Miss Jo ladled an extra spoonful of golden brown stew over the fat, long dumplings in the bowl before sliding it across the counter to George. His mouth watered at the sight of the red crab legs glistening in the curry. “You fix me well nice,” he said, beaming at the food.
Miss Jo beamed back at him. Her gold tooth with its tiny diamond winked at him from between her full, brown lips. “You know you does get it special,” she said. She leaned her heavy, middle-aged bust over the counter. “I go get my special later?” she whispered . . .
Akashic Books has partnered with three influential independent publishers—Grove Atlantic, Melville House, and Europa Editions—for a month-long initiative featuring acclaimed crime fiction authors, editors, critics, and publishers appearing together in a series of readings, panels, and discussions!
Two years after it took the publishing industry by storm, Go the F*** to Sleep by Adam Mansbach, illustrated by Ricardo Cortés, remains a perfect gift for weary fathers.
Lucian Perkins, Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer, talks about his experience at the Washington, DC launch event for his latest collection, Hard Art, DC 1979.
Prodigy, from the legendary hip-hop group Mobb Deep, launches Akashic’s new Infamous Books imprint with a story of loyalty, vengeance, and greed. Click here to read a front page New York Times Arts Section feature about H.N.I.C. and the Infamous Books imprint. Click here for details about the limited edition signed package for H.N.I.C. by […]
When the Beadle came to my cubicle I was not surprised. I had been almost three minutes late and I knew what the Beadle’s job was. Even if you did not know what his job was, the shiny black suit, the purple cloak, and the watch chain going into the top pocket of his jacket would tell you that he was the bringer of no good news . . .
Bad Penny, She Always Turns Up. That was one of my most popular campaigns, back when the porn business was referred to as Adult Films, not “triple-X content.” Not that I’m a porn guy. I’m not. Anymore. I’m the kind of writer you don’t hear about. The guy who always wanted to be a writer—who read the backs of cereal boxes as a kid—dreamed of being Ernest Hemingway, then grew up and wrote the backs of boxes. You don’t think about the people who write the side effect copy for Abilify or Olestra ads . . . It’s not as easy as you think. You need to decide whether anal leakage goes best before or after suicidal thoughts and dry mouth . . . I take a ribbing from some of the guys (and gals) at the office—which, I have to admit, gets to me. They know I’ve been working on a novel, but it’s been awhile. I guess I should also admit that the heroin helps with some of the shame I feel about writing this stuff. Or life in general. I’m not, like, a junkie-junkie. I use it, I don’t let it use me. And I’m not going to lie, it helps. It’s like, suddenly you have a mommy who loves you. You just have to keep paying her . . .
