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stories & essays


nick j. antosca
nick j. antosca, a student at yale university, was born in new orleans. he's written/directed three short films and has just finished editing the third one, which is a pseudo-documentary about ted bundy, starring barbie dolls. his work has been or will be published in gothic.net, antietam review, downstate story etcetera, usa weekend online. kafkaesque fact: he says his lungs used to collapse spontaneously because he's inhumanly skinny, so he had surgery and now they're stapled to the inside of his chest.

Works on this page:
feeding frenzy
mars dream

Feeding Frenzy

While I was waiting for a cab to pass, standing in the effluvia of the gutter in a bad neighborhood, three or four surly and inhospitable men approached me. It was summer and very hot, so perhaps their tempers were inflamed by an unrelated incident and I was to be their scapegoat. It was, I suspect, the scent of my leather shoes and briefcase that aroused their interest, or the bitter but becoming odor of the gel supporting my hair. "Get back," I said, forcefully putting out my hand to make crystal clear my meaning as they exhibited no signs of halting their approach. None among the group humored me with a response and their surliness appeared to have increased. They had surrounded me in a fashion common to the African hyena or the American timber wolf. "Wait," I said, feigning desperation, "I'll get my valuables out of this suitcase and hand them over without resistance. I'm a jeweler." They waited menacingly, fairly salivating. I did the combination locks and flipped the sucker open. Grabbing the sharpest and longest specimen from my extensive collection of Malaysian ceremonial daggers, I turned and thrust it into the thorax of the nearest assailant, who, as I tugged the weapon out, clutched his gushing scarlet wound and staggered to the steamy asphalt. His fellows, indiscriminately bloodthirsty, leapt upon their injured compatriot and tore him to shreds and rags, which they devoured ravenously as I made my hasty escape down Battery Avenue.


Mars Dream

he sheds his skin and becomes a woman with blue scales . . . his former flesh rolls off his body like a suit of blubber. She takes a few steps on her new feet - the soles are stiff, unbroken, but the skin itself is soft. It will be a few weeks before the skin becomes tough; it will take a few nights of crouching in Martian alleys and in the backs of trucks crossing red sand deserts; it will take a few chases, a few near misses, a couple of close shaves. The skin must be toughened and the lungs must become accustomed to the airless wind

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