Monthly Archives

May 2016

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Comedy, satire

“Mindfulness really helped me achieve goal” says mass murderer

Author: The Real Noose ( by Ciara Ginty )

Illustration: Christopher Harrisson 

Lenny Girly, 57 from Ohio, has praised mindfulness training in an interview with Psychopaths Monthly. He has said that it helped him “live in the now” and “not worry about my fears”.

Girly, who was sentenced to 27 life sentences last month, took up the training 6 years ago to cure his social anxiety and fear of blood. Both, he has said, no longer haunt him.

Mindfulness training is a discipline taught to help people not worry about the things that hold them back and to be present at all times. Rajesh Pritivacant, founder of “No Fear, Stay Here” the group Girly attended, commented on the interview saying “he was a mess when I first met him, just a guy who kept himself to himself. But the training helped him out of his shell and he began to socialise more.. In all honesty, I cured him of what ailed him and who can say they’ve achieved that? Apart from medical professionals”

People involved in new age healing have been performing silent protests inside their houses for three days as they are scared their belief system will get a bad name. We ask, with such great results, why isn’t yoga on the NHS?

We’d like to hear from you, does whale music make you quake with anger? Does the word ‘yoga’ cause you to unleash a pugilistic rage? Go on, tell us.

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Short story

Paradise

Author & Illustration: Mark Smith

Three friends sat down to a pint in the Old White Horse. Each year since their graduation they had met, a longstanding tradition by which to compare their respective achievements. Today, they sat at a small round table, each with a pint of golden ale, and each with a dog patiently sitting under the table, waiting for errant crisps to fall.

‘Guys, every morning I take Gus out on the beach’ boasted Seb, looking down at the red-haired spaniel who panted in a little patch of sunshine. ‘He loves it there, the air is so….clean! Honestly, you should move to St.Ives. It really is the best!’ he continued triumphantly.

‘Well you can’t beat the history and architecture of Cambridge’ chipped in Troy, a college professor, who had an irritating habit of pointing with one arm of his glasses when making a point. ‘Not to mention the pubs – we wouldn’t move for the world, would we Bruce?’ He reached down to stroke the collie’s silky ears.

‘This beer’s nice’ said Dan. Dan lived in Luton.

 Under the table the three dogs were listening to their owners.

‘Pfft, I love the beach do I?!’ Said Gus, incredulously. ‘Do you know how annoying it is getting sand up your nose and nappies stuck to your ears? I have to have a bath every day because my coat gets ruined!!’

The other two dogs solemnly nodded.

‘And do you know how many fucking bikes there are in Cambridge?!’ exclaimed Bruce, an ill-tempered border collie ‘one of the fuckers almost took me out just yesterday, and I swear to God if I get evils from another Big issue dog I’m going to hire a punting boat and punt my way out of that hell hole’

The two dogs looked at Jan expectantly. She was Dan’s dog, a Golden Retriever.

‘Well, my friends, let me tell you of a place I call heaven. A paradise where MEAT literally lines the streets.’ The other two dogs leaned in a little closer ‘That’s right. It’s called doner meat, and every Saturday and Sunday morning on my walkies I have the most incredible feast. Cheesy chips, chicken burgers, vomit – it’s incredible!!’

Seb loaded Gus into the back of his Audi A3.

Troy loaded Bruce, rather reluctantly, into his Land Rover

They both watched on as Jan tugged on her lead, desperate for Dan to take her back to paradise.

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writing competition

The Gauntlet #2 “SUMMER”

The time has come to throw down another challenge to you, our favourite readers and authors. This time we want you to write on the theme of ‘summer’.

Let your pens run riot! We want to see the magic of solstice celebrations, sip an ice cold Pernod in the oppressive heat of 1920s Paris, and remember the eerie lure of ice cream vans.

What does summer mean to you? The curl of a vengeful mermaid’s fingers around your oars? Twilight which lasts forever while the hours draw longer and the dark never truly sets in? The scents of pungent elderflower and sickly sweet rose masking decadent decay?

