tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67713754349131051172024-03-19T04:03:55.942-07:00SLEEP. SNORT. FUCK.MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.comBlogger201125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-2096187390086847002011-05-11T20:51:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:37:19.502-07:00NEWSHi SSF-ers.<br />
<br />
We know we have been terrible. And the really pathetic part is that we haven't even been snorting or fucking. Sleeping, yeah. But mainly writing.<br />
<br />
However! SSF is kaput. SSF is rejuvenating until it knows what it really wants. We will start submissions back up at some point. You will all be the first to know. For everyone that shared their honest work with us---we really appreciate it. From the bottom of our dark hearts.<br />
<br />
To everyone that has a submission pending--they will be answered.<br />
<br />
<br />
Love & Squalor:<br />
<br />
<br />
Sleep.Snort.Fuck.MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-31878087376599140722010-11-06T18:58:00.000-07:002010-11-06T18:58:57.176-07:00The Abortion<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by Skyelis Tyler</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the dream, I woke up from unconsciousness in a hospital.<span> </span>My mother told me I had had a baby, like those girls in news stories who don’t know any better.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The baby was black. Though I’ve never seen her, I called her Felicia.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The most likely patron was my butch dyke boss, though hardly any explanation at all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They took her to someplace on the southern tip of Mexico called Cranberry Paradise and when they returned, they picked me up in a mini-van.<span> </span>They handed me a cupcake with the ashes of my baby in it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I walked home through highways and cried.<span> </span>Inside the cupcake I found a small mouse, dead. We had a horde of kittens who ate away the mouse and then I knew. Felicia didn’t die in Mexico at all; however it happened, it had gone down in a housing project in Pennsylvania.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My baby: I wanted proof. I never wanted her, but I searched for her everywhere.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> <span style="font-size: small;"><span>That morning I woke up bleeding.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Skyelis Tyler </b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">lives in Brooklyn, New York. She would like to have sex to "New York City Cops" by The Strokes. </span></span></span>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-7165278855792804292010-10-24T14:18:00.000-07:002010-10-24T14:18:12.609-07:00Composure<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by R.S. Bohn</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Somewhere, she’s eating soggy cookies scooped from the bottom of a tea mug. With a spoon. She’s got her knees folded under her, like she’s praying, or meditating. She does both. And her hair is cut short now, falling around her chin and making her look like a little girl.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am not sitting here, knees aching, a crumpled old man. I do not have a mug of tea, or whisky, or anything that would take me out of my life for an instant of searing heat. My hair is not gone, shaved off by a barber I’d never met before for eight bucks. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I am praying. This I will admit. I didn’t pray, wasn’t brought up to pray, and my hands feel as if they’ve been asked to fix a carburetor or whittle a bear. Things they have never done before. I can’t remember when I last danced, but I’m sure it was this awkward. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I pray that she will find out and come back to New York. My prayer sidles off from sincere plea to operatic day dream. The hospital doors whisk open, I am bravely walking down the hall with an i.v. attached, and she sees this and runs to me, purse flying off. She grabs me and hugs me, and the tears drip like morphine. But not from me. I am brave. I am only wearing a hospital gown. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">My praying hands press into my crotch, and my prayer fully disintegrates: a private hospital room, the requisite “I’m sorry, so sorry,” as she kisses me back onto the bed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Probably, if I had been brought up in a church, I wouldn’t let prayers morph into masturbatory fantasies. Probably. I am not sure how much of a role Jesus plays in the hormone-driven body of a healthy male, but it’s clear he hasn’t got the wheel. I do, and I’m driving straight off the cliff.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I started my run-up months ago. Started it in the theater lobby, spotting her dialing her cell again and again, getting no one. The movie had ended twenty minutes previous. I was waiting for a manager to get me a free pass for next time, since the movie had been terrible and they wouldn’t give me my money back. I got the pass and said hello to her and she got in my car and I thought about how easy it would be to kill teenage girls these days. Thank God I’d offered her a ride.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">She said she was too deep for her friends. No one understood her. I had books by Deepak Chopra on the piano. I had a piano. I had a harp. She drew her fingers over the chords, and I pretended she was an angel. I didn’t tell her the piano and harp and the books belonged to Bebe, my wife. Bebe in Italy, seeing an artisan about a new harp, calling me on the phone that night – I didn’t tell her that her old harp had been touched by Maggie, who’d also touched my cock. I told her about how horrible the movie had been, but that I had a free pass for when she got back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think I should pray again. Or meditate. Once, Maggie told me to envision a lotus flower opening in slow motion. I try that now, but all I see is her spreading legs, her fingers opening herself for me to look. Bebe would never even think of doing such a thing. Bebe has estrogen cream and all of her underwear is black or tan.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Straight off the cliff. I won’t be taking my wife with me, even though she announced that she would stick with me through “this thing.” She meant the bladder cancer, not the girl. When there is no cancer or there is no me, she will move on. I try to picture what she is doing right now, but I can’t. I try to picture what she did twenty-nine years ago, but all I see is her red-haired friend, Jennifer, laughing at our dinner table. I think Bebe played piano that night while Jennifer sang, and I drank martinis and grew in love with Jennifer’s voice. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe right now, Bebe is praying too. She’s atheist, but it doesn’t matter. Maybe she’s standing at the picture window and looking out over the Japanese garden and praying that I die as swiftly and painlessly as possible. A humane prayer. For all of us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I try again to see Maggie with her hair cut short, but it’s gone now. I can’t even see her pretty little breasts. I just see me, bald and white, in a shared room. The other bed holds someone I can’t see; they are new and their curtains have been closed all day. No voices except for the nurses and doctors. I hope that it may be Maggie in that bed, that fate has brought us together again. And that now, I will truly understand her. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">When I turn off the light and close my eyes, I hear harp music, somewhere close.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>R.S. Bohn </b>had the best sex of her life to GnR’s “My Michelle.” She still thinks Axl’s a douche, but they were a great fucking band. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-80001360174097086792010-10-21T17:57:00.000-07:002010-10-21T17:59:14.565-07:00I've Been Told<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">by CJ Hallman</span></b><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I've been told that I couldn't give a decent blow job to save my life. That my hand jobs are like vice grips, like instruments of torture. I've been told that I could get a guy off just by turning and looking at him the right way—head over left shoulder, chin down, dark hair falling perfectly in my liner-smudged eyes. I've been laughed at and told that I just don't radiate sexuality at all, that I simply couldn't be imagined rolling around in the sack, or even kissing. I've been told that I'm fat, fat, fat. I've been told that I need to wax, and that I need to grow it all out. That I would never get married because I can't cuddle or spoon properly, because I sleep curled up in the fetal position like I'm a lost Gretel-esque child in some Freudian nightmare. I've been told that I need to eat more, put some meat on my bones, indulge. That I don't deserve a boyfriend because I'm immature and a born cheater and because I clearly don't comprehend the complexities of commitment. That I need to be married soon/yesterday/now. That I need to hurry up and pop out some kids because my eggs are running out and because that's what people do and because that's just the way things are done. That I'd make a terrible mother. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I've been told that I look like a woman who loves pleasure and I took that to mean: I look like a glutton, a lardass. I've been told that I look like a total bitch and I took that to mean: I need to wear less makeup, invest in some clear chapstick, curl my waxy lips into phony smiles at regular intervals throughout the day.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I've been told to give up on striving toward “success” and to just marry/date up. To say yes even when I mean no, to cook meat even though I'm a vegetarian, to wear skirts even though I cannot stand the fleshy feel of my thighs rubbing together. I've been told that my hands are magical instruments, and that my mouth is a first-class, tropical destination comparable to San Tropez. That my hips curve like a wine glass, and that my tits are too small. I've been told that I dress too conservatively in cardigans and long pants. That the thong I wear underneath these clothes is such a fucking turn-on. That I only sleep with you/men for the power you/they possess. That I have no power myself, but maybe a little bit of talent and someday that talent might evolve into power and that when/if I acquire this power, I should know that no man will want me—it's called the Oprah Syndrome. I've been told that I need to cover up, that I'm too inhibited, that I'm a total slut. This I've been told.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> And there's a man with me now, a man in my bed, another messenger who is here to tell me, tell me, tell me, and I hear all of these deep voices in my head, all of these words, and I grab onto his ears with my fingers (which he'd told me were “just so feminine and cute” as I fiddled with my chopsticks over dinner at this Pan-Asian chain downtown) and I steer him where I want him—right where I want him. I tell him, “To the left, to the left, up, up.” This I tell him. This, I told him. And I barely hear my own voice, muffled in the sheets, but I know that he cannot speak at all in the position that he's in, and there is silence, and my guilt, oh my guilt, it quickly gives way to pleasure.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b> </b><b>CJ Hallman</b><b> </b>still naively believes sex is its own song. She lives in Austin, TX, and her fiction has appeared in Identity Theory, Everyday Weirdness, <a href="http://amphibi.us/" target="_blank">amphibi.us</a>, Sphere, (Short) Fiction Collective, and The 322 Review, among others.