Oklahoma - David J. Thompson
CRACKED OPEN LETTER
Rebeka Singer
LETTER TO MY FATHER
Drew Knapp
TWO GIRLS IN THE AFTERNOON
Heather Brown
COLLISION
Shawn Misener
BOY
Irene McGarrity
NON-FICTION: PARIS
Ron Riekki
NIGHTLY HABITS
Stephanie Amargi
CRACKED OPEN LETTER - rebeka singer
I want it harder. More. Always.
I’m not an addict. Ringing is good. High means something inspiring. I love you,
too. There’s never enough.
Until there’s no product left,
and I can accept that, at least until tomorrow.
See, I told you I’m not an
addict.
Not seeing straight is the best.
Swaying, my favorite. Can I get another hit?
No monitor for this drug. Why?
It’s secret. People, too judgmental. There are no allies.
I want to be so fucked up I pass
out awake. I’ve had it a few times. One of them I was with my dealer and a
friend. My friend left the room. There I was, passed out awake. The surrealist,
bestest state. I couldn’t move. Our dealer leaned over my body, started with
his hands all over my chest. Neon lights and shapes and fantasies swimming in
my head. My friend came back. It was okay in the end.
Still call the guy for shit. I
mean, his shit is the best.
I’m a sloppy user.
My lungs feel kicked.
I never listen to anybody. (How
cliché?)
I was going to say something else
but I lost it somewhere in my head.
Rebeka Singer
Jesus’
Son
Denis
Johnson
LETTER TO MY FATHER - drew knapp
there is a tree in the backyard
of your old house that wonders why I’ve stopped coming to climb it. this is how
i miss you.
i think we try and raise our sons
to be the men we wanted our fathers to be.
he’s a bit older now than the
first time you met him. i see you and i in the ways i try to grasp his
silences.
there is often anger--and
sometimes happiness, but never misunderstanding.
i don’t think that i ever thought
you were wrong about anything. the times i pretended you were amount to a
curiosity for the why.
this is a hunger i feel blessed
to have inherited from you. i will do my best to make sure my son is fed.
perhaps if i do, he will have the
courage to send me letters before time comes to cut me down and haul me away.
Drew Knapp
thisisdrewknapp.com
The
Palace of Dreams
Ismail
Kadare
TWO GIRLS IN THE AFTERNOON - heather brown
It’s a long and tedious drive
through a winding canyon to get back to the small town where my family lives.
When the bus finally hits my stop, my best friend is waiting for me. She is a
grade behind me, and still attending the K-8 school where we have spent most of
our lives. High school isn’t quite the adventure I thought it would be and I
look forward to these few stolen moments before returning home each day. We
make our way to the field on top of the hill between our houses. She pulls out
a cigarette and lights it, holding it to my lips so the smell won’t stick to my
fingers. We laugh over our mishaps and adventures, while taking alternate drags
until we’re down the butt. She stubs it out in the chocolate-brown dirt as I
pull out my cinnamon gum and perfume. After completing the ritual, we hug
goodbye―promising to see each other tomorrow―and as I turn to leave, she says
"You smell like musky sweet flowers." I smile back at her before
trudging down my side of the hill, wondering whether or not my parent’s car
will be sitting in the driveway.
Heather Brown
Bad
Feminist
Roxane
Gay
COLLISION - shawn misener
You think the black hole is out
there, somewhere distant, unattainable, light years away. You also think it's a
hole in space, where anything that enters vanishes forever.
Yet I know something. That black
hole isn't really a hole. It's a condensed mass, a violent object, and if you
look closely, it's RIGHT HERE. I can look in your eyes and see it, so
clearly.
Take my heart, take my own black
hole, and slam it against yours. See what happens.
Shawn Misener
Norstralia
Cordwainer Smith
Cordwainer Smith
BOY - irene mcgarrity
It’s the spoon I like to gag
myself with, the wooden one with “boy” carved into the handle. I found it in a
junk shop just hanging from a hook by a dirty piece of twine. I thought it
would be splintery but it was smooth. The guy who made it sanded the hell out
of it like my dad would have. Dad was always in his shop all hours of the night
drinking Buds. I could see him making a spoon like that when my mom was
pregnant with me. And I could see mom hanging it from the wall, then jamming it
into the back of a drawer after I was born.
Lately, it’s my favorite spoon to
throw up with. I keep it on a shelf with my razors and pills and lighters,
other things I use a lot. After dinner, I tie my hair back and go into the
bathroom with the spoon, thinking maybe I’ll be luckier than my dad. Maybe
I’ll make a boy. I lift the toilet seat with my foot, and my gags sounds
like laughter echoing off the bathroom walls.
Irene McGarrity
The Corrections
Jonathan Franzen
NON-FICTION: PARIS - ron riekki
Text from my
girlfriend:
I was in a café terrace,
drinking with my
roommate from china.
We were talking when
suddenly about 20/25
persons came in our
direction running and
screaming that we need
to go somewhere safe.
Suddenly everybody
start running and I went
inside the café with my
friend. After few minutes
I checked and policemen
with big weapon and fire
men were outside
screaming to stay inside.
It was so crazy, a
helicopters were flying
too. Finally I went
outside and I was sure it
was a mistake. I started
walking away and saw
that all the street was a
messed. People while
running moved all the
table on the floor, broken
glasses where on the
floor, etc… Journalist
were taking picture and
asked question.
I knew after that an
explosion from a bar was
the reason why
everybody runned.
People panicked and it
was nothing!
The atmosphere is very
very weird. People are
scared and bad news
are all over the news.
Ron Riekki
Red
John Logan
NIGHTLY HABITS - stephanie amargi
The cat was in heat. She sent her
lamentations to the sky, hungry for moonlight and a cat dick. I imagined her on
her back, rolling in the damp earth outside my window, her belly rising like a
loaf of bread.
We are similar, the cat and I.
Some nights I lie awake in bed, aching with an appetite that I can't feed. I've
learned my lesson though. I don't trust my nightly habits.
On my lips is a wail, wild yet
tamed. I suppress it and toss in my sheets as dirty paws and whiskers coalesce
in the dark.
Stephanie Amargi
When Breath Becomes Air
Paul Kalanithi
Paul Kalanithi
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