The Click of the Shutting by Graham Wynd

Crime Fiction, Flash Fiction, Graham Wynd, K A Laity, Punk Noir Magazine

The Click of the Shutting

Graham Wynd


She waited for the sound of it, the sound that meant safety, the sound that meant it was over for now. The time it was when his shouts might soften, sometimes even turn to tears and beg forgiveness, beg for comfort, remind her again how it was all her fault.

If only she wasn’t like that. 

If only she didn’t get in the way of things. If only she should read his mind so she would know what he was thinking because he didn’t have time to tell her. He was in a hurry, always. Unless he was taking his time.

‘You know I don’t mean it, Georgie,’ he would say after the click, after he shut the blade safely away. After the cutting, after the tears – hers anyway. Then it was sorry, then it was I didn’t mean it, then it was you made me do it. And she would believe it if only it weren’t for the scars.

He loved the scars.

Gregory traced the white lines on her arms and her legs with the wonder of a child. I made this! That mixture of pride and awe as if it were some kind of accomplishment. A five-year-old’s finger paints or a macaroni collage.

Georgie traced them herself in the few minutes of quiet before he knocked on the door to ask if she were done yet. They were memories – the burnt dinner, the too-loud laugh, the phone call – and they were badges. They were badges that said I am still here.

The click of the shutting blade made her shoulders drop back into place, her breath escape in a sigh, her fingers unclench. It would always be this way. Her mother said as much. 

‘At least he doesn’t beat you.’

Aye, that was something. Her mother never smiled because of the missing teeth. ‘I’m just waiting for him to die,’ she’d told Georgie one afternoon as they both washed up the dishes. ‘Not going to lift a finger after that. Eat takeaway. Use paper plates.’

At least she had goals. Georgie tried to remember what she had once dreamed. When Gregory first wooed her. She felt so proud. He was so much older. Then she had imagined he thought her real mature. But no. She’d learned another word for what she was: gullible.

Georgie wondered how the word had come about. After all, the gulls that haunted the city centre were anything but gullible. They were careful if aggressive. Didn’t trust humans, but followed them closely, looking for a chance. She’d seen people try to kick at them or throw cans at them. They dodged all weapons with loud honks like they were laughing.

Maybe she needed to be more gull than gullible.

Georgie lived on the scraps of Gregory’s life anyway. Sometimes literally: he would let her finish off the chips he didn’t eat when he got takeaway for himself. Other times he would make her beg. Trade cuts for a chicken wing. If she refused he cut her anyway, so might as well get something out of it. It helped to feel like a gull instead of a dog, which he made her feel like at first. 

The big gulls had a little dot of red on their beaks, like a drop of blood. That was like her too, though her blood was usually on her legs and arms, where the scars didn’t show as much. Georgie never wore shorts or short sleeves anymore. They weren’t big scars, except that one and Gregory had apologised for that and bought her a teddy bear, as if she were a child that needed bribing. He blamed the horror film they’d been watching. Gregory loved his horror films.

It might have gone on like that except for the pub. 

It was a rare enough outing. Gregory went to the pub on his own sometimes, though he didn’t trust her to be on her own for long. But he wanted to celebrate some football thing so they didn’t go to the local but to the big sports pub down by the church in the centre. When Gregory got fed up with all the noise and the shouts, they skipped out the back way into the alley, which led around to the bus stop faster.

But there was some big shaved head menace there that made even Gregory pause before he grabbed Georgie’s hand and plunged on, chin in the air, belligerent like. 

‘What’s your damage?’ the big bloke said, stopping Gregory short with a huge hand to his chest. 

‘No damage here, mate.’ Gregory kept the chin high and for a moment Georgie remembered loving him when the sun shone and his curls blew in the wind and he smiled.

‘That right?’ The big man sneered at Gregory and then for good measure leered at Georgie. ‘You got something to say for yourself?’

Georgie shook her head. Gregory took a step forward. The big man grabbed the front of his jumper.

‘What?’ Gregory asked with as much venom as he could manage.

‘I said, what’s your damage?’ the man repeated, then punched Gregory in the face. He went down like puppet with its strings cut. The big man sniffed and headed back toward the pub. Gregory lay still.

Georgie thought, what would a gull do?

She slipped her hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out the blade. With a press of the button, the knife clicked open. The blade shone in the moonlight.

