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#FICTION - Baby Blue Meets Stranger

6/26/2018

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BABY BLUE MEETS STRANGER


The city lights shone early summer bright, a light heated breeze with a slight taste of pollen touching and feeling through the concrete and metal. Rose locked the car and pulling a black handbag over her shoulder, walked into the city solitude, alone, looking fleshy plump in a baby blue halter and white skirt, which moved pleasantly against her legs, dancing in summer wind. Down the avenue towards never, she glided her feet and sandals covering cracked pavement and garbage. She saw, without giving a sign of recognition, the bus terminal, the mechanical life of coming and going, of oil and gas, the place of the lost hopeless. Words flitted through her mind, her mother’s. 
“Only poor people take the bus.”

She walked past the benches and bums and into the bright downtown night, seeing in front of her neon and advertised fun. She checked her watch, without slowing, and frowned. She pressed painted fingers through her hair, one last attempt to straighten and fix blonde locks that refused to be tamed. She paused for a moment at the door, looking at her reflection. With a shake of her head and a sigh, she entered.

Bar darkness blinded blue as eyes turned to meet the open door. A couple nearest the door returned to conversing, making little note of newcomer. Further along sat the men, alone and leering, cheap animal seething, masked in khakis and collared shirts, hooded college jerseys and authentic team apparel. She moved slowly forward, eyes moving slowly with her, eyes tasting pearl thighs, bare navel. Slow steps past them, to an empty booth against the wall, sitting, and legs crossed, waiting. 

She looked around as she waited for barkeep to fix a drink. The same hungry eyes tasting and licking, four sets of hungry eyes. The bartender put a drink in front of her, which she finished quickly.

“Another.” She glanced at her watch with disappointment and sighed. I shouldn't have been late. 

A drink, drink empty. She signaled again.

She placed the handbag next to her, removing a phone, gray contact with concrete world. She flipped it open: no messages. She sighed and drank, all the while a he, with the tan khakis and collared shirt, sauntered close, leaning against the booth. He smelled scented clean, standing dangerous near.  he avoided his eyes, hungry and bright, and let her eyes wander. A couple holding hands and whispering of secret love, an elderly man staring into his beer, and further down the bar, he, alone, he of wild hair and blue plastic pants, sat writing mysteries into a black book. 

“Strange,” she said.

“Indeed.” Khaki spoke.

She looked at Mr. khaki and gave fake smile, hoping he’d leave. He smiled back and slid confident into the open space across from her. 

“How about a drink?” 

She nodded and reached into the handbag, removing a package of cigarettes. Khaki extended fire and smiled.

“I’m Kyle.” 

“Rose.”

He reached his hand toward her, which she met with her own. His hand felt cool and soft. A moment of silence spent watching him write, while Kyle fed animal hunger and stared. She finished her drink and he signaled for another, his eyes fixed on blue. 

“I’m meeting someone,” she said.

He nodded understanding and flipped his hand in the direction of writer.

“Hopefully you’re not waiting on him.”

She sighed and began to pick at her fingers. She finished her drink and pressed her cigarette into the ashtray.

“I’m not sure.” She watched as he wrote, wondering. She saw Kyle smiling, light laughter on his lips. She turned to face him, looking into hazel eyes, which burned deep red with alcohol high. 

“There is a story here.”

“Not one that I’m going to tell you.” 

Kyle let out a low whistle and tapped his fingers against his glass. He sat silent, watching, eyes against her bare shoulders, touching her skin. He signaled for another round, finished his beer and walked from the bar. Rose lit a cigarette and returned her gaze to writer. She gathered handbag and phone and walked, unsteady with drink daze, past the eyes watching to the end of the bar, taking a seat next to him. 

“Mind if I sit?” She asked. He didn’t respond and continued writing. She drank while looking him over, seeing cigarette stained fingers and ragged clean nails, fingers in constant motion. She crossed her legs and turned towards him, her foot brushing against his pants. She adjusted her skirt and ran a painted finger over pale thigh, all while keeping her eyes on his hands. Silence and fingers in motion met her efforts. A sigh escaped her lips, lips full and colored light pink. She pulled hard on her cigarette and began once again to pick at her cuticles. 

