Where To Read Andromeda Ahn
Want to read some of Andromeda’s work? You’ll find it all here!
(And don’t forget, she recently dropped her first name and goes by Andromeda now, but her older works still have her old, former, first name!)
There had been two large bags of fan mail waiting for him beside the piano bench after the accident. At first, he had little interest in being prayed for. But at four in the morning when his hand throbbed and his absent thumb, by now decaying in some medical dump, ached and itched uncontrollably, he found them an entertaining distraction….
I am a star. Really, I am. I’m bona fide. Well, I’ve signed my name in cement. That counts for something, right? I stepped in it, too. It ruins your shoes. They don’t tell you that.
Supernova peeks behind the curtain at the Toronto Film Festival and how one celebrity made it this far. And what it cost.
He ran his hand along the edges of his belt, tightening the makeshift tourniquet, stemming the bright red arterial blood. He fought to remain conscious. The pain receded to behind the red spout, beside his balls. He couldn’t tell if he still had both of them; he couldn’t reach that far. He was sure he could feel them, even twitch them; he felt them move. He also knew that didn’t mean a damn thing. How many of his buddies, rotting in some jaundiced VA bed back home, said they woke up screaming in pain from a leg they left in Da Nang? He was contributing enough of his blood to these fucking paddies; they weren’t going to get his balls too.
Malcolm smiled with satisfaction as he gazed out upon his English garden, warming in the California sun. He had long since left his home in the Cotswold region and had promised that when time and money permitted, he would recreate his childhood garden; but this time with Azaleas. His mother hated Azaleas. They now framed the perimeter of his lustrous beachfront home. She’d hate what I’ve done to this place, he thought smugly to himself as he stepped over her resting place. He’d planted the largest Azalea bush on top of the moist patch of soil where her ashes were scattered, and left a dish of premium kibble out for the few neighborhood strays; enticing them to claim their territory. Azalea’s and cat’s piss. How do I love you, mother, let me count the ways.
Climbing buildings, roots deep in the underbelly of the city’s financial heart. Parasitical towers fast becoming my prison. The sky locked by the reflection of window against window, in a dizzying, unending effect. Spent diesel, tangled with the pungent assault of overcooked hotdogs, weary commuters and melting iced cappuccinos clogged the streets with the fragrance of summer in the city. Every ounce of my sweaty body ached as it cried out in agonizing remembrance of the sweet, fresh rocky mountain air of my youth.
Not dying has its advantages. This year alone, I headlined at Glastonbury. I never expected I would as I’m not hip, or cool, or whatever the new word is. Of course, I’ve had hits. In this business, who hasn’t? But, that alone is not enough. It’s actually quite funny when you stop and think about it: there comes a point when the simple act of survival gives way to a certain celebrity status.
[Short Fiction Break]
V2: Guest Editor
Cocaine, prostitution, poverty, exploitation, torture, murder: It’s the world of Canadian Stand-Up comedy, and there’s nothing funny about it.
K Johnson owns the Polaris, Toronto’s largest comedy club. Every night the comics who work there put on a killer show; everyone leaves with a smile on their face. Then the house lights come up and the façade is gone. For five years K has lost his bid to host the Sweetwater Comedy Festival to repugnant has-been television icon with a penchant for young male aides, Dickie Craig, and he can’t understand why.
[Red Dashboard Press]
Blue Plate Special, set in present day South Boston, delves into the effects of PTSD on a veteran police officer, Danny, who witnesses the death of his only daughter, Amanda, eight years prior. Danny is struggling through homelessness, self-imposed alienation and unsuccessful attempts o re-enter society. His struggle sets off an emotional chain reaction in those around him that will have life altering effects.
Northern Ireland during the time of the Troubles.
Irish. Catholic. Protestant. Politics. It was all just blood when you had to bury it.
[Fiction on the Web]
Did you ever say those people who work at call centers were zombies? This time, you’re right!
Trinh took a deep breath before fingering the cold metal handles of the double glass doors. Holy Heart of Mary High School. High School. Three months ago she had been working as a cleaning lady for an American General, and fending off his drunken, wandering hands. He always felt bad after, and gave her an extra American dollar. Sometimes she let his hands stay on her insecure breasts for a few breaths. She needed enough money for two people on the boat.
It crawled toward midnight, outside the Old Bailey
in the echo of Sepulchre’s bells
The moon wrapped himself in a blanket of clouds
the winds screeched a bone-chilling yell
I turned up my collar to stave off the night
a stranger I walked on alone
Feeling the cold, arthritic fingers of death
start to ferry me home
A little horror poetry to celebrate “Halloween Haunts” with the Horror Writers’ Association
[The Horror Writers’ Association]