Baby Hitler and the Slow Talking Man
Dave Housley
Baby Hitler was getting bored. Mother had been away longer than usual. He had already played with the rattle and looked at the picture book and eaten some cheese and now he was ready for Mother to
Baby Hitler was getting bored. Mother had been away longer than usual. He had already played with the rattle and looked at the picture book and eaten some cheese and now he was ready for Mother to
Baby Hitler giggles and pulls another leg off the spider. Just three legs this time. He pulled them all off the last one and pushed it into the corner and it just sat there until finally Baby
Baby Hitler woke up angry. He sat up. They would be coming for him again. Who, he did not know. A kung fu master? A presidential candidate from the future? Last week a woman in a strange yellow
The Professional felt the rush of consciousness, the quick awakening that could only mean another person with questions. Another intransigent stain on a garment. He had come to think of it as a
Jake from State Farm hangs up the phone and hustles to the bathroom.
Last year, we ran a series of "Commercial Fiction"s by Dave Housley, which were collected into a book. One such piece in the series was inspired not just by a single commercial but by a collection
A new email dings into his box and Miller cringes. Somehow he knows it’s from her, something about the ding – it is insistent, urgent, as sure as a poke in the back of the neck. This will be
Excerpt from Centers for Disease Control: Obesity in Central Florida, February 2019.
Wes Urban, 32 years of age, 298 lbs.
We weren’t always like this. How fat we are is what I mean. Most of
The man woke up and walked to the bathroom. He relieved his bladder and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked at the clock. 6:25. He could either go back to sleep or head down to the basement
We pull into the campground and it’s just like I imagined it would be: chaparral scrub receding to oaks and firs as we move up into the mountains on a gently winding road. You’d never know we’re
Guildenstern flips the coin and holds it out for Rosencrantz to see.
“Heads,” Rosencrantz says. “Again heads.” He turns around. “So we were sent for?”
Guildenstern flips the coin. “I hear
Captain’s Log: Captain Richard L. Hiltonshire, HMS Evoque, North Carolina Coast. May 12, 1801
The Coast is in sight. America, I pray, although with all that has gone astray on this cursed
Burns looks out toward the road. He puts a hand up to the glass and shakes his head. “I can’t believe this,” he says, his breath fogging the double-paned, oversized bay windows. “You’re not going
Cynthia wakes to coffee smell and the sounds of William getting breakfast ready for the kids. She closes her eyes and for a moment, it is as if everything is normal. Like last Christmas, the one
You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time in the evening. But here you are, and you cannot say the terrain is entirely unfamiliar. You are at a party, talking to a
Derek barely slows down at intersections. Not anymore. Not since we got that card reader and “set out toward the sun.”
Right now, we’re somewhere in Virginia or North Carolina, barreling
The first thing was, everybody’s voices changed. Not changed deeper, like puberty. This was changing back: they went high, squeaky, like we were seven years old again. This is right after we all
We were taking shots at the bar before the bar, pre-gaming, game-facing. We did a round of jaeger bombs and Fixer knocked some dap and went outside for a smoke.
The real cowboy wears a fishing cap and one of those vests you associate with photographers, only his isn't stuffed with film or lenses or malaria pills so much as his cigarettes and a lighter,
Here is what I know. They wear tights. Their wings are thin flapping things that look more like dragonflies than butterflies. They never seem to get cold, don't shiver or shake or get soggy like
“I thought you were going to play football,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You’re wearing jeans.”
“Yes.”
She is folding laundry, matching socks. She rolls a pair into a neat ball and
It is noon. Very hot. The Denver sun’s pitiless spotlight pushes down upon pedestrians carrying briefcases or carryout lunches. Like ants under a child’s magnifying glass, they skitter along the
How he got the resort people to put these tubs out here, I have no idea.
"I loved reading Exit, Carefully. It’s unusual, and in my opinion exciting, to publish a play without previously receiving a major production."
-Walker Caplan, Lithub
“Lutz’s work is a marvel of the possibilities of language. Each of her sentences is an intricately crafted thing, deeply complex yet crystalline in its clarity . . . her command of each and every word remains supreme.”
--Mira Braneck, The Paris Review Daily
Garielle Lutz is the author of The Complete Gary Lutz, among other books.
"[Her Lesser Work] is a collection of mordant and formally inventive stories circling themes of, let’s say, desire and escape within repressive structures."
-Walker Caplan, Literary Hub
"Her Lesser Work is full of power and it takes risks and it's alive and real and it fixes a very sharp eye on the shit humans do to each other and themselves."
-Lindsay Lerman, LitReactor