“BUT WHAT WILL I WIN?!” We hear you scream, and you are well within your rights to scream it. The winner will receive a rather fetching Murder & Glut t-shirt, have their story published on our site ( accompanied by an illustration created for your story ) and potentially feature in our first ever physical release, an anthology, we’re releasing at the end of the year! We will also have two runners up positions who will also have their stories published on our site.

Send your entries to editor@murderandglut.com marked ‘COMPETITION’. Entries should be no longer than 500 words. Closing date is Friday June 3rd ( MIDNIGHT ), with the winners announced on the 6th.

As ever, your obedient servants,

Murder & Glut

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Short story

The Fading Corner

Author: Alberto Furlan

Illustration: Christopher Harrisson

Jamie and I, we ruled that corner when we were kids. Sure, the adults let us believe it, but we thought we were kings of the entire neighbourhood, selling sweets from the warehouse at a discount. We could see folks come up all the way from the bottom of the hill, and we’d be there with a glass of water, free of course, and some candy – that was 25 cents. Weren’t many that said no.

One day, we was doing the count of the candy that was left, and I thought I got it wrong. Did we sell old man Milligan three or four sweets? What about Miss Charles?

Jamie spoke up: “Buck, I’m pretty sure we sold Milligan two pieces of candy.”

“You sure?”

At that moment Milligan came ambling ’round the corner, on the long way down the hill to his fishing boat. “I bought four sweets son, and don’t let that son of a preacher tell you otherwise.” He walked on down. He was always making crazy comments like that to anyone who’d listen.

The count didn’t add up. Who had sold the candy to Milligan? It’d been Jamie.

“You cheating me out of half a dollar, blondie?” I said to my friend, half joking half not. I didn’t want him to think I was taking this too seriously, but not too lightly either.

“You callin’ me a cheater, shortstuff?” Jamie replied. I guess he did take it too seriously. I could tell from the way he moved towards me, hunched up his shoulders an’ clenched his fist.

“I asked you, I didn’t call you nothin’. Where’s the other dollar from Milligan’s sweets then?”

“I ain’t got it.”

“Well then who does?”

“I have half a mind you do, shortstuff” Jamie said, giving me a nudge on the shoulder.

Now, I do not take well to physical intimidation. Maybe it’s ‘cos I’m a little on the short side, I feel I need to make up for it. I shoved him back.

I saw the fist coming, but I didn’t do nothing to stop it. I took it on the cheek and threw one right back, aimed straight and true for the ribs like Pop taught me. I was bleeding, Jamie was weezing and all the money was on the floor. We punched each other a few more times. Some of the adults were laughing, others came to try break us apart. I remember seeing one adult pick up two bills from the floor. I learnt a lot about people that day. Jamie and I, we didn’t speak so much after that. Still don’t.

“Where’d you get that scar?” Julie asked me. Good Lord she was a pretty girl, her blonde curls down to her shoulders like a creek in the sunshine. You could see her smile from across the street for how bright it was.

“Funny you should ask that, it happened right here.” I’d promised her father to get her home by 10pm. We were just coming up to the corner where Jamie and I had our fight.

“You know Jamie Grant?”

“The son of the preacher up in Whitchurch?”

“That’s the one. Him and I used to be buddies, we’d come here and sell candy we’d get for a discount down the warehouse on the dock. Anyway, one day he tried to cheat me out of some money. We’d sold some candy to the old man, Milligan, remember him?”

“I think I remember his smell more than the person!”

“Yeah, that was Milligan alright. Anyway, he bought four sweets from Jamie, showed ’em to me. Jamie told me he bought two and kept half the money. I called him out on it and we got in a bit of a scruff. Haven’t spoken to him much since then.”

I got Julie home right on time, maybe even a little bit early that night. Her Pop seemed to like that

“Hey daddy! What you looking at the pavement for?”

Lil’ Jonas, he was tugging on my sleeve. We were just going down to the sweet store on the harbour, and it’d been a while since I had the time to come down here, what with work and the new baby and all.

