Patty would slap stickers on her calf and ass cheeks to make herself stand out. Problem is, so would the other girls. I never did much of anything.
Things were happening. It was festive and official: everyone in the building was allowed to take the elevator.
Sascha Behrendt uncovers the surrealist flash-fiction of Barry Yourgrau from the BOMB Archive.
Mother saw it first, over by the teepee. “See,” she said, regarding us: sisters, offspring, preeners for love.
This First Proof contains Flash Fiction After Photographs by Jane Hammonds, including the short story “Chai Wan Four,” by Helen Phillips.
This First Proof contains Flash Fiction After Photographs by Jane Hammonds, including the short story here “Les Baigneuses,” by Jeffrey DeShell
You know how far glass flies when it shatters.
The pleasure Solovei took in the manner of Shea’s death, never mind that it was a suicide and Shea the very paradigm of what Solovei could not but help but helplessly think of whenever he, Solovei, had thought to set himself the meditation of what it must be to be the Gentile—oh so very big-boned, large-boned, heavy-boned, long and broad in all the central categories, the blithe inventor of every reckless declension, the very thing of this vexing life most lived.
In Amsterdam the American painter, barely 20, knocks on the gallery door eager to discuss her exhibition that will soon take place.
“Don’t do that kind of thing to your spine, son,” said his mother. “You’ll only complicate your life … You’ve got to learn how to relax.”
I close my eyes and imagine his phone: long, black, cordless.
On Monday nights I sleep with a murderer.
A girl sits in her room by the window, which is open to the evening. She is robed demurely in white.
I was sorting out some things the other day and came across a plastic bag.