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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...

The Cat with No Eyes - Short Story by Louise M. Hart

It was a chill January morning. A stranger approached 11 Allan Poe Close. He stared at the house’s boarded windows and wiped away a tear. Mrs Nopperson, who lived nearby, surveyed the man with puzzlement, for the stranger cast an elegant figure. Tall and stylishly dressed, he looked incongruous with the dreary and conventional surroundings.

Mrs Nopperson advanced towards him, her curiosity aroused like a hormonal teenager. He continued to stare ahead; apparently oblivious to her nearing presence, though she sensed he had seen her. “Proper eyesore, isn’t it?” she began.

Last summer, the stranger relocated to middle England. A stray from his native northern climes, he was an escapee from reality who favoured isolationism and self-hatred to social interaction and fleshy emotionalism. Like Steppenwolf, he rarely ventured outdoors, choosing rather to make love to the shadows of his own despicable and tempestuous thoughts.

The stranger always concealed his intentions from domestic view. But, crossing paths with Mrs Nopperson thwarted his secret campaign. His noble brow, usually adorning a practiced frown, smoothened with feigned displays of interest. He even forced a smile.

“Did you want to see where IT happened... all those years ago?” Mrs Nopperson asked. His interest piqued, the stranger suddenly turned his head towards the wretched woman. Perceiving her inauspicious...


The Pearly Fence - Short Story by Eoghan McGrath

Bits of paper and shit build up in the bottom of your pockets. It’s an underappreciated benefit of getting so inebriated you fall asleep with folded up pizza plates in your pants. You wake up the next day, chuck your sweat-greased Levi’s into the machine, and in a week you have a full mossy ecosystem in there. Now, if you work in a job which draws your mind to everything else you can make a sort of game with the mulch. You can draw a line through it with a fingernail, dare yourself to sniff the scree and then go ahead and smell it. It’s an amusement akin to the joy smelling your own farts produced in school. The joy at idly producing a gas which disturbs and garners the attention of those around you. Simon Charlton was a subconscious pocket scree sniffer. His nose wrinkled at the till.

Simon’s abuse began as a means to alleviate the chronic pain in his lower back which came as a result of the car crash. I say ‘crash’ rather than ‘accident’, in case you’re one of those folks who don’t ascribe accidents to negligence, as most ought to be. Indeed, Eoin had been speeding, and his recklessness had resulted in the death of Simon’s son and the slow decline and collapse of Simon’s marriage. Eoin received an eighteen-month sentence while Simon’s life imploded. Simon discovered Eoin’s address but in the end had refused vengeance. Chronic pain, my friends. In the intervening time Simon had accrued an extended knowledge of every pain pill in every pharmacy in Galway city; the dosage, the absorption speed, the longevity. Mixtures were his speciality...


The Breakup - Short Story by J.M. Triangle

In July, Elizabeth packed a red suitcase with all the requirements for a weekend away, shut the door on her apartment and walked to the outside of the building. A woman carrying a bouquet of lilies passed her on the steps. Richard loved lilies, he told her that when they first met at the beginning of spring. Almost everything had been wonderful since then.

What a delight it had been when he told her he was bringing her away on a romantic weekend. Elizabeth had batted her eyelashes and told him how wonderful it would be to take a holiday.

She did not tell him that work had been such a drat—that the manager had begun to look at her in the same mistrustful way that the old manager had done—before he went missing.

Richard’s black car pulled up next to her. The passenger’s side window rolled down, “you ready to get going?”

She ambled over to the car, the suitcase’s wheels bumbled along behind her. “Where do you want me to put this?”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?” he grinned. “Put it in the boot, it’s open.”

She heaved it in and got into the passenger’s side.

“You look nice,” he said, eying her...


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