Gregory was groaning and beginning to stir. Without thinking Georgie’s hand shot out and, like she’d seen in a thousand gory films, pulled the blade across his neck where it pulsed. Gregory’s eyes flew open and he made a sound that was half annoyance and half fear. Or maybe it was just all disbelief. His hands clutched at his throat. Blood poured between his fingers.

Georgie wiped the blood from the knife on his sleeve, then savoured the click of the blade shutting for the last time. Gregory kept one hand on his neck and the other reached toward her, then started scrabbling in the dirt and stones of the alley. She watched him for a few minutes, then turned and walked to the bus stop.

It was almost time for the 9:20.

THE GHOST IN YOU by Graham Wynd

Crime Fiction, Fiction, Graham Wynd, K A Laity, Noir, Punk Noir Magazine

Read part 1 here.


It was their first ever encore. The others wouldn’t have paid attention but Frazer had been waiting for such a moment to come. Ego, yeah. So what? You had to have an ego to get out there every weekend and play to the punters who seldom care if you lived or died—actually, most of the time they’d preferred that you died so you would just shut up and they could fill the jukebox with coins and play Van Halen or Katy Perry over and over until their ears bled.

But not tonight. Tonight was magic and the crowd called for an encore. The crowd, the audience: not just Pam and Janet, the girl friends of Pike and Jones. The pair were always there, the gruesome twosome they called themselves. Sometimes more happy to chat to each other than to pay attention. Admittedly they heard the songs a hundred times or more, nothing new. They were great at getting the drinks in and even better at cheering the spirits of the lads on bad nights. There were always bad nights. But the two of them were always full Macca thumbs-up for the band. Not like Olive. Remember Olive? They all remembered Olive.

The people you surround yourselves with have a lot to do with the quality of your life. Doubly so if you were trying to make something, do something beyond your dead-end job that you forgot once you were punched out and out the door.

An encore, a real encore. Pam and Janet were cheering away but it wasn’t even them that started chanting, ‘More more more!’ How do you like it, how do you like it, well they liked it just fine. They felt it too. They wanted more.

Frazer looked up, sticks in hand, in wonder. Pike caught the grin on her face. Did a double take. More more more! The chant was real. And louder. Some feet stamping. They had a hit of it and wanted more. Wanted the high to last. Pike collared Jones, who’d already slung his Gretsch over his back, plucking his sweat-soaked shirt from skin. He stared in wonder at the crowd. Godfrey shook his head, not a no but a kind of disbelief.

There was a moment of swaying disbelief. It might have all got away, but Jones swung the guitar back around, looked at Frazer and grinned. They didn’t have any songs left that they hadn’t done already. It was a thing with them all that they never did covers. All original songs, live or die.

But now was not the time for purity.





Pike stretched out the first word so long Jones had to stumble to hold back the next chord and we were all grinning like maniacs but we were together, a unit, in sync. And the audience was too. They had let out a whoop at the first notes so loud we might have been the Kinks themselves on stage or as near as was going to get here in the back end of nowhere tonight anyway. They sang along, shouting out the words as if their lives depended on it and howling at the chorus, shrieking to punctuate the lines.

Frazer nearly collapsed on the kit with the final bash. A sudden wave of exhaustion hit her. They had worked that night. Good work. Sleep would come. No restless obsessive thinking about what to do next time, what had gone wrong, why could Pike never hit that note quite right and did it really matter, should the song change or the singer until it was three and the night too short.

Pike was hopped up now and caught her eye. He wanted more. Frazer shook her head though. They weren’t going to turn into a cover band. It was a little gift for the audience who had been so good to them but no. No more covers. It felt good to belt out something familiar, shared, a little ragged—they had only ever fooled around with it to warm up—but play another and that’s what they’d remember. A cover band.

They took the applause with gratitude. Even bowed with an ironic Beatle formality before laughing and punching one another in the arm. This is what it could be, Frazer thought. This is what it will be if I have to drag them all kicking and screaming into the future.

The high survived leaving the stage. They just about floated into the little dank chamber that served as a dressing room. Pike jabbered a mile a minute whilst Jones nodded enthusiastically. Godfrey just grinned and shook his head as he put the battered two-tone Fender back in its case after wiping the strings and the body with a soft cloth.

Frazer made a quick change of her top, which was wet through and threw on a hoodie for good measure. Her arms ached in a good way. Probably worth icing them before bed; hot bath tomorrow. At least there wasn’t a band on after them so she didn’t have to rush out and break down the kit immediately.

