Fiction
Black Shrunken Blemish
When Frances had to speak publicly, her legs shook. As a kid, she had grown faster up than she had out and she had felt
Kierston
Meet me in the mountains Of Oregon (Washington’s been having too many fires). It won’t be hard to find me- Just look for the earthship,
The God in the Attic
In our attic, among things, as it seems of past lives, lives a bitter God. When guests come to our house, we don’t mention him.
Skirt
I. I see a video of women cycling in short dresses talking of how not to flash. They wide-angled their legs, pull the back of
Ca’Venezia: Your Voice
Your voice alights on my armhair, a whiff of cigar smoke— caramel, and ghostly— “Cities die; let them.” Black thing to say. I patter
Blind Devotion
I jack off to one of the pictures of her I have saved on my computer and after I’m done I send her a message to tell her