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Emma Rasmussen – Expensive Sex

Expensive Sex

Sex costs. First, there are the drinks. You don’t know him too well. Actually, you’re still not sure you like him, but you’d like something. You keep hoping to feel happy. Like you’d planned. Another red might help.

Then there’s the taxi. ‘We can split it,’ you say, still not knowing whether it’s sex you’re going for. He is.

You’re kissing in his kitchen, his face in your neck, his hand pushing down into your jeans. The compliments help. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he whispers. As you walk up behind him you remind yourself that life, after all, is for living.

He presses you down onto the bed. He pulls your bra up over your head, undresses himself with one hand. He’s shaking. He’s ready. Are you? You don’t know, but you do know you have a rule. It comes out as less of a rule, more of a question… ‘Can you put a condom on?’

‘No,’ he begs, blowing sour wine and cigarettes into your ear. ‘I want to feel you.’ And you want to be felt too. Connected. Just like him.

He’s getting soft. You’re tired. You‘ve had five glasses of wine. Dinner was a packet of crisps. Under the soft light of the bar, he identified you as an ‘over-thinker’. You thought it made you sound interesting, complex…seen.

‘Don’t worry baby,’ he says. ‘I’ll pull out.’ You’re embarrassed he thinks you’re worrying, but you like that he called you ‘baby’. Did he know you would?

‘You can do it for a bit, but—and I know this is a horribly unsexy question, but have you been tested?’

‘Yes,’ he says. He can show you the results. But this is enough for you. You decide then that you trust him. He doesn’t ask you the same question back.

He enters with a long, grateful sigh.

He’s enjoying it. He picks up pace. He pushes harder. He looks up. He looks somewhere else. He looks crippled with pleasure. He looks lost. You wish you were too. You try to relax. You try to let go. But you can’t. Who will watch the shop if you do?

He wants to turn you over now. Do it from behind. You smile, fake a moan, lift your legs up higher, try to put him off. You worry he thinks you’re a prude. You let him pound you harder, head crunched into the headboard. It’s hard to breathe.

His eyes close. His breathing gets shorter. His thrusts get faster. ‘I’m gonna cum,’ he says. ‘Oh my god, I’m gonna cum.’ You wait for him to pull out. He doesn’t. Should you say something? Should you do something? You don’t do anything. You don’t want to ruin it. You give him a few seconds more. It soon becomes a minute.

‘I’m cumming!’ He pants. ‘Oh yes, I’m cumming! Oh my God, I’m cumming! I’m cumming! I’m cumming! I’m cumming!’ he sputters, as he pulls out. Cum drips over your thighs. He falls on top of you. The life wafts out of him. You want to wash. Stand up. Swab a finger around your vagina. But you don’t. You let him stay there. Let him catch back his breath.

After a minute you ask the question. ‘Do I have anything to worry about?’

‘No.’ He says, eyes closed, face in a cat’s smile…

All you do, however, is worry.

He rolls off. You get up slowly. Pick your clothes up off the floor. He’s ready to sleep. You want to ask the question again. Instead you try to make breezy conversation. Pulling up your jeans, you perch on the edge of his bed and he strokes your arm. He wants to see you again. He says.

You get a taxi home. You lie in bed, awake, working out which part of your cycle you’re in. You are your most fertile. It’s probably fine, you tell yourself. Get some sleep.

Twenty minutes later you’re on Google typing in ‘pregnancy and the withdrawal method’. You read the words ‘pre-cum’. You think back to what you felt. Nothing. You think. You were wet. That’s all. Wait a few days and get a pregnancy test. You’re being silly. It’s probably fine.

But what if it’s not fine? Would you tell him? What would he say? Would he see you again? Would he believe you? What would you even do? Should you get the morning after-pill? It’s expensive. But less so then an abortion and you certainly can’t afford a baby. When was the last time you took it? Six months? Or was it more like four? What will the pharmacist think when you ask for it again? He told you it wasn’t to be treated as a contraceptive. Would that have been a Saturday? Yes. Should you wait till Sunday, for a different person? What if he works the weekend? The longer you leave it, the less effective it can be. You want to enjoy the rest of your weekend. You have plans. Is that the reason you are taking it? Is that good enough? What about the side-effects? Do you really need it? How could you tell?