‘They really liked the new one,’ Godfrey said.

‘Yeah!’ Pike agreed. ‘It’s got a good hook.’

‘That’s all Jones,’ Frazer said. She knew it wasn’t just the hook, but it didn’t matter as long as they all liked it, too.

Jones threw his arm around Frazer and Pike. ‘We fucking ruled the night.


The FU School of Writing School by Graham Wynd

Graham Wynd, K A Laity, Non-fiction, punk, Punk Noir Magazine, Writing

When your books are less than successful, when you find it hard to make a splash, people tend to say the same kind of things:


Don’t give up! Your audience is out there! You’ll find them and connect. Stick with it.


I am here to tell you that this is not true. The majority of us will not find out audiences. We will work and toil and promote and do stupid interviews that no one will read about our books that no one will buy. FFS people can’t even be bothered to read the links to posts for giveaways.


‘Oooh, I want one! How do I enter?!’


The info is in the link you haven’t clicked, Einstein. It’s pretty simple. But your performative enthusiasm is noted. And worthless.


We all know it means fuck all. Because you don’t buy the books, you don’t read the books, and most important of all you don’t review the books anywhere so other people might possibly be persuaded to throw caution to the winds and read something by an author they haven’t been reading since childhood and complaining about almost as long. ‘It’s not as good as their best stuff,’ you’ve been repeating for decades but still shell out for the product because the food may be bland but at least it’s familiar.


It’s not going to get better. Late stage capitalism is crushing the life out of all of us except the super-rich and even they won’t be able to survive the collapse of the planet. The planet will. They’ll be going off to other planets in hope of conquest and colonisation because that’s worked for them over the last few centuries. Oh but wait, there’s no servants to do all the things they don’t know how to do, so they’ll die on the new planet’s surface because they don’t know how to open a can.




So why write? For self-fulfillment? For the love of it? For the psychological benefits of expressing your thoughts in a Socratic attempt to examine your life?


Well, you can do that. I write because fuck you. I’m not winning awards, I’m not paying the bills, I’m not trying to make a name for myself, I’m not even trying to reach an audience. I expect I’ll die penniless and considered mad like William Blake and so many others.


I keep writing because fuck you, I want  to do it. That’s it: I write because I fucking want to do it. It gives me a perverse pleasure in the face of all the forces that want to take you down a peg, tell you you’re nothing and that your words not being worth money means they’re worth nothing.


Fuck you. My words are worth it.


At every stage of civilisation there have been gatekeepers and fame is a juggernaut that keeps its momentum going like a boulder down a mountain, crushing everything in its path. And in every age some punks crossed their arms, stuck out their chins, and said fuck no, I will not be crushed.


Words are weapons. Anger is a an energy, like the man said. Even if they crush us, we go down saying fuck you.


I’m going to be your Number one enemy,

All for the hell of it.

The Slits


The Ghost in You by Graham Wynd

Flash Fiction, Graham Wynd, K A Laity, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

The bass thrummed like a distant heartbeat from deep in the earth, as if a long-buried temple called forth its adherents from slumbering death. Frazer didn’t even have to look up from her drum kit to know the band were swaying as one to its tempo. Even Pike who could barely exist without flapping his lips—improvising, scatting, even humming when he had no words to sing—seemed content for a space to just lean into the beat as Jones stretched the chord out on his guitar and the room rolled with it—hypnotised, in the music’s thrall like zombies called by its chant.

You could wield a guitar like a weapon—and sometimes Jones surely did—but tonight it was a kind of repository for all the energy in the room, taking it, swirling it around and sending it back threefold to start the process again.

Keeping the pace on the kick with the precision of a metronome clad in Chuck Taylors, Frazer threw a glance at the bass player. Godfrey was new but it was clear from the moment they lurched into the first tune that he fit in like no other bassist had in the long string of losers they had meandered through. He was a pro for one thing; turned up on time, not drunk, not reeking or strung out. For once there was no need to turn down the amp or throw sticks at his back or shout out the chords. He actually listened to the drumming and he played like madman, filling in the spaces with the occasional manic riff but never losing the rhythm, never kicking out the knitted skein of the song to draw attention to himself. Less is more is less: no more grandstanding or incompetence.

