was almost wholly concealed by the cloud of red dust kicked up behind it as it raced along the highway. Covered in the unsettled dust, both the bike and its rider appeared to be blended to the colour and contour of the unending red desert.
Scott Belford had no destination and he was heading there as fast as he could go. The scenery ahead of him was nothing but a haze of orangey red excepting a single white spot directly ahead of him. Scott’s tanned face steeled beneath his helmet, only a slightly sadistic smile gave away his frame of mind, as he lowered himself over the motorbike’s handles; revved his engine faster still and hit the rabbit with his tires.
When the dust settled, the white rabbit was red like the dirt road. Its white fur vanished under the blood from its fatal injuries. By that point, Scott was far up the highway, and he was never looking back.
This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
This is amazing! Huh! Oh, yeah, thought I might actually start properly using my tumblr.
(via literarynerd)
Source: logarhythmic
Genre: Sci-fi Dystopia
Words: 5016
Summary: A disease has wiped out most of humanity. Those who remain live in tight knit clans for survival, forever wary of any newcomers and every piece of food they eat. But, in this world with little hope, a strangling band of loners believe they know where a cure may be found, they just have to get to it.
Seeking Thozet’s Notes
By: Danielle Milliken
The wide bladed hunting knife flashed in the fading light as the scars from a healed Buruli Ulcer on Ava Pilbeam’s hands quickly became obscured with blood. Noticing that the sun was over half-way across the sky now, she forced herself to focus on skinning the possum faster. She still had to hurry to where the shelter was before the bats came out from the caves not far away, the last thing Ava needed at the moment was a bout of Hendra.
She couldn’t risk skinning a possum near an unknown clan. She wouldn’t even let them know it was a possum. They were too taboo, but Pituri would only sustain a person for so long; you still had to eat. Also, she had work to do in the deserted town that had once been Rockhampton, and could not be suffering from any side effects whilst doing it. So, possum for dinner it was. But, as she sliced the meat off to store in her bag, all the years of surviving this way couldn’t prevent her from looking at the creature with disdain.
Ava knew as she buried the evidence that she couldn’t allow that disgust to show in front of others. It was better if they thought it was Echidna meat she was carrying with her. As she stared at the skin and bones in the hole, she choked down bile and unwillingly recalled that it had been a possum that had begun all this. A dying baby possum found in a suburban backyard in Mackay, not far north of where she was now. Caring citizens had taken it to a vet to be saved. They couldn’t have predicted that the disease the baby possum carried would kill off 70% of Australia’s population within a short two months. No one could have predicted the outcome; not at the time.
From the Author: This began as a personal experiment. You should notice very early on that it went drastically wrong. None the less, I had nothing better to do, and hate unfinished fiction, so here it is. Alice’s Adventures which was supposed to be gone sci-fi but which took a wrong turn early and ended up in Crack!fic world. I’m warning you now, this is not intended as any serious attempt at literature, and I would have posted it under a pseudonym if I still had any in use.
Warning! FrequentStrong Language, Drug Use, and Adult themes. This is NOT a bedtime tale for your kids! Crack!Fic (as in that particular style of comedy that has you saying, ‘was the author on crack?’)
Disclaimers: (1) This is obviously based on the 1865 classic tale by Lewis Carroll. ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’ (That one is for your kids.) This should stand to reason, but, as the old adage goes; “There’s always one, hey!” (2) This contains many references to video and pc games, science-fiction television and movies. Their use is intended only as part of modern entertainment culture. (3) The Duchess, and her sister whilst given the names of two notable people pays homage to the Lewis Carroll characterisation of ‘The Duchess.’ It is not intended as a comment on the character of the persons whose names have been used. While there are references for comedic sake, the actual personalities have been used to remain in keeping with the theme, and the tale at hand. Needless to say, I’ve never met the persons in question in order to have any notion at all of their personality.
Another Fucking Alice Remix
It was a gorgeous spring day; perfect weather to be inside the house, with a pizza, a can of bourbon and the newest World of Warcraft update. Instead, the place was getting fumigated and she was out here with only her iPod and iPad for entertainment. It was another notch in the ‘pro’ column of, ‘why I need my own place.’ She opened the file on her iPad and listed the newest edition directly under ‘I’m 24! It’s just getting a bit pathetic now, really.’
