You never know when you’ll turn the corner to find it staring you in the face. You might be on your way to dinner at the kosher restaurant at 9th and South when you’ll notice someone has painted a
David Ohle, author of the epic science fiction dystopia Motorman, will release a posthumous memoir of William S. Burroughs, Jr. through Soft Skull Press in September. Like his original
In bed with the wife of a guy that I work with, and this isn’t the beginning of the story, but the end of it, and then she calls me a month later and says she’s pregnant. Says she’s left him, and
When Isabel Araya was born in the southern tip of the pampas, twenty-one years, three months, and seven days before she would hold Juan Diego’s warm hand in the candlelight of the church, the
Ernie peered over the dash with a cigarette in his left hand and a can of spiked Pepsi in his right, fingertips grazing the ribbed underbelly of the wheel as he steered. He and Blume were on the
"Now Mr. Nguyen, here, he could benefit from a little trip over to Harold's Running Bull. Quaff a few, soak up the local culture, and shake hands with the biggest griz ever shot down in this
Melissa and I have been together for almost a month, descending through the center of Australia from Darwin near its north tip, sliding below the belly of the globe to Adelaide. Somewhere down the
I came to the San Joaquin Valley to see the migratory ducks at California's San Luis National Wildlife Refuge. I found as much excitement in the truck stop town of Santa Nella.
Stuck halfway
And then somebody said the magic word. Whale. It echoed and bobbed up and down the beach, and into the dunes, where I was relieving Victoria of her secrets.
‘Whale,’ she hummed,
Eric Spitznagel didn't always write porn. (And doesn't, it should be noted, anymore.) In fact, for most of his adult life (we can't answer for his teen years... God only knows what he was doing
Truth:
Once upon a time there was this balls-out bike rider out to visit all the Cistercian monasteries in this here good old USA, because something told him he had to. His name was Michael.
The guy at table six wiggled his fingers. “Mind if I asked a personal question?”
“Go ahead,” said Miranda, reaching for the check. He was going to anyway.
Table Six grinned. His sunburned
Andrew peeped out the window and noted that the end of the world, astoundingly, was small as a bee.
"When's the last time you looked outside," he asked Julie, spread like Orion on the rug with
On an unusually sunny February afternoon in Pittsburgh, I had the pleasure of talking with Chuck Kinder in his sixth floor office at the University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning building.
Dave wondered what had happened to the TV.
He had faraway memories of nature programs, black and white comedians with European accents and harshly lit news programs with stories as stark as
A note shoved under a sticky honey jar on a wooden spool table:
Maggie –
So sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye. Boo hoo. I wish you were coming with me! Now I’ll be the only girl
We ride the hook of route 87 straight from Utica to Newark without once stopping. The two of us go like vagabonds through tunnels and viaducts, me driving; my father in the passenger seat, slowly
cheney stadium, home to the now defunct tacoma tigers and current tacoma rainiers, once held a monster used car blowout extravaganza in their parking lot. i was 17 and needed a cheap car, so i
Little Johnny Damon enjoyed working in the produce section at Whole Foods. He took pleasure in stacking the lettuce and arranging the grapefruit and sweeping the dropped green beans from the floor.
Summers we watched baseball, my father, my uncle and me sitting riveted for innumerable innings, rooting for the Mets. We scoffed at the umpires, cheered when the players kicked dirt on their shoes
Tony Montes had always dreamt of the moment he would stand in left field at Candlestick for this, the third game of the World Series. In his dreams, however, he wasn't 48 years old, and he hadn't
It was like a chicken farm—a million bodies pressed together, and everyone was gulping at the cooler air overhead. I was still caught up in the gooiness of that last horrible image, tumbling into
She slurps her cherry cola loudly through her novelty straw and winks at me. I’m just turning eleven. She’s got candy pink lip-gloss on and a touch of blue eye shadow her older sister helped her
Salvador Plascencia is the author of The People of Paper, a novel in which the people of El Monte, California, wage a “war against omniscient narration” while the author himself is busy getting
She was a master of tentaculation. She was a cepholapod of considerable abilities. She was a writhing mandala of be-suckered sensory organs, feeling her way along. A long time ago, a man had been