Instead they were here: one with the crowd, such as it was, one with each other and at last at last the feeling that Frazer had known all along could be there—the bliss almost forgotten of a song hanging together, a crowd vibrating to the tune and a taste of what magic there was in the music that made all the late nights and the fights and the bleeding fingers and the shouting matches all worth it. This communion, this glory, this moment of being all together as one with the audience too, and they knew it—they all knew it and they all loved it. It might be no major gig, it might be no major venue, most of them will have forgotten it by the time they put sweat-soaked heads to their pillows that night or morning—but some, some few would know, would remember, would say what it was, what they felt and hold a bit of the magic because it was nothing short of that.

It was in the songs; Frazer had known it but had begun to doubt anyone else might know it.

They might be nobodies from nowhere but after tonight, maybe just maybe they were going somewhere—floating in that shark-filled sea of music life, sure, but sailing on the raft of the songs they wrote.

Songs I wrote mostly, Frazer thought.

But as they whipped the song up to its final crescendo even that didn’t so much matter, because the group really worked, they all pushed the songs and something that had just been words in a notebook and snatches of tune became a god-damned bona fide song when they all joined together in moments like this. Frazer closed her eyes as she pounded out the final beats and nearly collapsed on the kit. They all grinned at one another as the song ended.

There was a moment of silence, just long enough to made them frown and then the crowd went nuts. They screamed like they were on Top of the Pops and the cameras were rolling. The band all laughed and clapped back at the crowd because it was just a perfect almost childlike moment of delight. It worked. They worked. The song worked. And maybe it was just a small hall in a small town all too far from the big lights, but it was a start.

From moments like that great things began.

At least in the past they had from the sweat dripping Cavern Club to the mosh pit of CBGB’s or working men’s club in the north. Surely even in the most unlikely of venues—like this one—legends began. They had to start somewhere, right?


If I Could Be With You Tonight by Graham Wynd

Fiction, Flash Fiction, Graham Wynd, Noir, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

The scene was perfect. Hollywood could not do it justice.

A quiet house at the end of the lane. Two young people on their own. The baby they were sitting had been tucked in long ago, sleeping in chubby-fisted peace.

And the scary movie – somewhat snowy despite all attempts to adjust the antenna – had just enough chills to bring them closer together on the sofa, though the monster from outer space was vanquished in the end by the plucky cooper and the sprightly clerk. America was safe once more.

Shy smiles gave way to an arm slipped slowly around a shoulder. Giggles and glances exchanged and then that first sweet kiss—long anticipated, dreamed even, but all the more magical because now it was real. It would have been difficult to picture a more perfect scene.

If only it had been me there on that couch.

But I had to watch from the frosted window, behind the shrubbery that swayed in the autumn chill. I should have been in there, feeling so warm and kissing so sweetly in the glow of the television’s snowy blankness. Soda bottles half-empty, forgotten on the low table, stood sentinel as if to protect you from whatever monsters waited in black and white. Not all monsters are from outer space.

The flickering screen reminded me of the stuttering images in my mind, all those nights alone in my bed, imagining how it would be. How it was all for me, and yet here it was, not me. Not me.

You without me.

I cocked the gun

Barely Crimbo by Graham Wynd

Christmas, Graham Wynd, Humour, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


Here it is barely Grimace;

Time to deck the malls.

Wish you a hairy crossbus;

Fall down all the golden balls.

Hark the Harold angles bring

Glory to the edge-lord bling.

Dashing through the pub,

With a one-horse foamy ale,

Oh, what fun it is to slide

Through tat that’s cheap on sale.


Grimble bells, Batman tells,

Robin to get stuffed.

Mangles we have heard on high,

Sweetly sleeping rough.


For that Galileo.


K A Laity Reviews Galway Girl by Ken Bruen

Crime Fiction, Graham Wynd, K A Laity, Ken Bruen, Punk Noir Magazine, Recommended Reads
Galway Girl
The penultimate Jack Taylor story is out and I tried to make it last as long as possible, but I finished it. I always say I’m not much of a series fan but I am there for Bruen’s beaten and bloodied ex-Garda until the bitter end. If he gets resurrected, I’ll be there for that too. I was fortunate to pick up my signed copy at Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop and then enjoy a pint in Garavan’s on Shop Street and then read about Jack Taylor going to both of those places in the pages of the book. Surreal and delightful, just like Galway itself. If you know Bruen, you probably already bought this yourself. If you are among those not yet acquainted, it’s as good a place as any to dive in, though you may not know the true weight of the moment with his garda coat.
What to expect? Poetry, other crime novels, philosophy, music, drink, nuns, priests, actors, trouble — lots of trouble, always, but in particular trouble named Jericho — and quite unexpectedly, a hawk. Or rather, a falcon. Unspooling on the beautiful streets of Galway, which Bruen manages to make drip with the darkest shadows of noir. As Jack Taylor tells someone, ‘This is Galway. What they don’t know, they invent.’ I can never walk out to Nimmo’s Pier without thinking I might run into Taylor. Hasn’t happened yet. But it might.
Buy this book. Buy all his books. And never forget the parting gift.
‘A Galway girl
Doesn’t necessarily believe she
Is the best catch of all.
It’s more that she’d love
You to prove
She isn’t.’
galway girl.jpg

