The Attaché’s Man – by Ian A.

Cartwright pushed the half eaten bowl of food across the table and sat back in the precarious chair. Six months in the country and he had still not got used to rice soaked in butter tea for breakfast. Through the smoke of a newly lit cigarette Cartwright watched the room from the vantage of a corner table. He was the only noticeably, recognisable westerner, most of the faces were familiar to him though. Even if the food wasn’t to his liking the small cafe was. The owner was hospitable and it was a great place to pick up the local comings and goings, despite the complexity many dialects brought.

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One Voice – by Ian A.

‘Good evening and welcome to another edition of BarrTalk. I’m Dave Barr and this evening I will be interviewing an interesting cross section of society. We have Reg Miller, tramp turned publishing sensation, and Denise Stevenson, the most tattooed woman in Britain. However, before we bring them out, my first guest. He has recently made the papers with his extreme look and views. He is Trent, the Modulator of the Moirae Society. Please join me on stage. Trent!.’ Continue reading “One Voice – by Ian A.”

Harlequinade Gothique – by Ian A.

Bradley surveys the tray. Three cigarettes with a disposable lighter, a carton of chocolate milk and a small bowl of jelly beans. This is luxury, or least as luxurious as things have been for some time. The weak light from the late winter, afternoon sun tries to penetrate the grime on the room’s solitary window. Bradley can barely see the clock on the other side of the room. He knows that the performance is due to start though and all he has to do is sit back and await his cue.


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Elémentaire – by Ian A.

It had been some months since Inspector G__ had paid us a visit at our rooms in Fauborg St. Germain and I was becoming increasingly worried about my friend, C. Auguste Dupin. His fame had increased in Paris upon being responsible for solving a number of high profile murders and other cases and I knew this sat uncomfortably on his shoulders. These events meant that Dupin had not set foot outside our door for the last two months. He was a man who required stimulation. His most remarkable feature was his mental character. I would forever marvel at his ability to solve enigma and conundrum but, alas, I feared for his health. During the previous months Dupin had rarely moved from his chair and ate very little. Everything I tried had but no affect.

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The Cuckoo’s Call – by Ian A.

The car horn sounds, again. This time I look, parting the slats of the blind at the window of my tenth floor office. There he is waiting in the parking lot. His long, thin legs are tightly sheathed in denim, ending in black pointed boots. The white shirt is open at the neck and the double cuffs hang loose. Smoke from a cigarette swirls around his neatly drawn beard and his hair is teased into a loose quiff. He stands in his usual louche fashion. I’m getting hard just watching him. He knows I am at the window and he knows what is happening to me.
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