A literary magazine obsessed with revenge. Open for submissions! https://www.villaineralit.com Mastermind: @charlesjensen.bsky.social
Villain Era 🖤🔪
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Bunny Goodjohn leapt overborad each time the water got choppy and left a coastline of good men swapping notes, today at Villain Era! 🖤🔪
Kudos to you, Barbara Krasner!
In Kareem El Nagar's story, a woman's desperate attempt at escape might be foiled by the people trying to save her, today at Villain Era! 🖤🔪
In Jamie Ramirez's story, two men reconnect in the wake of a family tragedy neither of them can accept, today at Villain Era! 🖤🔪
A new mother fends off the smothering advice of her mother-in-law, whose advice lands like a constant blitz, today at Villain Era! 🖤🔪
Sarp Sozdinler will be remembered for the glitter on the pillow and puking neon pink on bedsheets, today at Villain Era! 🖤🔪
I became / the outsider instead of the glue
Only Barbara Krasner can see the vanitas on the table laid out like a Dutch master's still life, today at Villain Era! 🖤🔪
Some people ignore disrespect, others enact minor acts of revenge and petty villainy.
"Coffee & Coke" published in @villaineralit.bsky.social
Villain origin stories don’t always start with betrayal.
“Just Being Honest” published in @villaineralit.bsky.social
The headlights splay thin and yellow across the narrow country lane. She slows. The wind of it testing the grip of the hatchback. Even at this speed it feels too much. She looks in the rearview. Black. The dark staying too close, smothering every window. She checks that the doors are locked and the windows are sealed, as though the night would get in if not. As though he might still get in. She exhales. Tightens her fingers around the wheel. Her eyes narrow, locked on the meandering road. The mascara tears have set dry to her cheeks.
The dry sunless heat of the city made the earth smell alive. The grass swayed in its own rhythmic pattern to the flow of the wind. It was lonely in the park, nothing but the two men and the lights that shone on the path ahead of them. The buzzing of the electricity that ran through the posts could be mistaken for the flies that kept trying to ram themselves into the glass. This felt endless, and the dread was almost suffocating. Nolan gripped the plastic bag with a white-knuckle grip, while his companion, Martin, idly looked for a spot where they could finally sit down and talk.
coke drip prayer i told him i was an artistas i puked neon pink into his bedsheetshe asked if it was intentional& i said “what isn’t?”i left glitter on his pillow& a bruise on his egohe’ll remember meevery time he smells oranges & sour cream this isn’t a breakdown, it’s a rebrandcall it postmodern femininitycall it body horror with mascarai cried in his bathroomfilmed it in slow-moposted it to close friends& titled it: “womanhood, uncut” he texted me “you okay?”
The Price of Admission The day my mother died, my sisters gatheredat the kitchen table, rifled through her jewelry. I creeped upstairs to her vanity, rifled throughher junior high autograph book, stuffed it in my purse. The day my mother died, my sisters dined together,while I ate sushi with a friend, who’d lost her father. The day they buried my mother, I gave the eulogy.I took my niece to the movies. The day they buried my mother, my sisterssat on my sofa while I napped.
Only Barbara Krasner can see the vanitas on the table laid out like a Dutch master's still life, today at Villain Era! 🖤🔪
Jessica Edmond
Jessica Edmond
The Price of Admission The day my mother died, my sisters gatheredat the kitchen table, rifled through her jewelry. I creeped upstairs to her vanity, rifled throughher junior high autograph book, stuffed it in my purse. The day my mother died, my sisters dined together,while I ate sushi with a friend, who’d lost her father. The day they buried my mother, I gave the eulogy.I took my niece to the movies. The day they buried my mother, my sisterssat on my sofa while I napped.
The Price of Admission The day my mother died, my sisters gatheredat the kitchen table, rifled through her jewelry. I creeped upstairs to her vanity, rifled throughher junior high autograph book, stuffed it in my purse. The day my mother died, my sisters dined together,while I ate sushi with a friend, who’d lost her father. The day they buried my mother, I gave the eulogy.I took my niece to the movies. The day they buried my mother, my sisterssat on my sofa while I napped.
This Is the Game (after Dean Young's "Romanticism 101") Then we build a house/hospital/schoolroom.Then you’re the husband/doctor/teacher.Then I’m the wife/nurse/secretary.Then there are children——three girls for meand two boys for you——to fill up all the space.Then I stay home and cook dinner and ironthings flat and sew dresses for the girlsand walk the dog in the field behind the house.(If I had to grow either sunflowers or carrots,I’d choose carrots. Because you can’t surviveon beauty.) Then you come home from work…
My mother-in-law waits until my husband, Piotr, is in the kitchen making tea before she launches her attack. She edges towards me, pinning me into the corner of the sofa. My newly minted son, Louis, is in her arms, sleeping for a change. “He looks cold,” she says in her lilting Polish accent. “Does he have sweater?” “He’s fine.” I don’t want to wake him just to put another layer on. “But you wear long sleeves and him only short.” “All his brown fat’s keeping him warm,” I say, but she’s not listening, gazing at him with an entranced expression.