Piano Man by Graham Wynd

#Noirvember, Crime Fiction, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Graham Wynd, Horror, K A Laity, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

‘That do for you, Tommy?’

Eric had a think. Surely he was always Frank and Earnest: Frank in the north, Ernie in the south. This was north. ‘Frank, love, the name’s Frank.’ Daftie. But she was well fit, a regular gym devotee. He was a bit surprised when she responded so well to his flirting. Above his league but hey, anyone might have a champion sort of day.

‘Sorry, it’s just that you remind me of Tommy.’ She handed him a generous glass of whisky. Posh included her liquor in the pretty little cabinet. The woman was drinking some bubbly with a double-barreled French name, but he went right for the good stuff. ‘I’m just going to change the music.’

‘Oh but I like that piano man,’ Eric laughed. ‘You know, sing us a song Mr Piano Man, sing us your songs all right…’

She looked at him blankly, then chuckled and snapped the CD case shut. ‘This is a string quartet, La jeune fille et la mort.’

‘Oh, I don’t know Morty at all. I liked that Saddo though.’ He was laying on the cheeky chappie a bit thick but they expected it, didn’t they? Posh women like this. Taking a walk on the wild side. Well, he was up for it. Very up for it.

‘Satie,’ she said with a wan smile, sitting beside him on the sofa. It was not a comfortable sofa though it looked pretty with all these curlicues on the ends.

‘Saddie, yeah. His songs are sad but kind of nice.’

‘It was a year ago Tommy…left.’ She smiled a sad smile at him. ‘You remind me of him.’

‘So you said.’ Eric hoped she wouldn’t talk too long. He was ready to get down to it, before the whisky flowed too much. It was hitting him a bit hard after all those cheap lagers. He should pace himself until they were done. Maybe he could take a bottle with him as a kind of memento. She had plenty to spare. ‘But I want to make you forget all about him.’

Eric moved closer to her on the sofa, leaning in for a kiss. Her lips were surprisingly cold. Well, he could fix that. He set his glass down on the shiny lacquered table. ‘Let’s cuddle, love.’ He slipped his arm around the curve of her waist.

A sudden wave of dizziness fogged his brain. Too much whisky. Tut tut, he didn’t want it to affect his performance. So far all was well downstairs. It had been weeks and he was gagging for it.

‘Tommy always liked it on this sofa,’ she said from somewhere above him. ‘Said it was easy to brace himself on.’

‘Oh yeah, for certain,’ Eric said, hearing his words slur. Christ, he hadn’t had that much. Maybe the good stuff was stronger. He rallied. ‘Let’s get to it and I’ll make you forget everything Tommy ever said.’

‘I can’t forget. I can’t ever forget his cruelty. He hurt me.’

What was her name? Elizabeth, Mary—some name like a queen. ‘Listen, love,’ Eric said then forgot what came next. He slipped onto the floor and stared up at her, eyes goggling. ‘Hey…’

‘Happy anniversary, Tommy,’ she said sitting astride him. ‘You’re going to leave me again, I know. But I have to do it until I get it right.’ She held the knife aloft. It glinted like her eyes.

Eric saw the blade fall but he didn’t really feel anything but wet. Posh birds. You just never knew.

A writer of bleakly noirish tales with a bit of grim humour, Graham Wynd can be found in Dundee but would prefer you didn’t come looking. An English professor by day, Wynd grinds out darkly noir prose between trips to the local pub. Publications include LOVE IS A GRIFT and EXTRICATE from Fox Spirit Books, SATAN’S SORORITY from Fahrenheit 13 Press,  as well as tales in the 2016 Anthony Award-winning anthology Murder Under the Oaks and the Anthony Award-nominated Protectors 2: Heroes . Wynd’s stories have been translated into German, Italian, Polish and Slovene. See a full list of stories (including free reads) here. Find Wynd on Facebook and Twitter.