Four hours later, you get a train to another branch. You hand over twenty-five pounds and an apology. Outside the shop, you swallow the pill. You finally relax. You get the train home. You eat breakfast and then the nausea starts. Three hours later you vomit. Does it mean the pill might not work? You go to consult the packaging. You threw it away. You ask Google instead. You get many opinions. It’s probably fine.

You lie down. You call your friend. You tell her what happened. She understands. You tell her you won’t be able to make her birthday. Again, she says, she understands. You feel like a crap person.

You wait for his text. It never comes. You decide you are a crap person.

You make a rule. 

- Emma Rasmussen
 
* This piece was originally published by The Quotable 

 

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David Bracke – The Last Can

The Last Can

The man parted the bushes and limped out onto the road. A chunky wind of dirt and sand blew across his face, mixing with the faint plume of his breath.  He pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose and adjusted his goggles.  He looked both ways; the desolation seemed to stretch on forever. He took out his old pistol and held it ready before crossing the street.  The convenient store was nothing more than a burned-out wooden frame with broken windows. Weeds were growing in the open doorway and he crushed them down with his boot.  A skinny rat scurried along the wall and disappeared behind the counter where the clerk would have sat.

With his pistol still raised he started inspecting each shelf for food.  Something must have been overlooked on the already barren shelves.  He was careful not to step on any trash wrappers in the aisle.  Someone could have been listening. It wasn’t until the last aisle when he saw the glimmer.  It was tucked back in a corner covered in ash.  He took it down and couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anything so beautiful.  He brushed off the dust and cobwebs trying to find a clue of what was inside, but the previous label had been burned off.  His mouth watered as he imagined the possibilities, and, for that brief moment he was at peace.  Just then a sharp blow to his temple collapsed his fantasy and he fell to the ground.   Then everything went black.

The boy dropped the two by four and picked the can up off the ground.  He could see his reflection in the scratched surface.  He hadn’t seen his reflection in a long time.  There was dried blood on his forehead, and he recalled the fall he had taken the other day.  His eyes were deathly sunken and his face was thin and emaciated.  He picked up a rock and started slamming the top of the can but only made a few small dents.  He used his teeth and gnawed on the corner trying to get just a drop of what was inside. He heard a car coming down the road and ran to the door.  It was the first car the boy had seen in over a year.  He ran into the middle of the road and waved it down.  It was an old Ford covered in dust.

“Do you have a can opener?” said the boy

In the driver ‘s seat was a young woman.  Her face was dusty and she was wearing red lipstick. 

“I will share this can of food with you,” said the boy.  

At the sight of the can her eyes lit up like diamonds.

“It’s a fake,” said the woman.

“It’s real,” said the boy.

“Yes, I have a can opener, but let me see,” said the woman.

The boy hesitated.

“I need to feel the weight,” she said.

The boy gave her the can and she made faces of contemplation; rolling her eyes and flexing her chin.  In the back seat the boy could see a pile of junk; old tools and pieces of metal.  Then it was all a blur to the boy.  She hit the gas and took off leaving him in cloud of gray dust.  She threw the can in the back seat with the rest of her supplies and flipped on the radio.  The frequency was static and she smiled. 

She had driven no more than ten miles when there was an explosion.  Her car flipped over and she was crushed instantly. The can rolled out onto the street, then off to the side of the road, and into a polluted stream of acid rain and small animal carcasses.  There, it sunk, displacing the mud at the bottom.  The new seasons came and went and the can was washed down stream until it was deposited into a larger river.  It floated around for a long time until a painted hand scooped it up.

