Read and view the work of artists from Previous Issues.
Constance flung the ladle against the cast iron pot and a hollow echo and the slosh of dirtied water followed her like footsteps out of the room. She slammed the front door behind her. When her father opened it to search after her, he was only met with an accusation of trees—all straight-spined and unwilling to move out of his sightline. He wouldn’t find her standing at the threshold. He wouldn’t chase her either.
It was one in a row of identical doors with identical signs, in front of which sat patients and their relatives. The younger played with their mobile phones, the older amused themselves the old way – by talking. I joined the latter, both on the grounds of my age and inclination. We started with exchanging illnesses and hospital experiences. There was more than a whiff of competition between us, with the grand prix going to the most ill patient.
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…”
