Saturday, July 31, 2010

Honeymoon Phase

by Lauren Ottaviano

    It was like our third date. Fourth maybe. And I was bent over pants around my ankles faced away from him in Dave’s bathroom, trying to look sexy as he poked a MDMA-covered fingertip into my ass. Didn’t work, the sexy thing. Pulling off the casually seductive look is hard as fuck when someone’s finger’s up your butt. It was also entirely unnecessary. Johnny was in full focus mode back there, like some kind of anal artisan. The “oh shit, my girlfriend’s gonna let me dose her in her ass!” jubilation of ten minutes previous evaporated the second he realized how difficult his task was.
     The getting a finger-full of Molly part was no problem for him. But even though I refused to look back at him, I could tell he was having serious difficulties when it came to getting the powder from his finger to past my o-ring- it kept rubbing off too soon and falling to the floor like copacetic snow. After about 6 attempts he conceded that I probably had enough in me to trip the light fantastic, and I think we were both relieved to leave that bathroom. I felt like I’d just gotten a delinquent enema, I can’t imagine what was going through his head.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

What Have You Been Doing With Your Life?

    by Ryder Collins

      Of all her boyfriends or pseudo-boyfriends or even friends, Homegirl liked to hang at Punkboy’s house the most. For a dirty punk rock boy covered in tatts who didn’t like deodorant and who could smell either surprisingly sexy or really really bad when sweaty, Punkboy’s house was extremely well-maintained. Punkboy’s dirty little secret was that he was a domestic punk rocker; he didn’t let many people over. If he was stoned/drunk enough, though, he’d make Homegirl breakfast or even every now and then a late dinner. She’d watch him cook and wish she had a long flowy gauzy skirt on so she could re-enact that scene from Sid and Nancy.
      I look like fucking Stevie Nicks!

      Homegirl wanted someone to love her so much they could suicide together. She wanted love that was crazy and fucked up. Love that would travel all the way across the country hopping trains just to be with her. Love that would steal baby rabbits from pet stores and then brain them for attention, and love that would leave French bread and brie or Tofutti and tampons on her doorstep. Love that would hide books written just for her in her drawers for her to find later. Love that would actually hide in her drawers and spy on her or just fondle her panties because love couldn’t be far from her, but didn’t want to scare her too much.

      She wanted to die fucking; it had to be the only way to go.

      But, all Homegirl had at the moment was the laissez-faire Punkboy and the laissez-fairer Richboy, and neither of them left anything on her doorstep. 

      One night Punkboy and she’d come back to his house from the dive bar; Punkboy lived conveniently down the street and didn’t drive at all, didn’t even have a license and got around on fixies and skateboards and his own two feet, so it was also good for Homegirl cos then she didn’t have to drive drunk; although she’d drive drunk if there was even the hint of a hard cock at the end. She’d sat at his 50s resale formica kitchen table as he made some primavera with fresh veggies even. He served it with tallboys of PBR, of course, and they ate it all up, smacking drunkenly. 

      Usually, Homegirl tried very hard not to eat around people she was fucking or even people she was fucking attracted to. She felt like it took some of her mystery away. Made her more real and less desirable. It made her vulnerable, more vulnerable than giving head, which also made her feel vulnerable and self-conscious like mama was on stage, and she’d hide this by deep-throating any guy she wanted and some she didn’t. Homegirl also didn’t like to eat in public. She didn’t care around Punkboy; she felt like she could do pretty much anything around him. She even let him watch her shit every now and then. It turned him on. He liked to give rim jobs.

      She’d never eaten let alone shat around Richboy.

      After the primavera, Punkboy’d served cheesecake with cherry pie filling on top. Cos Homegirl was still so drunk, she tipped the plate onto herself as she tried to grab it from Punkboy’s tattoed hands. She was always always turned on by tattoed hands, but you’ve probably all guessed that already. She wiped the cake off with the paper towel she’d used as a napkin. Then she got up, clutching her stomach over the big red stain.

      I’m dying; they got me, she kept saying and giggling. She thought it was pretty fucking hi-larious. She backed herself up against the wall and slid down it. Avenge me, she gasped and then convulsed, long legs splayed out in a vee.

      Punkboy stared into her vee, snorted and then said, If you’re dead, I get the last PBR.

      Homegirl got her ass up right quick and said, I’ll fight ya for it. Then they were wrestling and you know what drunken wrestling often leads to.

      At least I hope you do.

      & if you don’t, I feel sorry for you, that you’ve lived a life so far and you’re getting older older older and never engaged in drunken wrestling or, worse, the glimmer of drunken wrestling’s never even shone in your eye. That no punker’s let you into their home and made you drunken pasta or sexted you or rubbed you raw with tatted fingers. That you’ve never smelled food service sweat and got turned on or that you never wanted to wear gauze or be around someone wearing guaze ironically or that you’ve never grabbed and tousled and then licked that food service sex sweat away all night into morning and back into the darkness again.