David Bracke

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Dan Morey – Little Skulls

Little Skulls

Eight old men are dying behind a curtain in Brendan’s hospital ward.  What they’re dying of I can’t say.  But they’re dying.  You can smell it.  Sometimes I go over and talk to them, but they never say anything back.  I go anyway, because I can’t just sit here and stare at Brendan all day.  It’s too boring.

Right now I’m on Brendan’s side of the curtain.  Like the song that says whose suicide are you on?  I’m on Brendan’s.  And he is a suicide.  Well, almost a suicide.  The doctor told us he took a very bad beating and drank a lot of Drano and that he’s going to be comatose for a while.  He doesn’t know if Brendan got beat up and then drank the Drano, or if he drank the Drano and then got beat up.  I’m pretty sure I know the guy who did the beating, and I wouldn’t put it past him to wail on a suicided body.  But there’s no proof, and Brendan isn’t likely to tell us, since the only noise he can make is a fart.

Brendan really does look like hell, with his bruised face and purple eye sockets and breathing tubes and IVs.  The nurse shaved off his mohawk so they could drill a hole in his head and relieve the brain swelling, and now you can see all these old tattoos where his hair used to be.  They look like a five-year-old drew them—little skulls and stars and a heart that’s cracked in half. Continue Reading »

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Heather M. Browne – Her War Ghosts

Her War Ghosts

The ghosts she did not know
 Tinged her days, sepia shaded longing
Sadness touching upon celebrations

 Cooling the edges, chilling
 her laughter

The ghosts she did not know
  Painted her moments, washing her walls
 Their shadowy silhouettes hanging
 Among family portraits
 Photos of before or now lined the walls, never then 

She looked into the eyes of her grandmother
Grandfather, uncle, aunts

 Days, years, months before, lightness, light
 Family she’d never meet
 Or know
 She looked at their mouths, soft
 Their hands, open
 Their bellies, full
 Her parents never spoke of what happened
 Only these three photos remained, hung
 Silent

Walking the hall she struggled to capture their voices
 Their words, alert to prick their whisperings
 She could sense their muffled background rumblings

Standing before their faces she could feel the rise
 Their anger stirring, her hatred mounting, stomach rolling
 Her family had been taken
 Ripped from all they’d known, stripped
 Down to nothing, nothing but flesh and bones
 Their bodies burned
 The dust of their debris covering everything, falling
 Still 

She moved to Papa and Mama’s portrait, young then, before
A spring dance, lace, chiffon

 Laughter filling their faces, spilling easily into gentle bodies
 Ghosts she did not know
 She smiled, a bit
 Mama’s hand gently touched Papa’s clean-shaven cheek
 Her wrist soft, clean
 Their numbers inked
 Embedded into flesh
 Stained
 Always covered now, her body shook, on guard with prickling
 Her covering would slip in moments, exposed
 Fear and shame contorting Mama’s face, always fear now
 She longed to touch their mark 

She turned to Grandmother’s portrait
She he had her Grandmother’s eyes

 Spoken, this brought stinging to Mama
 She looked deeply, her eyes
 She pressed her nose upon the glass, cold
 Dust stirred
 The barrier between then and now
 How could they share eyes
 When she’d never seen the horrors?
 Her reflection mirrored back in the aged glass
 Her eyes overlapping Grandmother’s
 Blending and reflecting
 Revealing
 Her ghost

Heather M. Browne

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Ashley Shaw – Cannibalized Romance

Cannibalized Romance

i seek shelter from the bomb
of your bloated tongue
your sneer, an angry gash
frigid words blur your lips
land like fists on mine
inkblot bruises stain my neck
i shed my dress
trembling red rose petals
limbs and skin and desperation
clinging until we are spent
i inhale the nicotine from your skin
apologies are a filtered afterthought

caught in the haze
of our better days

you peel back your spine
reveal low trees in dusky tones
i peek over your horizon
lips trail a pink sunset
an angry sliver of teeth
hovers there, bitter and
creeps between the discs
you are shocked by my
electric moonlight
as we cling beneath
sullen armchair feet
my slow hands tend your husk

we are radiance
on our better days

Ashley Shaw

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Thom Mahoney – A Four-Letter Word

