“A Woman of Privilege” by Désirée Zamorano
The body didn’t belong in the freezer. It belonged in the Pasadena sunshine, skateboarding down the uneven sidewalks, cycling around McDonald Park, kicking a soccer ball around the Rose Bowl . . .
479 search results found for “noir”
Eric Boyd: Swimming Lessons
To celebrate the release of Prison Noir — the latest release in Akashic’s Noir Series and edited by National Book Award winner Joyce Carol Oates — we’re pleased to feature a guest post from contributor Eric Boyd, who gives insight into what it’s like to write while incarcerated.
“On the House” by Seamus Scanlon
It was a rainy day in Galway. Nothing new—Galway and rain are synonymous, along with fog, mist, hailstones, slippery footpaths, pneumonia . . .
“Cranberry’s Last Dance” by Sean Gill
My rusted Pontiac bounced from pothole to pothole and swung into the factory lot. Another overcast day, all dirty snow and no sun. In Northeast Ohio, pessimism is the great common denominator—hoping for sunshine on a winter’s day is as fruitless as wishing upon a star, expecting a quiet lunch break, or rooting for the Browns . . .
“Resolutions” by Robert Pope
She brushed her hair, watching her hazel eyes, her wide lips, and her creamy dark complexion. The card lay on the vanity: John P. Fletcher. She put on the white dress she had laid out on her bed. She opened her purse, slid in the compact Ruger, silver with a black handgrip, and walked slowly to the corner . . .
“Heliotrope.” by Jake Falls
I used to photograph the ruin. The historic Packard Plant had become my forty-acre inspiration in the heart of Detroit. What was once the grandest and most industrious automotive facility of the early twentieth century had corroded into a sprawling wasteland, and I captured it all through my camera lens . . .
“In Paris” by Jennifer Solheim
You flatten your body across the bed. The early afternoon sunlight feathers over you. You grant it permission . . .
“Tu Mejor Amiga” by Carmen Jaramillo
I felt like God, even though I must’ve been the palest lady on Vía Argentina. I was one lone gringita standing outside a bar full of red lights and Don Omar music, watching people use the tens and twenties tucked in their fingers for cab fare or a bottle of rum to mix with Coca-Cola. I was just a dirt-broke chick who sprinted out of the States like a scalded rat, hoping I’d never see certain people again . . .