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Fiction

Review of a Serial Ejaculator: Subway Line 7 and the Antonin Drake Method



Fiction

Review of a Serial Ejaculator: Subway Line 7 and the Antonin Drake Method Winter usually presents the most desperate moments for an exhibitionist. The cold air turns us into exclusive affairs. We linger alone, rush up the stairs apart from our friends, and because it’s…
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Gone Alaska



Fiction

Chapter Two of “Gone Alaska” Arrival Elfin Cove, Alaska. The Southeast Coast. One month past my eighteenth birthday and I was standing at the forepeak, poised to leap, when the skipper of the purse seiner I’d hitched a ride on from Juneau motioned me back…
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Beside Gravity



Fiction

Oh yeah, and I have acid reflux about four times a day, he says. The shrink doesn't note this down, which he finds disrespectful. The acrobats are doing something choreographed now, swinging in tandem and making shapes with their bodies. The clowns are gone. The illusionist stands underneath, though, waving his arms, as if he is controlling the airborne tumblers. Maybe he is.
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I’m Into Leather



Fiction

“I know this one guy. He brought a bowie knife to one of those workshops once,” Felix said. “He didn’t say anything, just plopped the knife down, wham, like that on the table and gave it a little twirl, like he was spinning a bottle, like he was waiting to be kissed. Nobody said anything to him after that.”
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Larb, Land-Eating



Fiction

And maybe this will be enough for Vern to expel me. I won’t graduate. I can stay little longer. How pleased Moms will be by this! She’ll never lose me and I’ll never lose her. Because she’s all I got left of him. She’s all I got left of her.
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Return from Oz



Fiction

She went there once, when she was a younger woman, a girl really. It shined green, but more like a reflection of the ocean, like the Puget Sound and its seaweed coloring, than any precious stone.
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The Squeeze



Fiction

I guess you could say—my mother. My mother was a squeezer. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone’s mother whom you know is also a squeezer. Perhaps even your own mother. I’m told it’s pretty common.
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As Fire Bites



Fiction

I own an apartment in the West Village, a house in the Hamptons, a cabin in Vail. In short, save an unlikely revolution, the chances of me actually using one of those spaces—the doorway of St. Mark’s Church in the Bowery, or a bridge overpass—are virtually non-existent.
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Minor Inconveniences



Fiction

Landau stands before the blossoming fresco. Castles and horses and knights, but none of the fairytale silliness that could so easily prove ruinous. Fierce animals rendered in wistful but determined brushstrokes.
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Into the Future



Fiction

Yungman had pondered on this strange turn of fate. How he had always wanted to work with the prestigious Doctors Without Borders and now he would not only be doing that, but they would be taking him home.
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Mimesis



Fiction

We called him Rob, Robby, sometimes even RPG, his full name being Robert Peter Garretson. He lived in a small studio apartment with his girlfriend in a flashier part of Brooklyn than where I lived much deeper in the borough. An aspiring graphic designer, his craft, as he always referred to it, never involved digital tools or serious equipment of any kind.
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Desarrollo Humano



Fiction

His nasal sing-song leaped out of the side of his mouth and filled the bus. It was not the way any normal person spoke, but it was the manner that all street hawkers and vagoneros in Mexico City learned to cut through the noise of grinding axles and construction. Foreigners on the metro held their ears when Israel worked near them.
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The Sleeper



Fiction

The sleeper was put on leave from his work. Several days later, he decided to see how long he could remain unconscious. He went to the bathroom. He went back to bed and slept all day and all night. At the end of the following day, he began to receive urgent body messages. He dreamed he was discarded for another man or else behooved to step aside in favor of a kindly ideal. He sadly acquiesced, charitably acknowledging the way of the world before urinating in a potted plant.
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The Institute of Joy



Fiction

In 1988, to see Humberto Pacheco in his homeless man’s attire, overgrown coat sleeves and no undershirt, a knotted rope tightening his waist band, bare unshaven balls in the shadow of his opened zipper, is to confuse the abandoned basement where he slept, and the…
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Boys In Blue



Fiction

There ain’t shit on TV on a Saturday afternoon.  My buddy Lyle and I come in here after our morning shifts and knock back a couple and bitch about how there’s nothing to look at except the girl serving us drinks and the guys arm…
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The Sickness Unto Tuesday



Fiction

According to Danish philosopher, Bernard Claw, gimcrack corncrake and give the dog a bone, the self is the self when the self is not being the self, assuming, of course, the self is entirely selfless when the self is selfsame or, at least, selflessly the…
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Many Islands



