Archive

Tag Archives: Clinical

We’re not plugging anything in terms of product: we’re just putting on a night of Class A spoken word in York in August.

The poster tells you everything you need to know. It’s free. Keep it brutal.

 

Spoken Word Poster vers 2 copy small

It’s been four years since the first Clinical, Brutal anthology was unleashed to an unsuspecting public. It would be an overstatement to say the world has never been quite the same since, but it was no small achievement for a zero-budget publisher established barely two years. The fact we’re still here is an achievement in itself, and what better way to reassert the vision of Clinicality Press than with a follow-up that’s even more sharply-focused in its clinicality and its brutality?

Clinical brutal 2, edited by Christopher Nosnibor will hit the virtual shelves this Autumn, and will be preceded by our first official book launch event, which will take place at our spiritual home The Woolpack in York on Monday 8th September 2014. A number of the featured authors will perform. There will be music. There will be copies of the new book available for purchase, before it hits Amazon or anywhere else, and at a discounted launch-night price. Other Clinicality Press titles will also be available.

There’s much work to do, not least of all in terms of formatting, editing and proof-reading, but it’s shaping up to be a truly killer collection.

It has a cover already. It looks like this.

Cover with text 2 copy

 

We can also confirm the list of contributing authors. That looks like this: Nicola Burgess  / Michael Hann / D M Mitchell / A.D. Hitchin / Karl van Cleave / Dale Prudent / Niall Rasputin / James Wells / A.B. Johnson / Johnny Webster / Christopher Nosnibor /  Mistress Rosie / Dyke Van Dick / Andy Rigley / James J. Osman / Pete Miller  / Mark Wynn / Díre McCain / Cal Leckie / Michael McAloran / Jock Drummond / Vincent Clasper/ Dave Howden / Lee Kwo / Stuart Bateman

Watch this space and the Clinicality Facebook page for further updates.

We’re robbing ourselves here… The print edition of our landmark collection, Clinical, Brutal… An Anthology of Writing with Guts is now available with 25% off the retail price of £7.99.

Clinical, Brutal… features writing by: Pablo Vision / Kestra Faye / Jim Lopez / Radcliff Gregory / Díre McCain / Stewart Home / A.D. Hitchin / Christopher Nosnibor / Richard Kovitch / Lee Kwo / S. F. Grimm / David Mark Dannov / D M Mitchell / Jock Drummond / Lucius Rofocale / Stuart Bateman / Karl van Cleave / Vincent Clasper / Constance Stadler / Bill Thunder / Christopher Bateman / Simon Phillips / Maria Gornell

An anthology of poetry and prose that encapsulates the ethos of Clinicality Press and the essence of Clinical Brutality as a mode of writing. Featuring some of the most exciting up and coming writers, as well as a number of more established cult figures, this collection is a short, sharp shock: clinical, brutal, cutting edge. It’s all about those small, everyday random acts of violence, not all of which are physical or even necessarily entirely tangible, that are common to us all, written in blood using direct, precise and powerful language. This is writing for the post-CSI generation. It’s not for the faint-hearted.

What critics have said about this book…

‘The only thing to do is to plunge in, sliding effortlessly through the smears of blood and juicy ropes of gore to the heart of the story.’ – Jessica Maybury, DecomP Magazine

‘…at its best this clinical, brutal writing can, in many instances, be cynical, beautiful writing’ – Christopher Willard, BookPleasures

‘…a nauseating and very surreal collection of short stories and poems that captured my attention from the front cover, to the very last page.’ – Victoria Gonzales, Reader Views

To bag a copy at the bargain basement price of £5.99, follow this link.

 

This offer ends 1st February 2013. Watch this space for more heavy-duty discounts and free shit from Clinicality Press.

We’re not all bah, humbug here at Clinicality Press – although don’t think for a second that all the festive frivolities mean we’re going to be giddy with seasonal spirit. Life – and death – goes on, and when it comes to sticking the harsh realities in your face, few writers come more harsh in their realities than Karl van Cleave.

So we’re unveiling a second story from Karl’s forthcoming collection of stories, Incisions, Collisions and Aborted Missions via Smashwords. ‘Broken Wings’ is clinical, brutal and existential. And in the spirit of goodwill to all, we’re giving away the first downloads for FREE. You can get yours in practically any (virtual) format you can imagine by following this link.

bROKEN wINGS White Resized

 

Incisions, Collisions and Aborted Missions will be published as an e-book in February 2013, with a print edition later in the year.

