“Iphigenia” by Peter R. Bryant
January in the North Country—the dark comes on quick. In the moonrise, the skeletal branches of the birch trees throw thin shadows on the glowing blue snow . . .
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.
“Dopo L’Esplosione” by Geoffrey Thomas
It’s three in the morning, the orange sulfur lamps bleach the black sky, and for a moment I think it’s the sun rising over the skyline, but then the darkness recedes back into my vision. It’s always night here; this place never sleeps . . .
“The Late, Late Show” by John Hegenberger
I looked out my apartment window through the Venetian blinds down at a street full of shadows . . .
“Details” by J.H. Dixon
Full disclosure was the term they used. Before I moved my family, my life, everything. It’s an easy job really, being sheriff. Quiet most nights. Some drunks, wife abusers, the occasional meth head. And the mutilations. We don’t expect you to solve them or anything, but you need to be aware . . .
“A Lesson in Violence” by Kraig Pickel
The teenage boys sat low on a curb behind the loading docks, employee parking, and emergency exits of the East Towne Mall, Lancaster County’s finest local shopping center . . .
“Kirstenbosch” by Zurina Saban
He was painfully aware of his sweat. It oozed out of his pores and swam down his temples and cheeks without bothering to bead. His T-shirt was stuck to the flat mounds of his breasts . . .
“Civil Blood” by S. Douglas Hosdale
A hush had fallen over Hvar. The fish market was closed, and the cold cement countertops were empty and the knives and scales aremained untouched. The cold weather of fall had descended upon us with a ferocious howl of wind and a violent clap of thunder, and I watched the few bright patches of shimmery water fade into a dark sea . . .
“I, Murderer” by Anthony Moore
I’m patiently scoping out my next victim, but I’m distracted. Thanks to the news, I’m not savoring the moment like I normally do . . .