• Reports from Real Life
  • Home
  • Stories

    • Warning: preg_match() expects parameter 2 to be string, object given in /home1/monkeywright/public_html/~sites/thunderdome/modules/mod_janews_featured/helpers/jaimage.php on line 383
  • Themed Collections
  • Visual Arts
  • Questions?


Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Back You are here: Home Themed Collections The Collective Speaks LA1K eBook Celebration
LA1K eBook Celebration

LA1K eBook Celebration

The Anthology is now available for Kindle. Later in the year, it will expand onto Smashwords, nook, iBook and all of your favorite platforms. While nothing compares to seeing the physical copy in living color, the stories are just too good to limit to one format!  You can still buy the print version through the link on our Facebook Fan page with the discount code, or at full price through Amazon if you're feelign especially benevolent.

But for those of you who want extreme portability, you can get these 26 stories for less than a Venti Mocha Half-Caf Skinny Triple Shot Frappuccino!

Click here to buy the eBook on Amazon.com

To celebrate, some of the book's authors have graciously agreed to release new stories here on ThunderDome starting the week of February 27!

The lineup includes:

February 27 - Whammy: A Brief Reminiscence of Tamarken by Ryan Wilson

March 5 - The Fall: The Truth About the Mortal Dangers of “Old Glory”* by Doc O'Donnell

March 12 - Soiled Dove by Craig Wallwork

March 14 - Bitchin' Vans & Bloody Hippies by Nikki Guerlain

March 19 - The Reality of California VS the Fantasy of London by Jay Slayton-Joslin

The Venice boardwalk is home to those who have failed the dream and tourists who have come to discover their ‘inner selves’. In the day time it is a tourist ground for people who would be afraid of what happens at night. My stand hides me from the sun.  I stretch my arm out, like a hitchhiker. Seashell necklaces hang from my arm like war trophies out onto the boardwalk.

Monday, 12 March 2012 03:22

Bitchin' Vans & Bloody Hippies

Written by

We were back at The Neon Boneyard drowning bad memories of Venice Beach in Bloody Hippies—100 proof pot vodka steeped in crushed organic tomatoes and horseradish, served in a genitalia shaped gourd, rimmed heavily in sea salt, garnished with a generous spear of pickled celery.

Monday, 12 March 2012 03:16

Soiled Dove

Written by

The man paid in cash before resting upon the dead parchment of an animal fashioned into a chair.  From a beaded doorway, five fallen women dressed in bask and nylon stockings swaggered toward him, Pall Malls in hand, and the footplates of heaven seeping from their mouths.  All were alike.  All were different.  It’s easily done.  Tear away the fragility of adolescence.  Peel back the rind of beauty and scoop out the stars and light that reside in her blameless heart.  Powder her skin and rouge her lips; smear the tarmac trails of mascara across wounded eyes.  Bail the straw upon her head into curls and waves, and with poke and prod excavate her innocence until only a desolate hole remains.  Make her a whore, simple and true.  The man gazed at each woman from behind eyes as black as loam.  The rain fell in bullets upon the bordello.  A single sallow bulb flickered with nervous energy as a forsaken tear tumbled down his face.

*Transcribed word-for-word from the back of a discarded leaflet, a set of handwritten photocopied instructions titled “Your Personal Apocalypse”, found twisting among a storm of dust and sand on the Venice Boardwalk.

Monday, 27 February 2012 02:00

Whammy: A Brief Reminiscence of Tamarken

Written by

A week before the fatal plane crash, Peter Tamarken (of Press Your Luck! fame) came over to my bungalow duplex in East Hollywood at my request.  We’d spoken on the phone the night before, mostly him venting about his just-completed opus, the rough treatment it’d been getting at the major publishing houses.

“They tell me it has no genre.  They don’t know how to sell it.  I told them to sell it as a memoir, like everything else.  Who even knows what that word means?  Nothing.  Nothing is what it means,” he’d said on the phone.