</span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-51802609502876120902010-10-20T12:19:00.000-07:002010-10-20T12:19:06.212-07:00Writing Prompt: Non-Fiction<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>by Laura Roberts</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I don’t know what happened between us. I guess you were tired of me and ready to move on, but I just wish you had told me that. I can’t seem to move anymore. I don’t know why I am I writing you a letter, when I know how you’ll respond. Every letter you sent was just obscure lyrics for some song that I wasn’t a part of. And I had to try so hard just to say the right thing. I was so fucking worried about saying the right thing. There were no right things. Words don’t make a relationship. Interests don’t even make a fucking relationship. There are no relationships. Just reaching out for the burners. And when they aren’t too hot, you can hold on. What the fuck is wrong with me. I hate words. Fucking words just written to mean nothing. Nigger. Nigger. NIGGER. You like that. It means something for you to say it because its offensive. It has meaning. Because nothing has meaning. Even NIGGER doesn’t have meaning. You know that right? The meaning is death. The final art. The last heaving breath is your last fucking song, and it sounds the same for everyone. I don’t care for your body. It wasn’t attractive. Frankly. Neither was mine, but at least it was thin. No, your attraction is the mystique you create. Carrying a flask of whiskey, collecting obscure records, your slouched walk that kept out the rest of the world, your accent. You talked about things I didn’t care about, but I listened. I listened so fucking hard, because I loved your voice. And I loved when you said you wanted me. Even though you really didn’t want me. I don’t think I believe that sex hurts you. Some fucking sick ploy for virgins. I don’t think you know pain. People like you are pain. Bring pain. Sometimes I wish you had died, so I wouldn’t have to google you. I’d know you had stopped. Forever. Suspended in January underneath me and huffing and puffing, while I feel nothing. I want to crush you. Grind the heel of my palm into your wheezing head and watch your stomach swell and pop. But really I hope you’re doing fine, you know. The little cunt inside me has to say things like that, because I’m polite and good. I’m so fucking GOOOOOOOOOD that I wish you well. What a cunt. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Laura Roberts</b> lives like a hermit in foothills of the Appalachian mountains. The last thing she purchased were boots that looked like Dr. Martens, but weren't. </span></span></span></div></span></span>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-31655325312765042132010-10-15T10:02:00.000-07:002010-10-15T10:02:38.711-07:00I Know I Love Her<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>by Kit Andrews</b></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I'm in love with this girl. How do I know that I am in love with her? Well I could list off a bunch of mushy reasons that would make me sound like a Shakespeare plagiarizer or I could tell you the truth.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I know I love her when I'm done pissing and I decide not to flush the toilet when she's in the shower.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I know I lover her when she messes with the paper and I don't roll it up and smack her on the side of the head with it.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I know I love her when we go out to eat and I don't give her a price limit that ultimately leads to me ordering her food for her.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I know I love her when she says something so absurdly stupid it makes me want to call her retarded and I don't.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I know I love her when I look at another women, think about cheating, but don't and the reasons have nothing to do with possible baseball wielding brothers or fathers.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I know I love her when I actually take the time to tap her on the forehead before I cum in her mouth.</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Kit Andrews </b>is a living failure at the age of twenty-five who has just been able to admit that he's actually a pretty crappy World of Warcraft player. Not really his favorite song to have sex to, but a recurring trend none the less is Marilyn Manson's The Beautiful People.</span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-64135105046881569172010-10-06T22:38:00.000-07:002010-10-06T22:38:43.612-07:00A Perfect Red Line<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;"> <b>by yt sumner</b></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">We lean into the mirror. Our hips pressed against the basin. Our lips pursed open. My lip liner is red, the colour it always is and my cupids bow is crooked.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">Fuck.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">She flicks a long lash with mascara.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">What’s the worst thing you ever said?</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">I shrug and wipe my lips, leaving them raw, they way they look when they’ve been kissed hard.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">I say lots of things I wish I could take back. Lots of things I never meant. In fact I wish I could cut out my tongue for all the things I ever said.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">She blinks rapidly and leaves black flecks on her face.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">You’re getting morose, I mean in bed.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">I don’t know. The worst thing I ever heard was sorry.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">She laughs with a snort.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">C’mon, give.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">Well, to tell the truth, I’ll say anything.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">Like?</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">Like anything he wants me to.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">And do you?</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">Of course I do.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">I think about how much I like my lips looking like this. I place the pencil on the sink. I think of all the things I said.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">While I begged, laughed, moaned, inhaled, bit, teased, opened, sliced, sucked, bled, tore. While I made the words hurt and rode every single vowel that travelled down, made him growl back, made him tell me more. Such conversation.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">But now it seems foggy and all I remember is the last thing I said.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">I said, I love you, once.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">She looks at me with black freckles and lashes and smirking.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">And were you telling the truth?</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">I shrug and pick up the pencil. I hold it to my lips.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">I thought I meant every word. Until he asked me to say it again.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;">And I lean closer to the mirror and draw a perfect line.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><b>yt sumner </b>writes stories for people that send her postcards at <a href="http://lambeatswolf.wordpress.com/" style="color: red;" target="_blank">http://lambeatswolf.wordpress.com/</a><span style="color: red;">. </span> She's not stopping until she's written 100 of them. She was cleaning the house to Beethoven's 5th the other day and would have much rather had been having sex to it.<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: black;"> </span></span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-36533051539636889752010-10-05T06:49:00.000-07:002010-10-05T06:49:55.626-07:00Blue Ribbon<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by J. Bradley</b></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gary and his wife occasionally enjoyed tag teaming other men orally, so he explained on my cellphone from an unlisted number. “My wife's not coming with me. She's not into meeting strangers at their houses.” Gary's wife looked tan, had a lovely pair of tits, but her face and voice were vacant from the background while he asked for my address.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gary stood in my door way, the black shirt hugging his tapped out pony keg of a stomach.. “Oh yeah, that feels nice. Let me see it”; his dissection of my pants would have received a C- in seventh grade biology. We sat on the couch as he played county fair judge with the prize sow of my scrotum.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Can we take this into the bedroom?” Gary sounded like he got his come-hither tone from Jared Leto on <i>My So-Called Life</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. We walked through the Cormac McCarthy novella of my hallway toward the bedroom. “My wife would have said something about your house if she was here”; my mother said to always remain polite during interviews and tryouts.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wanted the two minutes Gary spent sucking my cock back. I wanted to ask Gary's wife if Gary also tapped her on the back of the head while his cock was in her mouth, how long did it take to exorcise the ghost of his frenulum from her tonsils, how much kindling and matches it would take to burn the awkward celluloid of this moment.</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; color: black;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse;"><b>J. Bradley </b>is the author of </span><span style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>The Serial Rapist Sitting Behind You Is A Robot</i></span><span style="border-collapse: collapse;"> (Safety Third Enterprises, 2010) and the Interview Editor at </span><span style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>PANK Magazine</i></span><span style="border-collapse: collapse;">. He lives at </span><a href="http://iheartfailure.net./"><span style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6771375434913105117" target="_blank">iheartfailure.net</a></span><span style="border-collapse: collapse;">.</span> One of his favorite songs to have sex to is <span style="line-height: 18px;">"Search and Destroy", The Stooges</span></span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-86931224864941021772010-09-29T22:30:00.000-07:002010-09-29T22:33:10.807-07:00Sorta Free Gas<span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"></span></span></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>by Kit Andrews </b></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">The car had been parked outside for about a half an hour already. I saw the couple who owned it approach and talk to people as they pumped their gas. I knew the type; they were passing through, out of money, and probably selling crap out their car.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> We get about two of these a month, people relying on the kindness of strangers. I was only interested because the girl was decent looking and I hadn’t had any in a while. I was really hoping they would come into the store instead of making me go out there.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eventually, towards the end of the night when the store was getting empty the girl walked into the store and sheepishly approached the counter. She asked if I was interested in candles. Candles? Yeah, they were selling candles out of the trunk of their car; in a failing attempt to fund their trip away from their judging families.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I offered twenty bucks in gas for a blow job in the bathroom. She feigned shock. She didn’t blush though and we both knew why. She went back to her boyfriend and they argued a little bit. She came back in and told me it would cost at least fifty.</span></span></span></span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">We negotiated it to thirty-five and they could have the food out of the deli that I would be throwing away at the end of the night. She went out and talked to the boyfriend and came back in. She wanted some of the food now, while it was hot. I gave her two chimichangas, a chicken breast, and half a dozen corn dogs. I even threw in a couple fountain drinks.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Later that night when my relief showed up and took over the register I went out to let her know I was ready. Neither of them would look me in the eye. We went back into the store and the girl followed me into the bathroom while her boyfriend hovered around the beer aisle.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I went to sit on the toilet but decided to stand. She got down on her knees and sucked me off. She was hurried and lacked all technique. I eventually came in her mouth. She spit into the sink and used some water to wash out her mouth. I don’t remember saying much but I did mock her for murdering my unborn children.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> We walked back out where the boyfriend was waiting. I gave them a larger paper bag that reeked of fried chicken and had grease seeping through the bottom; we double bagged it into a plastic bag. I had my coworker put thirty-five dollars on pump four and I signed the form to have it put on my tab.</span></span></span></span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><b>Kit Andrews</b> is a living failure at the age of twenty five who's biggest accomplishment is that he's a mediocre World of Warcraft player. Not really his favorite song to have to sex, but a recurring trend none the less is Marylin Manson's The Beautiful People.