The Scum Gentry Prose Desk

Nothing Lives Long

Nothing Lives Long

Short Fiction
Benny Carr
The old guard sit on benches at the back of the room rocking back and forth like warped old grandfather clocks as they neck pints of whiskey and blast off to distant planes. The young mohawks buck like wild horses on the dancefloor as the synth thumps, the guitar screams, and the machine-gun bassline makes mincemeat of the whole tribe. The singer emerges through the haze of smoke in a priest’s collar, blessing the crowd with a toilet brush as he growls: There’s a hill lone and grey In a land far away In a country beyond the blue sea I’m down the back with the veterans, watching the walls fall apart, as they crawl around ...
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An Alternative Tale

An Alternative Tale

Short Fiction
Druther Monkard
I believe that over time, stories become truths. Original realities confused and mainly removed. Hyped and transformed into more fantastical versions and forms, the more times they are spun. I’m guilty of this too, turning the most embarrassing things I have done, where I have hated myself most, into yarns that create laughter, where there was only self-pity, shame. I’m a liar, I never meant to be one. Everyone is. I don’t think anyone plans to be in the goodness of their heart. Small white lies, caring for someone else, letting things slide, not telling them what they truly did last night, years pass…I forget what the origin was even, but oh well. This is what ...
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Little Jackson’s Batha-Ventra

Little Jackson’s Batha-Ventra

Short Fiction
Jim Meirose
Cassie Bash told me that on vacation she and hers were in the town square, out Bath England, we think, milling the small square outside the roman show. Eh okay, but we’re just about there. Hold it, slow down—I got to watch the numbers. Okay but anyhow—she said there were four or five artificial romans standing stock-still enticing bored tourists to snap their pictures with them all together, but. The only sensible kind to take were stock-still single pictures like the kind that end up backdrawered in too hot upper unused mothballed bedrooms showing such as brothers in law or similars tight into the leftside, and stepsisters or similars tight into the rightside, the robed rump ...
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Burn, Burn, Burn...

Burn, Burn, Burn…

Flash Fiction
Mark McConville
Rampant murder scenes and dreams flood her mind. The clock is ticking, which is a sickening sound like that sound when you hear your heartbeat through the pillow at night. She’s writing down her feelings of despair on crisp white paper. Written in red pen, it reminds her of the bloodshed on the news and in her visionary brain. News of grit and death, an American dream gone wrong. And she knows the future is uncertain. Beauty is forever removed and this young girl feels a rage inside her. Embers and fiery intentions. This room is a capsule of black, the walls are charcoal, there’s no vibrancy or warmth. Even her skin is colder than most ...
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When She Awoke...

When She Awoke…

Short Fiction
Peter Tammer
When she awoke that bright and sparkling morning Beauty knew it was D-Day. She was in the foulest of moods. She wanted to scream. She wanted to swear. She had never sworn in her life before this day and now she let it out, full voice, she didn’t care if he heard her, she knew he would hear her, “MERDE!” There you are, she said, I’ve done it. I’ve sworn. My life will never be the same again. Today is the last day I’ll spend in this fucking palace where everything is simply marvellous day after day and every day is just the same as the day before, okay, new tricks, new clothes, new meals, but ...
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Dumpster RabbittZ – Part Six

Dumpster RabbittZ – Part Six

Serial Fiction
Bryan Higby and Ricky D. Snyder
Chapter Six We didn’t know it then but a whole world of nightmares was about to be unleashed on our small town of CarLowDen. When I opened my eyes lying on the cot in the police station holding cell, I noticed the streetlamps outside casting in through the barred window to my left. My head ached like the worst hangover in human history. I know about hangovers. So trust me, when John Friend says he’s had a few, more than a few, you believe him. I was a writer, or would be anyway. You know what they say about us writers, we never turn down a drink. Trying to sit up was ...
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Comer / To Eat

Comer / To Eat

Short Fiction
Scott J. Moses
Ezekiel stared over the stillness of the Mexican desert, gun smoke and smelted-iron thick on the cool air. He pressed himself against the dilapidated boards of the shanty and looked to his uncle, who crouched, revolver drawn, peaking around the edge of the weathered shack. “It’s over,” Smiley said, turning to him. “Your first gunfight, I remem—” he stopped when he saw Ezekiel’s revolver sheathed at his side and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Have to carry your weight, boy. You owe me.” Ezekiel brushed his uncle’s hand away. “It ain’t like you said. This ain’t right.” Smiley Sheardon chuckled, slipping bullets from the slots on his belt into his revolver. “Well, if ...
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Waitress Please! I’ll Have the Bit-chop!

Waitress Please! I’ll Have the Bit-chop!

Flash Fiction
Jim Meirose
Hey nearly tripped up tripped down tripped over but bu b—got back on’em okay. Much the wiser. After talking it down over with my waitress we got outta’ ‘dere again. So; talkdown over much more productive than talk down all over. All over; from head to toe front to back inside to outside every cubic anything. As; all over; no more been there done that good bye take care be good watch out best of everything everhing eveing evng eg.; just as said Eh, ‘Horse”. Waitress! Waitress! I’ll have the Bit-chop! Bit-chop Bit-chop Eh “Horse” Bit-chop time to Bit-chop get Bit-chop up morning has broken. Puck. Puck. Puck. Broken. Has morning up Bit-chop get Bit-chop to ...
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