It must have been a gunshot. I’d know the sound of a .45 anywhere.
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.
Joe hesitated, then strode into the darkness of the bar. In the seconds it took for his eyes to adjust he could tell he would have the place virtually to himself for a while.
“Vultures.” On the roof again today.
Me and my best friend hung out every night on the streets, smoking cigarettes and talking to older boys in cars.
“Mr. Funderburke, I think my cousin is trying to kill me.”
Kakadu. That vast floodplain, a wilderness as green as the eye can see, in Australia’s Northern Territory. That’s where I’d brought her to die.
No matter how many times you’ve done it, it’s never easy.
Matt sneezed all over the pig fetus and then wiped his nose with his glove covered with formaldehyde and who knows what viruses.
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- The Warmest December
- New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Tatu)
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- Frederick Douglass in Brooklyn
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