“I was just… thinking about things happened here a long while back Jonas” I said, grabbing his hand again. I began the walk downtown, nice sunny day like this, its a good time to share stories with the kids.

“What were you thinking about Pop?”

“You know that Jamie Grant? Guy who mom pointed out on the television?”

“The guy who shouts at the president? In the calitol?”

“It’s the capitol. And yes, that’s the one. D’you believe I once had a fight with that guy on this street corner?”

“No way! What did you fight about? Were you hurt?”

“Naw, I wasn’t hurt. He was a friend, I didn’t want to punch him. But he tried to steal a dollar that belonged to me.”

“Did you fight over a dollar daddy?”

“Well son, back then a dollar used to getcha lot more than it does now. I’ll show you all the candy we could buy at the store with one dollar. But it wasn’t the dollar, it was the principle.”

“The prince-pal?”

“The principle, Jonas. I’ll explain it to you someday.”

I walked down the road soaking the sunshine, happy to be there with my son. No amount of money or success could make me want to be anywhere else. I went back to the garage the next day, as I had for years, my head a little taller.

“You saying you don’t believe me Steve?”

I was talking to my grandkid, his scruffy brown hair framing his sharp eyes.

“I know President Grant is from this town granps. I just can’t quite believe you two used to sell candy here together. Comeon, that’s a big fat lie!”

“Don’t you tell me what’s a lie and what ain’t! I remember what I did, how things were, how much of a scoundrel Grant was back then.”

I was shakin my walking stick at the corner, that fading corner in my mind, where the fight had taken place. I could no longer say I remembered it like it was yesterday.

I couldn’t remember how Grant had stolen the money – did he sell more sweets than he told me? Or did he change the price? Anyway, I knew it was a dollar that he owed me, that was clear. And when I said he stole from me, he punched me right in the face, no warning. So I hit him back.

“I told your grandma that story the night we went out on our first date” I smiled at Steve. His eyes lit up. He loved to hear stories about grandma almost as much as grandma loved him. When our baby Jonas, Steve’s father, died, he found comfort in her arms.

“And I would never lie to her. That’s how it happened, straight and true.”

We walked on, down to the candy store down by the harbour. I could see Steve was getting impatient now, and my eyes… well, they weren’t so dry anymore. The name of the store down the way had changed, but the old sign atop of it was still visible, fading like this corner of my town, like this corner of my memory. “Grant’s Candy store.”

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Comedy, Mind disco

That time I shot put my mum’s hair brush next door

Author & Illustration: Mark Smith

When I was younger, like secondary school young, or “still play with micro machines but you’re pretty sure nobody else plays with micro machines” young, or “rewinding your Michael Jackson BAD cassette so you could write all the lyrics down and sing to yourself in the mirror young”, or “shit your pants and cry in a ditch” young: when I was that young my brother and I would occasionally get locked out of our house after school because we lobbed our keys at a train or something.

Both forgetting our house keys was the perfect storm. That feeling of dread when walking around the corner and seeing your brother sat on the front door step was gut wrenching. Or maybe that was the Hubba bubba fizzy pop ( OH GOD I’M NOW OLD ENOUGH TO CALL IT FIZZY POP ).

You would both make eye contact, both hopeful the other one hasn’t been a MASSIVE  key-forgetting idiot. And then you would both realise…F…..M…..L…..

This meant we had time to kill. And it also meant we hated each other just a little bit more, so we’d check out what was in the garage without saying a word to each other, occasionally picking something up like a massive tool or something and grunting in their direction so they’d acknowledge you’d just found a massive fucking tool.

Well one day while we were waiting for some rolls to defrost on the patio table ( we had a freezer in the garage, is that weird? That’s weird right? there was nothing IN the rolls, we were just going to eat half frozen rolls ) I decided I’d show Paul what I had learnt at school. Enough time had passed to accept our fate and we were bored enough to talk to each other. That fateful day we were learning how to shot put, so I was showing my brother my mad skills by clutching a hair brush under my chin and launching it down the garden.

