I have never been to Chicago but I have been to “Chicago.” I’m there now, in fact. It has changed a lot since the last time, which was also the first. For instance, the dead sea. I was told I might find the writer here, the chronicler who could tell me about “Chicago.” They said this was where he “lived,” but I wanted to make sure.
By Edmond Caldwell.
On the back of Pam’s school photo (her hair parted in the middle and wind-swept back, her baby blue sweater with the shoulder pads, her ill-fitting blue jeans) I took a pen and drew a mark. A few days after that, another mark. I’m not sure why but I felt the need to document, to count, the times we did it. I never told Pam I was keeping track. Perhaps I thought I was going to keep track forever, with every girlfriend, every crash-and-burn month-long failure, every one night stand.
By Kevin Sampsell.
The animals ceased to be of interest. We didn’t look for them any longer, and so we didn’t see them, unless it was fleetingly in a partially self-suggested hallucination. We only noticed the creek waters grew more and more orange.
By Marcelo Ballve.
I can’t actually hear what they say, I just know, their voices seeming to speak directly to my mind. They certainly couldn’t be lifted on the wind. There is no wind. The hairs on their heads remain flat to their skulls, sweat creating an inner ring of dampness. It isn’t surprising. They have climbed to the top of a large cliff.
By Rebekah Lattin-Rawstrone.
Here there be neon lit nosferatu that shall suck through quarter slots, broken glass shattered in diamond sparkles against the hot concrete sidewalk around the bus stop, where you shall stand in the slightly cooler shade of the pawnshop store’s awning to escape the fulgent beams of the angry, angry August sun…
By Joseph Cameron.
EPISCOPALIAN CHURCH TO ORDAIN SCAT TRANNIES
Will wear rubber gloves when serving eucharist
By Mike Topp.
You watch two men curled up like babies, sucking on each other and think about joining in, even though you aren’t attracted to men in the slightest. You just want the feel of a warm wet orifice around you, but wouldn’t dare go and slip yourself inside a free space in case one of the men attack you. It’s been like this for days. You are the newest addition to the ward, but they have paid you no attention.
By Rachel Kendall.
I got picked up hitchhiking on Highway One to Sonoma by a woman in a miniskirt who said after we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, “Do you mind if I masturbate?” and I said, “Not at all,” and I watched her do that almost to Petaluma on the outskirts of which she came, so I asked her if I could have a souvenir, if perhaps she might consider passing my bandanna between her legs and imbuing it with her moisture, and she screamed, “What kind of pervert are you? Get out of my car right now!” so I did, bandanna still around my sweat-beaded forehead.
By Andrei Codrescu.
His mama’s out of town and he has to feed the cats. We go there; he wants to make me dinner. I’ve put him on friends-only status ever since he lied to me about my cousin and that hotel room. He tries with me and I laugh. Other times, and again tonight.
But there’s something about the mama’s house, the flashback naughtiness of it. He has me on the kitchen counter with my skirt around my waist…
By Utahna Faith.
The last time he spoke to me was Easter Sunday. I knew the day because a man in robes was preaching behind a slow rising sun on my little television. The sun had just started rising, bathing him in a divine glow he didn’t deserve. We were in my old bedroom from when I was a kid; my parents couldn’t stand us living on the street any longer. The room stayed as I had left it, with this ancient little television that had a picture of me from ten years ago sitting on it. I was smiling in my soccer uniform, holding the ball at my knee, all superimposed against a flash of lightning.
By Robert Hyers.
The Edgier Waters: 5 Years of 3:AM Magazine
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