Review: A Private Venus by Giorgio Scerbanenco, Translated by Howard Curtis
Akashic intern Tyler Burr reviews A Private Venus by Giorgio Scerbanenco, translated by Howard Curtis.
Tag: Noir
“New Anchor” by Iain Ryan
Never take a job in summer—that’s rule one. Rule two is never trust anyone. They have that rule all over, but rule one, that’s my thing. No one thinks straight in summer. You can’t rely on anyone after November . . .
“Lost” by Cezarija Abartis
Elizabeth heard the door bang and footsteps clatter in the kitchen. She was relieved that it was not her daughter’s gait. This was another teenager. A girl holding a gun. Dear God, where did these children get these weapons? What possessed them? . . .
“The Preaching Game” by Bronwyn Mauldin
I was halfway through a draft of a blistering sermon on Romans 1:18 when I was startled by a scratching at my office door. My staff and parishioners knew to leave me alone on Thursday afternoons. I looked up to see a vision in turquoise . . .
“a murder of crows” by Antonio Hopson
In their black eyes, one could see morning’s sun rise into sweet rapture . . .
“Coot Song: A Tragic Love Story” by Madeleine Angevine
Green Lake in the hour before dawn: Seattle’s beautiful, teeming dark heart, its still surface broken only by the skittering of hundreds of phosphorescent coot feet, its quiet violated only by the self-conscious chatter of female walkers seeking fitness in cautious herds, or the indigestive squawk of a disturbed heron. A headlamped solitary jogger, disappearing into pools of darkness along the intermittently lit trail, then reappearing triumphant, steeled herself for the prolonged period of darkness that awaited her at the lake’s poorly illuminated southern end . . .
“The Life Saver” by Lina Zeldovich
A knock on the door interrupted Imam Galim’s late night tea. Resting in his apartment attached to the Qolşärif mosque—the largest mosque not only in Tatarstan’s capital, but all of Russia—he was watching the moon rise over the Kazanka River and the nearby Blagoveshchensk Cathedral . . .
“The Last Stud” by Paul Renault
On the few days out of the year when the range was closed he’d get out the duct tape and stick the PVC-and-wadding suppressor on his Ruger .22 pistol. He’d load it with subsonics. He’d open the window, take out the screen, and throw some empty beer cans out in the yard. Then he’d stand back in the dark of his room and make them dance . . .