“Who the hell orders fumigators in on the same day as the new WoW update?” Alice Turner-Shaw muttered as she walked through nature strip behind her parents’ home. “I mean, Jesus Christ, I warned them over a MONTH ago!” She paused to add some additions to that effect into the spread-sheet on her iPad before turning it off. Just until she could find a log to sit on, then it would be right back on again. It was then that she saw the rabbit.
The white rabbit was knee-high, wearing a suit and talking to himself. Alice looked at her nutrient water and decided her younger brother’s ‘hobby’ of spiking her food and drink was another thing for the spread-sheet file. Just what she needed on top of being kicked out with no warning and with nowhere to go, on the day that the WoW update came out. Now, she was hallucinating in the woods; that was just fucking brilliant. The rabbit went running past her muttering under his breath, “I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.” Alice began drawing a mental list of what her brother could have given her this time, but paused when she noticed her iPad was missing and the rabbit hallucination had stolen it.
“You thieving little cunt…” Alice cut off the rest of what she was going to say, and any thought of what this giant rabbit might be in real life and ran after it to retrieve her iPad. It was her only source of electronic entertainment for the day, there was no way in hell she was letting some little fucking hallucination steal it. Briefly, she wondered why, of all the things to hallucinate, she was seeing a white rabbit in a suit. No use pondering that now though, she would look up the psychology forums when she got her fucking iPad back.
Feet kick in excitement as a teenage girl flops back onto her bed. A bottom lip is sucked in to be chewed by her upper teeth. Between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, she twirls a single white rose. A stifled, but giddy giggle escapes into the early evening air. This was the first time a boy had ever given her a flower of any kind. White and pure like she was, he had said kissing her shyly on the tip of her nose. This would be the boy, she decided silently to herself.
He had told her she would always be his pure white angel as he held out to her a single white rose from the hotel’s dining cart. Everything hurt in ways she hadn’t known before. But, she had looked in his eyes as he held out the rose, and knew it had been the best night of her life, and that she would never have enough of that feeling. Less gently than might have usually, the young woman placed the white rose near the clock radio and kissed the man who had given it to her in a way that would never be mistaken for either shy, or pure.
From the Author: This was written several years ago now, and may show dating in some aspects. Namely, that Australia’s most recent election was a ‘hung parliament,’ and the country hasn’t gone to the godfather’s. I imagine this fall of the parliaments to be in the near future. I also imagine that with no votes the Government of Australia made an attempt to install its previous Government as well as to hold another election. Protests from the people made this unviable at the time. (That is my explanation for the plot hole the size of the pot holes in the Bruce Hwy, and I’m sticking with it.)
Mafiopia
(A history of the future)
________________
In much the same way that the church had once failed to impose its law and order upon the rest of humanity; and the way monarchs had failed to retain their power before that, so also the parliamentary systems inevitably failed.
My coffee has gone cold on the counter long before she arrives to tell me of my fate. The nightlife bustles outside the glass windows just as it would on any other night, club-goers, theatre buffs, street artists, and all the usual wildlife of a large city, mingled together rushing about their business as though it was any other night. For them, it is. There’s something extraordinarily wonderful about the city at night. It’s the energy I think. But then the nightlife is all I have known for the last 400 years. So, maybe it’s simply just that I’ve nothing to compare it all to.
I remember though, the sallow faces in the mornings on the people in their coaches, and on foot. The poor and the rich alike were always so…dead during the day. Maybe it was the grey and black woollen suits and stockings, which sapped the life out them. It was nothing like right now, late at night in the heart of the city. Streets filled with glittered costumes of every colour, strange hats and weird shoes. It’s all so alive at night like this.
A letter sits still unopened on the coffee table in front of Eider. It’s been unopened for more than a month now. Just sitting there, glaring at him 24hrs a day while he doesn’t work, and rarely sleeps. Another bottle of something alcoholic disappears down his throat. It amuses him to think, that he’s not even reading the labels anymore. He has no idea what he has just drunk, and doesn’t even care to identify it by taste. As long as it brings him a step closer to passing out, he doesn’t care.
His once dark and handsome, rugged look with a light stubble, is fast beginning to look more like that of a true bushman – overgrown and unwashed. Eider wonders when it was that he last showered. Possibly, he decides, not since she ran out the door that day, suitcase behind her, rushing to catch a plane. He had been at work, so she had left a letter. Probably, he guessed, instructions on how to take care of her expensive Marine fish. They were almost dead now - barely fed in the last month. Whenever it was that he had last showered, it didn’t matter. The only people he ever saw were the prostitutes, and they didn’t seem to care at all.
