by Alan SwyerYears ago, when I was still relatively new to Los Angeles, I was walking to lunch one day with someone who would become a mentor when a distinguished-looking older man gasped. “Rod Amateau! Fuck you!”
by Scott Archer JonesIn the third millennium, fifteen hundred years before Homer’s Iliad, Gilgamesh was the stuff of legend. In fact, he was the first tragic hero.
by Elijah TomaszewskiI’m pumping the way I’ve been doing for the past minute.
by Norma SmithMy first lover was Middle Eastern. Amir and I met in the cramped hallway of a university dormitory in Eastern France the first day I moved into Room 76 on the third floor.
by Isabella DavidAbout a month ago, an Internet friend’s self-published novel made its way from all the way around the world into my eager hands.
by Clio VelentzaI make a place out of my body for you to live, out of the twigs and mud under my skin.
by Karl J. SherlockSlumped into his desk chair, Max has precious minutes to get on the road for one of his many doctor’s visits this month, but I can’t tell if he’s sleeping or braking for pain.
by Ferdinand HunterSometimes, even now that I’m older and freer, and I am feeling especially alone in the world, I find myself whispering the words of the Apostles’ Creed.
by Kaori FujimotoYou rush from your home in the Tokyo area, and, as the train station comes into view, you see your fellow commuters bottlenecked into the street.
by Amye ArcherThere are nights when I look at you, feel for you in the dark, and the falling into one another, the estuary we create, is still so easy.
by Alan SwyerDubbed by Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records The greatest singer—and hustler—in the world, Solomon Burke had a story second to none.
by Christie TateRegret not a single time you ran full-speed into situations that violated every standard of ethics, morality, hygiene, civility, and OSHA.
by Maggie LaneI feel another body from the empty side of the bed pressing against mine, a heavy, immovable body made of worry and anxiety.
by Amye ArcherIt is dark. The summer is ending, but we can still taste her on our tongues. Twenty beers between us has made you hungry for me.