Trucker's Atlas

Nick Hamsun parked the truck down in the cul-de-sac, where he sometimes did when it was late and didn’t want to wake Anna, but tonight it was because the front room lights were on and it was clear someone else was living in his house.

Nick had known something like this was happening, or at least he was sure it might very well happen sometime, so he wasn’t exactly surprised by it. He’d known plenty of guys who’d come home to such scenes.

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Letter to Judge Jabota, Sixth Draft

Dear Judge,

It was my idea to write this, although my lawyer has helped in the actual writing. I went to summer camp once, it was some kind of initiative to help inner city youth. There were only a handful of us there from inner cities, the rest was wealthy suburban kids.(wealthier than us anyway) I made a friend named Randy. He had a black momma and a white daddy, so he was light skinned too.

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Brently Mallard

I open the door and that cocksucker Richards jumps in front of me and past his greasy pomade and sparkling teeth I see you tumble down the stairs ass over end like a sack of drowned cats. Not, “How was work, honey?” or even “I hope you like takeout, asshole,” but Richards with an arm levied across my chest and his Keanu-Reeves-shithead drawl, “Brently mahn, just slooow down.”

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Erik Wennermark
Fractures and Repair

My ex-wife works odd shifts and sometimes has mandatory overtime. I work midnights, mostly welding, sometimes building scaffolding with the carpenters.

“You’re a sweetie,” my ex-wife says when she drops the kid off unannounced at six in the morning when I’m getting ready for bed. “You’re a sweetie,” she says at noon or one or two, when I’m sound asleep, my drapes pulled tight like I’d welded them shut.

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Dave Newman Comment
The Divinity of Murder

I’ve killed. I’ve murdered. If I'm honest, I enjoy it. It’s my art. Call it what you will; bloodlust, psychopathy, not being loved enough by mommy or daddy, inborn evil, or demonic possession. The truth is you don’t have the guts to see it for what it is; you’re exactly like me only less honest.

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Mazada Yod
Count Saint Germain

The last time I had any semblance of companionship was in 1948. I’d come from Europe to California after the war with a group of soldiers, a bunch of guys who couldn’t re-adapt to society. Some had seen too much, haunted by the deaths of their friends, by the killing they’d done. They would wake in the middle of the night in pools of sweat gasping for air and stare listlessly in their waking hours at the shades and phantoms only they could see, their own personal hells only others who had witnessed so much death could relate to; a manic numbness, a shivering of the grey matter at high frequency, an immersion into the gory underpinnings of reality.

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