Short, Fast, and Deadly
i52
Edited by Joseph A. W. Quintela
5 December 2010
Featuring:
M. R. Carter
Michael Donoghue
Matthew Zanoni Müller
Ryan Ridge
Angela Rydell
A.S.
Joe Scott
Philip Suggars
Copyright © 2010 by Individual Authors
All Rights Reserved
Not Breakfast
I think I had been having dreams about her. I think I had been having dreams where I ran as hard as I could but all it did was give me an erection and nobody wanted to touch me.
Déjà vu started:
"I don’t fuck anybody, ever," she said.
"Neither do I," I said.
Déjà vu stopped.
"Good," she said, "Then we’re on the same page."
I was only trying to be agreeable, though.
by Joe Scott of Lawrence
What I’m Wearing Underneath My Skin
Because skin isn’t enough, I wanted more layers. The doctor said, sure sweetheart. Dermis is vulnerable as a pincushion. We’ll give you all the underlying armor you need for a reasonable price. The stiffness under my skin seemed reasonable. A corner’s bash, an elbow to the gut, a car swipe all glanced off me. A coworker’s insults, a lover’s crude words. Even reason had to go. My skull turned thick, impenetrable.
by Angela Rydell of Madison
Spending Time with the Kids
She flips her buzzing Blackberry out of its hip holster, holds in front of her laptop and reads the email. It says, "Excuse me Mommy, I'm bored."
She looks at her son, beside her on the sofa and one handed rapidly keys out a reply, "Mommy’s working. If you’re done on the iPad, why don’t you play Xbox?"
by Michael Donoghue of Vancouver
Destination
A fruit fly, lost from the kitchen, buzzes too close to my face. With a swipe I smear it from the world. A tiny sail of dust, wind flapping the canvas, takes into the air and is lost.
The room is full of sun and suddenly I’m guilty. I Look at the vines growing over the window and see the fly’s trail through the room: little circles and swoops of grey that I ended.
Unwanted, all my failed expeditions tumble into view.
by Matthew Zanoni Müller of Ghent
Infinite Grace
Grace had gone to bed worrying about work, but when she opened her eyes, her head was full of stars. Not the usual spots at the edge of her vision, but the red of Betelgeuse's gas clouds and the plasma fields of Arcturus. She shook her head and looked out of the window, but her mouth filled with the high-pitched taste of the red-shift between her bedroom and Bellatrix. "Screw this," she said, "how about some toast?"
by Philip Suggars of Brighton
Silhouettes in the Setting Sun
The sun is behind us now, moved into southern hemispheres, away from our frozen face.
As the rest of the world is waiting to wake up we pose here as silhouettes in the setting sun.
We grab the early stars - one by one - rename them for ourselves. The night belongs to us. We discuss elements of love in a language of hands that speak with heart.
Losing her to Cancer was rough, unexpected to be seen on that hilltop again.
by M. R. Carter of Hagerstown
The Thin King
The thin king is thinking. He is thinking about lost love. The thin king is thinking about how the love he lost grows, over time. He is thinking about how the love he lost grows, over time, like a dwarf in an orphanage. The thin king is thinking. He is thinking of a number between three drinks and the moon.
by Ryan Ridge of Long Beach
Leather Dreams
That leathery smell.
So turned on. So easily fucked.
But I start making breakfasts.
And you go elsewhere, anywhere.
I say I don´t give a shit like I don´t give a shit.
We fuck like nothing again, like everything.
I watch you sleep and for a shallow illiterate you catch on pretty fast.
My clinginess, like pink gum.
It´s impressive; the speed with which you jump into your signature leather.
The speed with which you leave.
by A.S. of Ostersund
