Evil Jester Digest, Vol.1 Read Online Free
Author: Peter Giglio (Editor)
meant survival, wouldn’t one be all right?
Just one.
Mr. Wilkins was within reach.
Sally dove into his chest and into the light.
*****
Tracy L. Carbone lives in Massachusetts with her daughter and a house full of pets. She writes in her spare time, mostly late at night or on the train as she commutes to her day job. She is Co-Director of the New England Horror Writers and edited their first anthology Epitaphs , which was nominated for the prestigious Bram Stoker Award. Her YA novel, The Soul Collector , was released November 2011. Her short stories have appeared in several magazines and anthologies in the US and Canada. Please visit her website for more details about her writing, or contact the author at www.tracylcarbone.com.
SHARPE IS EXTRAORDINARY
David Dunwoody
Sharpe wakes up at nine in the morning. He wakes up again at eleven-thirty, then at quarter of one. The last couple hours ain’t worth shit for sleep, but the dreams are decent and they stay with him. He gets up at three-fifteen.
Going straight from the hide-a-bed to the computer always puts a snarl in his spine but he does it anyway. Sits naked in the chair and plays with his balls for a minute while the PC boots up. His balls stick to the faux-leather seat and make a dry peeling noise when he gathers them in his palm. His prick is a sorry-looking character first thing in the afternoon. It slumps dramatically over those balls like Scarlett at Tara’s threshold and something that isn’t quite piss beads in its stupid empty eye socket. He flicks the head with his finger and reaches for the mouse. It’s dark in the room still, besides the monitor, the window covered by ten-pound vampire curtains.
His day doesn’t start until after emails are done. Once emails are done he hobbles to the shower.
He dries himself off in the stall with a towel that just seems to move the water around on his pulp. Dropping it on the floor in lieu of a bath mat, he sits on the toilet with his wet ass. Pushes until he sees fractals.
He decides to go on an adventure today. He will wear his red-orange Hawaiian shirt and gray sweats and a ball cap.
It’s boiling outside. His flip-flops slap the concrete and already he can feel sweat brimming along his hairline and around his balls. He twirls his key on his index finger and descends the steps. In the parking lot of the Hollywood Inn, which sits atop a hill littered with convenience stores, trailer parks, and disused cemeteries, Sharpe drinks deep of the world. He tastes adventure and what could be tacos but is probably B.O., and he squeegees sweat from his moustache with his fingers. The ’stache is bone-white like the rest of him. He looks like a ghost, even in that blaring pineapple-print shirt, and he supposes he likes it that way. His life is his alone to witness. He will not write home to Mama and will not tweet pics to Goatboy667. He has learned to validate his own existence and thereby attained nirvana. Today he is going to carve an asshole into the back of someone’s head and fuck their brain.
Starting down the sidewalk, Sharpe shuffles through his mental jukebox and puts on Bowie’s “Heroes.”
*****
The wash of Freon through the 7-Eleven’s magic doors is like a high-five from the Holy Ghost. Sharpe stands in the doorway for a moment, the sun still baking his back as he pulls the cap from his damp white head and sighs.
“Life is made of moments,” he tells the slack-faced cashier. Her head bobs in a way that indicates understanding.
“Get that Slurpee machine fixed?” He digs into his back pocket and counts the bills he finds. “The blue one. Blue raspberry. Ooooh-maa.”
She’s not even listening. Her head just bobs like that, like her neck’s made of gelatin. He fixes his pink-eyed gaze on her and clears his throat . “Blue raspberry.”
Her thousand-yard stare passes through him to worlds beyond. He folds the cash and places it back in his pocket.
“I
Just one.
Mr. Wilkins was within reach.
Sally dove into his chest and into the light.
*****
Tracy L. Carbone lives in Massachusetts with her daughter and a house full of pets. She writes in her spare time, mostly late at night or on the train as she commutes to her day job. She is Co-Director of the New England Horror Writers and edited their first anthology Epitaphs , which was nominated for the prestigious Bram Stoker Award. Her YA novel, The Soul Collector , was released November 2011. Her short stories have appeared in several magazines and anthologies in the US and Canada. Please visit her website for more details about her writing, or contact the author at www.tracylcarbone.com.
SHARPE IS EXTRAORDINARY
David Dunwoody
Sharpe wakes up at nine in the morning. He wakes up again at eleven-thirty, then at quarter of one. The last couple hours ain’t worth shit for sleep, but the dreams are decent and they stay with him. He gets up at three-fifteen.
Going straight from the hide-a-bed to the computer always puts a snarl in his spine but he does it anyway. Sits naked in the chair and plays with his balls for a minute while the PC boots up. His balls stick to the faux-leather seat and make a dry peeling noise when he gathers them in his palm. His prick is a sorry-looking character first thing in the afternoon. It slumps dramatically over those balls like Scarlett at Tara’s threshold and something that isn’t quite piss beads in its stupid empty eye socket. He flicks the head with his finger and reaches for the mouse. It’s dark in the room still, besides the monitor, the window covered by ten-pound vampire curtains.
His day doesn’t start until after emails are done. Once emails are done he hobbles to the shower.
He dries himself off in the stall with a towel that just seems to move the water around on his pulp. Dropping it on the floor in lieu of a bath mat, he sits on the toilet with his wet ass. Pushes until he sees fractals.
He decides to go on an adventure today. He will wear his red-orange Hawaiian shirt and gray sweats and a ball cap.
It’s boiling outside. His flip-flops slap the concrete and already he can feel sweat brimming along his hairline and around his balls. He twirls his key on his index finger and descends the steps. In the parking lot of the Hollywood Inn, which sits atop a hill littered with convenience stores, trailer parks, and disused cemeteries, Sharpe drinks deep of the world. He tastes adventure and what could be tacos but is probably B.O., and he squeegees sweat from his moustache with his fingers. The ’stache is bone-white like the rest of him. He looks like a ghost, even in that blaring pineapple-print shirt, and he supposes he likes it that way. His life is his alone to witness. He will not write home to Mama and will not tweet pics to Goatboy667. He has learned to validate his own existence and thereby attained nirvana. Today he is going to carve an asshole into the back of someone’s head and fuck their brain.
Starting down the sidewalk, Sharpe shuffles through his mental jukebox and puts on Bowie’s “Heroes.”
*****
The wash of Freon through the 7-Eleven’s magic doors is like a high-five from the Holy Ghost. Sharpe stands in the doorway for a moment, the sun still baking his back as he pulls the cap from his damp white head and sighs.
“Life is made of moments,” he tells the slack-faced cashier. Her head bobs in a way that indicates understanding.
“Get that Slurpee machine fixed?” He digs into his back pocket and counts the bills he finds. “The blue one. Blue raspberry. Ooooh-maa.”
She’s not even listening. Her head just bobs like that, like her neck’s made of gelatin. He fixes his pink-eyed gaze on her and clears his throat . “Blue raspberry.”
Her thousand-yard stare passes through him to worlds beyond. He folds the cash and places it back in his pocket.
“I
Readers choose
Cheri Verset
Susan Ward
John E. Harper
William Faulkner
Bill Morris
Luxie Ryder
Alexander McCall Smith
Madeline Evering
Edward Lee
Julia O'Faolain