Short stories in a corner of the web

 I've had many loves in my life, and in recent memory? Industrial music has been one of them. It's given me lifelong friendships and bonding moments with people whose music I've listen to in college, and in a self serving note? The ability to do shows with them and have my name alongside some of the greats. It was a place to be myself.  A scene built and fostered by the LGBTQIA+ community and wouldn't have thrived had it not been for gay clubs.  Why do I preface my thoughts with this? Because it's integral to what needs to be discussed.  The Industrial scene should be seen as one that's inherently progressive aka counter culture. Especially when you see what the prevalent culture is at present, Industrial is the opposite of it. It should be a place where all who believe the marginalized should feel safe belong.  But this story isn't one of triumph and understanding, its one of disappointment and frustration.  Brian G. of the Gothsicles fucked up. There's...

(I honestly wrote this when I was in a low depressive state. And getting this out actually helped out a lot.) The glow of the dim ring light and a laptop were the only illumination in the abandoned warehouse. Antonio Cerqueira stared at the screen listlessly, slouching back in a ratty leather armchair. His eyes were red and swollen from crying.  He sniffled slightly and rubbed his nose slightly. "Fucking hell," he muttered. A small end table sat next to him on his right hand side with a half full glass, a bottle of liquor and a snub nose revolver. Leaning forward, he put his head in his hands and sighed heavily. Things couldn't have gone more wrong than it did the other day, but it did. Good God, did it ever.  A simple extraction mission. That's all it was. At least that's what he was told.  One stray bullet. One goddamned stray bullet made a job that could be done sleepwalking into an absolute nightmare.  No matter how much he tried to push the image of his charg...

  If you want to check the first 10 questions before this *commercial break ends* Margaret: "We're back, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for tuning in to this up close and personal interview with Ichiro Calder from the Japanese Assassination Team. Well, with his permission, we'll get right back to the back half of the 21 questions." 11. Have you ever hated someone enough to wish something terrible happened to them? Ichiro: "Well, hasn't everyone?" *Margaret purses her lips, trying to keep silent* Ichiro: "Come on. It's human nature. Even the nicest of people have had flashes of wishing irreparable harm on others for whatever reason. It happens. Just...it's only legal if myself or others do it. But with good reason. Oh. Right. The question. Yeah. The whole regiment I served with. I wanted them buried neck deep in sand and have a thresher run them over. They why of it? Beating the piss out of a kid. A kid that looked to them for understanding,...

  Thanks to Writing Prompt once again  for inadvertently helping me out with necessary character development so I can work on my antagonists. I'll be running this in an interview style, which means I'll be making up a person to facilitate the questions a la 20/20. "Good evening, America. This...is 20/20. I'm Margaret Landau and today I will be talking with a rather controversial figure. He has risen to notoriety in the legalized assassination cabal known as the Corporation. This man was part of one of the most feared duos by way of his younger brother who remained in the United Kingdom. He now carves out his own path as the leader of the Japanese Assassination Squad. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Kenneth Calder. Kenneth, thank you for joining us today." Kenneth: Thank you for interviewing me. But I would prefer to be called Ichiro. *pause* Margaret: My apologies, Ichiro. Let us get started then. 1. What is your greatest physical attribute? Ichiro: Physical attr...

The weather was nothing short of miserable. It seemed like the skies echoed the tone of the day; a funeral. It felt as if the elements joined in on the mourning. Thunder boomed ominously while rain came down in sheets, hammering the populace as they went about their lives. Umbrellas popped up like mushrooms, shielding the churchgoers until they found shelter within the sanctuary. Somber organ music greeted the attendees. The vestibule was illuminated with candles; flickering every so often and elongating shadows as it went. People broke off from the rank and file lines to immediately greet friends or loved ones spotted in the pews. Hugs, tight smiles and warm pats on the back seemed to be the order of things. But this was okay. There was only so much one can do at a funeral. The floral arrangements were beautiful; it looked like lilies, carnations and roses spontaneously exploded in a brilliant kaleidoscope of hues. It seemed like the vibrancy of the blooms mirrored the person everyone...

 Jeanne Duchamp yawned mightily and stretched herself out onto her couch. The tension that inhabited her body slowly ebbed away with that motion. She swept her long locs out from behind her to rest on her left side. "Last thing I wanna do inadvertently pull my own hair while napping," she muttered. Her surroundings were rather homey; wood paneled walls, burnt umber hued couch, and all the other bits of furniture were made of heavy oak. One thing of note was the heavy bookcase to her left, laden with all sorts of literature. The low lighting in the room was causing her to slowly drift off. Maybe just one quick nap before her session, she thought.  Just as she was about to drift off, her cell phone buzzed in her jeans pocket. Groaning in effort, she rolled off the couch and grabbed the still ringing phone from her pocket. "nnnnhello?" "Doctor Duchamp? I didn't catch you at a bad time, did I?" She cleared her throat noisily and replied, " Oh no, I wa...