Stories

You Live Punk – Fred Pierre

        You started hanging out at the Storeroom in ‘94. It was a small, Seattle bar two blocks north of the Offramp with regular punk rock and grunge nights. Musicians flexed; you stage-dived from the bar. You’d never seen a jukebox with punk, grunge, metal, grindcore and Hank Williams for later at night. Sweet escape from the university scene, and a chance to rock out. Shep owned and tended the bar.

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Stories

The Fallen Angels of the East End Vol. 3: The Cronies Chorus – Jackson Cole Jr.

SUMMER, 1989

 

 

They fucked up. Plain and simple. The support staff unleashing the group-home crew out in the community unsupervised after only knowing each other for a weekend— two days, forty-eight hours, two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes of intense rapport building and sad, sick, stories of abuse, torture, and abandonment— wound up being the worst thing they could have done.

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Stories

Last Call – Edward Barnfield

At around 9PM on the 300th year of the post-Anthropocene, an Abyss 900 robust portable workplace device gains sentience. There are some 200,000 of its kinfolks buried in the landfill, victims of a long-ago corporate merger, but it is the only one that reboots. It is possible that the endless shifting within the pit, caused by the slow collapse of the Pacific coast, has generated enough kinetic energy to charge its battery,

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Stories

Literature is a Hole – Alistair McCartney

On Literary Gape
Erotically speaking gape horrifies us, for it stretches and deforms a young man’s anus into what we suspected it was all along, an abyss, so that his arsehole is like a star dying and exploding into a black hole. We prefer our lads to be tight as the proverbial eye of a needle, so that as we enter them we feel like rich men being inexplicably welcomed into the kingdom of heaven.

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