Race With the Devil by Joseph Ridgwell

(reprinted from Savage Manners, with permission)

Some nights, strange things happen, unusual events occur, where the dark side of the moon can be revealed to your broken soul. I was on the back end of a three-day binge that had started Friday lunchtime in the boozer. I was sitting in the back seat of a cab next to a black brass from an East End sauna, and heading to the Elephant & Castle. The Elephant & Castle? The brass was leaning her head against my shoulder and rubbing a scabby-looking thigh against one of mine. The windows of the dirty cab were steamed up. I wiped the nearest to me with the sleeve of my jumper and peered through. Outside it was just beginning to get light. It was around 5AM Sunday morning.

The brass kept whispering in my ear. Her breath smelt of crack, whiskey, and strangely, boiled rice,‘When we back to mine, we’re ganna get fucking on it, right down and dirty.’
‘Yeah, baby,’ I replied. I felt a small stirring in my groin region, but kept staring out of the window, recalling random events from the binge.

Friday night passed in a whirl of drink and cocaine. I’d gone out straight after work, with my friend Javed. Beers, G&T, red wine, cigarettes, then a quick dash to meet our connection, and finally onto a lap dancing club. At some point we lined up a couple of personal lap dances and with the beer goggles on the girls all appeared like stunning princesses. But you know what its like, the stripper is flashing her little man in a boat at you, fake tits swinging inches from your nose, brown-eye winking, and the next thing you reach out a hand for a free grope, or in this case, I reached out a hand for a free grope. And that was it, the girl freaked out, the bouncers came a running, and seconds later we’re standing in the street, scratching our heads, licking our wounds, and wondering where to go next.

The next place to go to was a brass house in Shoreditch. It was one of those eastern European establishments, junkie-fuck sex slaves, run by Albanian mobsters and Russian Mafia. By this time I was almost falling over drunk. I found myself in a room with a tall brunette. I attempted to take my trousers off, but fell onto the bed, helpless. The brunette mumbled in Polish, or Lithuanian or something, and then stripped and jumped into bed with me. I got a mouthful of nipple before we both sparked out with valid excuses: I was hammered and she was probably on her fifteenth shag of the long night.

The Queen of Rock ‘n Roll by Darryl Salach

the place was around the corner.

‘turn left at the first set of lights,
you can’t miss it, I’ll meet you there.’
said a co-worker of mine.

it was a hot afternoon in July
and a few cold beers at Marilyn’s Bar
sounded quite fitting indeed.
I arrived at the bar in a very short time,
it was nestled in an industrial park
not far from work and it was
hidden from the street so if you
missed the neon sign which had a picture
of Marilyn Monroe smiling seductively
trying to keep her skirt down, you would
miss it, think the picture
was the popular subway photo with the
breeze of the subway car tickling her thighs,
I recognized the white dress.
I sat there in my car, lit a puff of weed
and reminiscing a short while about Marilyn
and how Joe Dimaggio had to be the luckiest
man alive, waking up to her back then had to
be better than getting a hit in 56 consecutive games.

after a few more puffs, I entered the bar

Audio Poetry by Melissa Hansen

Tripping the Light (Go There)

To get somewhere, you have to go there. So we flew out to Baltimore, rented a car. My daughter reading the directions we’d printed off the internet. Through the darkness and the many long winding streets and highways we finally arrive at Don Eminizer’s house. Well, our flight was delayed three hours at a Detroit stop-over, so all in all we got there pretty late.

Doesn’t matter, Don’s the nicest guy you’d ever wanna meet. Invites us into his home, fills us with great food and drink. And we talk and drink long into the night. He and his band, 99 Burning, got a big gig coming up tomorrow in Baltimore, but Don’s focus is all on his guests. Making us comfortable, happy, sharing the visions of music, writing, and a better world that’s possible through those mediums. Touching people and spreading the dream. It’s a great time, a great night, to meet this man in person, hear his words, his ideas. Gives me a copy of his book, Midnight in America, and his latest cd. Also a book by Bukowski. Wants to give me more, but it’s like his generosity knows no limits.

Somehow I wake up in the morning, and we drive to New York. It’s calm, peaceful and we don’t have to hurry. Somehow we find our hotel in Newark, through the maze and madness that is east coast traffic and concrete highways going every direction at once. Change clothes, take a shower, try to find a bus to the city. The hotel shuttle driver drops us off at the terminal. He’s supposed to go to the airport, but we’re the only ones on the shuttle, and he’s nice enough to skip that. People are friendly, kind, that’s a good thing.

Some guy at the bus stop asks us where we’re headed. Tells us to get on this bus, directly to the New York port authority terminal. It’s ridiculous, but he’s interesting, somebody to talk to. We get off at 42nd Street and it’s great, the exciting, electric New York feeling is all around us. Early evening, people from everywhere scurrying to and fro in the cold wind.

