135: I want to be with him every single day by bronx. | Flickr The moon hung in the night whole and round and bright as the toll of a church bell promising salvation. Its reflection floated lazily on the lake’s surface, rippling when Blake or Johnny ran one of their naked feet through the water. The whole drive to the lake they had sung as loud as the pumped-up radio, wind tossing their hair, the headlights fairy-flashing on speed limit signs they blew by without regard for law or numbers. But now silence, or something like it considering the crickets and the trees and their breath rested over them like humidity, the bottle of whiskey between them almost empty, their fingers almost touching. Neither of them had said a word about the waterlogged corpse decaying not thirty feet away on the lake shore. Blake broke the silence. “We have to call the cops.” Johnny sighed. “It can wait.” |
by KEITH FRADY
by BOB SHAR
by ALYA DEMINA
by LEAH MUELLER
by CHRIS DIGIORGIO
by DAN TREMAGLIO
She wanted to write a song. She did not want to write a song. She loved music and how it made her feel and was born to write and play it. She might have been tone deaf. She never felt more alive than when performing in front of people. She was often terrified and never far from bed. She did not own an alarm clock because
she could open her eyes at any exact minute and more often passed the entire night pacing the villa of her imagination in the nude and moonlight. by JOE BONGIORNO
by GLENN A. BRUCE
by L. MACK
by SARAH BARKER
by WARREN J. COX
by PAUL SMITH
by KYLE HEMMINGS
by SAUL LEMEROND
by CATHERINE MOORE
by CHAD W. LUTZ
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Advice for Submitting to Literary Magazines
in the Coming Totalitarian Dystopia Daniel Paul, McSweeney's Summer Reading / Santi Garcia- Flickr
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November 2022
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