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The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media.
The Scum Gentry Prose Desk: literary magazines and writing websites hub: literary fiction, horror stories, weird fiction and more...

Notes of a Professional Voyeur VI - Fiction Serial by Benny Profane

Slumped beside me in a heavy lethargic malaise is my sometime drinking companion George.

George is a gangly wisp of a man with an unchanging uniform and strict daily routine that you have to admire.

Measuring around 7ft nothing and weighing well below the appropriate accompanying figure as set out by the concept of Body Mass Index; George is all sinew, sag and sunken skin.

Under his perpetually blood-shot eyes rests two dark and heavy pouches. A grubby five o’clock shadow permanently gilds his emaciated face and

his un-lipped mouth holds within it only a handful of still functioning teeth.

One of these teeth pokes out from the upper right-hand corner of his mouth and displays a substantial blackness at the gum. It is made conspicuous by its presence—as most of his brothers have long since succumbed to the contingencies of time, accelerated through the abuse and neglect of their unfortunate parent.

This tooth’s stubborn refusal to let go of its purchase, especially in the light of its past and prospective treatment, reflects neatly the ambivalence to degeneration that it shares with its indifferent...


Tom Jones - Short Story by Kenneth Nolan

Tom Jones got a job in a sex shop in Sydney. A tiny shit-hole, situated in a seedy corner just off George Street near “The Railway Hostel” where he and I first met.

He was a Welshman, just like the singer Tom Jones. Tom hated the fact that he shared the same name and nationality as the legendary warbler. He preferred to be addressed as Tomas. I insisted on calling him Tom—sometimes I called him Delilah if I was trying to get a rise out of him. He liked to notify people that he was not “the real Tom Jones”, though he was one of the most real people I have ever met.

I lived in a house in Coogee with two lads from Liverpool named John and Paul, and a Scottish dude named Roderick. Tom moved in with us when Rod moved out. Tom was from Cardiff, and he spoke with a distinctly Welsh accent, which I suppose is the entitlement of Welsh people. All Tom seemed to do was write, drink, and consume drugs. He would say ‘Everybody in Cardiff does drugs—it’s a heritage thing.’

His job in the sex shop gave him time to write, and think about writing. A place where the creative juices could flow, along with all sorts of other juices. He was left to his own devices there. No boss on-site to answer to. All he had to do was change ten-dollar notes for the gentleman customers, and mop the floor at the end of his shift.

Of all the jobs in Sydney a fit young man could get at that time...


Luna, The Rise of a Bipolar Superhero -- parts 1 - 3 - Fiction Serial by Louise M. Hart

Part 1


Shelagh and Arthur scrambled over the cemetery gates. The moon cast menacing shadows on the ground below and beckoned them to cross the hallowed turf. They often visited the graves during daylight, but this was their first evening visit. Shelagh’s sturdy legs helped break her fall. Following her, Arthur crashed to the ground, like a bird stunned mid-flight, and began to whimper. “Don’t be such a babby,” Said Shelagh, irritation seeping into her colloquial speech.

At 16 years old Arthur was Shelagh’s senior by just 1 year. He brushed his trousers with his skinny hands and glared at his friend. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into doing these things?” Sensing his irritation, Shelagh grabbed Arthur’s hand and led him to the gravestones.

“Remember, Keats and Yeats are on my side, Wilde is on yours.” She said, releasing her long hair from a ponytail. They dodged in and out of the gravestones; hand-in-hand, like conjoined twins whom no man or woman could separate. “Stop,” said Shelagh leaning back against the most ornate gravestone in the cemetery. “Here lies the body of Stephen...


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