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span> </span></span></span></div><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"></span></span></span>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-62497817064720642342010-09-25T07:54:00.000-07:002010-09-25T07:54:45.204-07:00New World Love Poem<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by Peter Schwartz</b></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">i want your super perfect pink cheeks</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">your daily fruitful</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">your nightly fruitful</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">your sweet and undying fruitful </span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">i want so much of you </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">that you must grow to give it to me</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">yellow flowers would be </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">precious but even more </span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">i want your germs and bacteria</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">your sludge and misanthropy </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(of which there is perhaps</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">a single atom) </span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">i want to feed you an entire</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">thanksgiving dinner by teaspoon</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">to pet your rice paper armor </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">as gently as sleep itself </span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">i want to give you thousands </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and thousands of dollars then turn </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and walk away from you only to </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">show you what i mean </span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">i want to be your migrant worker</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">your sweaty lovething, return to your</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">fruitfuls even after a whole day </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the fields because i want to </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">i want to make a peppermint gun</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and pull the trigger every ten minutes</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">till i win your breath, to carry it </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">in my own lungs too </span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">i want to scissor with you and </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">laugh and laugh because that’s </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">not what men do to women and </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">then call <i>you</i> the silly goose </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">seriously though, there is a part </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">on my body where my upper thigh</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">meets my ass that feels so spongy </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and loose and dead i despise it </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">like a stranger’s, for you, i’d be </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">just that, nothing else, and fight </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">my way back to regrow myself</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">right back into the man i am now </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">for you, really. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span><b>Peter Schwartz's </b>poetry has been featured in <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The Collagist</span></i>, <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The Columbia Review</span></i>, <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Diagram</span></i>, and <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Opium Magazine</span></i>. His latest collection <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Old Men, Girls, and Monsters</span></i><i> </i>was released<i> </i>as part of the <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Achilles Chapbook Series</span></i>. He's an interviewer for the <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">PRATE Interview Series</span></i>, a regular contributor to <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The Nervous Breakdown</span></i>, and the art editor for <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">DOGZPLOT</span></i>. He'd love to make love to 'Mean Girls Give Pleasure' by Daniel Johnston. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-65974551594770532342010-09-21T21:39:00.000-07:002010-09-22T07:49:59.832-07:00Bad Night At The Bar<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by James Mannix</b></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Even though I was in a tequila coma.<br />
I could still.<br />
Notice your face.<br />
That condescending look I always receive.<br />
When I'm that fucked.<br />
Wish I didn't.<br />
Run into you.<br />
While in my coma last night.<br />
My shirt might as well have said.<br />
Disappointment. <br />
But I told you what clothing store.<br />
I shopped at.<br />
The Disappointment Store.<br />
Located on the corner of.<br />
Piss Drunk and Fuck My Life.<br />
So that was your warning.<br />
From the start.<br />
Yet that face still stabbed me in the stomach.<br />
Even while in my coma.<br />
Tequila coma.<br />
<br />
Its raining and.<br />
My disappointment poncho.<br />
May be dirty and reeking of booze.<br />
But yours.<br />
It's clear.<br />
Transparent.<br />
<br />
I am jealous.<br />
Of your sobriety. <br />
<br />
Not jealous.<br />
Of your see-through poncho. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">James Mannix</b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> lives in New York. He thinks any Sade song is great to have sex to. Either that, or Pantera's 'Cowboys From Hell.' </span></span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-4105025099300545362010-09-20T08:01:00.000-07:002010-09-20T08:10:05.372-07:00Alias<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"> by Lavinia Ludlow</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I can tell you all about rock bottom. I’ve choked on the gravel of<br />
rock bottom. Hell, cop it up to fucking rock bottom. And I liked it. I<br />
liked it so much that I let it fuck my brains out for years, and here<br />
I am: its gang-bang on a leash and all its glory. Or maybe faking a<br />
fetish for rock bottom is a shitload easier than taking ownership and<br />
clawing away from it.<br />
<br />
I thought rock bottom struck about a little over a year ago, when I<br />
had a substance-addicted ex-con with a court-recognized anger<br />
management problem slapping me around in an insufferable relationship,<br />
when I was fleeing to another state, scraping the bottom of a CD made<br />
up of twenty-five years’ worth of birthday cards because no one would<br />
hire me, not even Starbucks—yeah, I was that desperate for work. But I<br />
know now how that was just a type of rock bottom, because rock bottoms<br />
change with the scenery, they come and go, then they’ll hunt you down,<br />
and never let up, just like the perfect mind-fucking manipulative<br />
boyfriend.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Lavinia Ludlow </b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">is a musician and writer from the West Coast. Her novel</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">alt.punk is forthcoming from Casperian Books in 2011. One of her favorite words is pharmocopeia. </span></span>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-54806889017744512622010-09-18T10:40:00.000-07:002010-09-18T10:40:30.134-07:00Love Is Not A Home<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b> </b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>by CJ Hallman</b></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The worst part about being a girl is getting fucked, Jen thinks. She is sitting on a bench that advertises some real estate agency (surely intended to persuade the income-earning individuals passing in their cars, and not those, like her, condemned to hourly wages and public transportation), and she stares across the street into the strip mall that stands behind a massive sign full of Spanish words. A homeless man with scraggly hair and work boots stomps up to her and asks her for change, but she says, no. She is not being an asshole or anything; she needs the change for the bus because Derick wouldn't drive her home, and not because he was being an asshole or anything, but because his car wouldn't start again and where the hell was he even going to get the money to fix it? Look, I'm not being an asshole, she tells the homeless man, it's just circumstance.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The homeless man shrugs and says, ok, and sits down on the bench beside her.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (But maybe Derick was being an asshole. Maybe he had always been an asshole and she was just too dumb to see it. At that bar downtown the night they met, he told her that his band had opened once for Black Flag. Three weeks later in his pot-paraphernalia-strewn apartment on the east side, Derick confessed that this was a lie, and as it turned out, he wasn't even in a band anymore. But whatever. By this point, they already had a thing going, and Jen thought Derick spoke earnestly and had a very gentle way of kissing and maybe a gentle soul too, and all this despite his scruffy appearance and penchant for illegal substances and the pleasure he seemed to derive from riding out long stretches of unemployment, and so she didn't say anything about his lies then, though she wishes now that she would have.)</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Jen opens her purse and reaches inside and does not look down, but feels the foil wrapper, many wrappers, none of which she can see, but all of which she knows are blue, Trojan. It will be a nice surprise, she thinks, next time Derick has Theothergirl in his room and is all hard and ready to fuck her, if he opens his nightstand drawer and finds it devoid of condoms. Yep, what a spectacular surprise! And didn't he know, Jen thought, what a terrible idea it was to start a “relationship” with someone who lives not just in your apartment complex, but your very building? It has its conveniences, yes, but. Nothing works out, not here, not in this town. And hadn't he ever watched a sitcom?</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (Theothergirl, the girl who lived below Derick was named Myra or Mia or something equally pretentious sounding, and she worked part-time at Target and attended some private Catholic university and majored in art or design or something else pretentious. Jen was introduced once to Theothergirl at a party at an apartment complex a few blocks away, and she remembered noting that Theothergirl was both devoid of personality and of body fat on her arms and legs, because it was all collected in her stomach region (but Jen noticed too that she managed to hide it pretty cleverly with a loose fitting ethnic-y top), and that she had pretty big boobs, considering her short frame. Jen, by comparison, was just kind of medium-sized all over, and was concerned that her boobs were already beginning to sag, and had to drop out of community college after a semester because there was no more money left to pay for anything, and so she got a job working as a waitress at this place downtown that served immensely over-sized and overpriced portions of pasta to large families. [Take drink orders. Check up. Take orders. Bring plates. Check up. Bring bill. Fuck my life. Etc.] Jen's life had become routine, and this routine spread like a cancer, and even her dating life caught the routine. Every few weeks, it seemed, Jen met some other new guy and began a “relationship.” [Flirt. Text message. Watch a movie. Eat fast food. Kiss. Eat more fast food. Drive around. Fuck. Eat more fast food. Call it off. Etc.] But then she met Derick while out one night with Kim, a fellow waitress and community college dropout, at a hipster bar downtown, and Jen thought maybe Derick would be the end of the routine and the beginning of something new, spontaneous, stable. He had this smile that stabbed her, killed her, resurrected her, and while the sex was not overly exciting, it happened with undertones of emotion, which was a first for Jen, and he just seemed like a good guy, a guy she could maybe learn to love.)