My daughter wants a falafel, good idea, but we settle for gyro’s and like they’re saving on portions for some unknown future. I don’t get it, but the lamb is tasty anyway. Then tee shirts and souvenirs at the shop next door. No, I don’t wanna buy a camera at half-price; and yes, I speak Spanish. We’re looking for a tee shirt for my daughter’s little girl - mas pequeno, por favor.

Thing is, we gotta get down to the Village, find the KGB Bar. Don’t know where the fuck that is, so just get on the subway heading downtown. At Washington Square, a guy says “that’s east side - nice little fifteen minute walk.” Sounds like a New York mile to me. Nice area though, the beat atmosphere still surrounds this place, at least to an outsider.  Every few blocks we ask somebody where we’re going, most of ‘em don’t know, but we’re going there anyway.

Three Poems by Anthony Liccione

close

the blood doesn’t
run, like it once
did,
from the open
wrist and below
my arm to elbow
and into
your full breast,
it just runs slow
and cold,
like paint thick
slapped against
a barn

as you held me
with hot tears,
you always came
just in time
to call an ambulance
as the bathroom
floor became a gorge
of unresolved depression,
and you would hold me
tell me everything
will be okay

okey i wasn’t
and truthfully you
knew the sickness
was there,
but you gave me words
to feed upon,
let me fuck you
to stay sane,
tied a washcloth
around my wrist
to slow down the wrath
of blood from spilling
out every time

but we were just fools
you see,
innocent young fools
i can now tell you
as the ambulance
races to the hospital,
while i spit all this blood,
this is the first time
i can assure you
that it doesn’t hurt
anymore,

you’ve done a good job
in not making it here
this time,
i guess you can say
i beat you to the punch,
but oh these faces
around the table
how they look so pale
and grim and desperate,

trying in every way
to save a failed life.

Gretchen by Karl Koweski

I know I’m in
for a bad night
when Gretchen hobbles into work
sobbing and clutching her belly.

I have to give the jackass
she’s shacked up with some credit;
he’s wily enough to keep
his punches centralized
around her abdomen.

black eyes, split lips
and blood-ringed nostrils
(unless dope related)
doesn’t sit well
with the clientele.

even the Industrial Strip
has some standards.

Bennie calls me into his office,
a closet-sized room identical
to the private dance “lounge”
we call the bj parlor.
Bennie sits behind
a seventies era teacher’s desk.
since I’m expendable
I get to sit
with my back to the door.

“what we gonna do
‘bout Gretchen?” Bennie asks.

what do you mean?

“well, we can’t have
some cocksucker busting up
our girls, making it so
they can’t hardly move around.”
I don’t see where
it concerns us
unless he comes in here.

“you like women getting
the shit knocked outta them?”

of course not

“then why wait for it
to happen here where
it can disturb the customers?
this is what I like to call
a pre-emptive strike..”

My New House Hates Me by Jenn Ashworth

(Dedicated to Rob Jones - This story was written for Rob Jones, who bought it as part of the Essentials For Life Project. He paid with instant pancake mix and a mug with a map of the world on it. The project is still going: you can order your story here.)

Moving house is not a situation, but an event. It is unpleasant most of the time, but once the keys have been collected and the boxes unloaded from the van, it is over. It is not something that persists. You don’t move house for weeks or years or months on end. Even if you move house a lot, you move one day, then it’s over. You’ve moved. The rest is opening boxes and connecting electricity, which might be unpleasant too, but it is something different. It is not moving house.

So moving house is not like having the flu, or cancer. It is not like having an affair or being married to a man who hits you. Or doesn’t hit you (which in some ways would be better) but doesn’t look at you that much either. Those are situations, not events. They don’t have start dates, deadlines, or resolutions. They have duration, and once the time for them to endure has passed, you can never be sure if you’re actually out of it, or just in remission.

Once the boxes are unpacked, the screwed up newspaper smoothed and stacked for recycling, the books shelved and the flat-pack furniture assembled, Gemma walks through the new house looking for places to hide her secret things.

She knows tucking the flesh-coloured tube of a dildo behind the spare rolls of toilet paper is unnecessary. She could leave it on the dish drainer, shiny and innocent between plates and spoons. She could tuck it into the salad drawer. Or go crazy, abandon all hopes of getting her damage deposit back, and screw it into the wall at waist-height. It could be a coat-hook, a mug-stand, an exhibit in a glass case. She puts it with the toilet rolls anyway.

Here’s the Laptop, Now Write a Book by Jennifer Cuddy

A promising new Literary movement is emerging across the pond in the small cafes and crowded flats of Europe. In the spirit of the ‘Beat Poets’ and writers of the fifties ( Jack Kerouac, William S Burroughs, Allan Ginsberg; et al.,) these gifted young artists who call themselves The Offbeat Generation are attempting to carry on the tradition of writing for art’s sake; rather than writing for fame and fortune.

The group’s founder, Andrew Gallix, is also owner and chief editor of the online literary magazine 3:AM.  This zine is cleverly marketed towards the ‘hipster generation’ a generation desperate for role models such as themselves, in our age of self-centeredness and materialism and generalized apathy to art, and most sadly, to Literature.

