I met a writer at a party who said she knew me. Her name was Prue or it was Roberta. I wasn’t familiar with her or her work, but a half-circle of humans half-encircled around us, assuring me of Prue/Roberta’s work’s quality. And what is it that you do? the half-circle demands of me now. I tell them I’m a personal assistant—no, an Executive Assistant! We mean, like, your artistic self, dude, says the half-circle. I tell them I run a magazine online. That some people enjoy it—‘Tomb Magazine, it’s called.’ ‘Oh. You rejected me,’ replies one of the humans of the half-circle (not Prue/Roberta). ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘send me more stuff,’ I say—‘I shall!’ this human threatens. ‘I run an online magazine, too,’ says another. ‘What’s it called?’ I ask it—‘I don’t remember,’ is its reply—‘You don’t remember?’ ‘I mean: I don’t want to say.’ ‘He’s pretty shy,’ says someone else in the half-circle. (Pure/Roberta scratches her ass.) ‘I understand,’ I say, although I don’t, and I am indifferent. (I never find out about it anyway. But there are more online magazines spawning in, more every day…)
Z. H. Gill lives in East Hollywood, California, with Hans the Cat. He edits Burial Magazine and co-wrote and co-directed the condensed feature film Chongqing Pink (in which he also appears). His debut book of poems, TV & Treadmill, is available now from Hesse Press.