We’re a small town. A very close community. There’re 3,570 people in town and about that many within five miles of town. We’re not bigoted. We are champions of diversity. We have an Arab, Muslim family, several black families, two Asian families, and three mixed race/ethnicity couples. We have gay couples and a score of gay individuals.
I’m Jewish, married to a Catholic. We own the Country Store.
We’re forward-looking and forward-thinking.
In the last election, we voted fifty-eight percent Democratic.
You need this background to understand. I hope you do understand. Continue reading “Odd | by Frederick Foote”
And it was the morning after a big party but we hadn’t come down completely yet, much less gone to sleep, so Doug and me and a couple girls went to hang out on the abandoned highway bridges. We were going to go to the Amoco for sodas but weren’t coherent enough to talk to sober people yet, so we were just up there. I saw these big piles of dirt mixed with gravel and called out to Doug that we should dig for dead bodies.
He ran over all excited, waving that weird black umbrella cane he always carried whether it was going to rain or not, something about the Penguin from the comics, but then he sagged all disappointed. Said he thought I told him I found one and he was almost kid-happy to see it. Continue reading “The Only Reason We Were Drinking Mellow Yellow in the First Place Was Because it Was Only 49 Cents | by David S. Atkinson”
Julie Collins – I’m very pleased to be able to have another interview with Dook, a representative of our closest relatives, what we call the yetis and what they call the Angwin.
We have talked about some Angwin basics and your successful attempt to create homeland. Today I’d like to talk about your daily life. We’ve already learned about your sustainable life, and your creative romantic life. Would you tell us what a normal day is like for you folk?
Dook – Glad to. We always try to get a good night’s sleep and then work on our homes and communal structures and harvest our food. None of those activities take very long, so we have plenty of time for entertaining ourselves.
Julie Collins – I’m sure that our in house audience and those listening and viewing at home would like the details filled in. Continue reading “Prime 5 | by Doug Hawley”
They call your mother a witch, a prostitute, a con artist. The kids at school have a lot of questions for you. At recess there is no shortage of palms to read and even the teachers think you have something valuable to tell them. Your sister, skinny and dark-eyed like you, is your only friend. Those years when she moves ahead to another campus without you are torture.
You don’t like lying to people or stealing their money, but that doesn’t stop the steady stream of spirits from entering your life. Dead siblings and lost pets flock to you. You are at your most vulnerable whenever intimacy is possible. A cold breeze blows up your skirt at a family barbecue. A ghost boy, his tux bloody, begs for a dance at the prom. A cat slides its claws through that liminal space where she can’t scratch but can still make you cry with her silent meow.
Your sister laughs when you say you just want to be normal. What do you mean?, she asks. Would you like to shake off unbidden spirits or would you rather evade Child Protective Services? The questions pile up over the years. Can you have an affair with someone from beyond the grave? Can a ghost be prosecuted? Is there a statute of limitations on emotional manipulation?
Continue reading “The Medium’s Daughter | by Jan Stinchcomb”
They all dance under the full moon.
All of them, the freaks, the mutants, the outcasts, the exiles, all dancing under the bright circle of light. With limbs, without limbs, with wings, without wings, furred, unfurred, skins of different colors, even skinless, cilia and feelers, claws and hands.
Their music is from the moon – they feel her on them, they hear her, they taste her. They dance to her tunes – each to xe interpretation. It is a quiet dance, like interpretative dance. There is a strange beauty to it, these people with their flaws, under the satellite that is not a real moon. Continue reading “They all dance under the full moon | by Joyce Chng”
The sides of the volcano poured themselves upon us.
The sky, every shade of tumescence. It began with our looking at pictures, one thrown up after the other but in no discernible sequence, with no lucidity. Everything slid like the dusty melt of August (if only we had known that incalescence thus then) streets, our fair traffic overcome. Flanks of pumice, ash, great fissured slurries of acacia and other, even more ravishing names. Because their heads were covered, the women were the first to feel the rain, spotting, arrow-tipped.
In the augury of one picture, a serpent wound about itself yet stretched as long still as a century. Continue reading “The Lost City of What | by Joe Milazzo”