
LANGUAGE by Steve Gergley
His physique is quite distressing. It is not something I like to observe.

His physique is quite distressing. It is not something I like to observe.

I enjoy the wish fulfillment of making up a controlling, overbearing asshole and then torturing him by making everything go wrong no matter what he does.

Like anything, Hot Wheels has a language. Like any language you encounter, you want to make this one your own.

At sixteen I went ocean swimming. I swam so deep that the land turned into a thin grey line. The ocean turned into hills like blue elephants.

Kyle experimented with ChatGPT once: “What are twenty-five short story ideas?” The answers it puked out were uniformly terrible, except for one.

The parrot needed quietude and a sense of security in order to come down. My neighbors must’ve pegged me as mad.

Oh, the bear came with the house, I lied. The Lord hates a lying tongue, the pastor said.

I knew I was going to love it when the head started to vomit guns. The tone felt like a Monty Python film. Is that a common comparison?

“It’s not that it disappears,” he said. “It’s just deep. It’s like a cliff. It goes all the way down. But it’s something new, Rico.”

Rolling down the window, I decipher through the breeze, Listen, I think we need to stop this. Hours ago, you had my breasts in your hands. OK, whatever, it’s fine, I said.