Stories

Hieroglyphs – Schuyler Dickson

        Some mornings, I would wake up to hieroglyphs on the glazed windows. Trails of clear glass in the condensation, loops like rivers and rivulets running through swamp. Something slender drags its body there across the night. I knew that then and know that now, but there was an in-between. When I believed the world was writing me messages.
        It only happened on the one window, the one window where the sun rises.

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Stories

Speak, Theodore – Adam Johnson

*****

November 28, 2010

        Bonsoir monsieur, entre s’il vous plait.  Parlez-vous le Francais?  I see.  I prefer English anyway, and only speak in the French when I cannot think of the English for a thing.  Or when I’m made excited.  Come in, come in, thank you.  You are Canadian, at the very least I should think?  A fellow countryman, my friend,

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Stories

The Gland – Jazz Boothby

It was neither day nor night. And terribly hot. The sky was yellow and it was almost impossible to breathe. I sat in my room vegetating, the sludge still rotting in my gut. My head had a constant searing pain that forced me to keep both my eyes open. Suddenly, the pain rose in a violent surge and I whined aloud, then vomited.

I had chosen a town on the coast.

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Stories

Makin’ Hell – SG Phillips

        My buddy Grant and I always talk shit about this townie bar we always go to when we hang out, Ziggies. Ziggies is good, but we like to conflate it with a different bar nearby, the Cozy. I’ve seen two race riots there. During the first one my buddy Perez rescued me from getting decked by a pool cue when my stupid white ass tried to break up the fight that started it.

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