September was a busy month: James Well’s novel Hack was simultaneously published via Smashwords and as an Amazon Kindle edition, which is available for £2.88 from the .co.uk site, $4.48 in the US, and roughly equivalent prices in different currencies across the other Global Amazon sites. Free samples are available, with the most comprehensive – the first 15% – and in a range of formats being available from Smashwords.
Christopher Nosnibor conducted an in-depth interview with James, which can be found on his blog.

Hack 4 copy

 

We’ve also just launched Kindle editions of Clinical, Brutal… An Anthology of Writing With Guts and Bill Thunder’s brutally hard-boiled detective novel, The Bastardizer. These now join Christopher Nosnibor’s furiously experimental anti-novel THE PLAGIARIST, and further titles will be added shortly.

Finally, we’re always on the lookout for new material for our Blog/zine. If you think you have a piece of poetry or prose with enough punch to knock out a frenzied lion, get in touch via the website.

She Loves Me. She Loves Me Not.

Andy Rigley

    “She loves me,” I say.
    I pause.
    “She loves me not.”
    I pause.
    I cut another fat pink petal from one of the two outstretched hands that are flower heads. There’s a muffled yelp and some thrashing. I didn’t think the plastic garden chair would hold out as long as it has with a fully grown man tied to it. I considered filming the whole thing in case I got a You’ve Been Framed Bloke Breaks Chair moment. But I wavered the two hundred an fifty quid in favour of anonymity.
    “She loves me,” I say again, and the man’s face, I swear, it looks like he’s trying to take a  dump out of his eye sockets. I laugh at the thought that he might force his own eyeballs right out onto his cheeks before we’re done. Wouldn’t that be a bonus.
    I place the B&Q branch loppers over his ring finger, and wiggle them ’til they’re good and tight against the knuckle. I never used these things before, but this is the third fat pink petal, and I’m getting the hang of them now.
    “You know?” I say. “Hayley bought me these.” I stare down the pristine green handles. “For Christmas. Said I should cut down those damned leylandii before the neighbours complained.” I sigh. “I bought her a year’s membership to a gym. Spa. Steam room. Circuits. God did she ever shut up about the circuits and how her thighs were real tight? I mean tight can you believe it?” I smile. “I guess of the two of us. Yes. You can believe it.”
    The guy in the chair whimpers like I’m putting too much pressure on his fat pink petal. Behind him is a trestle table covered in flake-skin paste from another job I didn’t finish. Wallpaper hangs sad, crying down the walls. The man, wow, I don’t even know his name, he’s whimpering and phooming and flumfing because his mouth is stuffed right to his throat with a pair of boxer shorts. And believe me when I say, that because I woke up in an empty bed again, they are not the cleanest shorts.
    As I crunch through another fat pink petal, it thumps into the floor and I think how, maybe, it’ll be my fucking job to clean the carpet. The man, he’s becoming weaker and it’s the first time since we started that I realise that he’s not crying. There are no tears. There’s snot and brown spittle hanging from his chin, but no real tears. Maybe his body is preserving fluids in case, well, in case the worse happens even more than the worse is already happening.
    The CD I’m listening to is skipping and I curse. It’s Duran Duran, Hungry like a like a like a lik lik lik a. I reach over and poke the off button with the loppers, smiling at how useful they’ve become.
    “Shit. Where were we?” I say. I have genuinely forgotten whether Hayley loved me or not.

By the time there’s only one fat pink petal left this man is grey. I mean proper blue-grey. But his eyes are still red and his snot is still very much green.
    “Look, mate,” I say wiping at the chrome ends of the loppers with a black, rose petal emblazoned bra that I bought for Hayley but that she never wore for me, “it might not be that bad. We could get to the end here and, well, maybe she loves me after all. Then we can forget this ever happened.”
    I snip off the man’s last pink petal and it flutters, I swear it actually flutters, down.
    “Fuck,” I say dropping the loppers. “Guess I wasted our time after all. Turns out the bitch doesn’t love me.”
    Do I see relief on his face? Do I feel it in mine? No more adjusting washing machine feet, or lopping hedges or wallpapering or painting.
    “You are now welcome to the bitch,” I say, and start to untie him.
    But something is bugging me and I reach for the loppers again.
    This man. This man who has been fucking my wife because I’m too lazy to do the fucking gardening or fucking cleaning or fucking, his eyes go even wider as he reads my grin.
    I yank down his trousers.