Coming Soon: STUPIDIOCY by Cindy Rosmus

Coming Soon: STUPIDIOCY by Cindy Rosmus

A collection of finger nail yanking Noir from the editor of Yellow Mama, Cindy Rosmus. Her tales meander in and around familiar streets and bars, passing the hometown walking dead, witches and trick or treaters, their bags loaded with razor blade filled apples. Her stories take root in that burned patch of ground where nightmare and waking life coexist, each lyrical and presented lovingly like an exquisite bouquet of dead flowers. The collection is illustrated by Coates Walker, the premier collagist of modern irony.

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Legacies . . . .

Legacies . . . .

Tennessee Williams was born Thomas Lanier Williams III. His father, Cornelius Coffin Williams (1879-1975), was a hard-drinking travelling shoe salesman who spent much of his time away from his home and family. His mother, Edwina (Dakin) Williams (1884-1980), was an archetypal “Southern belle” with social aspirations that descended into snobbery and behavior that was neurotic and hysterical.

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The Monster Men by Tom DiVenti

The Monster Men by Tom DiVenti

American author Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote a sci fi novel in 1913 called The NO. 13, later titled The Man Who Lost His Soul, finally re-titled,The Monster Men. Burroughs, who also penned Tarzan—King of The Apes, had no idea what a festering mindset wound he hatched in those Victorian days. Tarzan and King Kong, for me, are the same monster. The thinly-veiled stories of white supremacy over the savage beast. In other words any color that ain’t white.

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Not just another Cop buddy book: HAIRSPRAY AND LIGHTER, by J. JUPES, from ORPHAN PAPER

“What made Eckerly and I compatible? We weren’t nice people, for one, both cowards, emotional abuser types riddled with guilt. We had lost anything meaningful by the time we reached thirty. We formed our own whiner’s club. Two members. We descended, street level. Dragged people down stairs. Dropped them out windows. All of it made me sick, paradoxically. Half the time neither of us could remember doing it. We drank. We did what was expected. At some point, we looked at each other and nodded. Then stopped.

I wore a dress, worked undercover. That gave me an edge. Years later Powski told me the edge was just in my head. In my head? Yes, he said, you have no edge. This is a delusion. Eckerly was a little raging elephant. Wasn’t brave. Stupid. He would do the opposite of what his fear told him to do and do it without consulting me. Why would you do that? Everybody is crouched down behind the banister. There are bullets. Why would you stand up? Why would you go in that room?

He’d go in. I’d go in after him. The reason I’d follow Eckerly was I knew he had bad luck in every other area of his life except when he entered a room where everybody was packing. I don’t know why that was. I knew it was safe to follow him. Powski agreed. Yes, Powski said, it’s safe, OK to follow. The first time Powski said that, I asked him just what kind of psychiatrist are you,? He said, I’m your psychiatrist. Do you want me dead, Powski? He said, Yes, I might want you dead. Powski wouldn’t joke about something like that. This is why I trust him. He doesn’t let me figure things out for myself. He tells me what to do. This saves time. That’s why Powski is my psychiatrist. You see, I’ve changed the subject. I was supposed to be talking about Eckerly.

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A.F. Knott

A. F. Knott has worked as a surveyor in the offshore oil fields, handicapped thoroughbred horseraces, worked as a cyclotron engineer, a doctor and a collage artist before settling down to write full time.