</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Jen removes her hand from her purse, from the condoms, and the homeless man turns to her and says that if she has something as important as a funeral to get to, maybe she shouldn't be relying on the bus because the bus is never on fucking time. Jen tells the homeless man, no, again, though she realizes after she says it that it doesn't really make any sense, but what, she thinks, can you do? Jen considers the man's odd remark and attributes it to the clothes she is wearing—all black, the same clothes she wore the night before to a rock show up north, these clothes, now goth in broad daylight, ridiculous. She thinks, well, at least he didn't tell me to cheer up, to smile. She thinks, at least this man has a goddamn sense of humor about things. She looks over at him. She notes that his clothes, jeans and an Alice in Chains t-shirt, are actually fairly clean, cleaner than Derick's usually were, and he isn't that old, thirty-ish, and he isn't terribly disgusting, and his face has decent bone structure, a classic Greek look about it. This homeless man, Jen thinks, maybe he is alright. Yes, she thought, I believe he is, why not?</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (Because last night, on a twin mattress on his bedroom floor, Derick held Jen and told her that he loved her. She believed him. She believed him despite the stale stench of Lone Star on his breath. She believed in the power of the fingers that stroked her hair, stained fingers that reeked of cigarettes. She believed Derick weeks before when he said that someday he'd maybe like to possibly start a family or whatever together at some point in the distant future. She believed him when he said that he thought Mila or Mitra, Theothergirl, was a little on the bimbo side, and that her nose was too big for her face and that he thought Jen was much more intelligent anyway. And when Derick said that he was going to enroll in some business courses alongside his film ones at the community college so that someday he would be able to provide, and that maybe when that someday arrived, Jen could quit her job and focus on whatever it was that she wanted to achieve in life, well, yeah, she believed him. She believed him like a religion, she believed him all night long, and then the sun came up, up, up, and she read his fucking emails, and why was he even sending emails about longing to a girl who lived one floor below him?)</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Jen reaches again into her purse, fingers the foil. She glances over at the homeless man again and smiles slightly. Beyond him, in the distant, she can see the number twenty bus approaching. It is, indeed, late. She tells the man that there is no funeral, and asks him if he has any place to be. She thinks, when you use a condom, everyone is clean; a convenient feature of the modern age. And ten minutes later, with sticks and dirt and circumstance pressing into her bare back, with change unspent and rattling in her pockets, now down around her ankles, Jen smiles into this stranger's shoulder and thinks, but oh well, maybe this is the best part about being a girl.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">CJ Hallman </b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">spends the majority of her free time hatin' on illogical words. Irregardless, she lives in Austin, TX, and her fiction has appeared in Identity Theory, Everyday Weirdness, </span><a href="http://amphibi.us/" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" target="_blank">amphibi.us</a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">, Sphere, (Short) Fiction Collective, and The 322 Review, among others.</span></span><br />
</div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-47314255369924105192010-09-16T21:25:00.000-07:002010-09-16T21:35:03.158-07:00Los Angeles<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> by Aaron DiMunno</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">On a recent return to Los Angeles, I was walking the hills off of Mullholland drive. I stood at the peak of some raised area or another. Not sure what you would call it. A cliff? A mountain? One of the jagged arms reaching from whatever the hills that make up Runyon Canyon are called. The shining kingdom of urban suburbia sprawled like an oil spill from the smog choked Pacific in the distance. I looked around at the captivating geography, the rugged canyons so alien to my east coast glacier scraped mountain eyes, the lush vegetation, the palm trees fake as hell. And it struck me how sad it all seemed, crushed under the weight of human development. Beauty battered and oppressed but still there if you looked hard enough. Like the most delicate and beautiful specimen of a woman, sporting a black eye and trying to carry a sofa down the street on her back. That is Los Angeles. If you help her carry the couch up to her apartment, she'll fuck you. She may even let you stay the night. But she'll dodge your kisses and in the morning there will be nothing but a note on the night stand asking you to lock the door behind you. You will never see her again. And every now and then, when you're real low, you will to masturbate to her memory. That is Los Angeles.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Aaron DiMunno</b> enjoys camping every once in a while but he thinks each time that he should do it more often. He had a cat named Moochie LaRue but she died. He is forthcoming in Jersey Devil Press. </div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-17404292683465075132010-09-15T08:15:00.000-07:002010-09-15T08:15:41.942-07:00Traveler's Vows<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <b>by Kit Scanlan</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I want to travel with you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I want you to gently bite my nipple as the sweat from the tropical sun drips down between my breasts and slides onto the thin hotel sheets.<span> </span>I want the cries from our love to echo through the thin walls and startle the monkeys.<span> </span>I want to laugh with you inside me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I want to fall asleep with my head on your shoulder as the crowded bus takes us through little desert towns, amidst the crowing of chickens and loud, unintelligible chatter.<span> </span>We will get disapproving stares from wrinkled old women and smile softly to ourselves in a silent apology for a breach of local culture.<span> </span>We won’t feel that bad.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our schedule stays the same: arrive at a new place, the next stop, another hotel.<span> </span>Naked, we would caress and cuddle, staring out the window at the ocean, the sky, the stars, the uncrowded beach; our clothes reeking from one too many days without laundry, the hotel room nothing but a bed and a dresser and maybe a mirror.<span> </span>I want to have you in a tent by ourselves, separated from the universe by a thin layer of high-tech plastic.<span> </span>An echo from a wild predator and a cool breeze make me shiver, and I snuggle closer, deeper into you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I long to feel your touch, light, between my shoulder-blades as we stare at some relic in a museum.<span> </span>Through it I would feel your need for me, ever-present, ever-burning, even though we would spend every hour together, sleeping and snoring and eating and shitting and arguing through the stress of travel until we fall into bed to work out our restless hormones.<span> </span>Even then I would pull your hair just a little harder than usual, but I would write it off as the heat of passion.<span> </span>You, being you, would pretend to believe me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I want to fall asleep still angry with you about the missed train or an improper tip, and I want to wake up to you gazing down at me in an unfamiliar light, in an unfamiliar bed.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That bed would still be ours, though, since you would be there.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Kit Scanlan </b>works day jobs to make money, but has a professional career in hopeless romanticism. One of her least favorite words is "babe" if it is used to refer to her by someone she doesn't know, and one of her favorites if used to refer to her by her lover.</span> </div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-52463530521203810562010-09-13T18:42:00.000-07:002010-09-13T18:42:06.450-07:00Revenge<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">by Isabella Ling</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wear my heart on my sleeve and you stabbed it again and again. So I will cut your chest open, I will cut your heart out. I will hold it in my hand, I will throw it on the floor. I will watch it wither and die, but it will be too easy for you. I will let it rest there, I will watch it beat and pump. I will pick it up, I will look for the stains life has left on you. I will not miss the areas where you have hurt people. Your heart is ugly, an angry mess and tangle of red and tendons. I will see the stains, not of what life has left on you, the stains of your own hands.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You are a troubled soul, looking for trouble where there isn't any. You hurt me, so now I will make you hurt. I will put it on the floor again, I will put a knife through it. I will take my hand off the handle. I will watch the blood flow, the blood will gurgle over the open wound. The blood will come towards where I am standing. I will cry, the salty tears will mix with the blood. I will keep some of the blood in a vial. The smell of iron will be pungent, I will smell blood everywhere I go for the next week.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will take the knife out. I will wear my heels, I will dig the heels into your heart. I will step and stomp on your heart. I will take my heels off and grind it against the bottom of my feet. It will feel softer and softer as it turns to mush, until it is hardly recognizable from the blood on the floor. I will try to scoop up whatever I can, till the floor is clean and shiny again. I will drink it, I will keep you inside of me. I will stitch up your hole. You will have no heart now. You will be empty now, just like how you have always been.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Isabella Ling </b>thinks feelings will fade over time, though she won't say she is a fan of time. It just doesn't work fast enough sometimes. She is trying to put need and want in her list of least favourite words.</span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-81460718128729504172010-09-11T11:51:00.000-07:002010-09-11T11:51:06.478-07:00"Check-In"<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>by Adam Kinsey</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi everybody. My Name is R. I'm an addict. It's good to be here. I just need to check-in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Six ay em this morning, I'm up. I wish I could say I was on my hands and knees by my bed, thanking God for the new day, or calling one of you guys to tell you what I was committing to or something, but in the interest of rigorous honesty I got to say all I wanted was to get the fucking cat to leave me alone so I could go back to sleep. Humble Pie kept jumping up on the bed with all of her sixteen pounds of weight, then walking back and forth across stomach and purring. I knew she was not gonna let me sleep until I got up and fed her. So I finally dragged myself out, but the box was totally empty. I tried just getting back in bed, but she wasn't going to let me do it. She's heavy, like a big possum, you know? So finally I'm totally cursing her, but I get up, pull on my jeans, throw on a t-shirt, and my shoes without socks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I live just a block down from that Safeway on Market Street, that fucking mongo one, and it's open twenty-four hours a day. Did you know it's the hugest one on the West Coast? Just an extraordinary factoid for you guys there. Wouldn't want you to quit learning just because you're a bunch of fucking addicts. Anyway, I head out, stagger down there half-asleep. The weather is like, spitting, it's so foggy, and I'm cursing fucking Humble. I'm sure I looked very sober (laughs).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, I get there, I think the security guard is totally going to give me the hairy eyeball, but he doesn't even look up, doesn't stop talking on his cell to his girlfriend or whatever. And I look around. It's six-fifteen now, right? I look around and everybody who doesn't work in there, they all look like they're half-dressed and heading for the cat food aisle too. And I feel great suddenly, because, I think, I have found my people.