He turned to face her, his eyes wide and dark and brooding, eyes that seemed to bore into her own, and placed his hands flat against the black book, as if shielding the words from her.

“Is there something in particular you wanted or are you just looking to get laid,” he said. His voice rang deep and angry, bringing a rush of red to her plump, pale cheeks.

She attempted to speak, but her voice failed her. In a hurry to answer, she dropped the cigarette and reached for the black bag, struggling to tear it open. The phone fell out onto the bar as she searched, finally bringing out a folded magazine. She opened it and pushed it in front of him.

“Did you write this story?” She asked. 

He took the magazine in his hands, looking at the cover and at the page she wished him to see. He took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, which leapt out in wild spiked bunches from his head, and pushed the magazine back towards her.

“I wrote that in another life.”

She waited for something more, some sign of interest, anything, but he remained silent. He finished his beer, ordered another with a flick of his hand, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He closed his book and leaned back on his chair, watching her, looking into her eyes. Moments passed one into another; a cigarette lit, a drink finished and refilled, music sounding from the jukebox in the corner. 

“I loved that story.” She managed. He didn’t acknowledge her comment and continued to watch her, eyes not moving from her own.

“I guess you get that a lot. I mean, I’ve read lots of your stories and I think you’re a really great writer. I wanted to meet you and see what you were like.” She finished in a rush, too many words, sounding foolish to herself. He remained silent. She gulped down a drink in an attempt to gather courage.

“I’ve always dreamed of a man speaking to me the way you write.” She smiled, happy to have said what she wished to tell him, for once not lacking courage. 

He smiled and laughed. He called for shots from bartender and pushed one in her direction. Without a word, only a simple nod at her, he tossed the shot back. He gathered his things, threw money on the bar and stood. He walked towards the door, not looking back. She downed her shot, through a grimace of discomfort and followed behind him, not knowing why or where he led.

He stood outside the bar, waiting, black book under his arm, cigarette between his lips. Again, in silence, he began walking, a brisk pace. She followed, likewise silent, wondering and thinking and wishing. The city passed in a blur, a jumble of crosswalks and alleys and stoplights. Her feet felt sore from the exertion and she wondered if he lived in the city at all.

“Am I getting a guided tour?” She joked. He smiled at her and kept walking, turning sharply into a narrow lane. Towering three story apartment houses lined the street on both sides, an endless stretch of humanity. He walked up the steps of a gray giant and with a turn of a key, entered. He climbed the stairs, expertly in the darkness, Rose trying to keep close to him, her hand upon his shoulder. He came to an abrupt halt next to a door that seemed to materialize out of the darkness. He pushed the door open and led the way inside.

“Welcome to my humble abode.”  

The door opened into darkness, which he entered, leaving Rose to stare into the black. She heard and then saw a match touch light to a candle, revealing a wide room with low ceiling. The candle sat upon a wooden table in the center, the outlines of a couch to one side visible. He walked to each corner and lit more candles, turning darkness into shadows. The kitchen opened to the left through an opening and another door against the far wall, which Rose thought to be the bathroom.

“Where do you sleep?” She asked, peering into the shadows in search of another door. 

“On the couch,” he said, extending his arm. She sat and leaned back, the couch feeling deep and soft beneath her. She pushed a hand against the cushions, feeling the fabric, as he placed a drink on the table. 

“I don’t place a high importance on possessions. I need few comforts to work.”

Rose sat silent, looking and seeing, noticing the bookcase against the wall and the desk adjacent to the couch, as music sounded behind her. 

“Mozart,” he said as he changed into a shorts and a tee-shirt. He grabbed an ashtray and a beer and sat down next to her, close. Hand against bare leg, the light pleasure of alcohol in her veins, the rush of a moment close, Rose shut her eyes.

“Can I read a new story?” Rose asked.

“I don’t like to have a story read before it is ready to publish.” Palm against thigh, fingertips run slow and delicate against cream and pearl.

“Please,” she said, placing her hand upon his, pulling it higher.Ray handed her the black book, pushing fingertips under white skirt.

“Thank you.” She reclined against a pillow, opening the black book. 

