Browsing All Posts published on »March, 2009«

The Drowned Man

March 30, 2009

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At first, after Beth left, there was relief, like a tourniquet undone, then that standard aching loneliness, some subgenre of boredom, simultaneous with a refreshed horniness, no longer the horniness of a man trapped in a dead end thing but the horniness of a man outside any relationship and, also, the horniness of a man without any decent prospects, which circled back into a kind of self-pitying depression, which I numbed with drinking for a week or so, till all these indulgent emotions segued to a more practical concern with the literal emptiness of the apartment, Beth's departure having also been the exit for the couch and the kitchen table, the television and a whole ensemble of supporting-cast appliances – toaster, microwave, coffee machine, etc. By Spencer Dew.

Murder, she wrote

March 27, 2009

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"It’s so important to understand and experience that life is never simply happy or sad, good or bad, ugly or beautiful. It’s always complex. Grimm’s fairy tales were a great way to teach that to children. Yes, the dark forest is full of witches and monsters, but also magic roses and beautiful swirls of falling snow. We’re not really that dour. We actually laugh a lot, especially during our live shows." Darran Anderson interviews Rennie Sparks.

The Zookeeper

March 27, 2009

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The Zoo had been evacuated of people. The animals were left to starve. Lionesses were joining their mates in the eating of the cubs. The Zookeeper had known this was going to happen for a long time, well before the rumours started and the news reported. Long before the army moved in. Walking down the streets of the town during those days, people nodded hellos to the Zookeeper as they always had done. It caused a fizz and pop at the back of his tongue and a fire in his solar plexus. He began to chew through pack upon pack of antacids but only work helped douse the guilt. He carried on working for as long as he could. He wanted to find the creature he would save. He had room for just one. By Matthew David Scott.

Unzipped

March 25, 2009

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Maybe it was the way she handled the pool cue. There was a quiet confidence about her as she eased her way around the table, looking for her shot. Bending over, her tight red shirt rode up, exposing her lower back, and a hint of pink panties. Tan flesh exposed for a moment, as my eyes wandered over her blue jeans, every curve and bulge raising the room’s heat. Smoke drifted around the room, paneled walls and dim lights framing the lines of voyeurs that dotted the edges. “Four ball, corner pocket,” she said, her long brown hair tied up in a ponytail, her doe-eyed gaze eliciting a simple nod. A hard smack of balls and I am transported to my apartment, my hand on her sweaty ass, as she vibrates on all fours, my imprint turning red as the air fills with a sharp slap, her body twitching, eyes closed. By Richard Thomas.

Smell of female: how a bunch of exploitation directors rolled with some street-fighting girls & created the ultimate feminist icons

March 20, 2009

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The power of Faster Pussycat stemmed from the fact that Tura Satana was not wearing a studio-designed costume, but exactly what a real girl gangbanger would have put on to go out for a rumble. No self-respecting female from any era could have contemplated kicking ass while looking like a banana. Cathi Unsworth on Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

Method Writer

March 20, 2009

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"There’s something a little silly to me now about the fact that I wrote my first draft on the subway, like some kind of 70′s method actor living on dried fish and hardtack to study the role of a pirate. It did have some unexpected advantages, though: no cellphone reception, no internet, and no office rent to pay. And of course I got a chance to observe a wide variety of interactions between people on the trains, although most of the time I had my headphones on and tried my best to ignore them." Darran Anderson interviews John Wray.

Three Poems

March 18, 2009

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I would have settled for getting through a poem without mentioning myself or writing poems. Again I set my sights too high. By Miles J. Bell.