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I get the cat food and just think I'm gonna go home, gag the cat and go back to sleep, but for some reason I start walking the aisles, kind of going into the Safeway Trance. Do you guys know what this? Some of you are nodding your heads and some aren't, and I don't care if Tim S. is grinning his ass off over there like I'm some kind of tweaker, I'm going to explain what the Safeway Trance is. It's no big, it's just how the colors are all bright on the packages and the music is always the same. There's just something very comforting about walking those aisles, particularly as a recovering junkie, because in my life I haven't been able to be sure of much so I take my consistency where I can get it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, I'm in the trance. I'm walking along with a box of cat food and kind of thinking about going down to the methadone clinic early and how much it would surprise the nurse, but then I decided that as long as I was up I'd fix myself breakfast. I used to love making big breakfasts. I wasn't going to do just Captain Crunch and milk either, but eggs and sausage. And hash browns, none of these homo-fries! Sorry. Present company excepted. What I'm saying is, I hadn't fixed a breakfast with sausage like that in I don't know how long, and I wasn't even sure how to make hash browns. But there I was in this Safeway trance of colored labels and Muzak versions of Nirvana songs and I feel so good that I decide I'm not only gonna feed Humble Pie and make breakfast for myself, but I'll make it for my no-good housemates too. Evelyn and Peter usually don't even get up until two, and Theodore is a night clerk at a convenience store and he always says that the fluorescent lights suck all the chi out of his bone marrow, so he needs ten hours sleep. But I knew if I made a big, big breakfast--with potatoes and eggs, sausage, coffee, I'd juice some oranges and have fresh squeezed orange juice too--If I made a great big breakfast, they'd all sure as fuck get up. It's, like, since we made the no drug-rule at the house and then Peter and Evelyn broke it, none of us really hang out like we used to, and I figured this could kind of be like old times. But in a healthy way, you know?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, by this point I've gone up to the front and put my little box of Friskies into a cart and I'm filling it with all this stuff: flat of eggs, five-pound bag of potatoes, pound of coffee, coffee filters and one of those plastic cones for making it, a bouquet of purple iris's and a roll of paper towels for napkins. We're going to do this fucker up right, right? So I've got all these things, and I go over to the meat section to get sausage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, have you been in the meat section lately? Have you experienced trying to buy sausages? There's the old Farmer John kind in links and patties like I had when I was a kid, but then Farmer John's got something called turkey sausages, and they're in links and patties too. Then there's Italian sausages--mild, medium, and hot--and some kind made of chickens and apples. There's sausages made out of soy and beef, and there's detached sausages and uncut. And everything--even the chicken sausages!--they come in both turkey and regular!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, so I'm trying to figure this all out, and my breakfast exuberance level is starting to significantly wane. I look at my watch, see it's only six-forty-five and I start thinking about just ditching the basket in the kosher food section, taking the cat food and going back to bed. But just as I'm thinking that, I see this guy and this woman, and their both either strung-out, or they just got off a real little boat on a real rough ocean, you know what I mean? So anyway, the guy looks like he's about as confused over in the lamb section as I've been in the sausages. He's shaking his head and the woman's laughing, and when he leans his head back a little, his long hair falls away from his face and I see that this guy is Monroe!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Monroe was the son of my pastor back in Iowa City, and while I was always nice enough to him, not everybody was, because Monroe--unlike the usual stories about the wild children of clergy--was a geekazoid and a half. I remember back in elementary school, Monroe used to carry all his fucking books in a briefcase, and one time he sat down to lunch, opened that briefcase and took out a plate, some silverware and a cloth napkin. The entire fucking elementary school--kay through six--is sitting at those foldable tables and this little guy with glasses is having a fucking dinner party. Monroe was still carrying the same briefcase in high school, and sat around reading Kierkegaard or something like that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, here he is with long greasy died black hair, wearing a leather jacket and jeans that I swear look like they've been soaked in blood, and he's got a red-haired babe-o-rama hanging on his arm. They both look like they'd really like a nap, and I don't think it was just because it was early in the ay em, you know what I mean? Now, I've been Clean-and-Sober for a year-and-a-half except for the methadone, and I don't really count that no matter what anybody says. The methadone doesn't stop me from being clean. That and God are what keeps me clean. But after fifteen years on The Street I sure as hell can still spot a stone junkie when I see one, even if he was the pastor's geek-o-rama son, and he's sixteen-hundred miles from where I saw him last.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So anyway, I'm watching these two while they're le-eaning over the rib-eye and the chuck as if they're thinking about climbing in and laying down for a little while, and I think "What the fuck?" Make amends. Or at least be friendly, right? I leave my cart where it is--'cause no matter how good of friends you are, when you're walking up to someone that loaded you want both hands free, as you have no idea what's gonna happen--anyway, I leave the cart and I walk up to these two jokers who are now French kissing and nodding out at the same time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Standing behind Monroe, I've got a moment to think that the dude has gotten big over the years, I mean, he used to be a beanpole, but somehow he's gotten…wide. Standing behind his back it's like I'm standing next to a…a…SUV or something. I consider walking away, then think What the fuck again and tap him on the shoulder. I say "Hey Monroe, dude, how long you lived in Frisco, man?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The red haired chick looks at me first, kind of peeks around his bicep, but she doesn't say anything. Monroe doesn't even turn around. There's just this really low fucking voice--but I'm sure it's Monroe's under all the menace, you know?--this low voice and it says: "Who. The fuck. Are you?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, fuck him, I'm thinking but I figure what the hell, I haven't seen anybody from I.C. in ten years and I been feeling like now that I'm clean maybe it's time to start being in touch with my roots like the rest of the straight world does, right? Not run away from the past but face it, right? So I say "It's me, Jerry Tyler, man, from Iowa. How the fuck you doing, Monroe? Long time no-fucking-see, dude."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Monroe turns around and looks at me. Down at me is more like it, 'cause this guys has about a foot on me, I swear, and I'm no Napoleon, you know what I mean? He's obviously gone through hell--his face is all brown and wrinkly, his teeth are fucked-up and he's got a big scab by his eye like he's been doing crank and picking, picking, picking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But you know what's funny? He has the exact same glasses as he did in High school. I'd be willing to put money on it that they're not just the same style but the same fucking ones. Black plastic frames, square not round, and I have this sudden flash of peeking into the band room at lunch time once and seeing little Monroe Quaily sitting in there all by himself, practicing scales on a clarinet with his square plastic glasses on. I remember knocking on the window and when he didn't quit playing or look up I kept on knocking and yelling at him for about another ten minutes, until the lunch bell rang. Same damn glasses, can you believe it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, Monroe. He doesn't say anything. The red head's staring at me like from behind a tree. Finally, he smiles at me with, like, both teeth, then he reaches into the meat display and picks up this big package of lean ground beef. I gotta say, what happens next is weird. He just takes that package of meat and holds it right in front of my face. The price was five-oh-four at a dollar-ninety a pound, I remember. Then Monroe, with his other hand, he--really slow and, like, methodical--he pushes his fingers through the plastic the meat's wrapped in, and starts squishing it around, really close in front of my face. He does that for about ten seconds. I can see how red the meat is, and I hear the song that's being played is a Muzak version of "Penny Lane." Then he tosses the mangled package back into the cooler, looks at me and says real calm, "I don't know you."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But then they just keep standing and staring at me, so I finally book and go back to my cart. I wheel on up to the front, pay for my stuff with my ATM card and trudge on home. When I set the sacks down to unlock my door, I look at my watch and see it's seven-thirty. I go up stairs, feed Humble, and put the classic rock station on real quiet in the kitchen. Then I make breakfast for Evelyn and Peter and Theodore and me. When it's ready, I go and wake 'em all up by tapping on their doors. They bitch at first but when they realize it's free food and coffee's ready, they got up pretty fast. We all ate with the radio on, and talked. The fog had burned off early, and it was, like, a pretty sunny day and it was pouring in through the window and we were all wired on coffee and happy. When we finished, Evelyn and Peter did the dishes and the nurse at the clinic was blown away because we weren't just skating in as the doors were locking. Theodore even thought to bring her half the irises.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So it was an okay day, but weird. But I'm thinking about this: making reparations and having history are good things and all, especially for people who aren't addicts, but maybe sometimes they're overrated, and we should just, like, be happy with what's happening right now if something worth being happy about has snuck up on you.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Adam Kinsey</strong> was born in Santa Clara County, California, before the phrase “Silicon Valley” was coined, or before even people used answering machines. He received an M.F.A from Eastern Washington University, and has published in Yomimono, Happy, and Hubcap. He lives with his wife and daughter in Petaluma, California. You can check out his ongoing experiments in fiction at http://10minutesandcounting.blogspot.com, and/or stalk him on twitter @10ScndsNcntng. He likes the word "logy" an awful lot. He is also known for for overusing "antechamber."</span>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-63375854976010168612010-09-08T17:39:00.000-07:002010-09-08T17:40:50.233-07:00Rats, Roaches, and Death Ants<div style="color: black; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by Thom Young</b></span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There are three things in my place. Rats, Roaches, and Death Ants. They come out at night. They take shits in my shower. They laugh when I'm not home. They live in old pizza boxes. They lick cum off my sheets. They get in my girl's hair. The rats try and eat my Honeycomb. The rats are big and not small. The roaches are bigger than the rats. They live in the cracks of walls and lives. They shit on my toothbrush. They wait until I take a shit, then eat the turds. The ants sting like motherfuckers. They love sugar. They hide in old pairs of underwear. They love sweat. The roaches, rats, and ants like fucking up my world. It brings them happiness. I can't reason with them because they hate it. I locked the rats in the attic. The roaches hit the caps lock when I write. I hate them all. I fucked this bitch last night. The rats ate her pussy. I went to piss. The roaches took over. They licked her clit. The ants gave her a finger bang. They are all disgusting like me.</span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #888888;"><b>Thom Young</b> is a writer from Texas. His work has been in 3am magazine, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, The Legendary, and many other sundry places.<br />
His favorite word in the English language is penchant, for example "He had a real penchant for lady-boys."</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-80577319269460193012010-09-07T09:18:00.000-07:002010-09-07T11:08:21.525-07:00Saturday Morning<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by Dorla Moorehouse</b></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I struggle into consciousness with the feeling of words forming on my clit.<br />
<br />
W-A-K-E<br />
<br />
“It's too early,” I mumble, and try to roll over, but Lily has my hips pinned down. And anyway, I'm not sure I really want to move.<br />
<br />
W-A-K-E<br />
<br />
