“You better come get me,” George mumbled into the phone when his wife Connie answered brightly on the third ring . . .
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.
Eammon Doyle wrapped his fist on the bar. “This is Col. James Kelleher, Jungle Jim to his friends. He’s just back from Belfast. I know some of you lads are thinking of joining the fight, so I asked him to talk to you.” . . .
The sun crept over the horizon as Danny Noonan continued to have sex with Tammy Hayes. His heart beat faster with each thrust . . .
A liquid light cleanses the air, splashes mirrors across the passing car windows. Here she comes, obesity incarnate, à la Samantha, trudging along oblivious to the sun puddles on the sidewalk . . .
It all started with that damned umbrella . . .
Her message said eight and so I was there eight sharp like a good little lapdog. Marla had a way of reaching inside of me and ripping out my backbone . . .
It had been two years since I had a drink, and life was looking up. I was in Cuernavaca, Mexico, taking care of my grandfather. . .
It hadn’t been half an hour since they settled in when Winston started up . . .
Featured: Black Interest
- Home: Social Essays
- Gathering of Waters
- I Love You Too
- Trinidad Noir
- Black History Digit
- Changers Book Two: Oryon
- On the Way Back
- Not for Everyday Use
- Dance of the Jakaranda
- Bandits & Bibles: Convict Literature in Nineteenth-Century America
- Eight New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set