Issue Two

The Women

It’s my night at the women's homeless shelter. I mix shredded lettuce, apple slices and ranch dressing into a bowl the size of the moon. Chicken bakes inside the oven and potatoes wait to be buttered. The women have chosen their beds. An older native woman shakes her...

Norm MacDonald Makes Me Horny

Stomach full of frozen margaritas—naked—salt on my lips, I siphon gasoline from Mom’s Mazda Roadster with a garden hose wrapped around my neck—drooping from my shoulders with the ballooning bulk of a Boa constrictor. KFC buckets splashing soggy brims, I douse myself...

Avery, Zooming

Avery, eyes closed, counts off the seconds, her tongue tapping against the roof of her mouth. Beside her, the baby lies sprawled across the mattress, milk dribbling from the corners of her mouth, her breath rattling with the tail end of a persistent cold. Caroline is...

The Last Rites of Girls

We stole cigarette butts, lit them like candles looking cool on the way out. We took turns tearing our hymens by accident, ripping holes in jeans to finger their soft furry mouths— our holy parts newly parted. We blessed swimming pools, roller rinks, dumpsters and...

Momma

I’m Momma just before she’s ready to go out. Her date will be here any minute, honk his horn and she’ll be off—blowing us kisses and telling us to be good and not to stay up too late. Watch the baby, she’ll say and then we won’t see her for at least a day. I’m Momma...

Which Came First?

I cracked an egg and dumped it into a bowl. Slashed across the yolk was a cooked chicken shred, like the nightmares of my childhood, flesh in place of eyeball or claw. I’d have preferred the claw or eyeball: it would have made a kind of sense. Some say the...

WE BOTH KNOW COMBUSTION IS NEVER SPONTANEOUS

My dad won’t leave the porch again. He’s attached to his rocker. The rotted wood and the chipped paint, parts of his body now. His elbow and butt, parts of the chair. I offered to go on a walk with him, but he just looked at me, a Swisher Sweet hanging from his mouth,...

The Thing Between Your Legs

Mother always told us to refer to that place as the thing between your legs. We were never to say vagina in front of Father, or our one lone brother. Mother kept her legs crossed – always at the ankle, never at the knee. But there were six of us, plus the dead baby,...

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