Jack had been living the good life for a long while but still hadn’t made it out of the day to day dealings his position demanded of him . . .
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.
On Columbus Day weekend my brother and I had gone to a mass dedicated to our father who’d died of a heart attack in the back room of 1998 Niagara Street . . .
Tal Afar Town is what they call us, but we’re not the real deal. The casting agency had to open it up to “actors of Middle Eastern or Mediterranean descent in good standing with the Union.” Who cares if we’ve got a few Armenians, and even a Steinberg from Scarsdale . . .
The skinhead wipes the rain out of his eyes and cackles. “I’m glad I’m not the poor bastard that has to try and identify your body.” His pump-action shotgun is wedged against my throat. He is going to make one hell of a mess . . .
Once, I lived in Tarrytown, in a six bedroom Tudor set high in the hills. My living room windows looked out across the Hudson to the green expanse of Rockland County on its far side. This was back when I was married; before Floyd Flake bit off my left ear and won the World Heavyweight title by a “knockout.” . . .
You have to go down a lot of steps to get to what’s left of the furnaces, so not many people come here. That’s why I use this place, but it got me thinking all the same. This was where it started, where – like the historical marker says – we made the steel that won the Civil War. Now it’s four ruined rock walls. This used to be the heart of the city, or maybe the lungs for the great bellows it had. Now it’s broken and useless. The city’s own black lung . . .
The last time I saw my father was in October of 1972 . . .
Yuri pulled his Nissan Maxima into the shopping center and waited . . .