Statement of Record

TagFiction

How to Do a Dead Bug

BY ABBY FRUCHT

H

Not the worst of all chauvinist prigs, I’ll concede, he seemed affronted by the wrongs my little handful of words and lines had done him, their very innocence, their youthfulness, rebuking him. The Pretty Child Can’t Write, She Shouldn’t, She Mustn’t, She Dare Not, She Will Not, The Skinny Co-ed Won’t Write, he seemed to pledge to himself as he drew forth my packet of fledgling verse and...

Wrestling the Angel

by Victoria Gosling

W

When I think about the famous crazy writers, I suspect that they didn’t start off crazy. They were very sane to stand as much of it as they did for as long as they did. It is where all the best work comes from.

THE ART OF DISAPPEARING

By Kate Christensen

T

I can’t write in an authentic voice if I get in my own way, if my own feelings are there, lurking. I have to disappear, not only for the reader, but for myself, and this art of deliberate, practiced self-annihilation gives me the purest, most exhilarating pleasure I’ve ever known.

Sober

S
by Jamie Valentino

For as long as he could remember there were two of him, like an evil twin. They looked identical but were fraternal in behavior, though this other person wasn’t necessarily a villain. His intentions were neither bad nor good. Like the couple times he smoked...

Further From Home: Dopehead Theology II

F
by Erik Rasmussen

Larry could practically see the dishonesty rippling wildly out, a toxic impression his behavior stamped into reality and would eventually, he just knew it, kill this relationship as the substance had killed so may emotions inside him. 

Forgiveness on one shoulder, a killer on the other. 

I’ve Got AIDS

I
by Michael Wiener

I’ve got AIDS, man. Not sure how it happened. Life’s cheap, here. It’s funny, ‘cause this used to be a pretty vibrant neighborhood. Then they starved it on purpose, swear to God. Powers that be, the bankers, Mayor Koch, probably the Fed. NYC, Drop Dead, exactly right. They don’t give a shit.

Further From Home: Dopehead Theology

F
by Erik Rasmussen

He took his time, enjoying the prep and process. He was in no hurry. It’s like getting high was as narcotizing as being high. Striking matches and relishing sulfur smoke and opening rubbing alcohol bottles and smelling ethyl fumes were its own kind of rush, a flood of natural adrenaline and dopamine ringing euphorically in his limbic system, an irony that did not go...

Further From Home: The Paruresis

F
by Erik Rasmussen

It was more than casual, The Desire. And it wasn’t “desire” strictly speaking, he had to grudgingly admit. Larry’s girlfriend Liz, on her way from Brooklyn and stuck in LIE traffic, texted him during the traffic’s ebb. He was sick and he’d told her he was sick, making vague reference to a weird virus going around Long Island and moaning about back pain as he lay on his...

Further from Home

F
by Erik Rasmussen

In a galaxy far, far away, Larry lay dope sick on his parent’s couch.

This was before addiction had taken hold, flu-like, in the early years when he was immune to addiction — he was born free of the congenital disease — his immunity built by witness, by inoculating revulsion to his own family members’ personal struggles with the condition. He was a dope head romantic.

Love’s Garden

L
By Alexandra Bowie

One day she started talking about reincarnation. That was interesting, because most people in our town went to one of the big evangelical churches whose parking lots took up almost as much space as the farms they’d replaced, and I figured Mary did too...

Ascension

A
By Susan Buttenwieser

The woman in the toy store said the kite would be easy to fly. Sonny has his daughter hold the string while he tries to get it airborne. But the kite is flimsy and the wind ripping off the water batters it onto the sand. He tosses it again and again, and each time, it torpedoes straight down...

IN THE ROCK GARDEN / LURIE

I
By Marge Lurie

Maybe I was wrong, but I thought I knew what he meant. At a certain point,

you're old enough that it does all count. You've put your time in, one way or

another, and it has led you to where you are. The path you took might have

led you somewhere else entirely; and different paths might have led to where

you are. But, for better or worse, your path was your path.

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