Thirst Phoebe Tsang Coyote can’t get the women out of his mind: how they stood waist-deep in the river, long hair skimming ripples cast by grazing fingers, the hint of buttocks beneath the surface, smooth and tawny as sun-warmed sand—so inviting, his toes curl. * The first three times Coyote threw his eyeballs up into…
Rearrangements Vojislav Pejović – for Svetlana Lukić and Svetlana Vuković True or not, I credit the two of us, Kate and myself, for developing the whole concept of cryptofucking. It would go like this: on any given propitious occasion—an unseasonably warm evening like this one, for example, after meeting at the station and almost colliding…
The Rest Of Us In Hell Matthew Lyons Dear Jenna, We’re doing fine without you. Everything’s basically the same as it was when you were here. Anyone who tells you different is a fucking liar. We’ve already filled your desk, found someone to do all your work. His name is Dell. He keeps spiders as…
Mr. Lessing Nick Roth 26 August 1842, at Boston Dear Isaac, I don’t say he is so much an avaricious man, as you say in your letter of the 14th, as he is perhaps a parsimonious one, which these are of course two separate things. Papa was the former and not the latter. And about…
Through the Bay’s Lace Curtains Vincent Barry Once when we had a wake, a viewing if you prefer, the casket sat solemnly just beneath the bay window of the brownstone’s uppermost floor, where of late we played carefree. And when they lifted me — to kiss the waxy forehead above bone-rimmed sockets so as, dontcha…
