We are supposed to meet beneath the stars, while the ocean whispers. I’ve stripped to my briefs and sampled the water with my toes . . .
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.
The first thing out of his mouth when I sat down was about the High Park. I hadn’t been in maybe a year or so since I’d moved out of the neighborhood, but my brother was a regular . . .
I always knew the kid was going to kill somebody, but no one believed me, especially my brother.
The cop listened. He pulled it together long enough to ask the caller to repeat himself. “It’s not funny. It’s theft. Someone took a porta potty!” . . .
She loved the sound of her high heels on the pavement. A casual unhurried I’m in control sound. She knew the higher the heels, the more elegant her walk . . .
I was quiet. I was able to be quiet. My sister more than made up for my absence of audible response to every situation. . .
The strange woman at my door holds a knife and a fork. Her cutlery is sharp. She smells of raw oysters. A bag hangs over her shoulders . . .
It was the jet lag that had set Owen off . . .
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