October 27, 2016 | Fiction
The blonde girl I liked made a scooping motion with her hands while saying things like ‘it’s not even that late’ and ‘come on, come on’ and ‘it’ll be soooo much fun’ and ‘let’s go you fucking piece of shit.’
October 25, 2016 | Nonfiction
I am reading a poem called “George Washington” in a book of poems called George Washington in a bar called The Library in the Lower East Side of Manhattan where I am spending my last twelve dollars on four beers and my last four dollars on tipping the bartender because happy hour still hasn't started.
piss you one cleaner than your trackshoes, say i / sex toys on lease to i / houses for my centipede, ow / coke that asshole into skinny fleece / clean up with her spate, guy / suck stray dogs in the cock wound, i / lick what your god's got, why / imma mafuckun star boi
Within its pages, the reader is invited to discover those wondrous things that only great short fiction can offer: an abbreviated window into disparate lives, intense and intricate moments of distress and disclosure, completely self-contained and executed in twenty-five pages or less (Deagler on Gustine's Collection).
But if it's anything like years passed it'll boil down to something real simple. Start drinking as soon as the coffee is done. Bottles of beer and wine. We'll wrap ourselves up in blankets to stave off the cold. Too cheap to turn on the portable radiators we use to heat our place. Her parents will call. We'll feign sobriety. A hard thing to do at 10:00 a.m. with wine-stained lips.
Her parents, Mary and Don, were overcome first by grief and then by caution: they purchased fire extinguishers and flame retardant blankets, put the fire department on speed dial and plugged the holes in the nursery wall with corks, so that the angry neighbors could not look in and make a spectacle of their only child. Julia was their everything