INTROIn the nature of Snap, I'm going to be brief.

Snap is named for its short writing. Each of the pieces here were created and chosen because they can be read in one sitting, a quick dose of literature to your day. I thought it might be a nice change to be able to absorb a piece of writing in the same timeframe that it would take you to fully appreciate a piece of art.

Talking of art, inside you will find some great image makers and their images supporting the writers of the short stories. For the majority, the writing and imagery were created seperately from each other, and then brought together. So while a photo and piece of writing can be seen as one, they also have equal value on their own, too.

I would go on further, but I'm no writer. I'll leave the rest to the contributors of Snap. I hope that you enjoy what the writers and artists have to offer in Snap Zero.

A big thank you to all the contributors, and to all who weren't included in this issue. There will be more issues. I'm just glad that I finally managed to do this.

She had a raw power about her, bloody and unrestrained. It’s what made her capable of incredible things, acts of absurd miraculousness, so perfect and beauteous and unaffected but it’s what made her break down at the end of the day gouging rents in her skin with her nails and chewing the inside of her cheeks til they were ploughed fields and there was so much blood in her mouth that to kiss her was like kissing the softy cooling cylinders of an engine that has run itself into the ground in order to get it and you as far away from whatever you were running from today. Because, obviously, that’s what it was. The thing about raw power is that it’s undirected and pure, like water, it gives life but it will deal death and destruction as well, it will dowse killing flames but it will snap back and forth like an unheld firehose, it will quench your thirst on a perfect summer day but it will drench you like a sudden downpour on a grim October afternoon trudging home from your dead-end job when all you want to do is fucking die. It floods you. It will suck itself in and draw all the way back and then come rushing in to erase you and rearrange the streets. Raw power will inevitably turn on itself. That selfsame wildness that made her dance on central reservations skipping tarantella along concrete barriers, try crookgrinds on 8-stairs, spit at that suit with the braying laugh or do handstands on fire escapes so it looked like she was hanging on to the grating to keep from being thrown upwards into the sky by the pure burning jetfuel within her, that selfsame freedom can only twitch itself into new directions and transform into new

shapes for so long before it morphs into a butterflyknife aimed at the inside of your head and it flutters in your cranium, reduces brain matter into scrambled egg.

But that raw power will thrum again, because it never went away, burning out is not a loss of energy, it’s a redirection of it towards oneself, it’s spit and piss caught in the wind and blown back into your face.

So sleep comes, she sleeps. She sleeps a hard sleep that rolls upon her like a collapsing wave and she drops from the world with a dead man’s clump. I watch her sleep and that power is there in her soft exhalations and rolls and her gentle unconscious scratches like playful recreations of the way she pulled chunks out of herself when she was awake, the same way we put two fingers out, two in, cock the thumb, hold the hand to the temple and flick it back and jerk our head in the opposite direction mouthing ‘Pow.’ And she dreams. And, oh, to see her dreams. Morning comes and we’re sitting on a bed in an attic and she is roaring power at the world again, bouncing across the room as a jumping jack, a sharp ska riff. Let’s go, she screams. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go. You and I. Push ourselves up against the morning noise on bustling streets where we are the only free ones and the bright blue sky is a silk shawl just asking to be pulled down and wrapped round our faces and breathed into and everyone else is numbed by rush hour traffic and the 8 hour days stretching before them. She smiles light.

Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go.

DEAD METAPHORS

Revolutions

Jesus 2* was born sometime in late '93. His father, who left him at a young age to survive only with his whore mother, conceived him while listening to Danzig. His was not a virgin birth, there were no stars or wise men, he came into this world alone. His early life was filled with sorrow and doubt. Learning

and looking in the fashion of a man double his age, he quickly grew up. He had few friends, those who knew him often found him to be frustrating, he had no twelve disciples. At the age of twelve, in the year that was at the time known as 2005, after many hours of inhaling from an old can of

*Pronounced "heh-soos dos"

spray paint, and smoking the marijuana stolen from his mother, he was spoken to by The Lord and The Lord said,

Thou art my son, I fucked your mumma behind your daddy's back, goddamn that bitch was a freak. Anyway bro, you totally gotta bring about the salvation of mankind cause that last little fuck screwed everything up. It's like yo I get it dude they didn't have the internet back then and shit but come on man, like I give a shit about all this running the money lenders out of the temple or whatever, dang dude that is your own personal shit, I didn't want that, those guys were good dudes, they were just trying to make some money you know.

