
BEAR WITH A CHAINSAW by Joe Aguilar
Oh, the bear came with the house, I lied. The Lord hates a lying tongue, the pastor said.
Oh, the bear came with the house, I lied. The Lord hates a lying tongue, the pastor said.
“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.”
People—and I mean even absolute strangers—they’ll just talk and talk and talk and they expect you to listen to their whole life story. Have you ever experienced this? Do you know what I mean?
nevertheless i have grown tired of it already, as anyone in my situation would. anyway, i am stuck. hand looks bad.
There’s enough clogged hair to build a new human, one who believes in the plunger, the snake, the possibility that our channels will flow free.
Her sandwich – mine now – is sloppily assembled, the melted cheddar thick with oil like a handsome man’s mucus. I eat without chewing much.
A year and three months ago a stray bullet caught Mina in the face, just grazing it. She has a scar that trails down her left eye, back to her left ear. The scar looks like one tear crying. Sometimes, lightning strikes twice.
In movies, the end of the world makes everyone care about the right things, right when the right things are about to be gone. Not me. I want my money.
Susan who choked to death loved the husband, loved his neighborliness. She loved him from her driveway and windows, front and back yards, day and night dreams.
In order to write, I needed the writing process to disappear. But without the writing process, obviously I wouldn’t be a writer.