• Endless Joke
    Endless Joke
    by David Antrobus

    Here's that writers' manual you were reaching and scrambling for. You know the one: filled with juicy writing tidbits and dripping with pop cultural snark and smartassery. Ew. Not an attractive look. But effective. And by the end, you'll either want to kiss me or kill me. With extreme prejudice. Go on. You know you want to.

  • Dissolute Kinship: A 9/11 Road Trip
    Dissolute Kinship: A 9/11 Road Trip
    by David Antrobus

    Please click on the above thumbnail to buy my short, intense nonfiction book featuring 9/11 and trauma. It's less than the price of a cup of coffee... and contains fewer calories. Although, unlike most caffeine boosts, it might make you cry.

  • Music Speaks
    Music Speaks
    by LB Clark

    My story "Solo" appears in this excellent music charity anthology, Music Speaks. It is an odd hybrid of the darkly comic and the eerily apocalyptic... with a musical theme. Aw, rather than me explain it, just read it. Okay, uh, please?

  • First Time Dead 3 (Volume 3)
    First Time Dead 3 (Volume 3)
    by Sybil Wilen, P. J. Ruce, Jeffrey McDonald, John Page, Susan Burdorf, Christina Gavi, David Alexander, Joanna Parypinski, Jack Flynn, Graeme Edwardson, David Antrobus, Jason Bailey, Xavier Axelson

    My story "Unquiet Slumbers" appears in the zombie anthology First Time Dead, Volume 3. It spills blood, gore and genuine tears of sorrow. Anyway, buy this stellar anthology and judge for yourself.

  • Seasons
    by David Antrobus, Edward Lorn, JD Mader, Jo-Anne Teal

    Four stories, four writers, four seasons. Characters broken by life, although not necessarily beaten. Are the seasons reminders of our growth or a glimpse of our slow decay?

  • Indies Unlimited: 2012 Flash Fiction Anthology
    Indies Unlimited: 2012 Flash Fiction Anthology
    Indies Unlimited

    I have two stories in this delightful compendium of every 2012 winner of their Flash Fiction Challenge—one a nasty little horror short, the other an amusing misadventure of Og the caveman, his first appearance.

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What is this about? I said: what is this about?


So we're careening down the road hell-for-leather in a howling twister assembled from panic, rage, and blind momentum.

The pavement is cracked and patched, black-as-pitch dying man's signatures scorched by our searing wheels, and for a moment I see infernal red eyes within, glaring out, but our urgent impetus, our arrogant impetuosity, carries us safely beyond their capacity to react in time, at least for now; the smoke from our hot tires a kissoff to their shortfall wickedness.

No, we are wicked. This is our time on the earth.

And we will be sure to dig in our heels.

Monsters are as caricatures when calibrated against the depth of our own wanton malevolence, once the millennium had ticked by and we found we had worn down our brakes, were unable to prevent our lurching wild mercury ride along crumbling interstates, weeds pushing through ruptured shoulders, the stink of roadslaughtered skunk filling our flared nostrils and nauseated guts, bug spatter, raw-throated emcees raining down layer upon layer of apocalyptic rhyme over beats that would stomp the redwood forests like so much kindling, preachers screaming about homo-sex-you-alls and how this is God's time, this is bill collection on a grand scale, we will all pay this Original Ferryman far more than the two-penny standard once balanced on closed lids... no, this payment is in souls and will be measured in suffering and anguish just as soon as we stop the ride, run out of gas, or luck, or hubris, whichever comes first.

With treacherous sex on our minds and a kind of sullen, heedless glory, we won't be the first but we might well be the last.

So keep your foot on the pedal and barely glance at the vistas as they pass in a blur of heat and wind—the grain fields, the blasted prairies, the distant purple mountains, the cattle, the trains, the loneliness, the signposts, the dead slate skies, the bright planetary skies, the John Deere Harley Davidson Gulf Chevron Arby's Denny's Super 8 Travelodge gasfoodlodging gasfoodlodging asscrudedodging cashdudegrudging ohmygodisitreallycometothisalready?

As we stomp on the useless brakes, scream, then drive off the edge of the world.