J2, who was at this stage already used to visions and paranoia, yelled incomprehensibly at The Lord and threatened him with a broom. And The Lord said,

Look dude, I know I ain't paid child support and I kind of let you the fuck down but chill out alright, we cool, I got your back now. Ever notice how you didn't really get along with that deadbeat you used to call dad? Ever notice how he looked fucking nothing like you? Yeah dude, I'm yo daddy.

And suddenly J2 understood, and he spoke to The Lord and he called him father, and that made The Lord uncomfortable so he just switched to calling him Lord. And so, after some time bonding and getting to know each other, J2 asked The Lord,

What will become of me, Lord? What is it that you want?

The Lord heard the hurt in the young boys heart, but he honestly DGAF because seriously he was kind of stoned and you know he was God so humans are pretty much whatever. And so he said to J2,

Dude, I just want everyone to get their shit together and actually pick up what I am putting down. My last son was a hippy faggot and I can't deal with that shit. You seem way more chill, so I reckon you could lay down the law heaps good. Like first of all, what the fuck is this shit about banging before marriage, it's like yeah sure back when my first son was around it was all "Oh yo lets get married and shit cause we don't have condoms" but now it's straight up like bam condoms bam the pill bam abortion, that shit rules I love that shit. All these asshole think they know me saying "Oh hey God hates abortion." Dude I love that shit, if your mumma had somehow managed to contact me I would've aborted the hell out of you. You're just a stupid human, who gives a fuck.

And J2 who had been told several times that he should've been aborted was unsurprised and after he had steadied himself for the fifteenth time he asked The Lord how he would go about this, and The Lord said to ditty,

Honestly dude I didn't think that far. Like I said before you seem to know whats up IMO, so like, go out, get crunx, eat some delicious food and just speak my words to the gottdamn people, and later and shit we'll hang out again, but really don't call me or whatever I kind of come and go and you know I lost my phone cause I was trying to call this chick and she didn't answer so I smote my phone and then her and look it was a bad time for me I was pretty drunk. Fuck it dude I'm out.

And J2 was shocked by The Lords sudden departure but then he just huffed some more paint and mostly forgot about it til like a week later or something. And on that day he began his travels across the continent that at the time was known as America.

Here, slumbered, cloaked in shadowed clocks, espionage and electricity that my mind and eyes move to thoughts of the god of America and New York city which lies before me, veiled in mighty hammered dreams.

And as I fall upon moon-cut waters of the demonic Atlantic sea, I sleep to trick my eyes in hallucinations to such a rumoured land, such a machine-like beast spluttering glittering forks and glass, European verbs, now turned colloquy, titanic aero-terranean cogs, delicious words and curbs and women, immortal subway of horrors, spaghetti and triadic cousins stood smoking, crowned in neon doorways of neon streets.

I would cut off my foot for a Brooklyn shoe; fall for a guillotine for a collar, leap a leper for a lapel and so I shall stay!

Who were you once, boy?

Too young to ever know what majestic tragedy your manhood so boldly claims without its fingered tears.

Did not know when the god of sun and hollow Aquarius’s disciples built holy stilts to the sky that you, fulfilling the Aztec dream, did put giant mirrors to the heavens so that very history did crumble and recede - that they, made of alchemy and leather, did quiver at the sight of such palace walls; castles from new earth that pointed blue and back in the face of He who craved impossibility and doubted His doubt in turn with such devout witch-craft of the technicians of good and evil and screamed, possessed, the midnight cry of the kingdom of New York and of no other earthly name. Whilst I, in cotton pyjamas and hiding somewhere beneath blankets of visionary fibres, did think I saw from my humble windows the storm clouds that float too high above man’s beaming sword-play and pleaded and scrawled and scathed and rummaged to get so close that I was cut.

