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The Guardian reviews this site

About an hour ago the Guardian newspaper put a review of this site online. It was written by Johnny Dee in the `This week`s internet previews` section, and was very positive. As you can imagine, I`m very surprised and pleased at this development. The Guardian!

It`s a short review, and in it he talks mostly about the haikyo galleries, but he also mentions my fiction, reviews, and highlights the nuclear blast craters article. Click the paper to go to the review.

Mack’s Kids

by Michael Brown

“I had a life once,” the trucker said pushing away the unfinished food on his plate. He downed the coffee. He ate late in diners. Slept in his truck or in motel rooms. Hazards of his occupation. “Why so sad tonight?” Cherise said, pouring another cup.

“Maybe I’m thinking about my ex a little too much lately.” Truth was he could not stop himself thinking about her these days. After hauling another load of farm products from the midwest to the east coast Mack had returned to Plainsville drawn by what, he could not quite say. He had passed through this place eight or nine times in the last three years, usually sleeping in the truck’s upper berth. Once again, however, he had decided to splurge and rent a motel room. He figured he could charge it off to the shippers.

He went out of his way to stop by at Cooney’s Diner, always hoping Cherise would be on duty there. It was not that she ever said much. Serving his food, she smiled. Small comforts, perhaps, but he yearned for them. But something else troubled him. His two days in Plainsville had passed quickly and still the kids had added nothing new to the truck. He glanced out to where Bertha sat apart from other vehicles, quiet, yet brightly illustrated. Cherise followed his gaze.

“Something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mack. Did you paint those kids on the side of your truck?”

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The Friend Catcher

by Paul D. Brazill

The morning after Charlotte killed her father, the air tasted like lead and the sky was gun metal grey. She stared out of the window of her East London flat, barely focusing on the rows of concrete blocks being smudged by the Autumn rain.

The ensuing days of gloom collided with weeks and the weeks crashed into months.

And then it was Spring.

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Willow’s Cross

By Mari Mitchell.

My name is Willow. I do not look, or feel like a Willow.. Willows are statuesque; they should be graceful and ethereal. I resemble Mrs. Potato Head. I have an older stepbrother named Patrick. He does not look like a Patrick either, more like Jack Skellington only with more hair and flesh. Everyone knows that Patricks have red hair, freckles and should be short. I do not think our parents are very good at naming things.. We are five years apart in age and from different planets. I of course am from Earth and he is from the planet Weirdo with its moons Stupid-Head and Dumbo.

Where we live you can get gas, liquor, or you can be saved by Jesus, but if you want anything else, you have to go to town. In town we saw a bad horror movie – Patrick’s choice, he loved it by the way; ate some yummy Thai food — my choice; and shopped– Mom’s choice. It was on the way back that we noticed it.

Image from here.

“Hey, would you look at that,” Patrick said with a small amount of glee in his voice.

“Look at what?” Mom asked.

He pointed to a small white cross with something written on it along the side of the highway. Its yellow flowers waved to us as if to get our attention.

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The Devil at Your Heels

by Robert Mammone

The tick tick tick of the car’s cooling engine dragged Arthur back to his surroundings with a rush. The sky was cornflower blue, the only movement a honking arrow of geese skirting the horizon. He squinted against the bright summer light, his face cooled by a gentle breeze that disturbed the smoke hazing the air. A fly crawled across his face, tasted the sweat beading on his skin, before he swatted it away.

He looked down at his hand resting on the hood of his car. He felt the heat bite deep into his hand, the pain distant, happening to someone else. He idly fingered a small dent marring the otherwise glossy, satin finish. Such a small thing, his mind wondered, such a small thing with large… He looked up sharply and the reality of his situation fell on him like a ravening beast, seizing his throat in a choking grasp that left him dizzy and breathless.

A little up the road, lying on its roof was a late model Mini, as helpless and useless as an upturned beetle. Scrapes and gouges in the paint work and battered panels robbed it of its graceful lines. Wisps of smoke spiralled into the air from its shattered engine and petrol leaked in a spreading, acrid pool. One of the front wheels rotated hypnotically.

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Levitation Town

by Michael Colangelo

Connor Mason is disappointed with the way that the makeup kit has turned out. He stares into his mother’s boudoir mirror and compares his face to that of the monster’s face on the discarded box. He looks nothing like the picture advertised. In fact, he still looks like himself, just with ugly blotches of green and brown patterned on his skin.

The kit was a rip-off. He has ordered things from the back pages of comic books before and they have all been failures. If they even show up at all, that is. They are usually nothing like the advertisements claim.

The x-ray vision glasses, and the trick handcuffs, and the fart candy have all let him down – time and time again.

Despite his malign feelings towards the products, he already has his eye on a new one. The “Saw-a-Lady-in-Half” box is expensive at sixty dollars. Maybe that’s the trick, though. Maybe he’s getting shit because he’s paying for shit. That must be the reason behind his consistent failings.

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