Her tongue is firmer this time; my knees twitch from the added pressure.<br />
<br />
“Why should I? It's Saturday; I want to sleep late.”<br />
<br />
S-O<br />
<br />
W-E<br />
<br />
Lily slows down as she writes, emphasizing "fuck" in huge, wet strokes.<br />
<br />
"You were well on your way to fucking me before I was even conscious."<br />
<br />
D-O-N-T<br />
<br />
"I'm not sassing you. I'm stating the obvious. Maybe you need to be more observant."<br />
<br />
B-E<br />
<br />
G-O-O-D<br />
<br />
"I'll be whatever I want."<br />
<br />
D-O-N-T<br />
<br />
My body starts to liquefy as her strokes become more intense, but I'm not about to let her lick me into submission.<br />
<br />
"I'm awake - but I'm not going to fuck you if you're going to be so demanding."<br />
<br />
U-P<br />
<br />
U-P<br />
<br />
C-A-N<br />
<br />
S-A-S-S<br />
<br />
P-U-SH<br />
<br />
I struggle up, but as I try to swing my legs off the bed, I find my range of motion is limited - Lily already tied my legs up while I was sleeping. With no way to move and no other options, I settle back down.<br />
<br />
W-I-L-L<br />
<br />
She even draws out the punctuation mark, jamming her tongue against my clit with the final dot.<br />
<br />
"No," I gasp, unable to contain my pleasure, but still not ready to give in.<br />
<br />
Lily sits up, crawls over me, her cunt positioned right over my face as she grabs the ropes over the headboard and ties my wrists to the bed. Then she settles herself a little lower, until her cunt is pressed directly against my mouth. She doesn't need to give any orders; I know what to do. Arching my neck for a better angle, I stroke my tongue up and down her lips, then plunge it between those soft folds to get to her clit. I don't spell words out the way she does, but instead make abstract shapes: deep swirls, jagged lines, polka dots. I draw on her, turn her cunt into a work of art visible only to me.<br />
<br />
Ever stoic, Lily tries to be silent for as long as possible. She knows I love to hear moans and screams, that vocals turn me on. When she wants to control me, she doesn't say a word, commands with her body and the words she spells with her tongue, and only makes a sound when she comes. I feel her thighs start to quiver and I know she's close; I've learned how to read her body. When her hips quake, she she lets loose a man and almost collapses. But she maintains her composure and slides back down to my clit.<br />
<br />
G-O-O-D<br />
<br />
"You know I am."<br />
<br />
I look down my nose to see her lift her head, raise her eyebrows.<br />
<br />
S-T-A-Y<br />
<br />
"Or else?"<br />
<br />
O-R<br />
<br />
E-L-S-E<br />
<br />
The threat makes me even hornier, and I know she's right. I'm tied up, and if I protest, she'll leave me bound in bed for as long as an hour to teach me a lesson. She'll sit right<br />
<br />
Y-O-U<br />
<br />
B-E<br />
<br />
G-I-R-L<br />
<br />
G-O-O-D<br />
<br />
Y-O-U<br />
<br />
next to me, reading a book, acting like I'm not even there. Or sometimes, if I'm really naughty, she'll untie me on the spot, let me go and act as though this game never even started. That's worse than the torment of waiting. But I've been horny since I opened my eyes; I need release; this is not the time to tempt fate.<br />
<br />
"I'll be good," I whisper. "I promise."<br />
<br />
That's all Lily needs to hear. She quits the spelling and plunges full force into my cunt, letting her tongue run wild. Then I feel two fingers ease up inside me, press against my G-spot. The buildup overwhelms my body and I explode, thrashing my limbs as best I can despite the ropes. When the orgasm subsides, Lily breaks away, undoes my bonds, goes downstairs to make coffee. I can go back to sleep now, and join her when I'm ready. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Dorla Moorehouse i</b>s a writer and dancer living in Austin, Texas. Her favorite word is "corroborate," and thinks it sounds more beautiful than "cellar door." Her least-favorite word is "underwear," largely because she hates wearing the stuff. Dorla's writing appears around the internet, most recently at <i>The Erotic Woman</i> and Tinglemedia.com. You can read more about her work at <a href="http://dorlamoorehouse.blogspot.com/" style="color: red;" target="_blank">http://dorlamoorehouse.<wbr></wbr>blogspot.com</a></span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-51609191608170406402010-09-05T19:01:00.000-07:002010-09-05T22:17:22.509-07:00Rachel And Leah: The Hate That Links Us Together<span lang="SV"></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by A.S.</b></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;">You used to be married to my man and no punishment goes deep enough for that. There are slide pictures of you in his collection and sometimes I watch them; your smiling, confident young face staring at me from some other time, the happiness in your eyes evident. He held the camera and you owned his love. I destroy the pictures of you giving birth to his child, the intimacy between the two of you being too much to bear. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;">I lose weight and I dress in my new leather boots, the restrained feeling they provide is liberating. I happen to meet you at the Library and it´s a moment of glee and spite. I´m beautiful and you´re old. The power could have shifted, but it doesn't. Your position is cemented in the reality of you being the first of everything; wife, mother, grown-up relationship - how can I ever fight that?</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;">You were young together with him and your advantages cannot be underestimated. You know all of his friends, they´re your friends too. You bought a house together, all of you, in the seventies. I´ve heard the stories. People are only too willing to share them, waiting, watching for my reaction. I hurt visibly, you know, and I imagine my pain is exhilarating, sensational even.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;">That house, those memories; a spontaneous evening bonfire, someone playing the guitar, cheap red wine and his arm around your shoulders. No question about where you went from there - was that the night his seed found your egg and linked you together forever? The passion you shared manifesting itself in the creation of life. Sometimes I think I hate you more than I love him.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;">The condescending looks that say I´m too young are always present. The pity and the frowning faces that say his behaviour is despicable and embarrassing, taking a girl half his age to his bed, into the life of his child. And I never get to fit in, I never feel like a proper adult. It´s always like I´m borrowing the character of someone else, someone more worthy and knowledgeable. Someone real.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;">I have to meet you, obviously. There are events, gatherings, celebrations around that cursed child that cannot be ignored. And I play my part, someone´s part, any part that I think is appropriate. Over the years I become quite adept at it. I think you must hate me too, on some level, but you behave admirably and I have to applaud, there´s certainly nothing wrong with your confidence.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;">In the end I´m diminished. I can´t find it in my heart to forgive you and it occurs to me that I´m the one being punished. I know this, but it doesn´t change anything. I still wish you´d get cancer.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="SV"><br />
</span></div><span lang="SV"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="SV" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I´m <b>A.S.</b> I write fiction based on stuff I´ve experienced or imagined. Often I can´t remember what´s true and what´s fantasy, and sometimes I accidentally steal my friends´ memories. I prefer my characters somewhat broken. The idea of referring to myself in third person creeps me out. I live with Hello Kitty and Super Mario. I miss Manny Calavera.<br />
<b>Words I like:</b> ´distinguished´, ´sprawled´ - mmm… use a British accent and taste them…<br />
<b>Words I don´t like:</b> ´juxtaposition´ and ´womb´ - don´t try those.</span></span> </span>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-29202417984388093342010-09-04T11:42:00.000-07:002010-09-04T11:42:36.838-07:00I'll Feel This For Days<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>by Catherine Leary</b></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s gray. The sky, the water, the sullen drizzle. The air, cold and biting. We’re sitting on a rail overlooking the sea. The moody water. The roar of the wind. Water has beaded up on the glass, tiny droplets like sweat. They run down the windshield.<br />
<br />
You’re holding my hands. Not because you love me, but because they are numb with cold. We are both wrapped up in thick coats. The wind ripples at their soaked skins, pours inside all the vulnerable places. Despite my love of winter, I’m always cold. My fingertips have taken permanent leave. It’s like they’re angry at me.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“I could breathe on them,” you say.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
This makes me smile. So you do it. You look in my eyes, a slight smile. The hot velvet of your breath wraps around my fingers. It is ephemeral. As soon as you inhale, the heat leaches away. You exhale again. I admire your knuckles, how big and raw they are. Like knots in a tree.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“Why are we out here?” My teeth are chattering.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“You were tired of being inside. It’s been a long winter.”</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“I thought that was you.”</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“You wanted to see the ocean,” you remind me.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
It’s true. Warm memories of sitting in front of the space heater, fingers and toes offered to its steady flow of heat. Reminiscing about the water. It’s close enough to smell sometimes, sitting on my front steps. The salt gets blown through by weather fronts. Just last week we stood in the driveway, spellbound in the dark, sniffing the air like hounds. Yet by car it’s almost fifty miles. I wish for the space heater, or rather my hands wish for it. My toes, too. They’re getting chilly despite my Siberian boots.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“I know,” I say.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“So here you are.”</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“So here we are.”</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
You try breathing on my fingers again. A strong gust blows my hood into the back of my head. I’m blocking the wind. My back is to the restless ocean. The smell of salt is strong, pungent in my nose. Like it’s been fermenting. Growing old since summer. Dying. You rub my fingers between your palms, trying for friction. I want you inside me. You’re busy. You’re focused. The warmth of my hands is all that stands between my life and your death. I look at your face, trying to catch your eyes. I tell you.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“All right,” you say.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“But I want your hand.”</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
We walk back to the car. The gravel is soft beneath our feet. We climb into the back seat and slam the doors. It’s good to be out of the wind. It’s cold inside the car, too. You offer to wiggle between the seats, reach with one long arm, jam the key into the ignition. Turn on the heater. I shake my head.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“No, it’s okay.”</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
We kiss for awhile. You unzip my parka. Your fingers navigate through layers of clothes. My nipples poke through my bra. You play with them. I do a little exploring of my own. You gasp a little at my cold hands. Long moments glide by, punctuated by breathing. A fine scrim of fog encircles the windows. A bank of it envelops the rear windshield.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“Are you ready?”</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
I nod. I take off my pants, and immediately my skin prickles with gooseflesh. My teeth renew their chattering. It’s okay, though, because your fingers are hooking into the only part of me that’s warm. Hot. Melting into the cigarette-scarred upholstery. You use the heel of your hand on my clit. I suck in a deep breath. It’s cold, but I can take it.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
You work me. I smell like the water, but sweeter. Like the sun glimmering on a green wave. Like summer. This is the smell of life. You lean over me, concentrating on my cunt. I shudder a little. I love this feeling, this focus of yours, narrowed into such a tight beam. Chafing at such a sensitive place. My thighs are pushed apart. Your breath warms my face. You start to twist, thick knotted knuckles pushing in. You’re the only one who can do this to me without lube. I gush and gush. I’m soaking the seat. I’m making way for you. It hurts. It’s magnificent.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“You’re amazing,” you whisper. “So strong.”</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