Honour me with a sublimation that makes a line for me and run me through ‘til I am done!

Crucify me in his name; New York; vagrant; chief of chiefs; illuminator; bum; television; waitress of midnight gingham; drunk warrior; pilgrim emperor; thief; lice infested beast; witch doctor of industry; bearer of the weight of paper money; galleon of the cosmos; Excalibur; true crucifix; poet; lamenter of night; sun and light - or just the first taste of that Brooklyn beer décor or a black and white movie cigarette.

And even more so luxuriously treated with other victims of alienation from the gates of the giant’s city, that I may and did tip-toe, tongue tied and wide eyed through the forest of the footprints of giant men; ghosts of a timeless heaven.

And when it comes, and it shall be, that your streets run with pilgrim blood, remember your city, built of blood, in turn craves its source and returns to it’s place of birth.

What is won by blood is paid in blood.

And so, great conqueror, one day you shall count your mortal wounds and find them seeping life.

Life from the heart of all that you once were, of all the conquered deaths that were not your own.

And when I do fall on such crystal streets pulling chains with the man-made sky filling my eyes, I shall know that ancestral angels and demons; nymphs, cut-throats and kings have fallen there too and that now, great friend, I too have come home to mourn my own mortal death.

Part 3The floor was covered in broken glass. Where is his sanity, where is it? My thoughts shifted. Where did he get so much glass? "Where did you get all this glass?" The mini bar was still full. “Is there a bottle bank near by?” Did he crawl through it? “Have you crawled through all this?” I wasn't angry. He sat calmly, naked, bleeding, picking up the glass and placing it on the dresser. Spots of blood dripped from his legs forming a striped pattern.

A repetitive flow. Then down from his torso. Small trickles of life. Proof of life. But he is not injured. He noticed my presence, dropped the pieces of glass in his hand to the floor and removed his earphones. "Oh hi. Could you pass me my shoes?" I do. We leave the room. We leave without paying. They try to chase us but we were never there.

Low Profile #2

Part OneLife flooded. Filled the room. I start to drown. Let it fill my body. My head rushed from the flow. Overriding everything. A passion. A sensation. A drive. This calls for something drastic. This calls for sex. There is no one to share this passion. Something else.

It fills me I am full Exploding I may now die Heart may beat my ribs loose break out escape leave me go to someone else fill them up drive then, then kill them too. This needs something big. Something dras-

Part twoI wake up and pick the glass out of my legs. I am not injured. Where did I get so much glass? Music everywhere. It is over. I am trapped. No way out, glass surrounds me.

Shoes are across the room. I begin making a path. Picking up glass, piece by piece. Lay it on the dresser. Thank God! "Could you pass me my shoes?"

See the girl. She wears a long black dress, embroidered. Two pale columns of Native Indian symbols decorate the front. She is standing alone. A smile flickers over her face from time to time, lending her exterior a motion at odds with the rest of her serene countenance. She has a stillness and serenity. The languor of a daydream appears to have exerted itself over her oversized eyes as she surveys the leaves of a sycamore that leers over and across the road. A clear blue sky allows a sun to be captured, fleetingly, behind the leaves as a gentle breeze compels them to and then fro. The white light glistering, in intermittent stabs, makes the girl squint. She continues to smile. She doesn’t flinch, nor move her head; not wanting to miss an instant. The gray-green leaves match the colour of her eyes; over which a glaze has formed. She is tired for the long journey ahead. As the leaves flicker across her right eye they lend an image mired in constant flux. Of a blackened iris speckled with gray-green shards. Until the wind commands it’s authority over branch’s movement once more.

