by Britt Warner of West Hollywood
In his perfect world, everything from décor to lighting and diet is changed at least once a year. I take the old paintings and squeeze them into a bag and fold them into a King Edward cigar box. They will be locked away in a safe with rifles, shotguns, bullets and a variety of important existential papers.
by Garrett Ashley of Brookhaven
I do this quite naturally. I glide into the middle of a creek and slap my magnificent tail on the surface of the water. Then I dive down while the water ripples in ever widening circles. I quickly re-emerge in the middle of the bulls eye and glide out leaving an arrow-shaped wake.
by Paula Ecklund of Durham
I used to cry over terminally hip cocktails poured by hip hands and priced by monsters. His platinum mouth would open only to instruct me to save my tears, one day I would need them. He was always bo-jangling in Rolex watches. I sit before his face book permanent mug shot, current center piece for those wishing to feel pain, and wonder if I need them now or later.
by Jenny Catlin of Los Angeles
Bodily fluids in sealed jars, arranged in alphabetical order against her basement wall, the only things her husband didn’t take when he left. When she brought the new man home, she led him barefoot down the wooden stairs. She felt the cool concrete as she crossed the floor to the shelves. She told him to choose a jar and take it home. If he wanted to be a part of her life, he could help clean up the toxic waste.
by Mark DeMoss of The Colony