Martin
Martin Haversham lived in Stamford, Connecticut (or rather Stanwich) and had not stopped living there since the day he was born. He was the third of three brothers, each one progressively less impressive than the last. BY MATTHEW ROSS FENNELL
Thursday, April 26, 201253rd and 5th
‘Bet they can’t bottle up breezes like this on your planet, spaceman. The whole system, it’s really just a, a bunch of pistons and tubes for making these blasts of air. In the fifties daddy had nuclear holocaust on the brain and some idealists up at the Department of Infrastructure made sure that their shiny new bunkers and transport systems were narrow so the trains could push air in front of them. BY ANDREW ZOLOT
The Better of the Bitter
In the wide divided light of a rented room, I am standing and will be drinking a cocktail. When your country is at war with itself, when one side would sooner claim authority than responsibility for its people and the other would claim itself only free, when that is what you suck out of your television in the mornings before school, you delight in the promising burn of tonight’s aperitif. In its stiffness, stability, soundness. BY M.M. LOCKER
Footfalls of a Suburban Trespasser
Radio was stitched across her blankets. Crackling from pillow's end to ear, it calmed her like a warm body or a glass of scotch. Laila let it slip voices into her dreams and mask the crickets noisily greeting the moon. BY ANISE VANCE
Words With DFW
and but in this dream all I can ever see is the top of my opponent's head, or should I say the top of his white bandana. The loopy black amoebic accents squirm like some kind of bubbling mental broth. BY ANDREW ZOLOT