Our Honeymoon, fiction by Spencer Shannon
Mrs. Honig, poetry by Jeannine Hennawi
Van Gogh Is Dead, fiction by Ben Sack
Bus Terminal Man, poetry by Zoë Fay-Stindt
There’s an avalanche barreling towards us.
It started on the mountaintop. It’s too late now to escape. We stand at the window, hand in hand, unmoving. Words rise up in our throats and die before they pass our lips. Instead, we focus on the warmth passing between us and nothing else.
Unhindered, I think of the gas station sushi I ate for dinner last night. Sucks that the last thing I’ll ever eat is shitty spicy tuna three-hundred miles from the closest shore. Continue reading
I think all you wanted by then was to feel
the tuft of a paintbrush along your fingers.
The cold, pressed hospital sheets blotted your sweat.
You seeped air from a slack upper lip.
Mrs. Honig, there was nothing
wrong with dusk—yawning
open like Georgia’s last blossom, swallowing
you with wet acrylic on your heels. Continue reading
“No one appreciated Van Gogh until after he died,” they said, like it was a reason to keep going. I saw it as a reason to stop.
I hadn’t painted in months. “What a shame,” I thought, “to be a modernist in a world already modernized.”
I was evicted from my apartment. I had painted a mural on the wall – I was proud of the piece. It was a Victorian pastiche featuring subtle portraits of political leaders and civil innovators.
“That’ll be two grand, for the damage to the wall,” said the landlord, yellow drool splashing against his sweaty chest. Meanwhile in England, Banksy stencils a rat on a police station and sells it for a million dollars cash. Continue reading
This man thinks he’s so thick
sitting across from me with his legs
spread, grey sweatpants bunching tight
at his crotch. He leans back in his seat,
shifts his hip, hand on his thigh, makes me feel like
I’m eating this granola in the wrong way,
too seductive, asking for it. Continue reading