The people in the thrift store todaycircle, slow-moving but determined sharks,each one intent on making a scorethat justifies some of the daysspent on the factory floor,in the restaurant, kitchen or at the counter,or sitting in the lobby of the temp agency,waiting for the bell to ringand their reward to drop. I find two dress shirtsand two pairs of slacks.No holes, rips, or stains.I feel like I’m holdinga winning scratch-off ticket.Fingering some carnival glass,I take in the whole …
ART GOES TO DIE IN THE NIGHTCLUB
waiting on line for a sex party, sebas and igo back and forth inventing partieswe’d rather be attending—what we’d throwif money, physics, and law were alldifferent animals: a vaccine and hormonedistro-party with a cry-floor and dance-bathroom. a party where we assemblearms and storm the pharmaceuticalheadquarters stoned in hand-stoned gowns.a party where we dance on the ceilingbefore flooding the streets to shatterthe windows of every living waymo.conflagration party. extrication …
The Look
by Michael C. Roberts Mr. Benson looked at me down the dinner table with a face, not like I had ever gotten before. I knew the look was different. It was not a look adults give to kids. Not a corrective look like from my third-grade teacher, peering over her glasses, when I talked without raising my hand; not bemused censuring from my father when I farted in church causing my older brother to snicker; not proud like my mother when I recited memorized poetry; not the tearfully sad look when …
Hey, Boogle
by Natalie Mead The tent is gray and orange—gray like the color of my face after a long bout of vomiting, or of my favorite wire-free bra after years of abuse and few washes. The orange is the sturdy International Orange of the Golden Gate Bridge. This is the same orange my friend Vivian wants to paint her house. The light coming through my living room window makes the gray tent fabric glow yellow, like the rotten-banana bruises in the crooks of my elbows. My husband Cory set up the …
Man in a Box
by Menasheh Fogel Sophie pulls away from the door, breathing hard, trying to decide what to do. She peers again through the peephole. The man is still standing there. The automatic hall light flicks off, yet she can make him out in the fading light from the small window above the stairwell. He appears perfectly normal, maybe a bit nondescript. He breathes motionlessly, gazing forward down the stairs. She wonders what he could possibly want, what he might be thinking. She remembers …
Useless Gestures
by Luke Fegenbush “I don’t know why I do the things I do. It feels like an accident, but I’m just the way I am. People hate it. I don’t want to impress anyone. I just want to be and I can’t even do that.” His knees were up by his chest in a defensive gesture, with his shoes on the coffee table, nudging the box of tissues aside. The boy's name was Jace and, due to him being twenty-something, I afforded him a little self-loathing before I stepped in. I let the evening’s late-spring …