I don’t remember it being especially windy that day.

But it must have been.

The hair brush flew full-pelt into next door’s garden.

My brother gave the typically supportive response of sucking his bottom lip under his teeth and going UUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM to the tune of OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I had never, and still have never, seen him so happy.

“You HAVE to go and get that now” he chirped

“NO I DON’T YOU PRICK” I said.

He just slowly nodded his head, lip still firmly stuck under his teeth. He was right, mum would kick me in the face if I didn’t get her brush back, then she would sell me to Bedford. Our next door neighbour was nice. But kind of REALLY nice? He was called Richard but INSISTED on people calling him DICK. Who does that? I mean, I KNOW Richards are dicks, but why INSIST on it? I’m making him out to be a paedo, he wasn’t. Anyways, I knocked on the door…

“Hi Rich…Dick….erm I think our hairbrush is in your garden”

“Your HAIRBRUSH?”

“Yes”

He looked back through the hallway towards the garden, as if to check we were both talking about the same thing

“Your hairbrush is in my GARDEN?”

Now I didn’t want to say I was showing my brother how to shot put with it, so I thought the following response was much more SANE

“Yeah I was just brushing my hair and it flew out”

“You were brushing your hair in the garden so vigorously it flew 20 feet into my garden?”

“……….yes?……….”

He showed me through to the garden and watched as I picked it out of the flower bed.

My brother was halfway through a frozen roll when I walked back round with the brush, he was almost choking on it from laughter.

And that, is my life.

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Article, Comedy

7 Completely Mental Reasons Why 2016 Will Almost Certainly Kill You

Author: Steve Head

Illustration: Chris Hollis

Hot on the heels of Genghis Khan and Mosquitoes, 2016 is staking its claim as one of the most prolific killers in human history. Having already felled lovable Potions Master Severus Snape and dapper space-hobo Ziggy Stardust, the murderous four-month old recently claimed another high profile victim, the Former Symbol Otherwise Known as The Artist Previously Referred to Once As Prince. Unable to mourn their idol fully due to the fact that all but two of his funky videos have been removed from Youtube due to ‘money’, fans of the diminutive song-doer turned to the Snapchats and the Twitterblogsphere to vent their frustration with a government that, they feel, isn’t doing enough to counter this new threat.

“I pay my taxes. Why should my children have to live in a world where 2016 could nob ’em off at any minute?” warbled one.

“I knew this would happen, ever since those shart biscuits in Westminster opened the borders and let 2016 sneak in undetected. This is why we’re better off isolated and utterly, profoundly alone. Vote Brexit!” splurted another, licking a crudely drawn finger painting of the Union Jack.

“I’m literally petrified,” shrieked a third, innaccurately, “I was immunised against Tetanus 32 years ago and now this happens?? The evidence is indisputable. Also, Roswell and Chemtrails.”

“I just ate a pair of scissors” chuckled a fourth, casually, before being immediately hospitalised.

The government deny any wrongdoing, citing the fact that 2016 is ‘just a time period comprised of 365 days in which things will probably happen.’ When pushed for further information a Whitehall spokesperson soiled himself and slapped a homeless man, before running headlong into a wall.

For its part, 2016 released a statement in which it explained that it was ‘only doing its job’ and that despite its awful, shitty, frankly homicidal behaviour it had ‘never been more popular on social media.’ Boasting that it had inspired more hashtags and Facepage statuses than ‘people eating food’, ‘slightly unusual weather’ and ‘Game of Thrones’ combined, 2016 insisted that it was also ‘way less cunty’ than 1521 in which 240,000 people were reportedly killed during the fall of the Aztec Empire.

Asked what the future held for it, 2016 tapped its nose and smiled coyly, saying that it preferred to play its cards close to its chest but that it had spent a lot of time lately hanging out with Keith Richards and ‘that prune-faced, daughter-chirpsing hatehole with a dusty merkin on its head that thinks it’ll be boss of America.’