Check out the writings from our Thug Contributors to the right and enjoy some "in your face" stylings.How 'bout you?
Want to be our bitch?
Get your crap published and not get paid for it, earning a bad-ass rep and credibility as a writing thug?
Submissions welcome: word.thugs@gmail.com
But first, who the fuck are you? One of those pathetic support-group-junky poets looking for an ego-stroke place to publish your crap? Yeah, well you wandered into the wrong hood, home slice.
This ain't no sugar-sweet literary playground full of gushy prose and weeping stories that only your fat momma's gonna love.
This is Thug Turf, bitch, where the writing grabs you by the balls and pulls you in, where the prose smacks you in the teeth and spits in your face! (See example below.)
So if you think you got something to say, if you think you can hang, bring it...
1.) but it better not be boring,
2.) it better have a backbone and
3.) it better have a VOICE, some serious THUG SHIT.
Short stories, rants & poetry (that do not suck, weep, whine or talk about "your fucking aching, weeping, whining soul") will be reviewed. If our group of thug editors can not get past your first paragraph or your first stanza, it's over, baby. If you grip us by the throats and force us to keep reading, shit we'll bring you in as a "made member"! Till then, enjoy the site and go thug yourself.
All sumbissions remain YOUR PROPERTY. We don't want it.
SAMPLE TEASE:
THE WAKE-UP CALL
by
Christopher Pimental
A dark bedroom
2:37 AM
When her cell phone rang, Jan Whitney woke up, one eyelid at a time. When it kept ringing, she rolled to her left, squinted at the bedside clock and groaned, realizing that she had been asleep for only two hours.
"I need you to answer that call, Miss Whitney," a male voice said from the darkness. Her stomach clenched and the hairs prickled on the back of her neck. When she heard the gun being cocked, a lump lodged in her throat like a ball of lead.
"Oh my God, " she blurted, turning towards the voice. "Who are you? Why--"
"Do not turn around, Miss Whitney. Just answer the call."
She froze in place, the word "rapist" flashing in her mind. He was standing right at other side of the bed! "Please. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't-"
She felt the gun press into the back of her skull. "Last chance, Miss Whitney." The unnerving cell rang again and again. "You need to answer that call."
She swallowed hard and reached for the phone. Her hands shook as she flipped it open then raised it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"One more ring and he would have shot you in the head, Ms. Whitney."
Oh my God! "Who is this? Why--"
"Listen to me carefully, Ms. Whitney. If you want to stay alive, you will do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"
Her pulse beat in her ears. "What? Who are you? Why is there a man in my-"
"Miss Whitney, I asked if you understood my question. For your own good, you need to answer my questions exactly as I ask them. Do not respond with questions of your own. Do you understand?"
She shook her head. "No, I don't understand any of this. Who are you? What do you want with me?"
The intruder leaned across the twin bed and cuffed her on the side of the head with his free hand. She cowered, nearly dropping the cell phone. She turned towards him, but he pushed the silenced gun barrel into her cheek, refocusing her attention. The voice on the phone continued.
"I have very little patience for disobedience, Miss Whitney. My associate is wired into this call and is listening to everything I say. The next time you disobey, the next time you ask a question, I will instruct him to break your collar bone. Do you understand?"
She winced, a slow panic building in her gut. Instinct alone implored her to comply.
"Yes," she said.
"Very well, then. Shall we begin?"
Oh my God! "Shall we begin what?"