Recommended Read: Satan’s Sorority by Graham Wynd

Fahrenheit 13, Fahrenheit Press, Graham Wynd, Halloween, K A Laity, Paul D. Brazill, Pulp, Punk Noir Magazine, Recommended Reads

In 1950’s America, Sandra’s parents send her off to a small town university in order to keep her out of trouble. While there she encounters Trixie Faust and the rest of the Sigma Tau Nu sorority. Blood, sex and satanism quickly ensure.In spades!

Satan’s Sorority by Graham Wynd is a smart, witty and marvelously well written slice of pulp fiction. Full of great lines and clever asides, Satan’s Sorority is another winner from Fahrenheit 13 and Fahrenheit Press.

satan s


Saved by the Soundtrack by K A Laity

Films, Graham Wynd, K A Laity, Music, Non-fiction, post punk, Punk Noir Magazine

I will probably never get over the feeling of missing out that comes from growing up in the hinterlands, far from where all the cool things start—even if that was never really true. But the big cities famed in song and story seem to be where everything breaks. I do recall the evening news spending a few minutes on the Sex Pistols final disastrous tour: my mother making a face while I tried to memorise everything about those brief clips.

I read a lot of music mags. Grateful to Trouser Press for the flexidisks, Then there were films: punk and new wave-filled films almost never made it to my remote location. Midnight movies were Rocky Horror Show and Gimme Shelter or Woodstock. Eventually Tommy and The Kids Are Alright made it up our way so I sat through the latter easily a hundred times (go on, test me). But we lagged behind what was new.

But mostly I relied on soundtrack LPs that I found in the bins at the cool record stores on the other side of town near the college campus. I’ve still never seen That Summer! but every beat of its soundtrack is etched in my brain: Undertones, Ian Dury, Wreckless Eric, the Only Ones, Mink deVille, Patti Smith (of whom I knew because of her incendiary performance on Saturday Night Live). Some of the songs were beginning to filter into FM play locally, but most were not.

We didn’t have John Peel. We might have had college radio but I didn’t know about it and it didn’t reach to our side of town. Some times at night you could get Detroit stations.

Sometimes we got both movie and soundtrack: Rock-n-Roll High School was a lifesaver. The Ramones were a reviving injection of aural energy. When I finally went to the Roxy in L.A. a few years later, it was like stepping on holy ground. And the soundtrack had more than just the Ramones: Eno, Nick Lowe, Devo and more.

A grail for me for a long time was Times Square. I obsessed over the soundtrack which had a brilliant mix of Ruts, Ramones, Gary Numan, XTC, Talking Heads, Suzy Quatro, Patti and so much more. I made the movie in my head, a surreal punk adventure; when I finally got to see it, that’s pretty much what it was. Two teens, misunderstood (of course) and dismissed, find each other and make punk history in the rapidly gentrifying Times Square. Tim Curry is a DJ. Robin Johnson and Trini Alvarado are magnetic. It all goes to hell of course, but they get a last performance on a rooftop. The film bombed at the time: older male critics just sneered. It rocks. There’s even some grifting.

I suspect that there’s a #metoo story in what happened to Robin Johnson. In any case the Stigwood Organisation treated her abominably (he was a piece of work) and Stigwood himself hacked up the film to stuff more music in, so I can dream of a director’s cut.

Long Live the Sleez Sisters. 

Bio: K. A. Laity is the award-winning author of White RabbitA Cut-Throat BusinessLush SituationOwl Stretching, Unquiet DreamsÀ la Mort SubiteThe Claddagh IconChastity FlamePelzmantel and Other Medieval Tales of Magic and Unikirja, as well as editor of Weird NoirNoir Carnival and the forthcoming Drag Noir. With cartoonist Elena Steier she created the occult detective comic Jane Quiet. Her bibliography is chock full of short stories, humor pieces, plays and essays, both scholarly and popular. She spent the 2011-2012 academic year in Galway, Ireland where she was a Fulbright Fellow in digital humanities at NUIG. Dr. Laity has written on popular culture and social media for Ms., The Spectator and BitchBuzz, and teaches medieval literature, film, gender studies, New Media and popular culture at the College of Saint Rose. She divides her time between upstate New York and Dundee.