by Elizabeth Scher… There’s a new way of life, and it’s hitting ponds all across America. It’s called Gay Frog Pride, and this Saturday in its most prestigious community, right here in the middle of New York’s Central Park, gay frogs will be holding their first ever Gay Frog Pride Parade. While homosexuality among fly…
by Ree Miller… Crazy Daisy is alone at the bar, without her estranged husband Provo or his evil, goat-eyed twin brother Orem. She is unusually well-groomed, wearing a sleeveless, red-sheath dress. “Wow,” says bartender Melissa, “I didn’t realize you had such great guns.” “Guns? How’d you know about my guns?” Daisy asks. “I mean your…
There was quite a commotion down on the street this morning, here on Wall Street where I work. Of course, I get to the office before the sun comes up, so whatever it was it came along after I was already at my desk, comfortable, with a nice hot cup of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Coffee was…
by Ted Myers… I had nothing but the suit I was buried in. If I had been able to dress myself, I would have had my good pen. But no one thinks to put a pen in your pocket when you’re dead. Read the whole corpse-in-waiting story… Find Ted’s books, like Making It:…
by Robert Burton Robinson… She took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor and went to Suite 1419. There was no sign. Nothing to indicate whose office it was. She reached into her purse and took out the slip of paper with her notes on it. Yes, this was supposed to be it. Read the…
by Brian Auspice… I pull over at a diner. I order the special. “Here’s your hot mess,” some raggedy red-headed skank in a skimpy skirt and loose top says to me as she hands me a plate with a burger on it. “This tastes like Syphilis,” I reply after the third bite. Two bikers in…
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 Richard Hoffman… “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” The fat man is yelling at a large red Mercury backing toward the boy who’s standing frozen with the shopping cart. The windows on the Mercury are down, and the music is loud. The car is shining; even the tailpipes are polished. It stops, rocking; the driver has slammed…
