We Are The Clash: The Last Stand of a Band That Mattered needs your help!

The authors of We Are The Clash, Mark Andersen & Ralph Heibutzki, are seeking your support (& photos!) to help bring this exciting book into the world.

“Mission Hills Confidential” by Grace Suh (from Kansas City Noir)

Allison sits in the breakfast room and watches the cardinal pair, male and female, dipping in and out of the holly bushes where they make their home. She avoids this room in the morning—too much sun. But it’s tolerable starting from early afternoon, which it now is, when she can drink her tea and look out the tall windows and watch the shadows sit neatly under the trees like coasters.

Her husband Britt is upstairs in the green guest room. Since winter, when he fell in with a new group of friends, he’s been tumbling into bed at all hours, reeking of vodka and smoke and sweat. A month ago she asked him to use a guest room on nights he goes out, and mostly he remembers. For some reason he eschews the gray one with the nautical theme and king-sized bed in favor of the mint-green one with the Colefax chinoiserie print that swathes the walls, draperies, armchair, and dainty canopy bed . . .

“Amp is the First Word in Amphetamine” by Joseph Mattson (from The Speed Chronicles)

I was awakened at six a.m. after a long night of serious drink chasing down seven days of too much speed. Anvil head, brain ready to splatter, body wrought with ache and despair. Wanting nothing more than some shut-eye, against the ghost-white face of an unforgiving, barbaric narco-crash, I was brought back to the shock of life by a telephone call from an LAPD detective looking for my best friend . . .

“The Rainbow’s End” by M.J. Fievre (from Haiti Noir)

I’m sitting in my father’s chair—a tattered and tired office chair that I’ve lugged to the porch. It is showing its age: scarred faux leather, armrests sprouting prickly stuffing, scents of Papa in the fabric. Half shaded by an acacia tree, I am sipping rich, dark café au lait, scattering a bit on the ground first, just like my father does, to feed our ancestors. The air is soft with breeze and sweet with roasting coffee, the few clouds in the sky moving like fishing boats out on the Caribbean Sea. The voices of the neighborhood rise and fall in spurts. Outside the prisonlike gates of my parents’ house in Kenscoff, young girls balance buckets atop their heads, up and down the graveled roads. Sun-wrinkled women sell huge mangoes and homemade peanut brittle, while boys in cutoff jeans run in circles with makeshift kites or push around trucks made from plastic bottles . . .

NYC Book Events for Hard Art, DC 1979!

Following their sold out book launch for Hard Art, DC 1979 at Politics & Prose, Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer Lucian Perkins and DC musician Alec MacKaye are coming to New York City!

Dylan Coleman Illustrates Reed Farrel Coleman’s “Jump”

Reed Farrel Coleman showed us a darker side of Coney Island with “Jump” for Mondays Are Murder. Now see Dylan Coleman’s original storyboard illustrations of the story.

“Justice” by Riaz Mulla (from Mumbai Noir)

“The court will now pronounce its verdict,” the judge remarked plainly, as if he was going to read out the evening news.

Asghar Khan stood up in the witness box with the anticipation of a man in that twilight zone of hope when the decision has been made but not yet announced . . .

“Contents of House” by Jane Ciabattari (from Long Island Noir)

If you’re watching this, I’m dead. But don’t stop. Watch all the way through, and I suspect you’ll know who did it. This is my confession, and his . . .