Presbyterian preachers saddle sea urchins and go for a roe. Sushi sirens singsong seduction, spinach puffs are Jesus’ best wrapped gift. Potato blinis whisper holy water woo to wahoo, yahoo. Salmon tartare pull shrimp tails and crab rangoons goon as devils riding...
Ben Day One
about the author
Benjamin Niespodziany is a necessary figure in the Silver Sewer Rat Scene. His recent novella, Junktella, was turned into a swamp. He'll cough up a loch water pocket watch if you talk too long or not enough. Last month, he submitted a candle to a science journal and a...
The Soup (the impossible domestic gesture prompt)
The rat I had feared but not seen (for two years) decided to make me dinner. The beans he had stolen and hoarded in the walls, re-appeared one by one. He added them to the turquoise microwave-safe bowl, bean by bean, over the course of several weeks. At night, in the...
4 X Micro
CORPORATION I had an uneven corporation. So I crawled into a version of myself that was more elastic. Even fly guys fluttered a wager for a finicky media. Secretarial assistants dipped their cigarettes into broth. More and more, I sought out Simon in the cancerous...
It was (a new world record)
Two years ago I cried more than anyone on earth. Someone had to check and it took them a long time but it was true. So many walnuts fell from the tree while they were doing it but the sugar on the table stayed where it was, refused to dislodge. So the aunts naturally...
Waiting Room
Art so passively pastel, it was a complementary depression just to sit down and stare at the walls. Couches, tables, chairs, a magazine rack, and one rabid human gnarling nips of hostility at the shaky edges of my periphery. His street wrapped around my throat, my...
Tender Usurper
After the invasion the garden was busted watches, dolls’ heads, letters penned in bile. Flowers bloomed with babies’ teeth. The body is a book of wounds, said my wife. All the alegebras of the city unsolvable, nothing but subtraction. We harvested strange species of...
This, for Now, About the Author
About the Author Stripe-tailed with downy head plumage, amphibian up to ankles truncated by knicker flannel, the Reorganized Latter Day Saint kind, she writes with either claw each time the thunder comes. They published her without knowledge—just the way she prefers....
On Sunday
Presbyterian preachers saddle sea urchins and go for a roe. Sushi sirens singsong seduction, spinach puffs are Jesus’ best wrapped gift. Potato blinis whisper holy water woo to wahoo, yahoo. Salmon tartare pull shrimp tails and crab rangoons goon as devils riding...
about the author
Benjamin Niespodziany is a necessary figure in the Silver Sewer Rat Scene. His recent novella, Junktella, was turned into a swamp. He'll cough up a loch water pocket watch if you talk too long or not enough. Last month, he submitted a candle to a science journal and a...
The Soup (the impossible domestic gesture prompt)
The rat I had feared but not seen (for two years) decided to make me dinner. The beans he had stolen and hoarded in the walls, re-appeared one by one. He added them to the turquoise microwave-safe bowl, bean by bean, over the course of several weeks. At night, in the...
4 X Micro
CORPORATION I had an uneven corporation. So I crawled into a version of myself that was more elastic. Even fly guys fluttered a wager for a finicky media. Secretarial assistants dipped their cigarettes into broth. More and more, I sought out Simon in the cancerous...
It was (a new world record)
Two years ago I cried more than anyone on earth. Someone had to check and it took them a long time but it was true. So many walnuts fell from the tree while they were doing it but the sugar on the table stayed where it was, refused to dislodge. So the aunts naturally...
Waiting Room
Art so passively pastel, it was a complementary depression just to sit down and stare at the walls. Couches, tables, chairs, a magazine rack, and one rabid human gnarling nips of hostility at the shaky edges of my periphery. His street wrapped around my throat, my...
Tender Usurper
After the invasion the garden was busted watches, dolls’ heads, letters penned in bile. Flowers bloomed with babies’ teeth. The body is a book of wounds, said my wife. All the alegebras of the city unsolvable, nothing but subtraction. We harvested strange species of...
This, for Now, About the Author
About the Author Stripe-tailed with downy head plumage, amphibian up to ankles truncated by knicker flannel, the Reorganized Latter Day Saint kind, she writes with either claw each time the thunder comes. They published her without knowledge—just the way she prefers....