“Gold” is one of the poems featured in Periodic Boyfriends, a collection by Drew Pisarra (Capturing Fire Press). To be blond is to be bland is to bebetter is to be better than, betterthan silver […]
Month: June 2023
Partners by DL Shirey
He took the name Desmond this time. It sounded nice as he said it out loud. He repeated the name, trying to commit it to memory.
“What’d you say?” his partner muttered; words slurred.
“Nothing,” Desmond said in the language both knew. Then he made the mistake of letting slip his partner’s real name. It sounded as foreign as any other word in their tongue and Desmond was pretty sure no one in Albuquerque spoke it. Nonetheless, it was against the rules and Desmond received a sharp elbow for the error.
How to Bear It by Audrey Alt
Esme wakes to the slamming of the front door and panics. Each night, she goes to bed after Nathaniel and, each morning, tries to ensure she gets up before him—in case she needs to dispose of leftovers, though usually she doesn’t. But today, after she scrambles down the stairs and rounds the corner, tripping on a throw rug as she does, she finds, as expected, as feared, that Nathaniel has beaten her outside. Worse, he’s on the driveway poking at her piles with a stick. She watches from the window, and when he notices her, he goes back inside.
“Why is there food out there?” he asks gently while also assuming her guilt. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, only partly in jest, as he goes down the hallway to get the broom and dustpan. “Let me guess. You’re feeding wild animals again.”
Counting Smiles by Tim Frank
A fleeting smile, whether from an arthritic octogenarian stumbling off a bus, or from a neighbour glancing at you over a picket fence as you dig for weeds, can really raise your spirits.
They’re not always easy to come by, however, and there was a time when I was perpetually surrounded by weary faces and paranoid scowls. I worked as a bin man alongside monosyllabic migrants, living in a squat full of stoners ensconced in their own gloomy dream worlds. I felt close to ending it all.
The Roll Out by Gemma Elliott
In the past I had occasionally considered what kind of tail I might have had, if we hadn’t evolved them out. Something grand, like a proud and bushy fox tail. Or the soft insistent thump of a golden retriever. It would match my personality anyway: hopeless romantic, outgoing and friendly, a good listener. All the traits I’d listed for online dating.
My girlfriend had asked once, when we were lying in bed, would you still love me if I had a little piggy tail? And I’d said, of course darling, I would ping your tiny curl and watch it spring back with glee.
Descendents by DS Maolalai
the thing is – we need to accept it.the rich have the timeto develop their art. I speakas a worker, on behalfof some workers, and my fellows are notas the world would decide to imagine […]
The Next Scene by Deborah Shrimplin
When Kaye noticed her brain was struggling to remember the most basic nouns (she was told this happens to most seniors) she decided to take up writing. Writing was supposed to be good for her senior brain.
Last night, Kaye had written the first few scenes of a story she thought had wonderful potential. This morning she is sitting at her computer rereading it. She questions, “What would happen next?”
Born in Fire
The Princess of Asmodee by Geoffrey Marshall
Cruisin’ down the road in her car — a pale blue slug slaloming along the blacktop sine wave. We head towards the gigantic red sun that swallows half the sky. Her hands are on the wheel, the polychromatic luster of her enameled nails keeps catching my eye. The windows are rolled down and her chin-length caramel hair is wild in the cool wind.
She has on an oversized off-the-shoulder cable knit sweater —her deeply tanned shoulders contrast against the ivory fabric. A huge pair of Gucci tortoise shell sunglasses with gradient tinted lenses obscure her eyes. She smiles and sings along with the radio to a song that doesn’t matter, except in this moment.
All I smell is ocean.
Moving Home and Not Coming Out by Anonymous
I
The first time I was 15. He had blonde curls, deep blue eyes and an American drawl from his mother that cut deep through suburban London. I told a friend how beautiful I thought he was but did nothing else. It surfaced again from time to time but never with the same simplicity, the shy urge to be close to someone, to touch skin and graze lips.
Decades later it has finally begun to materialise but not as I expected. Last year I realised how at home I feel in female clothing – slithers of lace and silk, straps I can pull taught between my fingers and a metallic necklace that jolts me with confidence each time I touch it. What started as a memory of how beautiful I thought a boy at school was has morphed into a preoccupation with ceding control: degradation by older women, an occasionally urgent desire to give head and presenting feminine all seem to be ways of escaping the pressure of a conventionally male role, of taking the lead.