So you want to be published. May I suggest instead that you bash in your skull with a wooden mallet? If that doesn’t cure you from the urge to waste thousands of pointless hours for no reward whatsoever, believe it or not, I get it. As such, we’ve just added a new section: Magazines –…
by Michael Allen Rose… …the insect reaches out his inordinately powerful forelimbs and grabs the bat. It chitters gently at my son, who backs away, tears of rage and confusion still in his eyes. The beetle points one of its mandibles, and my children run inside the house, to safety, as it turns to me…
by Felipe Philly… The year was 2075 and the problem with illegals was only getting worse. Illegals taking jobs; illegals committing crimes; illegals sucking up government resources and contributing nothing to society. The year was 2075 and the country had had enough. The crackdown was on. There was a great wall in the country. It…
by Nate Waggoner… “I get home and Kremplus is dumping rotten meat out the window and screaming. I tell him he has to get the fuck out right now and he punches me in the face. I pull a knife from out the kitchen draw. He says, You better put that knife away or I’ll…
by Samuel J. Adams… I jilted a lover once—I was caustic, young, and cold and I didn’t think things through—and a few days after the jilting this lover left a dead squirrel on my doormat, a chubby and fluffy Eastern gray slashed open at many angles to dispel the calm of a silver-lighted Sunday morning…
by Bronwyn Mills… One night in Lisboa, Ö. went into a fado bar. He went in late, to take shelter from cold, damp weather. The place was darker than the grave; and inside sitting at a table, he saw an older man eating a lovely fish soup. The music was rising to a wail. The…
by Amina Gautier… When the blood calls, you must answer. It sings in your veins, fills the drums of your ears, entwines itself in the coiffure of your curls, and always it surges, surges, surges. The blood calls your daughter’s name. The blood sings of the bier that was meant to be her bower, chanting…
by Seth Fried… “In the seventh grade, I starred in a play written by my school’s gym teacher. That year, Mr. Whitley had bullied the school board into letting him teach a section of drama so that they would be forced to raise his salary on a technicality.” Read the whole frog-eating story at the…
by Jon Conley… Watercooler talk, Mitz was saying that she went to the dentist yesterday and that he was treating her as gingerly as possible because he knew what had happened. What had happened? We too wanted to know. He was a drunk—or maybe that was Joni’s story. I had just read a Lucia Berlin…
by Out-of-body Philly… “My name is John Fielder Smith. That’s not my real name. My real name is Go Fuck Yourself. But for our purposes here you can just call me Johnny Boy. I was first told the story of O.B.E. by an ex-DEA agent who went by the name of Peter North. That’s not…
