1. Shades of Nepotism: Lit Community Erotica

  2. crystal eaters by shane jones is my favorite book of 2014

    Yes, the window was open. Yes, Younger Mom was smiling and laughing. Yes, Younger Dad felt pure joy for having injected pure joy into Younger Mom. Yes, Younger Dad asked if Younger Mom was tired and ready for sleep and she said yes and yes they went to sleep. They were years away from the first signs of her illness but it was there, inside her. It didn’t matter then. There was joy in the bed.

    /

    The distance between herself and her husband is an endless black field, their bodies as shadows inside the black field moving away from each other, neither able to see the other.

    /

    You can’t help someone who is too sick to help. There is no meaning in the offer when you should have done something before.

    /

    Dad doesn’t have relationships, he has obligations, like making dinner and keeping the generator going.

    /

    Dad skips between loving companion to distant husband to angry father. He spends his days alone. Each day this week he’s been sitting gargoyle-perched on the roof.  Recently, Remy’s thought the problem of Mom’s sickness isn’t Mom’s sickness exactly, but Dad’s reaction to Mom’s sickness.

    /

    She should try something, anything, even if she doesn’t believe in it, yes, even if she doesn’t believe in it because the meaning of life is to feel some good even though what’s inside you is a waiting zero. 

    buy it, ya jagaloon.

  3. him: you ever feel like there's a howl so big inside you that to let it out would like rip your whole fucking body apart?
    me: god yes. i started boxing because of it? i say, howl. rip yourself apart. it's the only way you can truly start putting yourself back together again.
    .

  4. theneweryork:

New Fiction: Noah’s Wives, Who had No Names by Kate Severance
Asphalt love in a summer so hot that we boiled eggs in the shallow bowls of our skin. I cracked a free-range organic egg over your middle and you sucked it in. We paid extra for quality, or we stole. You talked up the produce boy and I put the carton in my backpack. I didn’t feel bad because there was always the possibility the chickens weren’t being compensated for their work. I understand this struggle because I am an artist. Like the chicken, I am always squatting and panting and pushing out an entire part of me only to see no payment for my efforts.
Sometimes you stole the neighbor’s mail. You answered their son’s letters. You told him that he was a beautiful boy, that your heart was overgrown with love and pride. He wrote that he was sorry for what had happened in Duluth, that he thought about it every day. He said that Patty had left him. You told him that Patty was no good for him anyway, and that you had always felt that way but wanted him to learn this for himself. You praised his fortitude and his bright eyes and his clean fingernails. I was not jealous of what you wrote because you had never met the neighbor’s son. At night, we slept on sweat-soaked towels and whispered the things that could have happened in Duluth. You kissed my hands and pressed them to your face. Water mains were breaking all over town. We could hear them bursting and screaming in the dark, like a symphony.
We befriended the bum at the corner. He was planning a trip to Amsterdam. At first he had planned for the Netherlands, but settled for Amsterdam, New York. You would pat his shoulder and give him encouraging words. We only saw him when we were drunk or tired, and for a while, I thought he might be a ghost or an oracle.
I read a book about birds and you fortified the back door with plastic wrap and painter’s tape. We listened to cassettes from the library while you worked. The cassettes were about ascending to a place beyond the ego and the self, and we picked those tapes in particular because we knew the plastic wrap wouldn’t hold. You said you wanted to be of an elevated mind when you drowned. I didn’t like to hear you talk about drowning, but I had been thinking about it, too.
The flood was slow to take the house. At first it was only leaking through the windows and under the door, and we took off our shoes and stomped in the puddles. We put our face in the water and blew bubbles. We gargled and splashed and sang. It felt sweet and easy, and I thought that it was not so bad.
When our feet couldn’t reach the bottom anymore, we swam outside. We swam to the bum’s corner. He wasn’t there, not even treading water, and I said that he must have drowned already. You said he was probably swimming to Amsterdam, and that he would do well when he got there because there were many canals in Amsterdam. You were thinking of the wrong Amsterdam, but I did not correct you.
Mothers were up on their roofs and chimneys, teaching their children to dive. Teenagers had made nests of trash and nudie mags in the treetops, and they spit in the water when we swam past. On the outskirts of town, you said that you could see the bum in the distance. He was waving from a boat. I could not see him or his boat, but I trusted you because I had given you everything. Hadn’t I spent night after night letting you touch me with your hands and your mouth? Hadn’t I left the book about birds behind when you told me to swim through the window? We kicked faster because we thought we could catch up with him. I was tired and sore when you told me to climb on your back. You said that the bum had blankets and sandwiches. You said you would swim underneath me and move my feet, paddle my arms with your hands.
Okay, I said, and it was the last time I saw your face above the water. When you descended, you gave me a thumbs up. You were smiling so big that I could see your one chipped tooth. Okay, I kept saying. Okay, okay, okay.
Now it has been many days since I saw you go under the water. I am paddling and kicking, even though you are not beneath me to push and pull my limbs for me. I have steered myself in the direction of Duluth. I have made plans to find the neighbor’s son, and to find Patty. I want to ask them about the last days of their relationship. I want them to tell me when they knew it was all lost. I want to know if love is quiet and slow when it dies, or if it breaks all at once like a dam.
Read it:
http://theneweryork.com/noahs-wives-who-had-no-names-kate-severance/

    theneweryork:

