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nick j. antosca
nick j. antosca, a student at yale university, was born in new
orleans. he's written/directed three short films and has just
finished editing the third one, which is a pseudo-documentary
about ted bundy, starring barbie dolls. his work has been or
will be published in gothic.net, antietam review, downstate story
etcetera, usa weekend online. kafkaesque fact: he says his
lungs used to collapse spontaneously because he's inhumanly skinny,
so he had surgery and now they're stapled to the inside of his
chest.
Works on this page:
feeding frenzy
mars dream
Feeding Frenzy
While I was waiting for a cab to pass, standing in the effluvia
of the gutter in a bad neighborhood, three or four surly and
inhospitable men approached me. It was summer and very hot, so
perhaps their tempers were inflamed by an unrelated incident
and I was to be their scapegoat. It was, I suspect, the scent
of my leather shoes and briefcase that aroused their interest,
or the bitter but becoming odor of the gel supporting my hair.
"Get back," I said, forcefully putting out my hand
to make crystal clear my meaning as they exhibited no signs of
halting their approach. None among the group humored me with
a response and their surliness appeared to have increased. They
had surrounded me in a fashion common to the African hyena or
the American timber wolf. "Wait," I said, feigning
desperation, "I'll get my valuables out of this suitcase
and hand them over without resistance. I'm a jeweler." They
waited menacingly, fairly salivating. I did the combination locks
and flipped the sucker open. Grabbing the sharpest and longest
specimen from my extensive collection of Malaysian ceremonial
daggers, I turned and thrust it into the thorax of the nearest
assailant, who, as I tugged the weapon out, clutched his gushing
scarlet wound and staggered to the steamy asphalt. His fellows,
indiscriminately bloodthirsty, leapt upon their injured compatriot
and tore him to shreds and rags, which they devoured ravenously
as I made my hasty escape down Battery Avenue.
Mars Dream
he sheds his skin and becomes a woman with blue scales . .
. his former flesh rolls off his body like a suit of blubber.
She takes a few steps on her new feet - the soles are stiff,
unbroken, but the skin itself is soft. It will be a few weeks
before the skin becomes tough; it will take a few nights of crouching
in Martian alleys and in the backs of trucks crossing red sand
deserts; it will take a few chases, a few near misses, a couple
of close shaves. The skin must be toughened and the lungs must
become accustomed to the airless wind
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