Fiction

On our island, no woman may cook on a fire that was lit by a man. No one may touch the foot of a chief. “Who made these rules?” asked our chief’s son, while we sat cross-legged around the kava bowl, watching the green-bottomed clouds…
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Radio Lima



Fiction

Alone in the house with his wife’s Peruvian maid, his emotions get the better of him.  The sun is setting in the kitchen, its last rays illuminating the fading yellow wallpaper. She sits across him at the breakfast table, listening attentively as he discusses his…
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Heaven Help Us, Heaven Forgive Us



Fiction

His wife suggested they trade-in for a shorter fat man. Of course, he’d already investigated that. “What,” she said, “now you’re not talking to me?” There would be a connection fee—the equivalent of about a year’s worth of heating bills—and as it turned out, their…
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Mister G



Fiction

He paced back and forth in his Hershey-stained briefs. The muscles in his bare legs bulged out as he paraded across the carpeted floor. With arms akimbo, chin in the air, and an official Karate Kid trademarked sweatband sweeping across his forehead, Mister G was clearly the man of the house.
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Love, I Am Ashes



Fiction

His name was Webster, and he hadn’t known he was Haitian until he was eighteen. He had been adopted by a family in California as an infant, a couple who believed they couldn’t conceive, until they did, and did again. But he was family; his mother had felt the same maternal pangs towards him as she did his sisters, almost guttural in their depth.
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Moustache



Fiction

You want to tell Livshitz that deflowering has nothing to do with feathers. Not as far as you know. “But what do you know?” Livshitz’s hands would ask you and his mouth would immediately respond, “I know, I know.” In any case, Livshitz isn’t listening to you. His moustache is in heat. It’s foaming spittle.
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Love in the Time of the Avatar



Fiction

Monday is coming to an end in Melbourne.  Alajuela is in ciesta.  Granada is having dinner.  Beirut is getting drunk.  Buda and Pest are tucked in for the night.  But many are on the internet at the same time.  It is Tuesday morning in the…
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In Search of Yana



Fiction

The reading room of the Soviet Jewry Library had been converted into a makeshift presentation hall. It was lined on either side with tall metal shelves buckling under the weight of an ungainly amassment of old newspapers. A reading table had been jammed long-ways at the front end of the cramped room with chairs facing it in three rows of four.
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My Sweet Dandelion



Fiction

My mother doesn’t get out of bed for a week. I bring her the foods she likes—vanilla ice cream, sushi, tangerines—but she never eats them and I can’t prevent the room from smelling like greasy hair and morning breath. I want to lie down next to her, but she repulses me. If I get too close, I will become just like her.
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Les Fleurs Mortes



Fiction

I knew it when she started leaving things at my apartment after that first overnight stay. The toothbrush. The pair of jeans. The earrings on the dresser. The dog-eared novel on the nightstand. The head in the freezer. The freezer bloomed like our love. At first I only had to move the odd hand or breast to get to a bag of frozen peas. Then it was larger parts—legs, arms, half a rib cage. The leaky kidneys wrapped in the Kroger bag tipped the scale.
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Grief!



Fiction

I stub my toe on a woman.  She’s spread out next to the tub.  Her breasts rise and fall.  I reach down and rub the hair on her legs.  There’s a skirt over her important areas.  She’s got a face like a sprain.  If she…
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Some People



Fiction

A comic by Luke Pearson
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Noma Plus



Fiction

one lightsoff acceleration go and he found himself moving arrhythmically across the surface of an abandoned parking lot and she was backlit by the diffident blaze of a burning mailbox at the edge of a sidewalk shattered into fragments like a bar of bleached chocolate…
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Yarnivores



Fiction

You’ll probably find this funny, because people usually find it funny when I tell them. I used to work as a waiter at this place called Merry Olde England British Pub over in Five Points. Obviously, that’s not the funny part. The funny part is…
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Strangers In the Living Room



Fiction

When I got to Matt’s house, he met me at the door with this puzzled look on his face. There were strangers in the living room. “Who are they?” I asked. “I don’t know.” “Jehovah’s Witnesses? Mormons?” “I don’t think so.” “Friends of Donna’s?” “I…
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My Kind of Utmost Tender



Fiction

“I find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present station, and to ponder that voyage, which I have undertaken…I am first affrighted and confounded with that forlorn solitude, in which I am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange uncouth monster,…
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The Scraping Sound of Auto Parts



Fiction

Your little sister is late.  Outside the terminal, a slight drizzle slants in the orange streetlights.  Everyone else on your flight has long since been picked up or connected to another destination.  You hear her car before you see it, a scraping sound of auto…
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Whaling Song