    New Fiction: Noah’s Wives, Who had No Names by Kate Severance

    Asphalt love in a summer so hot that we boiled eggs in the shallow bowls of our skin. I cracked a free-range organic egg over your middle and you sucked it in. We paid extra for quality, or we stole. You talked up the produce boy and I put the carton in my backpack. I didn’t feel bad because there was always the possibility the chickens weren’t being compensated for their work. I understand this struggle because I am an artist. Like the chicken, I am always squatting and panting and pushing out an entire part of me only to see no payment for my efforts.

    Sometimes you stole the neighbor’s mail. You answered their son’s letters. You told him that he was a beautiful boy, that your heart was overgrown with love and pride. He wrote that he was sorry for what had happened in Duluth, that he thought about it every day. He said that Patty had left him. You told him that Patty was no good for him anyway, and that you had always felt that way but wanted him to learn this for himself. You praised his fortitude and his bright eyes and his clean fingernails. I was not jealous of what you wrote because you had never met the neighbor’s son. At night, we slept on sweat-soaked towels and whispered the things that could have happened in Duluth. You kissed my hands and pressed them to your face. Water mains were breaking all over town. We could hear them bursting and screaming in the dark, like a symphony.

    We befriended the bum at the corner. He was planning a trip to Amsterdam. At first he had planned for the Netherlands, but settled for Amsterdam, New York. You would pat his shoulder and give him encouraging words. We only saw him when we were drunk or tired, and for a while, I thought he might be a ghost or an oracle.

    I read a book about birds and you fortified the back door with plastic wrap and painter’s tape. We listened to cassettes from the library while you worked. The cassettes were about ascending to a place beyond the ego and the self, and we picked those tapes in particular because we knew the plastic wrap wouldn’t hold. You said you wanted to be of an elevated mind when you drowned. I didn’t like to hear you talk about drowning, but I had been thinking about it, too.

    The flood was slow to take the house. At first it was only leaking through the windows and under the door, and we took off our shoes and stomped in the puddles. We put our face in the water and blew bubbles. We gargled and splashed and sang. It felt sweet and easy, and I thought that it was not so bad.

    When our feet couldn’t reach the bottom anymore, we swam outside. We swam to the bum’s corner. He wasn’t there, not even treading water, and I said that he must have drowned already. You said he was probably swimming to Amsterdam, and that he would do well when he got there because there were many canals in Amsterdam. You were thinking of the wrong Amsterdam, but I did not correct you.

    Mothers were up on their roofs and chimneys, teaching their children to dive. Teenagers had made nests of trash and nudie mags in the treetops, and they spit in the water when we swam past. On the outskirts of town, you said that you could see the bum in the distance. He was waving from a boat. I could not see him or his boat, but I trusted you because I had given you everything. Hadn’t I spent night after night letting you touch me with your hands and your mouth? Hadn’t I left the book about birds behind when you told me to swim through the window? We kicked faster because we thought we could catch up with him. I was tired and sore when you told me to climb on your back. You said that the bum had blankets and sandwiches. You said you would swim underneath me and move my feet, paddle my arms with your hands.

    Okay, I said, and it was the last time I saw your face above the water. When you descended, you gave me a thumbs up. You were smiling so big that I could see your one chipped tooth. Okay, I kept saying. Okay, okay, okay.

    Now it has been many days since I saw you go under the water. I am paddling and kicking, even though you are not beneath me to push and pull my limbs for me. I have steered myself in the direction of Duluth. I have made plans to find the neighbor’s son, and to find Patty. I want to ask them about the last days of their relationship. I want them to tell me when they knew it was all lost. I want to know if love is quiet and slow when it dies, or if it breaks all at once like a dam.

    Read it:
    http://theneweryork.com/noahs-wives-who-had-no-names-kate-severance/

  5. exposed brick, sweaters, iron headboard, slippers, hbo, red wine, sea salt soiree, body smelling of ginger, candle chandelier, coconut hair, sleeping limbs.

  6. this could be date night but you playin

    this could be date night but you playin

  7. it’s weird when people think that someone they love is better now then they were but don’t realize that it’s exactly because of the space that they’re now so dead set on constricting. 

  8. I’m also just a rebirth-core chill-goth standing in front of a yacht-rock stoner-dad asking him to love her.

    — Dalston Hill

  9. does the trajectory of anyone else’s day rely heavily on how good or terribly you’ve cracked your eggs in the morning?