Mr B. Ireland's so lovely, but I've been setting stories here that are undeniably grim. So I blame Ken Bruen, too. While I'm spreading the blame around, might as well point a finger (or two!) at Mark E. Smith, too. If he hadn't written a lyric like, "A serious man /In need of a definitive job /He had drunk too much /Mandrake anthrax," then I wouldn't have had the idea for this story, which first started up on Twitter. Let's blame Twitter, too, shall we? It worked for Franzen.
Hanley eyed the brick façade. The door proved to be a gothic affair,
metal bound and painted all black. Seeing no modern convenience, he
lifted the oversized bat knocker and clapped it to a few times. They
both craned their ears but all around them it was suddenly as quiet as
death, as if all the people had walked hand in hand into the bay
abandoning the city behind them. Hanley shuddered.
When he had just about surrendered all hope and began to get thirsty for a tall foamy pint, the door groaned open to reveal a disheveled looking eurotrash reject of indeterminate age...
You can read the whole of this bleak little tale over at A Twist of Noir. While you're there, read some of the other fine stuff they've got.
Drop by the Six Sentence Sunday blog and sample some new writers today.