Reverse-Gentrification of the Literary World

Akashic Books

||| |||

Category: Mondays Are Murder

Mondays Are Murder: Original Noir Fiction to Get Your Week off to a Dark Start

Launched in 2004 with Brooklyn Noir, our award-winning city-based Noir Series now has over 60 volumes in print, with many more to come. Each volume is overseen by an editor with intimate knowledge of the title city; each story is brand new from a local author, and each is set within a distinct neighborhood or location.

While we’ve been thrilled to publish the original works of over 800 authors in the series, we still long for more. And while we are constantly seeking homegrown editors with native knowledge of national and international cities not yet visited by the series, we’re eager to dig deeper.

Mondays Are Murder allows us to offer a glimpse of cities not yet seen, neighborhoods or hidden corners not yet explored in previous volumes, and, we hope, writers not yet exposed to our company. Contributions to the Akashic Noir Series are bound by mood: our authors are challenged to capture the sometimes intangible moods of “noir” and of “place”. The stories run the gamut from darkly-toned literary glimpses to straight-up crime fiction, while similarly capturing the unique aura of the story’s location.

Our web model for the series has one further dimension: A 750-word limit. Sound like murder? It is. But so are Mondays.

“Customers” by Tom Andes

Gardner finished dressing: jeans, his shoulder holster strapped on underneath his leather jacket. He’d started down the stairs when the buzzer sounded. Gripping his arm, the woman stopped him. “Don’t go out there.” . . .

“The Rumor” by Cass Lewis

I had warned Mikey Ronagan that sooner or later someone was going to shoot that cocky smile off his face, so I don’t know why I’m letting the image of his dead body ruin my moment today . . .

“The Offer” by Kristen Petry

I ran into Linda, unexpectedly, the other day at Publix. She used to be pretty, but in her late forties, she’s all bloat, veneers, and Oxy eyes . . .

“Dismal Holy Night” by Nicole Yurcaba

He’s defunct again. Lying on the floor, screaming about helicopters and LSD experiments. The man-child in his underwear, spread-eagled, crying to the ceiling, maybe even to the outside woods if they’re listening . . .

“On the Bus” by Nathan Ward

New York was scruffier then; everywhere you saw signs of its humbling in its bald park lawns and strobe-popping Broadway head shops . . .

Featured: Young Adult/Middle Grade