You've got some reading to do!
This is the time of year when critics and magazines and ordinary readers make their lists. If you're looking for a good book to take your mind off the weather, here are some places to start:
California Literary Review.
January Magazine
Publisher's Weekly
ThirdAge.com has a roundup of other peoples' picks here.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Christmas Noir at Do Some Damage
So--you're coming down from a sugar rush or just generally feeling Grinchy? What you need is some Christmas noir and fast. So head over to Do Some Damage for a dose of holiday flash fiction that celebrates the season without giving you cavities.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
New at NoHo Noir--After Party
Read the new story in my series NoHo Noir. This features a return of homophobic cop Ethan, who tries really hard to be a good guy here but learns that his efforts are wasted on "Christo," the self-involved wannabe screenwriter:
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Gift Guides for the Gift Challenged
You're running out of time. Christmas is a week away. The pressure is on. But before you resort to a stocking full of gift cards, check out these two excellent guides to gift giving:
Mystery Scene Magazine. Where it's a "Fisticup" Brass Knuckle-handled mug ($18) or a set of three brass "bullet pens," ($13), there's bound to be an original gift that fulfills all your buying needs. We're particularly tickled by the "blackmail postcards" that come with blank cards and colorful letters. ($8).
Dark Valentine Magazine has posted a three-part gift guide that includes books, art, charity gifts and more. Check it out here and here and here.
Mystery Scene Magazine. Where it's a "Fisticup" Brass Knuckle-handled mug ($18) or a set of three brass "bullet pens," ($13), there's bound to be an original gift that fulfills all your buying needs. We're particularly tickled by the "blackmail postcards" that come with blank cards and colorful letters. ($8).
Dark Valentine Magazine has posted a three-part gift guide that includes books, art, charity gifts and more. Check it out here and here and here.
And the rest of the stories!
Here are the stories from this session of Icarus' Flight to Perfection fiction prompts. Stories from Cormac Brown, David Barber, Carolina Beach Bum, and Nicole Hirschi. Enjoy a quick infusion of fiction before heading out to face the Christmas shopping crowds.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Situation Ethics
This story was inspired by "the starter sentence" on Cormac and Nicole' blog Icarus' Flight to Perfection.
I hope you like it.
Sometimes promises are made to be broken.
That’s my first thought when I see the man they’ve wheeled into the operating room.
It’s a miracle he’s still breathing. He’s got multiple stab wounds in his torso and neck and slash wounds on his arms. Whatever happened to him, he fought back hard.
I run through a mental checklist of the pathophysiology of “penetrating trauma,” thinking, as always, that medical jargon is worse than legalese for obscuring pain and suffering behind big words.
This guy’s got it all—hypoxia, partial paralysis, unequal pupils, and active major bleeding. Whoever attacked him got his lungs, his spinal cord and who knows what all else. I count 12 different entry wounds and then, over the hot copper scent of his blood, I catch a whiff of shit, which means his bowel has been pierced too.
Everybody’s moving fast and with purpose. The nurse monitoring his vitals looks stressed.
I am not stressed at all. I issue orders. A nurse cuts off the patient’s blood-stained clothing and drops it on the floor, kicking it out from under our feet. Someone else starts a second I.V. line. We’re pouring fluids into him as fast as he’s bleeding out. Everyone’s looking at me, waiting for me to do my thing.
Looking down at the man on the operating table, I think, if this man dies on my operating table, no one will miss him. No one will mourn him. And more importantly, no one will ever question his death.
When I became a doctor, I swore the Hippocratic oath. I said, “I will practice and prescribe to the best of my ability for the good of my patients, and to try to avoid harming them.” I meant every word of that promise at the time.
But that was before I met the man on the table. His name, he had told me, was Cory and that was the first of his lies, but not the last. He stole my car. He emptied my bank account and he broke my heart. That last betrayal is the one I can’t forgive.
The men he owed money to came to my door and when they didn’t find him, they took out their anger on me. The cops who were looking for him came to my door and when they didn’t find him, they let me know they thought I was worse than scum. And then the other women came to my door looking for him and when they didn’t find him they told me their stories.