Ryder Collins is a big Northern girl who goes down. Her fave word is hairshirt. Sometimes she thinks many thinking things about hairshirts; other times men in attics wearing hairshirts turn her on, especially if they whisper self-flagellation. Her writing stuffs can be found here:

Writing Prompt: The Last Words

by Michael Webb

“I’m getting married,” she said, her voice sounding small in the dark,
as casually as she would announce a new pair of shoes or a poem she
had gotten into a magazine. I took a deep breath, then let it out,
because I read somewhere you should do that before reacting to

There was light coming from somewhere, probably reflected streetlight

coming through my one tiny window, and it made everything look
slightly unreal. Her skin glowed in the dark, the tiny shadows of her
vertebrae climbing away from me as she sat on the edge of my bed. She
was bent from the waist, feeling around on the floor among our
discarded clothes.

“Richard?” I said into the emptiness. She had found her underwear and

was pulling it up her long, trim legs, adjusting it around her hips in
that way women do. I knew the answer.

“Yes,” she said in a singsongy way. The uneven light revealed pieces

of her to me-a curve of breast, a flared hip, a bare shoulder-as she
rummaged across the floor. They had been on and off for 2 years-I was
usually her backup when they were "off". I knew she was his in the
end, but then I saw her, I made her laugh, she followed me home, and
we wound up here.

“But what about .....….this?,” I asked helplessly. She found her bra,

a tiny strip of black fabric and buckles, and began to assemble it,
first fastening it around her small waist, then pulling it up, making
tiny adjustments so it would fit properly. I knew she would grow old
and bitter with him-clinging to him out of obligation, not passion. I
had heard her spit it at him once, mid-fight: “I don’t even LIKE you!”

“A going away present,” she said. She pulled jeans up from the floor,

tugging them and wiggling to get them to conform to her shape. She
bent again, coming up with her loose sleeveless top. She pulled it on,
picking at it and tugging it until it hung the way she wanted. She
gathered her hair, then let it fall loose again. I wanted to stop her,
but my voice seemed to catch on something in my throat. She was gone,
shutting the door firmly behind her.

Fine, I thought. Let her explain why she was wearing my pants.

Michael Webb
blogs at, and thinks
that the best sneakers ever made were Pony's "City Wings", because who
says man was not born to fly?

Monday, July 26, 2010

It Is Okay For Me To Play With Your Penis

by Ani Smith

It is okay for me to play with your penis because you probably won't be in love with me for very long. Not after I start being myself. That is okay because we are just playing. I am not going to adopt you as mine but I am having fun pretending that we could be in love. It's okay for me to do that because I won't be hurt for very long after you dump me. Because I am incapable of falling in love most likely anyway. And playing with your penis is fun for us both and seems relatively harmless in comparison to other games we could play. 

Ani Smith's favorite word is all of the ones she knows, although she did stare at 'facsimile' for a long time and felt small flutters in her belly. She blogs at

Sunday, July 25, 2010

All Of Them

by Patrick Trotti

Liz was my first. Even at the time I think that I knew that this was going to be nothing more than a drunken one night stand. I was thirteen and at one of my first high school keg/house parties. The night was filled with beer pong, keg stands, and loud music. Sometime after midnight I found Liz outside smoking a cigarette. She gave me one. We were so drunk that both of us needed to lean on the side of the house to stay upright. She was wearing a low cut tank top and a short denim skirt. After finishing her smoke she turned to me and said, “Follow me.” I barely knew her but I knew of her. She was the town slut. In fact, all my friends called her the MTA because everyone got a ride. We went upstairs to a random bedroom. The lights remained off but it was still light enough for me to see what I was doing. I didn’t even wear a rubber and when it was done I came all over her tramp stramp; I think it was a tattoo of a rose. As we were getting clothed she gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “I needed that, thanks.” I didn’t talk to her again for another year.

Sarah was my first real girlfriend. She was a nice girl. I had to wait three months before she let me have sex with her. It was during lunch period at school. We went back to her house and clumsily fucked for twenty minutes. I was so proud of myself for lasting that long. We fucked, on and off, for the next three months before I found a reason to dump her.

Laurel was Sarah’s best friend. One night we met up to go see a movie. Sarah was supposed to meet us there but called and said she wasn’t feeling well. Even though we didn’t really have much in common, we decided that we might as well see the movie. The theater was completely empty and by the time the previews were over she was giving me head. The movie was horrible. We fucked quickly about halfway through in a theater bathroom stall. The next time I saw her I didn’t speak a word of what had happened. She moved away with her family soon after.

Mary lived down the street from me. We had been friends starting back in pre-school. I always viewed her as more of a tomboy because she was the only one that could hit a baseball further than me while growing up. She developed over the course of one summer and when we returned to school in September she had the biggest tits in school. We started fooling around after school. I would tell my mom that I was going over to her house to study. She thought Mariah was a good girl. She wasn’t. Her tits gave her a newfound confidence and she used them to get as much attention as possible. For weeks I was obsessed with her. She gave the best blowjobs and she let me tity fuck her until I came on her face. This lasted for at least a year. She was my first true love but I never told her so because I was afraid that if she didn’t feel the same way than I would have to go back to masturbating. We remained friends with benefits for years.