I’m entering the wordless place. You brace a hand on the door and start to push. Slow and steady. I’m concentrating. Willing myself to let you pass. A grunt, and then bared-teeth cry. I start to pant. All the windows are glazed with moisture, all the views to the outside are blurred. You are breathing with me. I’m straining toward you. In my mind everything is red. There are entrails. Time lies somewhere, broken and bleeding. The birds are falling from the sky. A victorious scream, the cry of a warrior. Your hand. Your wrist. Your fist. You are inside me.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
You are filling me.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
I come like a natural disaster. Like the wind is ripping me apart. Like you have ripped my heart out through my cunt. I jerk like a fish. I gasp.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
You kiss my cheek.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
Long after you’ve withdrawn, I’m still laying there. The condensation has fattened, grown into snail-trails. The steely sky winks through them.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
Later we’re both back in the front seats. You’re buckling your seat belt. The car is running, the heat cranked up to full blast.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
“Thank you,” I say.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
I’m tired of the sea. Gray sky, gray water. I’ll feel this for days.</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
Catherine Leary</b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> lives in New England with her cats, aging parents, and a whole mess of books. Much to her mother's chagrin, she is exceedingly fond of the word </span><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">cunt</i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">. She is an editor and co-founder of Freaky Fountain Press.</span></span> </div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-40791425347652243732010-09-03T18:33:00.000-07:002010-09-03T18:35:09.123-07:00Addiction: Fiction<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <b>by Lavinia Ludlow</b></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dear Scarlet<br />
<br />
It’s me walking in on you shooting up in the diner’s cesspool of a</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
shitter, and you trying to conceal the evidence while you’re telling<br />
me it’s straight up your first time. It’s the way I’m ready to blow<br />
chunks because I’m forced to understand what I’ve put Mom and Dad<br />
through all these years. It’s my twenty-three-year-old sister now old<br />
enough to glare out at the world with the “fuck you, I’m righteous and<br />
deserving of this shit. You owe me World so I’m gorging on<br />
self-indulgence and destruction. Why? Fuck you, that’s why.” And I’m<br />
twenty-seven with “I’m not mad; just unbelievably disappointed and the<br />
respect I have left for you is questionable” radiating off my face the<br />
way the artificial light reflects off your spider vein-ridden factory<br />
girl legs.<br />
<br />
What really gets me is the way you say, “I’m sorry.” The way you</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
follow it with, “you’re such a hypocrite.” Don’t turn this shit around<br />
on me. I was different from you, and I had things under complete<br />
control so fuck you too.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tonight, I’ll go home tonight and shower off the industrial concealer</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
sheathing the track scars on my arms and the superfluous tattoos on my<br />
shoulders. I’ll chase four Twinkies and a fistful of narcotics with<br />
four Guinness, and as the buzz settles in, I’ll fuck my living-in-sin<br />
boyfriend skin-to-skin till his dick deflates back into the nest of<br />
his crotch and I’m slung over the edge of our mattress like a withered<br />
water balloon leaking out the last bits of his cum. I’ll have his<br />
abortion and never once regret or think back about it.<br />
<br />
Because afflictions like those have nothing on the waltz between</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br />
needles, veins, and blood. They’ve conventional, they’re common.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I’ve just been clean for too long.</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Lavinia Ludlow</b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> is a musician and writer from the West Coast. Her novel</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> alt.punk is forthcoming from Casperian Books in 2011. </span></span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Pharmacopoeia is one of her favorite words.</span>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-21679253223324602802010-09-02T13:26:00.000-07:002010-09-02T23:47:11.490-07:00Strange Ways We Love To Suffer<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> by Isabella Ling</b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The ink is black and dark, just like how I imagined it to be, just like how I imagined I would feel right now. The hum of the machine resonates in my ear as the needle pierced the skin of skin on my shoulder, colouring my skin permanently. I try to imagine how the needle would spIn and twist but I don't really care. The needle drags itself across my now tender skin, as tender as my heart but not as painful. I revel in the little pain it brought, I had thought it would hurt more. </span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think of him as my skin is being pulled taut. Of yesterday, how I had finally seen him again after so long, how we had left each other only this morning, but it seems so far away now. I laugh and smile as a video of me was being taken, I don't let them see how I really feel.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I think people who get tattoos are sadistic," I said.</span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"You will be thinking about getting a new one in one or two months, trust me."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I know, that's why I said people are sadistic, to put ourselves through this pain."</span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Well, people are sadistic," The needle continues dotting my skin with ink.</span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">All I can concentrate on is the dull throb between my legs. He had spun me around and taken me hard and rough from behind. I remembered how he had filled me up. I like to think he had been that way because he really wanted and needed me. I am greedy, I want it to be both. I wished he had fucked me till I bled, so he can see the pain he is causing me. He was so gentle when he held me before that, but he has never been with my heart.</span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Come with me tonight cause I am drunk, I need you near me, I will cuddle you my little baby</i>, the texts had read. I will regret this come tomorrow, I thought. Still I went, along with the wretched feelings that will surface the following day. He said he can never make anyone happy. As the needle continues its journey across my skin, I want to scream and take the needle and put my name on his heart forever. </span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I lie on my side as the needle moves across the side of my breasts and down my ribs. The pain this time is more intense, more real, more like how it should be. The pain distracts me, at least for a while. I curse and swear through the pain but the pain doesn't hurt.</span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There were so many things I wanted to say, have to say, they formed in my mind and died at the tip of my tongue. I kept silent while in the cab with him to his place. If only time could stop with his arms around me and lips on my hair. He is so good at being silent. I searched for hidden meanings in the words he did say, wishing he would say the words I wished to hear. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Later, I bit his lips when we kissed. How I loathe that he only needs me when he is drunk. But I loathe the idea of him not needing or wanting me at all even more. <i>Need</i>, he had said. Such a powerful word, I cradle it and repeat it like a broken record in my head. </span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He has revealed so much yet nothing. I feel like I know him but I know nothing about him. Was there a quiet desperation that I sensed in him yesterday? I want to devour him and keep him inside. I should have been drunk, so I could have said the things he had whispered to me in bed. The needle jolts me back to reality, I held my breath as I wait for the next sting. I know he will not call tonight. I need more distractions, maybe more tattoos. Strange ways we love to suffer. </span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Isabella Ling </b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">wrote half of this while listening to The National. "Strange ways we love to suffer" is a line off their cover of "Sleep All Summer". She thinks Hello Kitty is disgusting. Her current favourite word is </span><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">need,</i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> but it would be better if it comes with </span><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">want.</i></span> </div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-50874903763494900062010-09-01T17:49:00.000-07:002010-09-01T17:50:01.021-07:00three lines<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>by Gretchen Cello</b></span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am addicted.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wish… I should have…</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I thought. You knew.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He has a girlfriend. They’re in love. A few.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I drank an eighth of gin. Popped two pills.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Non prescription.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Addictions. Construct me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Confident.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We fucked on her side of the bed.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cocaine swore to me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And I ran out of money.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like I always do.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And I started drinking.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Too much.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like I always do.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One night.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I. Exposed. Improper. Overuse.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like I wasn’t worth.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Telling.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">His addiction is named Emily.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">His addiction speaks four languages.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">His addiction has all of his time.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Chopped. Three lines.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On a broken coffee table.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I compose.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Loyalty.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Addicts are like that.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
