Poems. Publié 22 December 2013 dans la rubrique Short stories and poems USUAL Translated by Paul Buck. ……………………………………….. With the milk of an ass and apocalyptic messages in my mental basket …. I await the mandarins of the seventh day …. they weave basic outlines and sew hearts ever more human …. Frankenstein smiles at the lower parts of their abdomens …. I gave an account to Elvis (…)
The Eyes on Those Guys Publié 5 February 2007 dans la rubrique Short stories and poems A short story by Marc Villard, translation by Tim Henderson, revue par Stéphanie Benson Stéphane Cortal climbed onto block number two, flexed his knees and plunged headfirst into the deep end of the Butte-aux-Cailles public swimming pool. He surfaced, took in a deep breath and proceeded through the warm water in an uncoordinated crawl. The whole show was in fact aimed to impress two young Cambodian prick-teasers sitting on the (…)
Lily Con Carne Publié 23 March 2006 dans la rubrique Short stories and poems A short story by Marc Villard translated from the French by Brad Spurgeon The woman was almost fifty. Her veiny legs carried her toward room 16 of the building at the corner of the Rue de Charonne. Muted sounds carried through the thin barrier of the wooden door, just as she was about to bang on it. With her arm suspended in the air, the false blonde held her ear up to the door. Sounds of slapping and punching (…)
Jimi: The Comeback Publié 23 March 2006 dans la rubrique Short stories and poems A short story by Marc Villard translated from the French by Brad Spurgeon That your name? Hubert Dupont-Laval? What do you mean, no? It’s written on your ID card. Don’t act like I’m some kind of dolt, Hubert-my-balls, you’re not dealing with just any old thief here. I’m not surprised that with such a stinking moniker as that you shack up in Neuilly. This burb’s really worrying. Not a single McDonald’s, no (…)
Fifteen Publié 22 March 2006 dans la rubrique Short stories and poems A short story by Marc Villard translated from the French by Brad Spurgeon Sometimes it just hits her like that - life is always the same. Today, she decided she’d go out on the town, alone, for the first time. At night. It scares her a bit, but at fifteen, she wants to break out of the darkness. Her name’s Cynthia. They say she’s cute, with her tanned legs shooting out of that slightly too short skin-tight (…)
Cadillac Walk Publié 16 February 2006 dans la rubrique Short stories and poems translated into English by Stéphanie Benson I picked up the phone as it rang for the fifth time. Doc’s thick voice said: "Were you sleeping?" "No, didn’t want to answer." "I don’t understand you, recently" "Nostalgia. Got a problem?" "Yes, but not on the phone." "Six o’clock at Pouchla’s, rue Mandar." (…)
Double contact Publié 16 February 2006 dans la rubrique Short stories and poems translated into English by Stéphanie Benson Night was falling over the old Lamberville stadium. Five kids were moving in the twilight, their eyes fixed on a brand new football, a present from the woman at the Social Aid office. Two of them were nigh on perfect. They were the less talkative ones, round rolling music was in their head. The round ball rolled on, stuck to their trainers. (…)
Mr. Black Publié 16 February 2006 dans la rubrique Short stories and poems translated into English by Stéphanie Benson To Diana Atkinson The Flamingo dance floor was newly repainted and a few seats recently replaced, but the dressing rooms were still just as shabby. Miss America was already on stage giving them her lasso between the thighs number. Afterwards, it would be my turn. I’d woken up at three in the morning. Been tempted to shoot myself in the head (…)