Amanda and I met at summer camp between ninth and tenth grade. She gave me a blowjob in the woods one day. She put a mint in her mouth first; it made my dick tingle. I think it was winter fresh flavored. We would go on nature walks and share joints and then fuck by the water. It was beautiful. We promised that we’d keep in touch after the summer but we never did.

Samantha was the first college girl I’d been with. I was fifteen at the time and didn’t have a girlfriend. All of the girls my age were more concerned with their petty little girl problems. I needed a real girl, a woman. She was almost five years older than me and liked cool music and smoked menthol cigarettes. She would buy me beer and cigarettes. I spent more time that year in her dorm room than I did anywhere else. The sex was amazing except for the fact that I was falling in love with the idea of her and what she represented. Eventually she left me for a graduate student who was into French films and vegan food.

Jackie was a real slut. She could drink me under the table and every time she got drunk she wanted to fuck. Our first time together was in her parent’s bedroom with them downstairs. One time we spent the entire winter break in her bedroom. Her parents had gone on a skiing trip to Switzerland and she kept me handcuffed to the bed and only let me out to go to the bathroom and eat a few meals a day. We fucked ourselves out of love. I heard that she’s a pornstar now.

Abby was the first girl that I made love to. I went out with her for eight months before I even asked for a blowjob. There was something so beautiful and innocent about her that I was scared to fuck her. I even began writing sappy love poems and left them in her locker at school. For a while I was convinced that she was the one that I’d marry. She ended going to the junior prom with one of my best friends and I refused to talk to her after that.

Spanish girl at the bar. I know that she told me her name and where she was from and all that but I was far too drunk to remember. The only thing I recall was the sex. Without saying a word she took my dick and put it in her ass. It felt so good. I stayed the night and snuck out her bedroom window in the morning so as not to wake up her roommates.

Julie worked at the local coffee shop. She was sixteen when I met her and I had just turned seventeen. She still had braces and reminded me of Abby. We would have sex and then stay up all night and just cuddle next to each other waiting for the sun to come up. My mother liked her; she thought she was a nice girl. She was until I caught her cheating.

Kim and I had sex because we had nothing better to do. It was a one-time thing and to this day I wish that I had asked her out.

Karen gave sloppy head but she let me fuck her in the ass and didn’t mind if I saw other people. I think she had father issues.

Caitlin and I met at a local bar that didn’t card me. She was from out of town; somewhere up north and was in town for the weekend. I spent two nights with her in her hotel room. She paid for room service and even let me watch dirty films on the television while we fucked. We would watch a scene and then try and act it out. It was a lot tougher than I had previously imagined. On Sunday morning she dropped me off at home and gave me her number. When I called it was disconnected.

Nikki was a friend of a friend. She could get me free coke when I wanted in return for sex with her. She wasn’t pretty but she loved sex and was the first girl that I had given multiple orgasms to.

Beth was the last girl I fucked before going away to college. I was horny, desperate, and drunk. She wasn’t really my type but she was the first and only redhead I had sex with.

Danielle was in my freshman composition class with me. We studied together for the midterm and she gave me a hand job in the library. We went back to her dorm room and I talked her into having a threesome with her roommate Juliana.

Juliana saw each other a few times after the threesome. She would come to my dorm room because she didn’t want Danielle finding out about us. She did and Juliana gave me this long speech about friendship being more important than sex. I never saw either of them again.

Kelly was my freshman roommate’s girlfriend. He could see that we both liked each other and instead of losing her to me he offered to have a threesome. I did. It was weird. I couldn’t focus on Kelly and felt that I was competing with him. I still came on her tits.

Lauren was my sophomore year girlfriend. I was in a serious mood and felt that I needed to make some sort of commitment. I even brought her home to meet my family for Thanksgiving. We snuck off during dessert and fucked in the upstairs bathroom. My mother didn’t like her because she had too many tattoos. When we got back to school I stopped calling her.

Leslie was the one fat chick I fucked. I was getting over Lauren and met her at a party one night. She gave great head. She wanted to get on top during sex but I said no; I was scared she would crush me. I think she realized this and got upset. I came in her eye and she left crying.

Erica worked as a teaching assistant. My plan originally was to fuck her in order to get answers to the final. She was a real freak. She told me after a couple of dates that she couldn’t get off without being choked and slapped. She even liked biting and whipping. It wasn’t my thing but whenever I did it she seemed to be more into it.

Girl from the library. She let me slide on an overdue book. I took her out for coffee and on the way home she gave me head in the car. We fucked in the parking lot. I never saw her again.

 Patrick Trotti is a 24 year old native New Yorker pursuing a degree in creative writing. Despite wanting to fall in love he's still incredibly scared of commitment. One of his favorite words is bloviate.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Two Poems And An Anecdote

 by Joseph Hargraves
First Orgasm
My first orgasm was spontaneous, intense. I was in first grade in a very strict Catholic school. The Nuns carried hand "clickers" to make the clicking sound to audibly warn us of their awareness. We were each given a box of small squares, each with a letter on them, and a board to spell out words with the squares. The Nun left the room. I accidentally knocked my box of letters on the floor. I was terrified, picking them up as quickly as I could. I was on the floor when the nuns clicker went off, she was right outside the door. I started cumming, and cumming and picking up the letters.
Then every day I would drop my box of letters when the Nun left the room. It worked for a long time- but due to practice I got too fast at picking up the letters. I had to know there was a chance I would get caught. Knowing I was not facing a beating I stopped with the letters.

