NUMBER 30 by Jonah Sheen Tan
I studied the rustle of the stately rain tree when I couldn’t see the blackboard and knew Pollock’s Number 30 before I ever experienced autumn.
A PORTRAIT OF JOHN WAYNE’S COLLARBONE, SELMA BRAUN, 1992 by Will VanDenBerg
It’s 5:34 am and John Wayne is singing to his horse. The shoot is behind schedule; they’ve gone all night. Wayne’s singing voice will be dubbed over.
ANCHORAGE by Marc Tweed
That’s the Way of the Boss. That’s the Way of the Boss! Well, fuck.
OUR STORY by Rhea Ramakrishnan
You can tell yourself anything you want about yourself, even if it’s not true yet, and eventually it will be. Maybe.
DOOMSDAY APOCALYPSE MELANCHOLIA BLUES by Nathaniel Duggan
It was an easy thing, that winter, to realize that you were not, in fact, you—rather you were the untitled, draft email of yourself, addressed to no one.
MY IDEA OF SELF IS SELF-INFLICTION: Jared Daniel Fagen in conversation with Vi Khi Nao
I don’t feel free, Vi. Never have. I know you don’t either. I don’t know anyone who does, or has. Maybe nothing is, nor should it be.
ON BEAUTY by Amber Burke
I don’t mind when men talk and talk; then I don’t have to do anything. They fall in love all by themselves.
RECENTISH by Spencer Thomas Campbell
But the product of this was both gushy and vain. Embarrassing. It was easy to read his real interest, which was carnal, puckered.
THE FAST-FOOD REBELLION and THE LARPER by Will Musgrove
On break, he spoke to us through the order box. The sun warming our necks, we tossed French fries to seagulls and smelled the electric static on his breath.
THE FORTY-FIVE DOLLAR SCYTHE by Don Television
They looked for the seller. They were sometimes lurking near the booth, watching as you handled the crockery. Watching as you flipped through the records.