“The Body Farm” by James Glass
The sun crept over the horizon as Danny Noonan continued to have sex with Tammy Hayes. His heart beat faster with each thrust . . .
Category: Mondays Are Murder
Mondays Are Murder: Original Noir Fiction to Get Your Week off to a Dark Start
Launched in 2004 with Brooklyn Noir, our award-winning city-based Noir Series now has over 60 volumes in print, with many more to come. Each volume is overseen by an editor with intimate knowledge of the title city; each story is brand new from a local author, and each is set within a distinct neighborhood or location.
While we’ve been thrilled to publish the original works of over 800 authors in the series, we still long for more. And while we are constantly seeking homegrown editors with native knowledge of national and international cities not yet visited by the series, we’re eager to dig deeper.
Mondays Are Murder allows us to offer a glimpse of cities not yet seen, neighborhoods or hidden corners not yet explored in previous volumes, and, we hope, writers not yet exposed to our company. Contributions to the Akashic Noir Series are bound by mood: our authors are challenged to capture the sometimes intangible moods of “noir” and of “place”. The stories run the gamut from darkly-toned literary glimpses to straight-up crime fiction, while similarly capturing the unique aura of the story’s location.
Our web model for the series has one further dimension: A 750-word limit. Sound like murder? It is. But so are Mondays.
“Insight” by Sean Connolly
A liquid light cleanses the air, splashes mirrors across the passing car windows. Here she comes, obesity incarnate, à la Samantha, trudging along oblivious to the sun puddles on the sidewalk . . .
“The Umbrella” by Will Whitson
It all started with that damned umbrella . . .
“Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig” by Tonya Liburd
You had terminal, aggressive cancer this time, and today was the day you died from it at home . . .
“Blackwater” by Mark Cowling
Her message said eight and so I was there eight sharp like a good little lapdog. Marla had a way of reaching inside of me and ripping out my backbone . . .
“The Yellow Dress” by Christopher Miguel Flakus
It had been two years since I had a drink, and life was looking up. I was in Cuernavaca, Mexico, taking care of my grandfather. . .
“Cold Snap” by Mark Josyln
It hadn’t been half an hour since they settled in when Winston started up . . .
“Monday at Johnny’s” by Christian Aguiar
The sun is only just getting tired, sliding itself down behind the row of houses on the other side of Missouri. The sky is gray and restless. “Might be one of them derechos tonight . . .”