Stories

THE GASLAMP BALL – Matthew Steven Birt

It was the evening of our most recent Gaslamp Ball that I found myself shirking behind the curtains, hiding from a boy who had been putting me on my heels for the last half a year. It wasn’t that I resented him. More like he disconcerted me. I would step onto the porch and catch him staring from two houses down, stationary beside a bush or on his haunches tracing the sidewalk with a stick.

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Stories

Blue Darkness – Nathaniel Duggan

     I had moved to one of those cabins in the thick part of the woods where you were supposed to write a book or else get murdered. It was a log cabin, with walls like the barreled insides of an old ship. As for my own life, I felt it had taken on the shape of a submarine, and I only intended to retreat deeper into it.

     The first night after I’d unpacked my toothbrush,

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Stories

The Small Sign Above the Door says ‘Sortie’ – Daniel Ross

Artists hate the suburbs because the streets have no names. No living, puking, breathing, fucking idea of what they are. The streets in Surrey are just symbols and straight lines–a series of hashtags burned into the landscape. It used to be all farmland and marsh. Now it’s junkies falling out of cabs, bloody-handed babygangsters kicking cleavers down the street. There are powerlines that buzz like hornets trapped in beer cans.

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Stories

y= Tangent(x) – Michael Quint

Rachel grimaced, Maurice was staring at her vag again. She tightened the cross of her legs. What do we dip the wreath into? This is the culling season. Liver. A man with an AKG C414 XLS Large-diaphragm Condenser Microphone hunches next to her breathing heavily. Maurice is standing holding her child’s head. They are fifteen.

 

Maurice glances over at Rachel, camel toe again. What a damn slut.

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