Fiction

Hungry Woman by Keith Ebsary

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Hungry Woman

by Keith Ebsary

 

<p class="”copyright”">Photo by Joel (<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/joel_nilsson/sets/">J. Nilsson Photography</a>) Copyright © 2014. Model: Angela Renner.</p>

Photo by Joel (J. Nilsson Photography) Copyright © 2014. Model: Angela Renner.

 
 

Steak.

A mountain of steak, a bombardment of bovine, meaty, majestic, marbled and magnificent. And it’s all for my wife, the wafer-thin gorger in thong and bra picking at the slabs of flesh with slow and lazy fingers as she coyly telegraphs the imminent feast. Meat smells fill our bedroom­­—salt, char and blood—and the lights play over the sharp strake of her shoulders and wild lines of her ribs. She looks into my eyes, and the look is hungry, as my fingers drop one by one in a silent countdown.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then the camera is on and the feast begins.

The first steak disappears in wolfy bites, jaws chomping in frenzy on tissue and gristle. I watch her throat bobble and gulp as her lips and tongue click in robotic harmony to the animal sounds mumbling through the juices inside her mouth.

The second steak is gentle, a quiet dinner in a riverside café, a bottle of wine with candlelight and fire. She fondles the meat with a lover’s touch, nuzzling the seared muscle with playful nips of her teeth. Meat juice precomes down her chin and she licks it away, eyes drilling through the camera to the unseen faces beyond.

The third steak is wild, ripped and shredded like the carcass of a woodland beast. She growls and barks as her fingers plunge into the wet muscle and tear off chunks that are swallowed whole. Her lips curl in predatory rage and her body hunches over the kill, a prize for her alone.

The other steaks become a smacking blur. She eats and eats and I watch in fascination as her gut bulges from the banquet packed within. The camera catches it all, every throat-swelling swallow, every satiated grunt. I try to fade from the scope of her hunger, become the shadow behind a plant. Finally the eating ends and she collapses onto the pillows behind her. I turn the camera off and join her on the bed where she lies with eyes half-open and stomach distended, glutted on cow like a sullen lioness digesting her kill. She crooks her finger, Come and I do what she says because she reminds me of everything beautiful.

Her kisses taste like meat and she is the sun inside me.
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Flatline by David Menear

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Flatline

by

David Menear

 

"Eyes: M", Copyright © 2014 Devin McCawley

“Eyes: M”, Copyright © 2014 Devin McCawley

Muttering and whispering her own bad poetry she’d slink secretively along through the cold frozen night of Montreal’s Westmount the few blocks from the bar to my place. Weaving in and out between the parked cars and ducking in behind trees and utility poles like a commando evading an enemy sniper. I’d left before her. No one at the bar was supposed to know we were meeting she insisted. Natalie wanted my drugs and booze and I wanted her insane enthusiastic sex. Hot young coke-whore meets horny older guy. Our needs were honest, delineated and always satisfied. I’d smack out a few fat lines on a mirror while she slowly struggled to undress fighting with her bra, so stoned, mystified like she’d never worn one of these harnesses before. A wild pony struggling to be free.
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Mercy by Kenneth Radu

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Mercy

 

by Kenneth Radu

 

Novelist, short story writer, poet — Kenneth Radu has the unique ability to uncover the extraordinary within the everyday, to peel back the fabric of the superficial to expose hidden depths of meaning. In “Mercy” Urban Graffiti is pleased to present Radu’s story of how a dark, unspoken family secret tears apart a family’s very foundation. ~Editor

 

Tattoo Nude 1. Photo © 2006 by Devin McCawley

Tattoo Nude 1. Photo © 2006 by Devin McCawley

Her head had cracked against the cement floor and she believed her life had come to an end. Her mind plummeted in a tailspin down a black well. In the descent she heard a voice demanding cunt and Adrian offering “be my guest” as if inviting him to use something he owned. She had never forgotten those words as the friend clutched her hair in a fist, repeating “holy fuck.” She would die with the stench of engine oil and whiskey swirling around her brain in the depths of the dark. Dizzy from alcohol, her brother smoked and laughed while his friend, also rank with booze, grabbed under her skirt and clawed off her panties. His nails razored her delicate flesh, he fingered her private parts, and she jolted upwards. His weight pressed hard against her breasts, she struggled to breathe, she couldn’t push him off, and she appealed to her brother: help me, Adrian, please, god, help me. A hand clamped over her mouth and she tried to bite it and scratch the guy’s face, but her jaws wouldn’t move. Both Adrian and the second friend held her arms apart by the wrists while the first friend drilled deep into her body and screams cut through the soft tissue of her brain.
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Youth by Tim Beckett

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Youth

 

by Tim Beckett

 

1280px-Montréal_glow
She appeared on an old style woman’s bike with the heavy iron frame and the wide handlebars, her backpack so heavy she almost fell over as she came to a stop. I was drinking beer on Bill’s porch with Bill and a dozen other people and I watched her as she came up the stairs. She was striking, with high Indian cheekbones and olive skin and long brown hair she’d tied back in a ponytail with an Indian braid, and an athletic dancer’s figure which she’d wrapped in a ankle-length leather greatcoat. As she said hello in turn to everyone on the porch, I noticed that, unusually amongst Bill’s friends, she was French.

She’d noticed me as well, because she stopped right in front of me, taking me in with amazing diamond eyes. Up close, she looked familiar though that didn’t mean much: in the month I’d been back in Montreal, every street, face or overheard conversation – whether in French or English – contained some association with a set of vaguely remembered persons or memories. For this and other reasons, I didn’t like to go out much, but that afternoon was special: Bill and his wife Sarah were having a baby shower for their daughter Gisele, who had just turned one.

Sarah, just two years off heroin.
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The Ghost by Philip Quinn

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The Ghost

 

by Philip Quinn

 

Street

The Ghost

I’d beg for a cup of coffee, a stale bun. The
merchants chased me from their doorsteps. I made
note of their thick accents.

 

I thought after the last war, I would make my way
as a painter. But my art fed me nothing.

 

Now I listen for the guns. Each day their thunder
comes closer. A dog when it is fed cyanide
straightens its legs out.  Marriage — the last
desperate hope. I owed her that at least.

 

I always said my prayers like a good boy. Did the
honourable duty towards those that expected it.
Some had to die before me of course. Even the young
children.

 

Do you know what it is like to hear your name
shouted out and to feel the love of thousands?
Occasionally I lifted my hand and smiled.UG

 
PhilipQuinnPhilip Quinn lives in Toronto and online at www.philipquinn.ca.

Published Books:

Dis Location, Stories After the Flood (Gutter Press 2000)

The Double, a novel. (Gutter Press 2003)

The SubWay (BookThug 2008)

The Skeleton Dance, a novel (Anvil Press 2009)