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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...

This Day You Will Be With Me in Paradise - Short Story by Jim Meirose

Math final exams are held at four p.m. Class meeting TTH eleven is assigned module ten. Be prompt. Rise please first. Obey promptly or face punishment. Mental of course; module ten, yes yes yes; memorize this. Immediately memorize this. No don’t roll. No don’t tuck under. The math final exam is today. Math final exams are held at four p.m. Rise now. Mouse rose in the dark. What time again did Rat say they’d meet in the library for today’s studying—No! came a voice. No came the voice at Mouse seated on the cold bed edge. The bunned-up hairy-eared craggy-faced simple normal-woman with a badge labeled Librarian number two on her Kelly green pilled-up business suit came up before him and said, You can’t come to my library again because get it get it g-e-t it, the math final is today—Mouse shot up. He lunged out a step and she puffed out everyway like a cloud of thrown talcum powder or Father’s ashes tossed foolishly into the wind on the streambank and blew back not a grain in the water but all on someone who ‘dat who ‘dat, who ‘dat; nevermind just laugh like hell it didn’t happen but it could of—but there is no laughter the morning of the last day of any kind or type or whatever not woken up but up up and not up at the same time that moment of every morning since forever truly yon truly out yonder truly sucks the biggest foulest wind of the whole day but at least it’s got over with fast. That is true of most days but never in the last day of any kind or type or whatever. Math final exams are held at four p.m. The Qur’an describes the number nineteen as and that believers will increase in faith...


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Dumpster RabbittZ part one - Fiction Serial by Bryan Higby and Ricky D. Snyder

Prologue



The CarLowDen Golf Course sat back in the trees somewhere between Jericho’s Junkyard and Chesterton’s Cemetery. Around these parts we call the cemetery a boneyard. There was a huge real-estate sign dug into the rutty green lawn advertising the land could be bought for a song. Looking at that old potter’s field one would never have guessed that presidents had played on those sprawling, once perfectly manicured lawns. Truman, Eisenhower, even tricky Dick had sunk their balls into the few dozen holes of the old forgotten CarLowDen Golf Course in better days. Some say these same presidents had also sunk their balls at the local gentlemen’s club, The Blue Mansion, which coincidentally is still in full swing.

I only mention this forgotten patch of land buried in the trees of CarLowDen because this story I’d like to relay, and the horror that followed, started right here with that dumpster parked on the grounds. You see it? It’s the one that’s sitting next to that ugly real-estate sign, the dumpster that until just recently hadn’t been there at all. Green, rusted with scars from who knows where, that dumpster stood sentient watching, listening, taking in its new home. Where it came from... well, we’ll get to that directly. Oh, my name’s John Friend...


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Stannie the Dog - Short Story by Jim Meirose

Summer air music drift. What’s that from, where’s it from; it’s saxophone practice must be because it’s slow awkward and halting et cetera it’s from that slanting down sagging apart tiny empty blue house forever; but somehow it something I’ll remember one day too. That house there with that worn-out sign once shouting DOCTOR SAX MUSIC STUDIO—ALL INSTRUMENTS inside that rusted solid chain link all around we know the place boy we go past quite often but what’s wrong with the place? For years it’s been nothing but now this music says it is; sure, there’s never been sax there but someday there will be or maybe there once was and the wind must have hit me just right today to bring both together and that’s probably why we’re hearing it now. It’s just one more mystery we’ll never answer because it’s not worth it there’s odd houses old signs weird construction we’ll never understand red snow fences dead tall cattails punk’d up smoldering hot humid twilight curly-up smoketails that just blinked on blinked off at that one instant of agetime imperceptibly leaving just a subliminal impression God is the master of subliminal advertising yah look how smart we are media is all just baby milk-suck play not only not breaking the finish tape but not even close to the starting line yet but the sax lines coiling not good music but good memories not because we never remember the place after only when it comes at us again we never start investigating asking questions or finding out what and can’t even wrap ourselves around the question long enough to get hit with the Yah there’s a real story there a different one a long old one...


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