
PEGGING by Josh Sherman
Like anything, Hot Wheels has a language. Like any language you encounter, you want to make this one your own.
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.
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.”
Everybody in that coffee shop was always standing around, walking into each other, then backing up and trying again, like Sims, walking into the fridge, backing up, trying again.
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.