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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...

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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And When I Look Upon Your Face I Would That We Were In Some Place Where You Could Be My Pet - Flash Fiction by Kenneth Nolan

During the mid-sixties, I lived in a little town called Snarfleburg in southern Tennessee. I found a job there labouring in the Apple Mines. Snarfleburg was a backwater town at that time, and few people recognised me. It was custom and law in the town for every citizen to be ultra-polite and encouraging to their fellow man. Town folk would always greet me with abundant jolliness, and perhaps say something like: ‘I hope every step you take today Sir, will be a step towards justice and righteousness’, or—‘May your sperm be praiseworthy and impregnate the air we breathe’. Me, being of a slightly reserved, conservative nature would usually just acquiesce with a ‘Hello’.

The town charter stated the following: ‘All citizens must be polite at all times, regardless of current mood, personal circumstance, or given situation’. This law was enforced rigorously by local police on the orders of the mayor, Kim Jong Boyd Barrett.

This suited me, as I needed to lay low until the heat cleared from an unfortunate political matter I had become entangled in. In fact; Snarfleburg was the only town in America in which I was still welcome, after some hippies accused me of sending a whole generation to a pointless death by causing a debacle which later became known as ‘The Vietnam War’.

I didn’t, honestly, but you know ‘The Yanks’...



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Hen Circle - Short Story by Augustus Sleeveen

The hen circle graces Francois’ Five Star restaurant at two pm, grey sweatpants and hoodies taking their places among suits and ties. Nobody tells them about the dress code or the specials. The street outside seems to darken as they take their seats.

Tabby starts. “Okay, now that we’re all here, does anyone have anything they’d like us to address?”

Phyl sticks her hand up, avoiding the passing CEO of fourteen cigarette companies by mere inches. He scurries away like a crab, his head bowed low. Tabby nods.

“What can we do, Phyl?” she asks.

Phyl throws her hands up. “It’s not that he’s a bad person–” she begins.

Tabby shakes her head and waves her hands like she’s brushing off a chugger. “Please Phyl, no justifications here.”

Phyl nods. “You’re right, sorry. It’s this new intern at work. I often find him staring at me; it’s very distracting. I’ve spoken to HR but to no avail. He has one of those vape things too. I don’t know what’s in them and I don’t need to be breathing it in.”

Phyl stops, realising her voice has risen...


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