A Four-Letter Word

When Hillary left, Jenn ran through the living room to the window seat where they had read together while rubbing each other’s feet, where they’d sipped tea and dreamed of tomorrows and all the glorious days after that. She kneeled on the brocade cushion and watched as Hillary bounced down the steps from the front door to the waiting car, her hair pulled up in a high pony tail that swung from side to side as she walked. She could remember Hillary wearing her hair like that only when she washed her face before climbing into bed at night.

Then she watched as Hillary hefted the suitcase high in the air and swung it on top of the 4Runner and bungeed it in place. It was the twin to the suitcase she and Jenn had gotten the winter they took that magical cruise to Mexico.

Outside, the day was warm and the sky was bright and cloudless, and all around trees were budding a ridiculous lima bean green. Birds danced from limb to limb, fat and happy.

Jenn leaned her face against the window as Hillary climbed into the passenger seat and followed the rusty-red truck as it pulled away from the curb and turned out of sight.

Then she climbed into a pair of green sweatpants and her old, grey pullover cable sweater with the holes in the shoulders, and she pointed her toes into the Curious George sock slippers Hillary had given her for Christmas and peeled back the quilt comforters and crawled in and curled herself into a tight ball and began to cry. And she cried for a long time, talking to herself, telling herself that in the morning, she would see once again the person she used to be. In the morning.

After midnight, or it might have been later, she could no longer cry anything but air, raspy hoarse air that sounded like the spring wind passing so easily through the hole in her heart, the emptiness in her tomorrows, the sudden vacancy in her life.

So, she gathered the quilts and her pillow, and she shuffled into the living room and loaded a Janis Ian CD in the player and wandered around the darkened room, the moonless night coloring it as dry and as dead as her heart, touching first the edge of the desk and then the framed photo of her and Hillary at her sister’s wedding, the sun in their eyes, their arms linked together. Happy times.

“My heart could sleep,” she said, aloud, to the no one that was there. “If I could turn to stone.”

By Sunday night, she wondered if Hillary had left her on a Friday so that she would have time to heal, or time to grieve. It was so like her. And she knew then that she had known love.

- Thom Mahoney

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Bryce Taylor – What Henry Middleton Had Meant To Do Before Dying

What Henry Middleton Had Meant To Do Before Dying

He had meant to visit Rome, to feed pigeons with fresh Italian bread in the warm shadow of St. Peter’s. Over breakfast he would have swapped stories with fellow pilgrims: a young Parisian filmmaker, perhaps; a one-armed sculptor from the Bahamas; a Canadian bureaucrat who enjoyed mystical visions within the confines of his cubicle. 

He had thought of learning Greek, had daydreamed about translating the New Testament into English, not for publication, but for his own intellectual and spiritual enrichment. He had meant to look up local courses that could accommodate his schedule. 

He had wanted to take up bird watching. Slight callouses would form around his eyes from the binoculars, and he would recognize other bird watchers in the grocery store, not only from their own slight callouses, but from the gentle attentiveness that would accompany their every glance. One of them, perhaps, would be a middle-aged widow by the name of Diane, whose green eyes would appear to discern the presence of angels in an avocado. 

He had intended to become something of a film connoisseur, an expert in Hitchcock, Bergman, Malick, Kaufman. He would watch his favorites dozens of times, write essays with unprecedented observations, post them on a blog that would gain a steady readership. Eventually, a book publisher might notice his work and send an eager email. 

And he had meant, just once, to sit down and observe an oak tree as he had observed one in the 5th grade, when Mrs. Galli had taken the class outside to write. Somehow his poem had gone missing, and he wanted now, decades later, to write the same poem, to use the same metaphors, to compare the branches to wild roller coasters, their tips to fingers reaching up, reaching out, touching only wind.

Bryce Taylor

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