Your mother found the place on the website that back then seemed so novel and now is considered low-key evil. “It’s on the second floor,” she’d said. “They say there’s no elevator but that shouldn’t be a problem.”  As the two of you roll your bags through the streets of Brighton, you notice other people moving in festive clumps. Someone told you at some point that Brighton was a party town, a fun fact you had forgotten until just now. You and your mother are wrecked from the red-eye, and as you follow the map on your phone, leading you

I always thought I lacked something, a fundamental muscle or chord. While other children shrieked in delight, in terror, in exhaustion, I remained mute and unblinking.  At five years old, I was questioned, gently, by concerned adults.  I stared at them—they stared at me, a Grand Canyon of misunderstanding between us.  I refused to answer stupid questions. I heard the lie from their lips, saw the masks on their faces, and I was terribly sad for these exhausted, fragile adults.  I said nothing. The suggestion was made, that I would be better suited to the special education classroom.  This was

I despise smokers. With their receding gums and teeth like overripe bananas going black with spots. Never cheap out on anything that separates you from the ground: shoes, mattresses, and your teeth. Or their Duchenne smiles with perfect teeth and imported memory foam mattresses I couldn’t afford even after several months’ salary. *** After graduating from a liberal arts college, I made cold calls from lead lists purchased from companies that trafficked in personal data at an unlicensed real estate company. The office had a half-man-sized fishtank glowing with blue light next to the front desk. The small thermometer always

I lay here in my small bed missing him and want to tell him so. I believe he misses me too. Though, if I were to tell him how I miss him, I imagine he would respond in kind and that I would not believe it. Mike Guajardo-Bennett is a queer Mexican-American poet and short fiction writer. His work has appeared in The Cloudscent Journal and October Hill Magazine, among others. He grew up in Arlington, TX and currently lives in Manhattan, where he collects vintage film posters and dreams of his home state.

Writing at 19 was like glugging champagne while jacking off in a tubful of foie gras at all hours without shame, without shame, without shame. Entry Point (ca. 1998) Probably the man I maybe love is contemplating the blonde’s twat across a Prague café. Maybe he’s already tickled the twat pink. Or is busy knocking himself out with his own fist in the bleakest Czech hotel room… If I were my mother, I would be trying to marry this man: just yesterday he crammed himself further into me than I will ever go. I am in love with this man,

Ever since he was a kid, Restituto Padilla showed a great aptitude for math—it was his one and only aptitude. The austere village school, with its green roof and plexiglass windows bearing the faces of national heroes, didn’t have much to offer Resti, they said at home. Bored one day in class, he started counting the ants that industriously crawled back and forth along the dirt floor. Chin planted on the old desk, he counted 18,657 distinct ants. Eventually, it became a habit, watching their trajectory as if under hypnosis. He learned to predict their movements. During these trances, his