Pretty Legs
She walked the Park,
eyes straight ahead-
dress: ripped burlap
and safety pins. She
wore black boots
coated with glitter.
On the back calf of each leg
she had a tattoo of one
word of jail-house inked
letters: Fuck You.
Writer's Block
I put my dick into her cunt hoping
to trigger a poem I go up and
down thinking of metrics biting nipples
my heart's beating faster she's looking at
her cigarettes I'm not into it she's
pretending to come I'm thinking about
onomatopoeia I fuck her hard
I'm doing this for art she's my 20
dollar muse I pull it out and tell her
to suck it she's a compliant Venus
I'm thinking about AIDS her pussy stinks
she has track marks on her legs I can't come
she looks bored I get up pay and decide
to go home jerk-off and write a sonnet
Joseph Hargraves has been reading French poetry and writing a small essay on Shakespeare's first 20 Sonnets. His favorite philosopher is Ludwig Wittgenstein, so he has been catching up on reading him. But one of his biggest joys this week was taking 250 milligrams of Oxy-Contin and re-reading Proust's "On Ruskin and Others" (now more frequently referred to as "On Reading." It is brilliant, and explains his relationship to reading, and lack of relationship to the living.

Friday, July 23, 2010


 by Isabella Ling
One of his roommates is sleeping on his right, his other roommate is fucking my friend on my left. I lie on his bed on under the blanket with him. We kiss without passion, without feelings. I can't feel his tongue, I can't taste him. I want to stop, I don't. He smells good, but his breath is rancid.
I am now naked under the sheets, as I know my friend is too. He climbs on top her, he made me climb on top of him. There is no blanket on top of me anymore. I am exposed, my breasts left hanging. I feel disgusted, ashamed and maybe a little thrilled that this is happening. Fucking someone who doesn't have his own room, someone who can't be bothered to pull up the blanket over me to respect my privacy and modesty. Yet, what modesty do I have when I chose to do this, right? Choose to fuck someone beside my friend, to see my friend's legs bend at awkward angles as she moaned and groaned.
He pushes himself into me, I hardly felt a thing, not because he is small, because I am accustomed to a bigger size. There is no foreskin, which I like, it makes no difference on him. I start to rock my hips, half-heartedly. I tried not to think of him, him the with the foreskin and the bigger dick and the druggie eyes. He hardly moved, he wants me to do the work, I hate being on top and not having any help. Lazy motherfucker. He slips out and proceed to make me his dog. He starts to move faster, more furious. I make no sound, I thought to myself, please just let him come now. It went on for a long time, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the sounds of her repressed moans. I wonder if she is coming, I wonder if she peeped at me. I wonder, I wonder, is this torture worth it.
I hear them and I watch them from the corner of my eye. I think of him again, of how he forcefully kissed me when I was crying. I want to cry now, but his lips won't be here to meet mine. He told me he won't let me down, he told me see you soon, he told me take care when I left. I thought, take care and see you soon doesn't go together. I think of how he squeezed my throat when he was fucking me, I think of how I like it. Calls were left unanswered, what's the difference this time? Was if because I cried? Maybe he found another one to fuck. I think again and again, how he only looks for me when he is drunk, how open we are when we're drunk. I like the way we are when we're drunk, is it possible to be that way even when we're not drunk? 
He takes himself out of me and lay down beside me, I finished him off because it was only polite to do so.
My friend walks to the toilet, they start to talk about us while I lie in between them. Useless bastards, I thought. Who is cheaper, you or me? This is supposed to make me feel better, what the fuck was I thinking? I am here to forget, to try and forget. She and I walk home under the gray morning sky two hours later, she with her first experience of fucking a white man and me thinking, won't you just call me, please? I smile bitterly as I remembered I have only known him for less than a month.
Isabella Ling thinks too much and does nothing. She hates herself for tearing when she wrote this. Her least favourite English word is take care. It basically means I won't be seeing you again or at least for the next ten years and which by then I won't remember you, so yeah, take care. 

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Writing Prompt: Every Day

 by Shannon Peil

Every few mornings I'll wake up from one of those dreams that are so vivid, so
true, that I can't stop the resulting panic attack for hours afterward. I
realized during one of these that I wasn't terrified of death, not really. The
heart palpitations and nervous sweats staining my bed weren't from the myriad of
gruesome endings I've seen; they weren't even from the thought that at some
point I just won't have any more time. The sweats were from the details before
that. The details depicting the wrong wife, the girlfriend I settled for, the
friends I wasn't sure why I was hanging around anyways. The bad choices, the
failed plans, the loss of hope. Yesterday morning I woke up just as I died of
old age, surrounded by my three snotty children, all looking a great deal like
my bitch of a wife. It was infuriating. It was terrifying. I had only a few
breaths left in this life and I spent them unhappy. I resented all of them, but
it wasn't their fault. It was my fault.

