So I shuffled my feet and nodded my head and he let me go with a slap on the wrist. Andrei was pissed that the Dean confronted me on this matter rather than him, but after that, we did all our scanning ourselves. I did give the Scanning Dept. a final image to consider, however, by scratching a swastika onto their door——which apparently nobody objected to, because it’s still there to this day.
By Mark Spitzer.
If one thing had kept him going, it was his poetry. This hobby he had negotiated all his life. Benjamin was pleased with his own recent work, but the thing about writing is that the most enjoyment comes through sharing. His mom liked what he wrote. Sandra, the manageress at the funeral parlour, thought it was okay too. It’s surprising how fast such support will form the basis of a man’s self-esteem. But Benjamin sought a wider audience. His Mom was his mom, and Sandra, well… he suspected she just wanted to jump his bones. Benjamin made a few enquiries and was soon invited to bring his collected works around to an English lit professor who managed a small university printing press.
By Nelson L. Eshleman.
A woman wants to be honest, a man wants to be good. Let’s face it, a woman’s concerned with things as they are and a man is concerned with things as they should be. This romantic attachment to what should be is the cause of all my trouble. I can’t bear the truth of the pain I’ve caused. So I make it about myself. Flailing around back here, I’ve turned my guilt into an opera to drown out Flo’s simple song of distress.
By Michael DeCapite.
I keep having this recurring dream: I leave my apartment, and walk down to Darcy’s apartment, which is over a restaurant. I call up to her window, “Bonjour! If I show up at your door, will you kiss my feet, and tell me I’m home?” And then I add, “Laissez les bon temps rouler!” She replies by opening the window; she says something trite, like, “I am with Ray because he has more money than you!”
By Lisa Linquist.
Then the stevedores took to town, stealing whiskey, hoisting bordellos right off of their foundations, and moving them closer, to within a more convenient swaggering distance from port. Two stevedores, high on corn syrup malt, tossed the post office into the bay and as it sunk, plumes of letters floated to the surface and stuck to the side of their boat like stamps on a tourist’s trunk.
By Sean Ruane.
I wish he’d left the music on; Avery’s a void right now, and all that I can hear is my own breathing, my heartbeat suddenly echoing through my neck. The call ends and I give Avery a look. He’s still eyeing the window, tallying scratches on the glass. I wonder how to get a reaction from him, how cohesive his thoughts are. Cohesive enough, I think. “She’s checking in on you,” I say.
By Tobias Carroll.
The smoke from the last cigarette of the summer spread out across the slightly damp cement of the ceiling. Sam took a drag and offered it to Holly who was slightly dozing and laid curled into him. She wrinkled her nose a little at the smell of the burning tobacco.
“No thanks. I’m good,” she said, bringing her right arm up across his stomach and taking hold of his left shoulder. Under the weight of her head, Sam could feel the slight dampness of her hair against his chest. He wrapped his right arm around her back as she shifted on him a little.
By Pete Carvill.
Roger waited until the next MCAT session before asking if she could help him study. They met at Starbucks, where his unfamiliarity with the material offered many opportunities for Jenny to hover over his shoulder to explain. At these moments, he wanted to reach down and trace her ribs from her spinal column down around to her sternum. Roger told Jenny he wasn’t sure what he’d specialize in. “Probably family medicine,” he explained. “I like the idea of being part of the community. Like doctors used to be back in the day.” In reality, he wanted to become a plastic surgeon because of his dissatisfaction with the current state of breast implants.
By Adam Scott.
We’d met Batbayal just that afternoon, introduced by a descendant of a hero of the revolution who, it was said, was close to securing the post of Deputy to the Governor of the Central Bank. Batbayal, he said, had heard of our active interest in the development of horse breeding and utilisation in the country, and believed he could be part of the process, had some horses to show us. Batbayal nodded. He was a giant in his smart city clothes. A bracelet flashed from his wrist as he spoke. Not any horse, Bouryiat horse, he said. Top class Bouriyat horses.
By John Barker.
Now, mostly, I miss your hairs, so tightly wound they curled into circles. Round black eyes on my stomach and thighs staring up at me hours after you left. I used to love to fall into you, your body so big and strong and black against mine. When you squeezed me tight, tighter until all the bones along my spine would crack in a ripple of snaps, you winced, disgusted as if you’d broken my bones, as if you hurt me, but it felt good. A therapeutic release of the day’s tension brought on by quarrels with people who weren’t you.
By Jaclyn Dwyer.
The Edgier Waters: 5 Years of 3:AM Magazine
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