Issue 7 Fall 2019
Issue 7 Fall 2019
Issue 7 Fall 2019
Issue 7 Fall 2019
As he leaned in, his rifle clattered against the floor of the canoe. Crystal reached for it, a motion Bobby interpreted as consent or surrender. He pressed his lips to hers, his tongue poked out and searched for an opening. Crystal could barely feel it. She felt like she was drifting under the tow of a heavy tide, submerged as the waves hissed over her head.
“Well, spandex is not so much a fabric as a lifestyle. You don’t need spandex to go biking; you need spandex to fulfill a posture. And what is this posture, you ask? This is the posture of the well brought-up, well-adjusted, middle class, which says ‘well’ when you ask them how they are, and scorns anyone who says, ‘I’m good’. It’s the posture of the braindead…”
I’ve decided something: My friends are weird. Who does something like that at a bar? I always thought after you had a kid, you would be extra proper. No joking. No laughing. No, doing crazy stuff like crawling under a table to get away from being squished into a corner by your two friends. Or, for that matter—standing on a booth seat flapping your arms trying to get a person’s attention.
Dressing a rock and roll chick for burial meant selecting ebony boots, slim black jeans, a silvery button down blouse, and a green beaded bracelet. I hoped she would approve of my fashion choices. I also hoped she would forgive me for not returning to the apartment and taking more of her personal possessions. She was not ready to part with them, as she was not ready to leave this life.