This morning, I drove to work and wondered if it was going to come true. I
wondered if maybe everything I was worried about was moot because you'd never
say yes anyways. I wondered if I wouldn't get the chance to have a bitch of a
wife because no one would ever call me their husband to begin with. I thought
about Wednesday. I wondered if instead I was going to die like I envisioned that
night, a car accident while driving my deadbeat best friend to his latest court
date; maybe I'd get t-boned in an intersection a little too late on a yellow
light. I wondered if the last thing I'd see was this fucking stoner leaned over
me with this dazed look in his eye like "What do I do? What do I do? I'm gonna
be late to court again."

But these aren't valid concerns, not really. It's very few who pick how they
die, and I'm certain not a single person in the history of humanity has been
completely content with how it went down for them. And every few mornings I'll
wake up to the stale scent of sweat and shivering, pick the blankets and pillows
off the floor, and think of you.

I think of you because no matter how fearful I am of the day I die and how it
happens and who I'm with and what I'm remembered for, my death won't be the
tragic one. I think of you because I can't stand the smell of hospitals. I think
of you because I can't even remember what your face looks like. I think of you
because every time someone says the word 'cancer' my jaw locks up and I become
fifteen again. I think of you because I'll die some day, too. I think of you
because I never said goodbye. I think of you because I'll never be able to.

Shannon Peil lives and writes in Boulder, Colorado. His work has appeared in a
few dozen online publications and a couple in print, but more notably he edits
for people who actually know what they are doing at He gets
referred to as Ms. more often than not in e-mails.

SSF: What is one of your favorite words in the English language?

Shannon: Torrent. I like rain, and I like downloading things, and that word is pretty
looking. Torrent.

SSF: What is one of your least favorite words in the English language?

Shannon: Vagina. There is absolutely nothing attractive about the word 'vagina' or
'vaginal' that does justice to the description of a hot cunt. It is unfortunate
that my favorite body part is named something I shudder to say.

SSF: What are your favorite kind of sneakers and why?

Shannon: I'm a product of the '90s. I still wear Vans. It's harder and harder every year
to find a pair I like, but Vans is one of the only skate companies still making
shoes that I can stand. It seems like there is this huge shift towards
multi-colored panels, ugly low tops and canvas (sorry canvas fans, they suck)
and thick, puffy sidewalls.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


 by Martha Williams

   The film drones on in sympathetic harmony with our day and I would have listened in another circumstance, but you are here. Beside me.
   I down a whisky and hope the film will take a hold.

   Men running. Guns. A door creaks and you are bound, so I dare to look at you. Shadows of running men sprint across your profile, the guns jump under your skin, the door freezes you, and all the while your skin shines, begging for me. No, no, it's not; I'm the beggar. I am a greasy trucker to your swan; biscuits and gravy to your Chardonnay. I want to watch you thrash and fuck and laugh, whereas I am sure you prefer flowers.

   You slide a piece of popcorn past your lips. I want to grab a handful and cram it into my mouth, perhaps I want to ram my face into the bowl, shake my head and watch the pieces fly. Would that shock you? Not as much as the trucker. Because that's not how you know me.

To you, I am a shadow by a school gate, a reflection in the local pool, a vessel that once held your children's friends. I am the mirror that speaks in shop dressing rooms. I am as slim as you. I use the same perfume. The same shampoo. My lipstick is darker than yours.

I pass you a drink and you say, Oooh, great, I love you.
   Your arms rest easy on my shoulders. Your smile laughs free. If my head were bowed, you'd lean into me and jog me back.
   You say, he doesn't understand me.
   And I think, but I do.
   But I know you wouldn't understand me. I don't understand me. A girl with a face full of food. A trucker full of lust in a girl's shirt. A trucker with breasts that want to press against your own so hard that our bellies meet all the way down. A mouth that licks better than it kisses. Kisses better than it speaks. Bites when it can't do anything better — pass the bloody popcorn.

You stretch and hot, holy damn you throw your feet over my leg; just how comfortable are you there? I want to rip off those darned stupid socks and pull your jeans down so hard your ass falls off the couch. I want to grab you under your knees and plunge...
   Or wine?
   Whisky. For fuck's sake.
   What's up?
   I look at you. I've had too much whisky already; God knows what another will do. My eyes are melting. You say my name. I shrug, sorry. You pause, so I tell you I'm drunk. I always get maudlin when I'm drunk. You give me another whisky anyway, and I love you for that.

   You flop back onto the couch. You lean your head against the same cushion as me and I feel your warmth through our hair. You flick the channels, that film wasn't so hot after all. I wonder, slightly scared now, whether you noticed me staring at you — but no. Our fingers graze each other's in the popcorn, and neither of us apologizes... but only because you haven't noticed.