I look down at the man on the table whose karma has finally caught up with him. The words of the oath I swore go through my mind and…I let them go.
Sometimes promises are made to be broken.
I hope you like it.
Sometimes promises are made to be broken.
That’s my first thought when I see the man they’ve wheeled into the operating room.
It’s a miracle he’s still breathing. He’s got multiple stab wounds in his torso and neck and slash wounds on his arms. Whatever happened to him, he fought back hard.
I run through a mental checklist of the pathophysiology of “penetrating trauma,” thinking, as always, that medical jargon is worse than legalese for obscuring pain and suffering behind big words.
This guy’s got it all—hypoxia, partial paralysis, unequal pupils, and active major bleeding. Whoever attacked him got his lungs, his spinal cord and who knows what all else. I count 12 different entry wounds and then, over the hot copper scent of his blood, I catch a whiff of shit, which means his bowel has been pierced too.
Everybody’s moving fast and with purpose. The nurse monitoring his vitals looks stressed.
I am not stressed at all. I issue orders. A nurse cuts off the patient’s blood-stained clothing and drops it on the floor, kicking it out from under our feet. Someone else starts a second I.V. line. We’re pouring fluids into him as fast as he’s bleeding out. Everyone’s looking at me, waiting for me to do my thing.
Looking down at the man on the operating table, I think, if this man dies on my operating table, no one will miss him. No one will mourn him. And more importantly, no one will ever question his death.
When I became a doctor, I swore the Hippocratic oath. I said, “I will practice and prescribe to the best of my ability for the good of my patients, and to try to avoid harming them.” I meant every word of that promise at the time.
But that was before I met the man on the table. His name, he had told me, was Cory and that was the first of his lies, but not the last. He stole my car. He emptied my bank account and he broke my heart. That last betrayal is the one I can’t forgive.
The men he owed money to came to my door and when they didn’t find him, they took out their anger on me. The cops who were looking for him came to my door and when they didn’t find him, they let me know they thought I was worse than scum. And then the other women came to my door looking for him and when they didn’t find him they told me their stories.
I look down at the man on the table whose karma has finally caught up with him. The words of the oath I swore go through my mind and…I let them go.
Sometimes promises are made to be broken.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
'Tis the Season: NoHo Noir, Chapter 8
In this week's episode a wannabe screenwriter whose former partner has been wildly successful attends a Christmas party at his old friend's house. He leaves feeling very unfestive.As always, Mark Satchwill has contributed a terrific illustration.
Here's a short excerpt from the story:
Christopher "Christo" Garland had gotten lost on the way to Eric and Celia's house. He had Mapquested it but he'd ended up in the wrong lane at that crazy intersection near the Iliad Bookshop and somehow he'd ended up on Burbank Boulevard going east. When he passed Circus Liquor, it reminded him that he hadn't bought a gift, so he parked and ran in to see what was cheap.
Circus Liquor
5600 Vineland Avenue
North Hollywood, CA 91601
8:15 p.m.
He grabbed a black bottle of Freixinet and brought it to the counter. He swiped his credit card as casually as possible, mentally crossing his fingers the transaction would go through. It didn't.
He tried again as the clerk eyed him sympathetically. When the verification failed a second time, Christo made a show of examining the card. "Expired last month," he said. "I forgot to put the new one in my wallet."
The clerk, who knew all about expired credit cards, just nodded as Christo pulled the last bill from his wallet, a twenty.
And just to show the clerk he didn't need his pity; Christo stuffed the change into one of the charity jars set up by the cash register. He probably makes what? Minimum wage? And he feels sorry for me?
By the time Christo finally arrived at his destination, there didn't seem to be a vacant parking space left in all of Toluca Lake. In front of Eric and Celia's house, there were uniformed valets hiking cars back and forth.
Eric and Celia hired valets for their party? I wonder how much that cost?
Read the rest of the story here.
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