A snarl. It is now she notices the blood. A pond of vermillion spreading slowly along the black tarmac. A low growl. An emittance from a dog. Perhaps a terrier. For she has no reason to secernate varieties of dog. Its feet and a large portion of its forelegs are soaked in blood. The dog strains backwards. In its jaws stretched, taut, bleached gristle and xanthous fat. The most recent bearer of the blood lies on their back. Head turned, slightly dislocated, towards the girl. The right arm jolts fitfully, the lips tense and then loosen in spasms. The eyes

Athey blink once, gently, as if under caution. Then twice, rapidly. The girl does not look away. Another snarl as the dog shakes its head from side to side, loosening what material it can whilst leaving the recently emptied intestines intact.

In the middle distance a figure appears. It has the gait of one who has travelled through instinct alone. Entirely in leave of necessity. Slowly, it shuffles down the soft incline towards the girl. The girl does not omit her gaze from the feast, transfixed by the ripples. As the dog’s feet scatter and paddle, enveloped within the lake of blood. The figure draws closer. The girl perceives a slight metallic aura. The dog’s feet scratch at the flesh. She continues to smile. Her pose is one of restless inertia. Entirely without

Bjudgement, or fear, or sorrow. The smile softly, intimately, scurries from her lips.

Are you alone? Asks the figure. The girl lets out a fleeting, high pitched howl, flinching about to face the figure standing four feet away. She considers a man, dressed in a white sack-cloth overcoat and grubby white trousers. Shoes long deserted. His hair and beard is unkempt and flecked with shades of grey.

Yes, I am alone, and who are you? Says the girl. Do you believe in angels? No, who are you? Good, he says, I am not an angel. There are no more angels upon this Earth than sharks swimming in the English Channel or bison roaming

the Great Plains. So, why areyou here?I’ve lost my way.And... which way was that?Who are you?I am Sorrow’s Son.

His eyes raise, whence suddenly the man’s voice becomes shrill; a piercing screech. Darkly the eyes grow as the pupils dilate to leave nothing save black, with white asunder. He tilts forward at the ankle, now standing over the girl. Eyes bulging, his hands flicking out from his side. His voice demented, at a rapid staccato pace...

In the endless universe there has been nothing new, nothing different. What has appeared exceptional to the minute mind of man has been inevitable to the infinite Eye of God. This strange second in a life, that unusual event, those remarkable coincidences of environment, opportunity, and encounter. All of them have been reproduced over and over on the planet of a sun whose galaxy revolves once in two hundred million years and has revolved nine times already.

The girl rapidly takes two and a half paces backwards and waits. The man is fixed to the spot but extends his arm and reaches out with his left hand. The forearm continuing to extend abnormally as the girl staggers backwards. The girl stops fifteen feet away, facing the man. The forearm continues to extend. The girl lets go a scream.

Eleven colours appear in the sky. Five of which have never been seen before. There was once love. There will be love again.

BACK

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Created byMatt Sidebottomhttp://www.mattsidebottom.com

Anything to say, and any thrilling & willing contributors, please contact SNAP at hello@mattsidebottom.com

Typset in Droid Serif & Bebas

This isn't the end

DEAD METAPHORSwords Joe Briggsjoebriggs77@gmail.comimages James Blannhttp://www.jamesblann.com

THE NEW NEW TESTAMENTwords Alex Munningshttp://twitter.com/dudewithasweet

OLLYMPUS MONS THOUGHTS OF NEW YORK CITYwords Jamie Leejamie.j.lee@live.co.ukimages William Powellhttp://flavors.me/william

LOW PROFILE #2words Mandi Goodierhttp://www.mandigoodier.com

ABwords PollenfaxN/A

TRAPPED IN GAFFNEY'S DUNGEONwords Mandi Goodier

0

Trapped in Gaffney’s Dungeon

David Gaffney once kidnapped me and held me hostage in his dungeon. But I was out in a flash.

ISSUE ZERO