  An embarrassed guy on TV. You laugh. I smile. Part of me relaxes. This is OK. Two friends. Everything in common. This is just fine. Deep inside, the tears of a trucker wet places that only I know.
   The guy on TV has trashed his car.
   Shit car anyway, you say.
   I shrug. The trucker is strangling my smile.
   I never understood flash cars, you say.
   What the hell's a car, 'cept a truck that never grew big enough. And you turn to face me.

   And we smile girls' smiles that turn into big trucker grins and you're so right about the cars, I think, as you strip off those stupid socks.

Martha Williams likes the word ‘so’ because it makes everything more so, explains everything just so, and then asks, ‘so?’ and moves on. So... here’s Martha:

Monday, July 19, 2010

French Kiss

 by Michelle Elvy

The date began badly. First, she turned up her nose at my suggestion of sushi: “Ew! I want real food!” So we found ourselves at a picnic table eating hamburgers and fries, hers dipped in a large pile of blubbery mayo.

Back in the car, she switched the radio from Waits to Madonna. I thought about kicking her out right then.

But I’m a gentleman, so I suggested wine at my place (she was French, after all), but she said, “No, that’s boring,” and next thing I know we’re down by the lake drinking Jaegermeister. Jaegermeister, for chrissakes! Haven’t drunk that stuff since college. I managed not to puke this time, even when she said, “I’m going to fuck you now, oui?” What could I say? I was powerless in her hands, her mouth, her cunt. She scared the hell out of me, from her rock-hard nipples to her abundant thighs to her curious tongue. I envisioned news flashes next day: Culture Clash: Carniverous Frenchie Fucks Shy Biology Teacher Dead. She was all energy, grinning and grinding, sound and sexual fury. I ached for days, especially where my knee wedged into the dashboard. How she fit all those ways I never did figure.

I kept her number for a long time. “Call me,” she said as she slipped the paper into my jeans pocket. Not a question, more a demand. I wanted to, I really did.

Michelle Elvy lives and writes on a 43′ sailboat and is presently located in Whangarei, New Zealand. She has published stories about  children, food, faraway places, motorcycling, dreaming big, and the kindness of strangers. Her recent fiction can be read at Metazen, Words With JAM, Like Birds Lit and 6S.  You can find Michelle writing at Glow Worm, flashing at 52|250 listening at VOICES, or sailing on Momo. She likes the word blubbery, but she does not generally like things blubbery.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

There Are No Answers

by Sean H. Doyle

There are no answers.

A lot of people will tell you that there are all sorts of answers out there, floating in the ether -- just waiting to be snatched up -- but they’re making that shit up. There are no answers. I know this because I have spent the majority of my adult life waiting for answers to fall into my lap, as opposed to just going out there and finding them for myself.

Yeah, I’d call me “lazy,” too.

When you’re in your twenties, you don’t really care about answers as much as you care about fine-tuning those feral parts of you. The fuckery. The imbibery. Those parts are very important. When you’re in your twenties the most important thing you can do is slide your tongue over as many different body parts on as many different people as you possibly can. Race and creed don’t matter much, nor does sexual/gender identity, really -- just go out and get your fuck on. You’re never really going to know yourself until you find yourself in as many awkward sexual situations as you can fathom. Nothing tells a person who they really are like waking up in a trailer in the woods with four or five hunters and their wives, mountains of empty Steel Reserve tallboys all around and the smell of burning latex hanging in the air.

Not that you’ll find any answers there, either.

You might think that you’d be able to find answers in speaking with your fellow humans, but that would also be a fallacy. Talking to other humans about anything usually results in them unlatching the top on their secret box where they keep their wounded ego, and then they release that Kraken on you. Kind of like this, but different. Most other humans are just shells holding broken pieces of light. Worker bees. Drones in veal fattening pens, answering phones and stuck in traffic. When they get the opportunity to wax on about the answers, you’ll get hit in the face with their dreams, their fears, and the sudden realization of “I feel afraid that I will die while spending time with someone I do not like.”

Not an answer.

I once thought that maybe the answers were found in our blood. I was wrong about that. I cannot talk to you about what I found in my blood, because I promised I wouldn’t.

Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, New York -- where he now pays $11.50 for a pack of cigarettes. His favorite pair of sneakers ever were the pair of first edition Air Jordans he received on Christmas morning, 1985. Sean believes in working hard to get better, and most of his writing can be found on his site. Sean would also dig it if you followed him on Twitter, because The Angry Owl God knows he could use more friends in far-away lands.

Friday, July 16, 2010

American Blackout

by Jackson Warfield

I went out to meet you
for a single beer,

but going out to meet you
for a single beer
is always
a great fool’s mistake

one turns into two
two into three
three into shots
and so on and so forth

and now
in the hungover morning
I can’t even remember
coming home

but when I see
the vomit
on the toes of my shoes
while my shaking fingers struggle
with the laces

I am reminded of a dark alley
with brick walls

and then
of a lengthy
one-sided argument
with the sad ghost of myself

and then
I begin to wonder
if I should regret being born

so damn you
damn me
and damn the blackout

my beautiful
american blackout

Jackson Warfield lives in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. If he could talk to any inanimate object, it would be the beer in his hand, so he could say to it, "you're about to go down, motherfucker!" You can find more of his work at

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Magic Mushroom Haiku

 by Clayton Loyd

desert night sky dream
thoughts mushrooming from the sand--
dude, we're tripping balls

my take on this is the kigo is magic mushrooms based on their natural cycle (although I'm not sure which season that is) and the dash functions as the kireji.