​There is a terrorist in our midst. 

He is the leader of the land.
 
Rose moaned and gripped the book, tightly, as Mozart played mad heat upon her thighs. She read on.

“This is fire,” she whispered. Cellos and violas danced upon her navel, touching and teasing, a chorus of intent.
           
The downward pressure exerted upon the individual must be excised.  I am one, unique and strong.  I will oppose. I deny my number; I stand and scream at metallic murderous god, I will not bow!  Hear my song, my song of death, my song of opposition.  To see is to live, to live is to die.  You, our leader, shall die.
 
Nails clean and ragged dug into arm flesh, pulling Rose down and deep. A violin makes its voice heard, in one final rush, a maddening run of minor.

You, those that fail to oppose tyranny, fail in the defense of the weak, infirm, aged, and young; you too shall die.

Rose stared up at the ceiling and took in several deep breathes to calm her heartbeat, which raced from both the story and pleasure. Reaching her hand, she squeezed his and turned to face him. "I'm happy we finally met. This is better than all the times I imagined what it would be like."

He lit a cigarette, but didn't speak. She returned to looking at the ceiling, a smile on her face. I met Ray Holden!
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Moran Press Presents The #Kindle Edition of Love and Quarters

6/20/2018

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MORAN PRESS PRESENTS
THE KINDLE EDITION OF
LOVE AND QUARTERS
BY GABRIEL RICARD

I'm proud to present the kindle edition of Love and Quarters, the second release by Gabriel Ricard from Moran Press.

A follow-up to the 2014 Kleft Jaw Press poetry collection Clouds of Hungry Dogs, Gabriel Ricard’s 2nd poetry book is about coming to terms with the good, the bad, and the reliably hideous. The world is a badly run 1890s-style asylum, but at least there’s a lot of good stuff on TV. Love and Quarters goes deep into love, depression, high adventures in the great outdoors, and whatever the hell else may happen while in transit.
I fell in love with this collection from the moment Gabriel submitted it and am thrilled to present it to the readers of Moran Press. Congratulations to Gabriel on our second collaboration. It was a long road, but at the end is a stunningly beautiful collection we can both be proud of.  

A huge thank you goes to the cover artist, Raymond Kilburn Jr whose magnificent art sets off Gabriel's poetry in a way beyond anything I ever expected. Such a job well done. Please check out Raymond's art. I promise he's a talent to watch. 

Purchase the kindle edition by clicking the link below. Thank you for taking the time to visit Moran Press. 

PURCHASE THE KINDLE EDITION OF LOVE AND QUARTERS
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Moran Press Presents - The #Kindle Edition of Cloudy Days, Still Nights

6/20/2018

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MORAN PRESS PRESENTS
KINDLE EDITION OF
CLOUDY DAYS, STILL NIGHTS
BY AUSTIN DAVIS

The Kindle edition of Cloudy Days, Still Nights is now available at Amazon.com. Here's the description for the book and the first review. Congratulations to Austin Davis on the official publication of his first collection in Kindle edition and best wishes for many more to come.

​Big thanks to the amazing artist of the cover edition, Anne Segal. You really brought Austin's poetry to live. Thank you so much. 


Cloudy Days, Still Nights is a coming of age poetry collection that paints an earnest portrait of falling in love and finding out what this life is all about. At the heart of Cloudy Days, Still Nights is an exploration of youth and love and not overlooking the small beautiful moments in life. This is the first collection from Austin Davis.
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In this time of weary, dark news and upsetting political upheaval, read a collection of love poetry that will warm your heart. Cloudy Days, Still Nights will win a place in your mind and spirit. 
PURCHASE THE KINDLE EDITION OF CLOUDY DAYS, STILL NIGHTS
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#fiction - the #incel manifesto

