Tag Archives: Darley Stewart

FLAPPERHOUSE Halloween Reading, In Pictures

A million creepy-crawly thank-yous to everyone who helped make our first-ever Halloween reading such a graveyard smash: Cooper, Michael, Shawn, Joanna, Darley, and Stephen for performing your spookily flappy lits; the late Rod Serling for guest-hosting; Alibi for your sinister singing & stellar photography; Pacific Standard for their always-gracious hospitality; and all you beautiful freaks who came out to enjoy the show. We hope y’all have a Happy Halloween, and we’ll be back for reading #12 early next year…

(photos by Alibi Jones, except where noted)


Alibi Jones prepares for a herky-jerky performance of “People Are Strange”
(photo by Rebecca Robison)


Cooper Wilhelm terrifies us with a transcript of true-life horror


Michael Seymour Blake reads “Mediocre Company,” his haunted-house tale from FLAPPERHOUSE #11 Continue reading FLAPPERHOUSE Halloween Reading, In Pictures

FLAPPERHOUSE Halloween Reading

flapperhouse-halloween-readingHalloween isn’t just our favorite holiday here at FLAPPERHOUSE, it’s also our birthday! So we’re gonna celebrate & conjure the spirit of the season at our 11th reading on 10/26 at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard by sharing some spooky & supernatural lit…

the late ROD SERLING.

(facebook event page here)

“Polaroid of a Man in Love” – Fiction by Darley Stewart

Reclining Nude - Paul Cezanne, 1887
Reclining Nude – Paul Cezanne, 1877

Sensuality & brutality collide in “Polaroid of a Man in Love,” Darley Stewart‘s powerful & disturbing shard of impressionistic flash fiction from our Summer 2016 issue.

{ X }

{ 1 }

AS MUCH AS I WANT TO STAY IN THIS SEMI-DOMESTIC SCENE, the pink of the sun rises and infects the clouds. And I am afraid to be alone and stuck in one scene for too long. My mind wanders — often. It runs against good reason. I am afraid more than anything to be alone with my own mind. I know enough to know that I need a woman around, it can even be a girl, she can pick up and fold my socks, or she can suck me until I go blind, she can do mostly whatever she wants unless I am in a very dominant mood, but mostly, mostly, I am gone.

{ 2 }

I believe this is what has made my paintings successful. I watched her slow murder unfold. It was slower than I ever thought murder could be. I can take a polaroid of it for you. Polaroids were popular in the summer of the year she was murdered. The polaroid version is that I was fourteen years old. My mother had died from cancer, leaving me with my tyrannical father and tall, angry brother who excelled at everything he touched, athletics, women, whatever he wanted. I won a scholarship to paint, and I went off to Italy. My father grudgingly acknowledged the genius in me — said to me, quietly one night, you’re a talented fag aren’t you. I painted but I was also lured off to a part of Italy that had nothing to do with the scholarship or the program or the students. A part of Italy that had to do with a girl set against a coastal landscape. I had my first taste of coffee, good bread, and I went to the sea every morning to see her, at first from a distance. She was my age, and she liked to greet the morning without her shirt on. Her breasts were the first I had seen and touched. They were small, perfect. Her deeply tanned skin melted into the palm of my hand. Later in the day she showed me how to catch fish with wide nets. It was unfortunate but the coast was rocky, and by sunset her head was crushed against the rocks by two strong older men. They took turns with her dead body. They forced me to watch. Then I ran away. I never saw them again.

{ 3 } 

I watch her — she is sleeping. She has her dramas, as all young women do, and she is twenty, so she is expected to have them, but what is especially boring about hers — aside from the fact that she is compelled to share them — is that she attempts, in all her dramas, to be the mature one who waits things out. I find it boring that she is as middle-aged as I am. She is very tall — her name is Mildred. Mildred, a name that brings to mind both mildew and dread. Mildred grew up in Ohio before she claims to have grown up in Tribeca and was coaxed into modeling at the age of seventeen. Since then she has earned her spot this winter season as fashion’s “it” girl and she has been parading in white cable knit sweaters and see-through panties, her pubis glittering distantly behind meshed fabric, on billboards in Soho and Times Square. Continue reading “Polaroid of a Man in Love” – Fiction by Darley Stewart

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #7, In Pictures

We’d like to stir a big bubbling cauldron of gratitude for everyone who helped make Reading #7 such a bewitching evening: Kailey, Mary, Shawn, Darley, Dorothy, Ilana, Ron and Luis for performing your flappy lits; Pacific Standard for continuing to be the best bar in all of New York to host a reading; Alibi Jones for your scintillating singing & lovely photography; and all you gorgeous cats & kittens who came down to get spellbound. Let’s do this again, say, around the next Solstice…

(photos by Alibi Jones)


Kailey Tedesco reads some of her magical poetry, including “How Often We Confuse Ovens for Rabbit Holes”


Mary Breaden keeps the witchy vibe alive with some spooky short fiction


Shawn Frazier gets surreal performing a dreamy new tale Continue reading FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #7, In Pictures

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #7 / YEAR TWO Flight Party

We’re gonna dance like centipedes on tumbleweeds as we celebrate the flight of our YEAR TWO print anthology with our 7th reading on Wednesday, May 25th from 7 – 9 PM at Pacific Standard (82 Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn).


(Here’s the facebook event page.)