Clayton Lloyd
is a former prosecutor (you read that right), musician, and general wannabe bohemian.  His travel has spanned the globe and his idiocy (and tendency to hang around idiots) amazes people who believe that Darwinism or MENSA membership mean anything.  He's been published in a few small journals, and featured in a couple of venues, mostly by his friends.  This week he didn't drink more than six beers one day.  That was awesome, and proves AA would be a waste of time.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Dear Television

 by Patrick Howell O'Neill

Dear television, a friend from whom I’ve grown apart,  

I’m bombarded by light even when my TV is on mute and my eyes are closed. I can’t sleep well because I spend my days either staring at a brilliant light bulb at midnight or at a television screen where all the characters are only there to scare me. I envy people who are afraid of the dark instead, dear television, even though that’s obviously your doing as well.

I really don’t care for your apocalyptic bullshit, dear television, thank you very much. This apocalypse-porn fetish with Jesus and Islam and Jews and UFO’s and 2012 has got to be the saddest little masquerade for ratings since Seinfeld went off the air. Yes, yes, we’re all vain and think that we are going to personally witness the most significant event in the universe since Seinfeld came on the air and so I guess we deserve to get played for fools for your profit, but man is it depressing. You're the one spouting bullshit so that people will look at you, tele, be careful not to look in the mirror. If you don’t watch out, I’m going to throw you out of a window.

I didn’t mean that, dear television.

Dear television, you gave me the impression that alcohol was an integral ingredient for happiness. Now, I can’t get it up because I drink too much. My pockets are empty, so is this the moment when I ransack a pharmacy? My pride is drained and I don’t know who to rob to get it back. My love is a dead end and I told you I don’t care for your apocalypse so things are probably going to stay this way for a while.

Dear television, I won’t even bring cocaine up. Not as advertised, suffice to say.

Dear television, whenever I black out and wake up with blood on my face, there you are. Always, your speakers are blasting and you’re screaming an infomercial into m year. I can’t help but think you might be trying to assault me and take my money. Television, you’ve already taken mylove and my sex and my light. I don’t have any money, is that why I’m bleeding?

Dear television, if you’re trying to take from me, you’re wasting your time.

Patrick Howell O'Neill is from Brooklyn, New York. He's a lazy drop out with a lot of unconvincing excuses. He just wrote a book.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

A Genital Exchange

 by Nathan Tower

An Open Letter to All Vaginas.  

To the Vagina it May Concern,  

Why have you forsaken me? It has been weeks since we have touched. Okay, actually months. Fine. If you want the truth, it's been years since I have even seen you. I just don't get it. Remember the times we used to have? I fit so snugly inside you, like we were two perfectly cut puzzle pieces that were merely inseparable once conjoined. I thought I would never leave. You wanted me to stay. But within minutes, of course, the fit had worn out. You spat me out, leaving me lost in a terrifying world. I haven't even had a glimpse of you in the flesh since. Please. I can't take the abuse any more. If we could get together just one more time, I would show you that I can stay for good. We make such a great team. Please, please, please, dear vagina, don't let me wither and die alone. 

Yours desperately,


Dear Penis, 

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Well, I have grown, but not by absence. Please do not contact me again. I have no further interest in pursuing your lack of commitment. I know what you are really interested in. Yes, the fit was perfect once, but it will never work again. Once the puzzle is separated, the pieces just never fit together the same way again. I am sorry to say that we are through forever. I see no potential for any future meeting. Let it be what is was. 



Dear Lost Vagina, 

I have grown as well. Have me back. I know we can make it work. We can make it last. Please. I need you. 
Forever Yours,



This is the last time I will contact you. Please do not write back. Haven't you ever heard that no means no? Well, it does. Our time together was short and sweet, nothing more. Don't make more out of it than it was. There are plenty of fish in the sea. Leave me be. I want nothing that lasts with you. The need you have is not mutual.  



Dear Hopeless Vagina, 

I know you said you won't contact me, but I cannot help myself. I know there was something between us. I know we can make it work. I know this is not the end. Please give me another chance to make you feel the way I felt. 

With Forever Reaching Hope,


Dear Penis, 

Please leave her alone. She has made her intentions clear. She has moved on, and so should you. Wanna get together? 

Respectfully, for now,

A Friendly Vagina 

Nathaniel Tower writes fiction, teaches English, and manages the online literary magazine Bartleby Snopes ( He is proud of the fact that he didn't leave the house yesterday.