6/17/2018

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THE INCEL MANIFESTO​


              Drink and smoke and suffer a hangover, rinse and repeat. It’s another morning of raging headache and bile in my mouth. My rage keeps pushing and demanding alcohol medication. In my fitful sleep, dreams of revenge played in my mind. ‘I will find you all…”
              George enters the room with a tray and I attempt to sit up in bed. My head swims and nausea pulses through my body. Slumping back into the pillows, I close my eyes and focus on breathing until the lightheadedness passes.
              “Don’t attempt to get up, just relax. Open your mouth and I’ll help you with the medicine.”
              I do as he demands and swallow the pills. I hear George rustling papers on my desk and know without looking he’s gathering yesterday’s writing for processing and replacing it with blank pages and the morning paper. I do like to stay informed, though my constant hangovers usually mean I take my morning news in the early afternoon.
              “What time is it?”
              “Noon, Ella. Do you wish to see the doctor?”
              Opening my eyes enough to watch him organizing my writing, I shake my head in the negative. I don’t need the doctor. Not for my hangover, anyway. Maybe the head doctor can prescribe something to…
              “There’s something that requires your attention, Ella.”
              I use my hands to push myself up against the headboards, my skull pounding protest. It’s curious he didn’t just tell me what’s the matter, it’s not like him to attempt to prepare me.
              “What is it, George?”
              “I came across a pamphlet you will be interested in, titled Incel Manifesto. You will find it next to Monday’s edits.”
              I sigh and feel a bit of disappointment, anticipating something of more urgency. “I know all about these incel creeps, George. No need to be dramatic.”
              Closing my eyes, I attempt to conjure an image of Ray. My mind paints the cheekbones and I smile inside my mind.
              “The pamphlet was left at the local café…”
              “My café?”
              “Yes, Ella.”
              Blood pulses into my brain and I struggle to make sense of what he’s telling me. This fucking hangover. Maybe one of these days I should do something about my drinking. Oh, no lies between friends, dear reader, you know that will not happen any time soon.
              “Do you know the identity of the author yet?”
              “Not yet. There’s no name on the manifesto, just the title and text of the document.”
              I snap my eyes open and lift my arms, signaling impatience. “Tell me.”
              “Let’s rape a bunch of chicks.”
              The familiar rage rises, pushing out the hangover. “Send me Saul. Tell him I want this on the highest priority. There are no coincidences in this life. I don’t know what it means, but this manifesto being left at my café feels like a declaration of some sort.”
              “Or a threat,” George adds before leaving the room.
              Forcing myself out of bed, I enter the bathroom and run the shower. Stepping under the scalding water, the details of all George told me replay in my mind like a skipping record. An incel left a manifesto for me.
              So you want to play? I’ll raise that bet, whoever the fuck you are…I’ll be seeing you.
 

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VIDEO - LIVE Reading from Server - A Moment and Forever

6/16/2018

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LIVE READING FROM SERVER
A MOMENT AND FOREVER

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VIDEO Review of BOOK OF BIRDS - Must Watch

6/14/2018

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VIDEO REVIEW
BOOK OF BIRDS

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PHOTOS - Readers with Books by Gabriel Ricard

6/13/2018

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PURCHASE LOVE AND QUARTERS
PURCHASE BONDAGE NIGHT
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Austin Davis Performs LIVE at the Infuse Open Mic

6/11/2018

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AUSTIN DAVIS PERFORMS LIVE
INFUSE OPEN MIC
THE PHOENIX CENTER FOR THE ARTS

Austin Davis performed selections from Cloudy Days, Still Nights at the Infuse Open Mic at The Phoenix Center for the Arts. 
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VIDEO - Gabriel Ricard reads from LOVE AND QUARTERS

6/11/2018

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GABRIEL RICARD READS
SELECTIONS FROM
LOVE AND QUARTERS

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Austin Davis reads #Poetry from Cloudy Days, Still Nights LIVE On #Facebook

6/9/2018

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AUSTIN DAVIS READS 
SELECTIONS FROM
CLOUDY DAYS, STILL NIGHTS
LIVE ON FACEBOOK 

Austin Davis read excerpts from Cloudy Days, Still Nights in a Facebook Live event - check out the video below. 
If you enjoyed the poetry, please pick up a copy of Cloudy Days, Still Nights to support Austin Davis and my small business. Thank you. 
PURCHASE CLOUDY DAYS, STILL NIGHTS
Become a Patron of Moran Press. Get a stack of books and my undying gratitude for $25, shipping included to a US address. Extra shipping charges apply for international addresses. 
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