Stories

The Best Algo I've Ever Seen – Theresa Smith

If it’s cigarettes you’re looking for, Eddie, I’m plumb out. Try the chrome coffin next door. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything at all. What I do is duck behind the counter and pat around for my revolver. Because if that thing is Eddie Thatcher, I’m Eric fucking Clapton.

Gimme a cigarette, says Eddie.I’m plumb out, says I.

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Stories

Compliments of Bath & Kitchen Palace – Theresa Smith

I won the dining set from a drawing I entered at Clark’s Pools a few months ago. We don’t even have a pool. Maxine made us stop in on the way home so she could leaf through the crumbling moist catalog in the soupy air conditioning and chit-chat with Bill Mayhew about his cancer-ridden memaw. Maxine is morbid as hell. She picks at all our friends — her friends,

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Stories

Blank Engines of the Spirit – Theresa Smith

These things are not good or bad in themselves, despite what I was taught on interminable Sunday mornings as the crazed sun beat through the ecumenical drapery and filled the aisles, where flies rolled and drowsed in the painful brilliance. Neither sun nor flies seemed to care much for the virtues of tolerance, temperance and kindness extolled from the white-shrouded pulpit by Pastor T—-, who breathlessly imparted the gospel in the manner of an avuncular F.

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Stories

I Am a Tetrahedron – Theresa Smith

Why, since the first gray hominid cast his fringed oculi sorrowfully to the sky to seek the meaning of his days, have we succeeded in finding nothing in the universe that resembles us? Is it because we are the singular creation of a loving God, abominably and hilariously wrought from the refuse of cold and distant planets?

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