Monday, July 12, 2010

What's The Story Morning Glory?

 by Robert Vaughan

Nola’s desire to self-medicate was enormous. This latest phase was nothing

new, her addiction started with Nodos in high school. The year her mom

confided about her extra-marital relationship with the local priest. That

transitioned to Dexatrim, then black beauties and pink footballs in college. By

junior year, it was mostly coke, but it was too expensive. Then Nola read The

Doors of Perception and it blew her mind. She wanted to experiment with any

psychedelic drug Nola could get her hands on, from the mundane to the bizarre.

Her favorite of late was mushrooms of the magical kind: psilocybin. She never

laughed as hard as when she experienced them and they didn’t leave her with

those ghastly lows after the come-down. Her parent’s divorce happened that

summer so she stayed in the college dorm. Got a job delivering pizza. She

bought a huge rainbow bedspread and began dating Ray, the long-haired

drummer in a new wave cover band. Toward the end of summer, the Grateful

Dead came to play the Summerfest series. Ray bought tickets then proposed the

idea to take morning glory seeds. He’d read an article in Mother Jones magazine

that explored their hallucinogenic properties.

“Why not just stick to mushrooms?” Nola asked. “They’re so much fun. We had a

blast last weekend at Letchworth State Park.”

“True,” Ray said, exhaling the marijuana smoke. “But I want to have a new


The morning of the concert, a tribe traipsed to Dunkirk Seed Company. They

were colorful, like a traveling band of gypsies.

“Do you have morning glory seeds?” Ray asked. His long raven hair was pushed

back in a white bandanna.

The saleswoman eyeballed them, raised one penciled-on eyebrow. “What do you

want them for?”

“Science project,” Nola piped up, surprising herself.

They transported the seed packets back to the dorms, ground them in a blender,

added chocolate milkshakes from the Campus Cove. Twenty minutes later, Nola

was in the girls bathroom clutching the sides of a toilet. Ray held her hair while

she wretched. A half hour later, when they started to trip, they were in Ray’s

room staring at his Ski the Bumps poster. It started to undulate, like staring into

the Pacific ocean. Nola loved to sing, so she stood and pretended she held a

microphone. She started to sing along with Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road.

She imagined she could see the notes as they left her mouth, floating into the

room, pasting a colorful design on the ceiling.

“Show a little faith there’s magic in the night,

you ain’t a beauty, but hey you’re alright…”

She was completely swept away by the song, then looked over her shoulder at

Ray. He stretched out on his dorm bed, his feet dangled off the end. His head

was cocked oddly, eyes completely white, rolled back in his head. Before Nola

rushed to him, she knew it was too late.

Robert Vaughan’s plays have been produced in N.Y.C., L.A., S.F., and Milwaukee where he resides. He leads two writing roundtables for Redbird- Redoak Studio. His prose and poetry is published or forthcoming in: Short, Fast, and Deadly, 50 to 1, Tryst, Clutching at Straws, Blink/Ink, Heavy Bear, The Lesser Flamingo, Negative Suck, and Sleep. Snort. Fuck. He is a fiction editor at jmww magazine. He published a poem on 7/4 at The Camel Saloon called "regarding kay"  which honors his mother. It made him burst with pride. His blog:

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Two Poems

 by Steven M. Grant


A razor’s edge glides
through dermis
with a surgeon’s
disconnected precision.

Crimson tattooed
parallel lines
concealed for now
on the inner thigh.

Ejaculated blood spatters;
a decorative memento
for the bathroom floor.

Endorphins engage,
serotonin orgasms,
and the impulse wanes
while platelets seek

Tonight she will sleep,
tomorrow’s hungry voice
but a whisper that will grow
in the darkness.


"I was hoping I would see you again",
the words danced on my ear,
her breath and breasts warm against me,
"so I didn't wear panties".
Outwardly unaffected,
I leaned in to take the fragrance
of her hair as it floated past my nose.
My lips pressed against her ear,
I made it known, I was pleased as well.
Her hand fell to my knee
and slid deliberately north.
“So it would seem”, she said
with a firm and knowing grasp.
The bar was crowded when I entered,
but as she slid her lithe frame
between the bar and my stool,
everything peripheral faded from focus.

“You ran away last time before I finished with you”
My explanations quickly rebuffed,
she kissed me.
My James Bond countenance began to crack.
“Now that wasn’t so hard was it?”
she giggled,  and came back for seconds.
She pulled me closer
positioning my hands on her waist.
I know there was loud music playing
but all I could hear was the sound of her voice as she said
“do you know how wet you’re making me?”
With a deft fluid motion, she slid my hand down
and back up under the hem of her skirt,
removing any thought
that she was prone to exaggeration.
I caught my breath,
regained my composure,
looked past her coolly, and made it known
I was ready to close out my tab.

Steven Marty Grant drinks too much and has squandered most of his life chasing loose women. He currently resides in the borough of Manhattan and makes money doing things not spoken of in polite company. His poems have appeared in print publications like The Writer, The Ampersand (&) Review, The Melancholy Dane, Spring Harvest and The Drama & English Journal. When not surfing internet porn he blogs at Urbanality and is the poetry editor at Notes & Grace Notes This week he noticed that his feet have grown from a 12 to a 12.5 and he is hoping my penis will follow suit.