Branch Blog - New York, NY
It’s fitting that this final installment of apocalyptic flash fiction celebrating Dr. Sketchy’s 5th birthday/end of the world party should come from Kali-Ma herself (as channeled through the divine Katelan Foisy). She’s blue, but don’t let her mood fool you. She’s one crown-wearing, skull-slinging diva who’s ready to down and dirty.
It's been four days since any of us have left the four red walls. The earth around breathes a heavy sigh and the chandelier shakes. We haven't eaten or slept, only prayed that the world doesn't crumble beneath us.
“OM-KAMEEN-KALIKAYE-NAMAH. JAI KALI MAA, JAI KALI MAA, JAI KALI MAA” The room chants this in unison. Since the disappearance of Shiva, the world is in disarray. Kali, intoxicated with rage and the blood of war, has not
There may be only four horsemen of the apocalypse, but something as history making as Dr. Sketchy’s fifth birthday demands more. In this lugubrious installment, Jennifer Somerset imagines the hell of being late to the last party…on earth.
Bob almost missed it, “the” apocalypse that everyone had been tweeting about ad nauseum for weeks now. The odds on the exact day and time out of Vegas were either up or down, taking into consideration the relation to Pluto to Haley’s Comet in conjunction to the number of tree frogs found under this one particular log in the Amazon jungle. But all of this was the least of Bob’s worries at this particular moment. You see, he was charged with the task of delivering a case of wine to Kali as gift from Dionysus—another story for another time. The long of the short, it had
And thus we find ourselves just one quotidian workweek away from the impending naked apocalypse. Time to dust off the pasties and welcome the fine, furry flash fiction of Mike Cho. Why ask why?
Question
If tonight was the last night I called the police (who never come) on the college neighbors from upstate or Jersey or from wherever they come, drunk and 3 AM partying in the hall because this was not anyone’s home but merely sorority or dorm, the cute little studio they’d always remember from their big year alone in the city, paid for by daddy as long as they kept up their grades (they didn’t), didn’t take drugs (they did), and found a job, somewhere (Armani Exchange), and if today was the last day I complained about any of this because tomorrow, lashing out in helpless, hopeless anger at
The dead continue to dance, drink and make sportive in this story from chelsea g. summers. Belly up to the bar and pour yourself a tall frosty glass of what-the-fuck, here at the Saloon at the Ends of the Worlds…
The Road Warrior, Satan, Kali-Ma and the Whore of Babylon walk into a bar.
“Gimme a pint, ey?” The Road Warrior spat at the barkeep.
“Why do you have to be so insufferably cliché?” the Whore of Babylon said. She looked around the room, through its crepuscular gloom. “Jesus, what a dump.”
“I know,” said Kali-Ma, “I could crap a better existence than this.”
Satan tried to order an Irish Car Bomb. The barkeep told him they were out of C-4. Satan pointed to a dusty
Welcome to my nightmare, Art Monkeys.
At our last session, Marlo Marquise posed as Elizabeth Short, better known to the world as the Black Dahlia. The Black Dahlia, like the Black Panther, Black Lightning, and Black Goliath, was an ethnic character created by a writer trying to appear socially relevant. Like Alex DeWitt, she is most famous for being killed and disposed of in a particularly gruesome fashion, thus inspiring a whole generation of women to become horribly dismembered in pursuit of some fleeting glimpse of stardom. But enough of the history lesson! There are breasts to ogle! Take us away, Justin Lussier!
We’re celebrating the fifth anniversary of Dr. Sketchy’s with apocalyptic flash fiction. Sydney T. Bernstein tells a tale from beyond apocalypse, a vision where ghastly spectres dance and pose and people pay for the privilege of watching, an image pleasing to the lugubrious Dr. Sketchy...
The Last Sketchyblog
I was there at the beginning, you know. So much has changed over the years, and yet we endure. When the Lucky Cat closed, there were those who were skeptical that Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School could last. When the Slipper Room closed for renovations, there were those who said that the then homeless Dr. Sketchy would not be around for much longer. When Manhattan was evacuated, there was no shortage of doubters who said that Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School would go the way of so many