Fiction

“Are you Middle-Eastern?” She leaned forward with her knees pressed together. “I’m Italian and Polish.” It was a common misconception. He had dark eyes, dark hair, and over the tanned skin of his face a five o’clock shadow which, left to its own devices, transformed…
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Beat: A Morality Tale



Fiction

The ritual is the best part, the pouring of white powder from the brightly colored construction paper envelope onto the glass table, the chopping of it with an American Express card, the rolling of everyone’s twenty dollar bills, the rush of fragmentary joy at the…
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The Tragedy of Gary Moretti



Fiction

Ed. Note: This time three years ago, it was impossible to escape the ghost of Gary Moretti. The nation was entranced by the ubiquitous Tozzi photograph, the hour-long specials on NBC and CBS, and the running debates on newspaper op-ed pages and cable news programs.…
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A B Plan



Fiction

Sometimes I give speeches at elementary schools. I wait backstage in the wings where they hang the discarded costumes of the four food groups, costumes that are now unused, in light of the Surgeon General’s newly revised food pyramid. From here I overhear the students…
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Despite Herself



Fiction

Image used with permission from Mentality Design [Excerpt] Even though he is across the room and reading I know he is watching me. My boyfriend likes to keep tabs on where I am so he can determine where we are. My boyfriend seems to think…
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Tell the Story of Your Father’s Life



Fiction

Tell the story of your father’s life, and your father’s father’s life, and find your own, or find something altogether new, an antipodes of the expected. Expect to find, what? A history of habitude? A cacophony of drunks? Shocking, to learn of hidden happinesses swallowed…
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Jelly



Fiction

Vernon Wilson “What the fuck was I saying?  Nothing about what you were saying right?” My hand fell on Tasha’s arm.  We were on Canal Street going towards Broadway.  We’d been waiting for the light when Natasha, in this sly way she does—with a fluttering…
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Gongguan Digressions // 公館漫遊



Fiction

In his 7th floor apartment on Roosevelt Road, Wan Hao-hsien (溫浩賢) anguishes over his blueprints for a new kitchen god shrine. If life imitated television dramas and commercials, Taipei would be run entirely by eager young college graduates with androgynous haircuts. But in reality, the…
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Red Weather



Fiction

By Pauls Toutonghi Prologue My dad, drunk again and singing. In a previous life of his, my dad dreamed of becoming a country and western singer. The fact that he’d lived this life in a concrete apartment tower in a suburb of Riga, Latvia, seems…
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Secondhand World



Fiction

Katherine Min EYELIDS When I was very young, my mother made me wear a clothespin at night to encourage my nose to form a salient bridge, instead of disappearing into the front of my face and emerging like a mushroom at the end of it. …
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Passover Eve



Fiction

The peanuts, the coconut curlicues, sour cream, raisins, and the small bowl of mango chutney are waiting on the living room table for the boiled rice and lamb curry. My mother’s still cooking in the kitchen. From her bedroom, I can hear Super Mario spitting…
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The Ballad Of Earl King: After Goethe



Fiction

My daddy, my daddy, he got a 1972 Olds Cutlass Supreme, a convertible that car is, metallic flake green with saddle interior and a three-fifty cubic inch V8 that’ll churn out three hundred fifty horses and set em loose on the road. One thousand forty-one-a…
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The Newcomer



Fiction

In an airplane flying west across a wine-dark sea, Spiros travels to his new country. He is an inexperienced traveler and for now the gods look kindly upon him, blowing a gentle tailwind and seeing to it that he is seated next to one of…
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Three Stories: Bottle, Pipe, Asthma Attack



Fiction

Bottle Two guys are sitting together in a bar. One of them is majoring in something or other in college, the other abuses his guitar once a day and thinks he’s a musician. They’ve already had two beers, and are planning to have at least…
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Arid



Fiction

You sit in your cubicle on the 37th floor of a multinational pharmaceutical company, paging through a stack of medical journals. Each time you spot the name of a drug that the pharmaceutical company manufactures, you underline it, and stick a Post-It on the page.…
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Anywhere



Fiction

[Excerpt] Selection 1: Kroll runs down the road with his wife draped over his arms like a sheet. He thinks of a scene from his favorite movie, Avalon, where a boy runs home after accidentally setting fire to his father’s appliance store, and the suburbs…
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The Story That Refuses to Die



Fiction

From GAY AVIATION TODAY, January 2004 (Reprinted with permission, ©2004 GAT Media Inc.) Over seventy-five years after making aviation history with the first solo, nonstop transatlantic flight from New York to Paris in 1927, Charles A. Lindbergh has sent shockwaves through the aviation world yet…
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