Author: Director

Short Fiction
Patrick Karl Curley
Staring out the window, Sebastian saw the brash, orange sun of early morning set fire to the tails of trailing clouds. He saw three quarrelling grackles swirling downward to the scorched ground; the tortured, singed grass; the ragged reeds and...

Poetry
Matthew Borczon
My special needs son is laughed at and bullied in school because when he gets upset he either explodes into curses and anger or he cries displaying what his therapist calls his emotional real age the other kids find either response hilarious and a distraction from their school day so they push his buttons until the show begins...

Documentary
Experimental/Avantgarde
Rubber Cripple
Underground auteur Rubber Cripple returns to Scum Gentry TV with an experimental documentary on the fetishistic drives and compulsions of unconventional sexuality. Expect graphic content throughout this mesmerizing—and frequently symbolic—foray through the pulsing heart of sexual nonconformism. ...

Poetry
Mark McConville
I am stepping out of this chaotic room Struggling to breathe in fresh air My smoked out lungs like raging bulls Probably red and pulsating like hearts. . The town looks unfamiliar They’ve changed the billboards And the café I used to drink...

Serial Fiction
Bryan Higby and Ricky D. Snyder
Chapter Five “Anything come back on that missing persons yet?” Detective Moxley called through the intercom to dispatch. A few seconds passed and then a spunky female voice came across the line. “Nothing yet detective.” The line went dead....

Poetry
William S. Tribell
That I may with all do discretion, make my own slight confession It was Tennessee in mid-July just because Johnny Cash said so Whiskey, Johnson City and the right direction to Cumberland Gap Not to stray, but by-the-way, let me be the first to...

Short Fiction
Jim Meirose
I’ll tell you the story, Doc—I only want dimes. I like the way dimes feel in my hand and I like the way they look. There’s no reason to carry any other kind of coin. I can’t help it Doctor. I...

Poetry
Leah Mueller
You won’t take summer from me again: my heart a rolled-up carpet, unwinding and exposed. . I have no choice but to bare the debris. Some escapes, pebbles underfoot. . Step on one, then another, keep my eyes on the wall. . Every June, the vigil and the bludgeon. July fruit, rotten in...

Short Fiction
David King
You get a preview of what’s to come. If you were alone, you’d be sitting in a tiny little Housing Commission flat in the Park Street Towers South Melbourne looking down over the street with some race caller gunning for vocal...