Gretchen Cello</b> believes that she’s an alien hailing from the Lyra</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">constellation. She’s presently homeless, jobless, and sleeping on a couch</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">in Queens. She has a webpage that she dislikes referring to as blog, it’s</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">updated every day: <a href="http://www.followmetonyc.com./"><span style="color: red;">www.FollowMeToNYC.com.</span></a> You heard… every single day.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gretchen Cello has eyes that change colours.</span></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6771375434913105117.post-89452012575722137732010-08-31T13:14:00.000-07:002010-08-31T13:18:12.654-07:00THIS ISN’T ME; IT’S ALL FUNCTIONAL<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">By Barry Graham</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"You can spend the night beside her, and you know that she's half crazy, but that's why you wanna be there" – <i>Leonard Cohen</i> </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> All months are secretly October. She has that kind of power. She’s all food and drink. Eggplant parmesan and vegetarian nachos and iced tea and diet coke. Gallons of it. The shit can’t fall down her throat fast enough. It’s the pills she pops that causes that kind of appetite. <i> Unquenchable</i> she says while she sweats maple syrup and yanks on my bottom lip when she kisses me and I’m not sure if I like it until I feel my dick get hard against her leg and then I’m certain I do like it, but she feels it too and stops kissing me and pushes my face away like it’s my fault she’s there and the bed bugs are biting through her socks but she can’t leave because her car’s three towns away and I’m holding out on giving her cab fare until she tells me why her skin smells so much like pancakes even though it tastes like aspirin when I lick it. <i>It’s the seizures</i> she says, <i>the goddam seizures</i> and the pills, thirteen pills. She told me all their names but I forgot them. That wasn’t part of her charm. Her charm was consuming things that never belonged to her and reminding you you’re not good enough to be as close to her as you are and all of this is my fault. She promised me it will always be October and I believed her. This story is not about bed bugs.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i> I want to keep kissing you all night, but I’m so sleepy. Lay here and don’t do anything to encourage me</i> she says then she pulled her shirt up and flatbacked and her tits were small even when I tried squeezing them together and she smoked three joints and bitched between every hit because <i>only niggers and hippies still roll joints, </i> she says even though she kept rolling them but didn’t consider herself either and her intention was to make me feel like shit because I’m the one who bought the Zig Zags even though I don’t smoke unless I’m peer pressured then I smoke until I’m really high and just pretend to hit it the rest of the time instead of simply saying no. <i>This isn’t me</i> she says, <i>it’s all functional</i> and I pinch her left nipple until she winces, then, <i>I know baby. I know.</i> Even though I have no fucking idea what she just said and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to or if she’s crazy or if its all part of her magic but that isn’t likely because her magic never includes making me feel good. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The bill for lunch was fifty-six dollars. <i>Just order it, I’ll pay</i> she said and her Visa was blue and pink and Hello Kitty but she couldn’t find it when the delivery guy showed up and she couldn’t turn the light on or take her panties off or get out of bed to shower. <i>It’s the pills</i>, she says, <i>the goddam pills</i> and I miss her now that she’s gone and she wasn’t gone then but I still missed her. <i> I quit heroin cold turkey</i>, she said, <i>cold fucking turkey</i>. <i> I can do anything. I’m a fucking superhero. </i> And she was and she ate two bites of her sandwich and a handful of french fries and drank three extra large diet cokes one after the other and made me throw away the rest in a small trash can with no bag sitting on the shitty blue carpet beside the TV that wouldn’t change for three days through Cartman and Colbert and Zach Galifianakis and we laughed and kissed and I sucked on her tongue when I caught up with it and clenched it between my teeth until she smacked my face then I did it again and she put my hand between her legs on the outside of her jeans and I wouldn’t rub it because she wouldn’t take them off and she pulled her shirt back down and her neck smelled so good, not just pancakes but buttery pancakes left saturated overnight in generic syrup and she’s not here and I miss her and she wiggled her hips. <i>Lay down bitch</i>, she says. <i>Did you just call me a bitch</i> I say and she ignores me and presses her palms against my shoulders and I look out the window through the mirror behind the TV and the leaves are falling and it’s still October and I get out of bed and chop carrots and zucchini and potatoes and broccoli and add them to the stew already stewing in the crock pot. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i> Come back over here and cuddle with me</i>, she says and I do because the lights are off and she’s a superhero and her car’s still three towns away and I still haven’t given her cab fare. <i>What were you thinking calling me a bitch</i>, I say. <i>Haven’t you ever wanted to do that, just grab someone and roll them over and call them a bitch, </i> she says. I thought about it and wasn’t sure if I agreed or disagreed but her goddam skin makes me hungry and now I know what feeds her appetite. Better pancakes than heroin. At least for her sake and I felt her fill a needle with junk and stick it through her syrupy skin and shoot it into my brain and I saw the spot of blood trickle from my skull onto the pillowcase and felt her soft red hair come to rest against my chest with her ear against my heart. <i>I’m a fucking superhero</i> she said again because my thoughts were too loud and she told me about shooting up orange soda in a bathroom stall at an elementary school in North Jersey a half an hour before she chaperoned her niece’s field trip to the state house and I told her about my father beating a man to death with a tire iron at an intersection during a snowstorm in ’82. <i> I used to write speeches</i> she said and she pulled up her right sleeve and showed me 118 tattooed on her forearm which stood for the number of democratic seats in the state legislature and I pulled up my sleeve and showed her my Corinthian cross tattoo and praying hands and I told her Jesus saved my soul because it’s true and because she’s Jewish and I like saying that to Jewish women. <i>Won’t that number change</i> I said, <i>the 118, doesn’t it change all the time</i> and she hated me for saying it but she kissed me and pushed my face away harder than any of the times before and said <i>yes,</i> <i>but they can never take that fucking minute from me, that one fucking minute</i> and she grabbed my iced tea from the bedside table and drank it in one swallow and the leaves were still falling outside and through the window I watched through the mirror and I flipped her over and called her a bitch and she laughed at me and told me that’s not how it works but she wouldn’t tell me how it does work. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i> I worked for the goddam</i> <i>governor</i> she said. <i>Don’t you remember, that’s how we met</i>? We never met until this morning but I wasn’t sure why she pretended not to know that or who she thought I was or wanted me to be. A friend of mine told me about her and she emailed me out of the blue and asked if she could come see me and I told her yes and we walked right passed each other on the sidewalk and stopped after five steps and turned around and looked at each other and she hugged me like she knew me forever and maybe she did and she kissed me and followed me to the bar even though she wouldn’t drink. <i> It’s the pills,</i> she says, <i>the goddam pills</i> then it made sense why she drove from Trenton to Camden to meet someone she might have just met. <i>I’m having a fucking breakdown. Ice my head down, please baby, please ice my head down</i> and I iced her head down and she told me she knew it was me as soon as we passed each other and that’s why she stopped and she knew that I knew it was her and that’s why I stopped and that’s when she told me it will be October for as long as I wanted it to be and I said I wanted it to be forever and she took a bite of her nachos and licked my top lip and I tasted the salt from her chips and I paid the bill with cash and called a yellow cab that never came so I called Al’s cab and they came fifteen minutes late and she held my hand and asked me for my jacket which I gave her. I kept the ice on her head the whole way home and after it melted I froze it again and put it back on but it came open while we slept and the water soaked our pillows and shirts and blankets and even then she wouldn’t take her clothes off but I didn’t mind because by then I didn’t want her to.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i> Quit your fucking snoring</i> she said. <i>It’s my bed</i> I said. <i> You’re bed? You want me to hit you in your mouth</i>? <i>Not really</i> I said, <i>can you make it my nose? I have to use my mouth for work</i>. <i>I’m sorry baby, I wouldn’t really hit you</i> she said, <i>but really, quit the fucking snoring already</i>. I couldn’t stop and she flipped and flopped and grabbed my neck and put me in a headlock and forced my lips against her skin and I tasted heroin and she told me to kiss her all over and I did and she rubbed her hips against my dick then rolled as far over on the opposite side of the bed as she could without falling off. <i>But really, quit the fucking snoring already</i>. She told me her mother made her father sleep alone in the guest bedroom because he never stopped snoring and I told her my father came home from the bar after getting jumped by four bikers and woke my mother up to load his shotgun and when she ignored him and tried to sleep and wouldn’t stop snoring he beat her on the side of the head with the butt of the gun until her left ear stopped working. <i>My mother filed for divorce when I was twelve</i> she said. <i> My father never fucking got it</i>. <i>My father’s in prison and my mother’s dead </i> I said<i>. </i>My father never got it either. She stopped bothering me about the snoring and the bed bugs penetrated her socks and started up her ankles and calves and I kissed her on the top of her hand and she smiled and the leaves were still falling and the stew was still cooking in the croc pot. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i> I don’t want to leave but I have to baby, I’m starting a new job in the morning. I’m working for myself</i> she said. I scooped two bowls of stew and handed one to her and I ran my plastic spoon down the center of her chest and around her nipples and stirred in her sweat before I took a bite and I kissed her when my mouth was full and she turned her head so I let the stew fall from my mouth down the side of her cheek and I licked it off and she put her head back down on the pillow and took off her shirt and unzipped her pants and dumped her stew on her stomach and the juice pooled in her belly button and I slurped it up and she pushed my face further down and she’s a superhero so she pushes me away. <i>Oh, my head baby, please get more ice for my head</i> she said <i>and a drink please get me a drink</i>. I gave her more iced tea and rubbed her head down with ice until it melted and I leaned in close and kept my lips pressed against her skin. <i>I need a fucking shower. Why’d you dump this shit all over me</i> she said. I handed her a small white towel and she asked how long we’ve known each other. <i>Since October </i>I said <i>it will always be October</i>. <i> It’s the pills</i>, she says, <i>the goddam pills</i> and the lights are off and I found her Hello Kitty Visa on the floor beside her purse and she kisses me and pushes me away and her head and her hands start to shake and I curl beside her and pet her hair which is slowly getting sweatier and I turned the TV off and there was only darkness. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i> My parents aren’t really divorced</i> she said. <i>My mother’s not really dead</i> I said and we both laughed and her bangs are wet and I brushed them out of her eyes before I looked at her. <i>My father doesn’t even snore</i> she said. <i>I know I said I’ve met him, remember </i>and she closed her eyes and nodded her head and the bed bugs had her wrists and arms bitten and she scratched the bites until they bled. <i>Come back over here and cuddle with me</i>, she says and I tell her I’m still here. <i>Why can’t I feel you</i> she says and I kiss her on her bottom lip and bite and pull it but she can’t feel and none of us can feel and I’m not sure if we were ever meant to and neither does she and she says so before I do which is one of her charms. <i>What can I do for you baby, what can I do</i> I say. <i> I could really use twenty dollars for a cab</i> she says and I hand her a twenty. <i>I feel like a prostitute</i> she says. Prostitutes take their panties off I wanted to say but didn’t. I kissed her on the cheek and called a yellow cab that never came so I called Al’s cab and they came fifteen minutes late and she held my hand and I kissed it. <i>All months are secretly October </i> she whispered into my mouth and the leaves outside were falling as I watched her walk away. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Barry Graham</b> teaches writing at rutgers university and he wrote the national virginity pledge. His favorite word is sandwich. Look for him online at <a href="http://www.barrygfunk.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">www.barrygfunk.blogspot.com</a></span> </div><div></div>MARGARET AND NANCYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12563433442812667663noreply@blogger.com0