It was empty outside by the sinks and the inside was graffitied: doodles, fantasies, invitations, scrawled in mainly black on white partition walls; not a bright white in itself but cubicles play tennis with whatever white there is and gain something in between, like the hall of mirrors at the palace of Versailles.
By Rob Beeston.
That overturned waste bin. The graffiti on the wall, like an indecipherable curse. Several cigarette butts in the earth around the tree. A folded newspaper on a park bench. A small ball floating on the pond. The stain of lip gloss on the rim of a cup. A child’s sock hanging from the fence. A bloodied glob of spit. The scar of tyre-marks on the tarmac. Dampness on the pillow. This story.
By Juan Pedro Aparicio, Luis Mateo Díez, José María Merino.
The adults left us. Left us in a dark room with nothing more than a glowing screen and our imaginations. I remember some of them walking outside to smoke a cigarette. They stayed out there a long time. Talking. Sometimes laughing. Mostly staring at the playground equipment cemented into the sand box.
By Justin Rands.
Today I will run up to her. At the corner of aisle three and four, in front of the week’s featured cereal, I will catch up to her and ask if it would be possible to spend just one more hour with my husband on his birthday, point-blank. I will ask. I’ve rehearsed it a million times. By heart and I know my lines.
By Theadora Brack.
I’d woken up on the bottom of a bunk bed, wrapped in scratchy Spiderman sheets and a camouflage blanket. For the first time in my life, I’d thought about the benefits of thread count and wondered at what age the minutiae of comfort starts being so important.
By Aaron Burch.
Inside it there’s a beautiful image of Holy Mary in natural size, placed by the side of a black portable radio. Without any warning the music starts: “AVE MARIA”, sang the Italian interpreter. He unfastens his serge black trousers and holds firmly the hard and hot sex. The image of the saint looking so beautiful and merciful transfigurated her look, and he thought how much he loved her while stroking the sculpture’s merciful face, ‘Ah I love you so much,’ he’d say in loud voice, his climax getting closer until he comes with a scream of happiness to then kiss the image of his adored saint with the reverence and fascination typical of the deepest love that one can ever imagine.
By Patrick Brock.
He is still romancing me in Paris. He is thinking about getting down on one knee when we reach the Eiffel Tower. There is a bulge in the top pocket of his jacket. I am trying to get as far away from him as possible, but he is designing my future and he has no plans for me to leave.
By Emily McPhillips.
My friends mostly go to parties and do drugs and stuff, so when one of them says ‘SOFT AS A BABY’S BUTT,’ I punch them in the face and tell them to say instead ‘VERY SOFT’ unless they are a mom or a dad, in which case I nod my head and walk backwards slowly with a scared expression on my face that is meant to show alienation, estrangement, and that I do not accept them any more.
By Brandon Scott Gorrell.
…and I backed away because you looked like shit, the way your pupils dilated and your tongue gummed up your mouth like it was too thick for you to talk though you managed to tell me you’d gotten that girl pregnant, that you weren’t seeing her anymore but still planned on being a father to her child…
By Kelly Spitzer.
Border-town patois makes these folk-tales glow. That’s what Rosa told him once upon a time. Half a country away from here. Rosa…fuck. Queenan wanted to taste her today.
By Tom Leins.
The Edgier Waters: 5 Years of 3:AM Magazine
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