Although, the one he had called last week, did take the time to feed the starving fish on her way out. A strange thing for a person of her occupation to do really, Eider thought. It was nice, it was caring. But it left him now, still staring at the fish, and the wedding photo hanging just over the tank. The letter taunting him from its frozen place on the coffee table. And the bottle of pills on the mantle. He had bought those pills off a street corner seller a month ago. They had sat there ever since. With the photo, the letter, and the starving fish.
The cool air of the night was a glorious feeling after the heat of the day. The extreme temperature changes took their toll on the body though, and Lance tried not to sneeze as he crouched in a wildlife corridor behind someone’s back fence.
From a spot nearby he picked up a rock threw it onto the roof of the backyard shed. A dog barked somewhere a few houses away and Lance watched carefully to be sure once more that this house would not produce any animal which also would reply. It had not had a dog the other nights he had checked, but he had been caught out once before by not being careful enough.
As the familiar chorus of dogs began to grow around the neighbourhood, Lance pulled on the dark blue jumper he had brought with him. Although it was cool, it wasn’t really cold enough for a jumper yet, but he thought it would prevent his white skin from being too easily seen, and so he always wore it.
A man in a house a few doors down come out of his back door to yell at the dogs, and Lance stayed waiting in the brush for the noise to subside and for everyone to go back to sleep. The night was beginning to wear on now and the fruit bats were flying over, beginning the long journey back to their caves. From his pocket, Lance pulled out a dark beanie and a pair of latex gloves. Having put them both on, he agilely swept himself over the low metal fence.
The first stroke of midnight chimed on the giant clock in the town centre. The overly loud ‘bong,’ rang through the city streets, resonating off the walls of the buildings in the deserted district.
Far away, in the empty and darkened fairgrounds on the outskirts of town, a single set of footsteps paused for a fraction; as though the owner could hear the sound of the clock from such an illogical distance away. Before the second chime began though, the footsteps resumed, hurrying through the eerie dirt packed alleyways at an even faster pace than before.
The loud clacking of Matilda’s chunky heeled shoes echoed around the grounds as she tried to ignore the staring faces of the rides around her. A wooden horse on a carousel blew air out through his lips as she went by. A small statement about how little time she had left to make it to where she was going.
Running through the fairgrounds, she could hear another chime ring out in the city centre. The eighth chime she had counted so far now. Matilda hoped she hadn’t missed any and began to run faster still, until she finally rounded the corner onto sideshow alley.
Superhero, ‘2-D’ walked deep in thought. He should be rejoicing right now, another stereotypical evil villain had been done away with. The people of ‘Futuristic City’ were safe once more; well, until next Sunday at 8pm.
When they were finished cheering his glory in the streets, they would go home and sleep easily because of him. Because he, 2-D had killed SEV (Stereotype Evil Villain), quite painfully with a dart whose tip had been soaked in Hydrofluoric Acid.
The effects had been – unexpected. Although the final edit would never show it; it had actually taken quite a large number of darts. Not the simply the ‘one’ which the television edit would show. In actuality, 2-D had pumped possibly hundreds of the darts into SEV before the chemical had finally taken effect.
There’s a red letter on the grass. It’s addressed to someone who doesn’t live at that address, or, even in that town. Somehow it must have flown out of the mail truck as it had been doing its rounds of collections and deliveries.
It sits innocuously, near a small, circular flowerbed of red petunias in the front yard of number 7 Timtally Lane. It has sat there for a week, passing the time in whatever fashion it is that inanimate pieces of paper choose to entertain themselves.
The house that resides near the current placement of the red letter is a simple enough, ordinary house. Its low story, brick exterior matches almost exactly those of the houses surrounding it. Inside you would find the same white paint and blue lounge chairs that you would find in almost half the lounge rooms in the country.
Indeed, number 7 Timtally Lane was so incredibly average that it frequently made the dark blue roof shingles cry. Or it would have, that is, if roof shingles could cry - Or if they could feel any emotion beyond that of simply being a shingle. This last fact being particularly upsetting to the shingle in the fourth row centre, who liked to feel that there was an importance to his existence, and that part of that importance was to be, even if only slightly, original and creative.
However the miserable non-life of the shingles is another story entirely. Or it would be if they didn’t all agree that an entire fiction about the non-lives of roofing shingles was just a little too sad to even consider.
The point is that number 7 was a very average house, in a painfully average street. It had red petunias out the front, and hidden amongst them was a, most likely very bored, red letter that was addressed to some other house in some other city.