These loosely affiliated writers ( Andrew Gallix, Ben Myers, Adelle Stripe, Lee Rourke, Matthew Coleman, Heidi James, Vim Cortez, Joe Ridgewell, and Tony O’Neil ) to name just a few, found themselves through common interests, and through the expansion of various social networking sites on the internet that have proven to be profoundly cathartic to the millions of unheard voices of youth.

The Battle of Barncleuth Square by Joseph Ridgwell

(originally published in Savage Manners, reprinted with permission)

Kings Cross Sydney, last days of the twentieth century. I was standing outside the Pink Pussycat, swigging a longneck of VB from a brown paper bag, and observing the scene.  Then Queensland Suzie walked past, ‘Yo Suze what’s up?’

To say Suzie was an ugly woman would be a little cruel, but it has to be said she was the ugliest women I’d ever seen. The first time I met her I was struggling to pick up this aristocratic English girl from the pavement. The Marchioness of Jute, which is who she was, had consumed a little too much 2-4-1 vino and collapsed on the main drag puking claret everywhere. She wasn’t a big girl, but drunk she was a dead weight, and I just couldn’t get her up.

Queensland Suzie was sitting outside Playbirds International, watching my feebleness with some amusement,‘You’re as weak as shit, mate,’ she said after my fourth failed attempt. I remember looking up and seeing this very dark and very ugly aboriginal woman,‘Couldn’t give us a hand could ya?’‘Fuck that shit, a?’‘Nice one.’

And that was that, she didn’t give me a hand, and I was forced to leave the Marchioness lying in the gutter. Anyway, for what its worth, that was how I first met Queensland Suzie, ‘G’day Pom, ave ya seens what the famous bums ave done?’

The Famous Bums were exactly that, the two most famous bums in Kings Cross. The mystery was that nobody knew their names,‘Na, what?’ Queensland Suzie gave me a cheeky wink, ‘Lend us five bucks, and I’ll tells ya.’

This was typical of the Suzie, always on the scrounge, but I kinda liked her for it, ‘Fuck Suze, your aving a giraffe.’ Suzie looked confused, ‘A?’I handed over a five, ‘Forget it, just give me the low down.’‘Beauty pom, well, they’ve only gone and built their best room yet a? ‘Whereabouts?’‘Barnclueth Square, it’s a sight for sore eyes.’

What marked the Famous Bums out from other street drunks, hoboes, and vagrants, was their remarkable talent for exterior design. Each night these resourceful fellas walked the streets appropriating junk furniture, bedding materials, and any other household items they could get their hands on. Then they would design an open-air front room in one of their favoured locations and get down to the serious matter of hardcore drinking.

‘Think I’ll check it out Suze.’ ‘Ganna be a big party there tonights.’

Miss Glenly’s Dreadful Room by Bill Ectric

Wistful evenings sometimes begin with sunny afternoons and there is a certain part of me that likes being wistful. Miss Glenly understood that feeling more than anyone when I was fourteen years old, walking home from school, stopping at her sunny house for a glass of iced tea and conversation during the prelude to sunset. She was cool for a 67 year old woman, I thought. In the small town where we lived, Miss Glenly had knowledge of a wider world. Some of that knowledge turned out to be terrifying.

She lived alone in a modest but nice, well-kept wooden house with a screened-in sun porch amid plants and books, some comfortable wicker chairs and a porch swing. Miss Glenly was a retired English teacher. Her husband, who died before I met her, had been the head of the psychology department at a nearby college.

We sat in the wicker chairs and she brought out two glasses of delicious iced tea with orange slices instead of lemon wedges.

“What are you reading now?” she always asked. “Still into Double-O-Seven?”

I had been reading all the James Bond books when I first went to her house to ask if she needed her lawn mowed, trying to earn some money during the summer. She did let me mow her lawn and we became friends and she invited me to stop by anytime on the way home from school as summer ended and Autumn began.

“No, I finished all the James Bond books,” I said. “I’m reading Dracula.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “The red, gleaming eyes of Dracula, when he is looking at Mina through the fog, standing over the helpless Lucy. That’s the scene I remember.”

“I don’t think I’ve read that far yet,” I said.

“Well, I don’t want to give it away. You know, my late husband and I saw Bela Lugosi when he reprised his Dracula role on stage in the 1950’s.”

“Wow,” I said. “Was he good?”

“Lugosi was a consummate performer, despite his later reputation for strange behavior. But you know, I rather like the newer Dracula movie, with Anthony Hopkins and Gary Oldman.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “With Winona Ryder and Keanu Reeves.”

“Yes,” said Miss Glenly. “And that Tom Waits as Renfield. Such a performance! So scary and pathetic at the same time!”

That is how the conversations went until about six o’clock. Then I walked the rest of the way to my house. My parents got home from work around 6:30 and we ate dinner.

There was no hint that anything ever troubled Miss Glenly until we started talking about a literary idea called deconstruction. I never dreamed of the shocking event this would lead to.