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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

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Sunday, 06 May 2012 00:00

The First Life & Death of Catboy

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When he was born, Catboy was an almost perfectly normal human being baby. His folks didn’t have much truck with almost perfectly normal human being babies though. What made Catboy a little less perfect than his parents had hoped for was a spine as stretchable as a contortionist, a body completely covered in thick, black fur and him meowing when he ought to be crying. After a few days, Dad couldn’t take it any longer and decided to put his boy in a bag and lob him into a lake – just like a real cat. Thoughts like these happen only on dark, dark nights, of course, and it was a particular dark, dark night when the man set out with his son struggling in the sack. The thing with dark, dark nights is that many people are about and none of them with intentions they’d dare mention in front of their mums: the young father had barely swung the sack over his shoulder when fortune fell upon him.

Sunday, 25 September 2011 17:59

Kentucky Runners (Part II)

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It was night at the retired stable building at the Dew Red farm when Boone saw Stagger Lee again. This time, Stagger was right where he’d hoped he’d be.

Stagger Lee’s Escalade was scarcely visible in the back-pasture darkness—just nervous glints off its chrome. Boone parked his Buick and made for the sliver of light splitting the barn doors. His footsteps were silent through bluegrass thick as butter slices. He moved through darkness oiled onto the land.

Sunday, 25 September 2011 17:54

Kentucky Runners (Part I)

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“How could I pass up an offer of trouble?” Stagger didn’t shift from staring through his mirror shades as Boone sat gingerly beside him.

The boy was no longer a boy; Stagger had filled out since Boone last saw him, now muscled with pure meanness. Under a flowered shirt rendered in black silk, Stagger Lee’s bulk swelled like one of the third-year thoroughbreds on the field: Every muscle pulled long and perfect for lunging. Neck hard against an unseen yoke.

Sunday, 18 September 2011 20:02


Written by

Wincing, you prepare, and as the car swerves hard onto the pavement your back is jabbed by the pointy end of the tire iron which is wedged and leaning at an improbable angle.  It is not the first time this has happened.  Cursing, you can only hope the driver will ensure it is the last.  In the dark you struggle to free your hands against the duct tape they have wrapped around the wrists you find behind your back.  It never gives, not an inch, but still you believe the strength will come.  Drenched, your hair falls into your eyes, lays matted to your forehead.  It is hot in here, a furnace, but you know the majority of the heat is more from you and the situation you have gotten yourself into; that this, the trunk, is no more than the place before the place.

Wednesday, 22 June 2011 05:58

Bottled in Chicago

Written by

--- For Rod Serling and Charles Beaumont

 Robert Bro Brown stands in front of the Club Indigo, “windy-city” cold blowing into his bloodshot eyes. How long since he’s closed his eyes—months, maybe even years. He looks up and down the boulevard—not a car in sight. Quiet, except for the sound of a dog howling in the distance. Mournful wailing. The baying of a hound tracking a scent.

A shiver tracks his spine. Bro reaches inside his overcoat pocket, pulls out a bottle, and downs the dregs. He wipes his lips with his sleeve and drops the empty into the gutter. The bottle does not break. It spins around on its side a couple of times and comes to a stop—bottleneck pointing in his direction. Mephisto Gin—Bottled in Chicago. Bro picks up his guitar and turns toward the club entrance.

Monday, 06 June 2011 14:47

This Letter to Norman Court: 18

Written by

This letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each around 1250 words) I am releasing by way of serializing the piece across blogs, by reader request. A little hub site is set up at www.normancourt.wordpress.com that has a listing of the blogs that have featured or will feature sections—please give it a look, get yourself all caught up if the below piques your interest.

It is my simple hope to use this as a casual, unobtrusive way to release this material to parties interested. As of now the 22 slots have all been requested (cheers to everyone for that) but if you enjoy what you read please do get in touch with me via This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. . I welcome any and all comments on the piece (positive, negative, or ambivalent) or general correspondence about matters literary.


Pablo D’Stair

Thursday, 02 June 2011 17:11

The Rotting Stars

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The grocery store at Harris and Mt. Holly still smoldered, windows blown out, fire dancing in the glass shards on the ground like a million atoms humming with excitement.

'The fire trucks are probably busy,' I said, pointing out a glob at the base of a streetlight, from where we stood far enough back from the flames to feel the warmth on our faces. 'We'll have to walk another three blocks, but we could use the exercise,' I said. The little boy nodded before leaning down and poking the blob. The mass was thick but fragile; a smoke colored jelly, like liquid fog. I made a note to wash his hands the next chance I could.

Wednesday, 04 May 2011 18:25


Written by


It sounded fake.

Pop pop.

It wasn't though,

and so like two great piles of leaves caught in two rakes,

the crowd spilt.

Saturday, 02 April 2011 20:05

Bouncing Back

Written by

He swore off marathons two years ago
Coaxed by a friend, he trained again
and finished the race, but slower
Satisfied at his return to sport
Telling friends he was pleased
to report he accomplished his goals
Brushing aside the slower pace
to be expected after a long hiatus

Saturday, 02 April 2011 20:00

I Have A Boyfriend

Written by

“I have a boyfriend” she says

as I milk sighs and moans from her breasts

I know this will be over soon

because the mother hen is at the door,

yelling for her chick.

Monday, 28 February 2011 23:44


Written by

Later they lined the streets

with bone rails

while the ones that weren’t dead

stayed indoors

peeking through blinds.

The image of an angry man exploded across

the clouded sky like a mirage a wraith an omen.

They expected someone to fight for them.

And this one did.

Yes he did.

Monday, 28 February 2011 23:43

Hookers on Archer Avenue

Written by

Late evening, early morning,

I search the night for whores,

young, bloody with desire.

Night streets are silent streets

except for hookers and their Johns.

One wants the dart of groins

the other green eyes in dollar

sacred treasures-

snatch the wallet, a consecrated craft.

Both hit the streets quickly

satisfy needs quickly.


Wednesday, 15 December 2010 04:32

Things You're Supposed to See

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It is awkward to link arms, I haven't linked arms with another girl since my pre-teens. I tell her so, she says everyone says that. It doesn't come naturally, I am nervous and hold my left arm high like I am a soldier escorting a lady home after a dance. Her own arm hangs limply in mine, like she might just slip away any moment; I begin to sweat and she trips over the curb.

“I'm sorry, sorry that was the curb.”

“It's okay! You'll get used to it, pretty soon you'll be dragging me around like it's nothing!”

Wednesday, 15 December 2010 04:31

Myocardial Devotion

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It's not as apparent as it used to be, but you can still see a line slicing down most of the left side of my chest. The scar is slightly lighter in color than the rest of my skin. If anything, the scar matches the color of my nipples; a Nadeshiko pink. During the summer it’s more noticeable when I get a tan. They say the surgery was the first of its kind. Especially to be performed on a baby merely a few days old. The surgery is no longer practiced as there have been alternatives to treat the defect.

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