I met a man named Frank today. He knows how to throw his voice. He said he learned it from his dad. Fun!
Continue reading “The Woman Who Married The Man Who Could Throw His Voice by David Henson”
Tag: Abuse
Broke Nose by L’Erin Ogle
“Tell me where it hurts,” he says.
Are you fucking kidding me? There isn’t enough time for that. But I know he’s not asking about that. My eyes are black from the corners to across the bridge of my nose, swollen across the bridge. My nose feels like hamburger meat rotting on a kitchen counter that we forgot to put away because Kenny actually showed up on time with the dope for once. That meat sweated and swelled and stank for a week before we finally came down and realized there was a dead animal rotting next to the empty cans of beer and overflowing ashtrays and stacks of dollar bills from a great weekend at the club.
Just the Way She Likes It by Sharon Louise Howard
Mary deadheaded the bruise-brown marigolds with a quick jab of her small shears, accepting a certain amount of collateral damage. Finger-pinching took too long.
Continue reading “Just the Way She Likes It by Sharon Louise Howard”
Nostalgia Inc. by Dave Louden
For seven-ninety-nine a month they’ll rent you back your memories so that you don’t have to struggle to make new ones. I’d bought one of the first gen A.R. projectors. It ran interiors at four-K but had difficulty properly rendering weather. For the most part, I overlooked its shortcomings. It ran a maximum thirty minute nostalgic rendering so whether the clouds looked 2D up there in the big blue was of little concern.
Another Chance by Jason Huebinger
Sirens blared nearby, but as James sat, they sounded distant. Distorted. Like a baby’s cry from a monitor. People rushed by, screaming, sobbing, but the world was silent and still. His heart slowed as emotion slipped from his body. All that remained where he sat were functioning organs under worthless skin.
The Real Bad Snowman by David Henson
A match flares. A moment later, an empty cigarette pack lands at Janey’s feet in the back seat. She stretches her arms and yawns. Her mother drums her fingers on the steering wheel and beeps the car horn. “Hurry up, Jack.” The Joe’s Blue Lounge sign creates an eerie glow inside the car, a rusted Ford sedan idling by the curb on Main Street about a block south of the square.
Shelter by Mary J. Breen
I pulled into the parking lot and chose a spot near the rear door where a stencilled sign on the window read Eee-Zee-Sudz-It 24 ho rs. Very funny. Not.
Jakantha by Amiel Rossin
Jake drove his convertible Mustang up Highway 1, the Pacific Ocean stretching into oblivion on his left, his girlfriend Samantha sitting far to his right, as if she planned to throw the door open and roll onto the blacktop at any moment. They were on their way to a little B&B that Sam had discovered online (one Yelp reviewer called it ‘kitschy but tolerable’), and although neither of them said so out loud, they both knew that if this weekend was a disaster, their relationship would never recover.
Running by Des Kelly
Down the street the girl with bright hair ran. She’s running still, in her own way. Trying to avoid the thing she was made to do.
It’s been years, and nobody knows. Except for her.
Hair streaming in the sun.
It reminds her of blood. She’d like to wash it away.
Slowly scrub the stain.
‘Salt.’ Granny would insist. ‘Use salt.’
There’s salt in her tears. It’s not the same.
literally stories 