I awaken to computer or phone screens with emails beckoning. Mostly junk, links to New Yorker articles, reminders of delinquent dues on this card or that. CONTACT US IMMEDIATELY, black words growl on a sterile background.Continue reading “Screens By Yash Seyedbagheri”
They push, push, push me, like that horrid boss in the Twilight Zone episode about Willoughby. The one with the poor ad executive. He’s a moneymaker, not a shape, a human form. I don’t blame him for jumping off a train, hallucinating about a dream community.Continue reading “Push, Push, Push by Yash Seyedbagheri”
I outline payment schedules. Credit card bills, student loans, power, utilities. I draw up grocery budgets and lists, in my elegant cursive, something I’ve relearned in recent months. More onions, less TV dinners, and Diet-Pepsi, containing more late-night sleeplessness. A tomato or two, if possible. Some granola bars, even.
No beer, save for the occasional six-pack of Coors Light.Continue reading “American Nightmare by Yash Seyedbagheri”
Robotic card reps call to collect in the morning, reiterate in the afternoon, and assault my ears in the evening.
They really need to get in touch with Nicholas Alexander Botkin. Age thirty-four. Date of birth 16 January 1987.Continue reading “Over the Limit by Yash Seyedbagheri”