Home for Christmas, 1975
by Ron Kolm
Home for Christmas, 1975
by Ron Kolm
I told my father, I said, I am going to be a musician. He say magician no good. I say, why you magician no good?
Magician be gay. Woman be gay. Man be gay. Everything be gay.
He say you will I say how you think that. I am disappointed in you. What do you think you raised? How did you raise? You raised me. How can you think magic will make me not your son? Read more
by Shannon Barber
Take the blade.
Her voice is smooth almost a monotone and the handle of her blade is cool against my sweating palm.
She watches me — my eyes directed to the left of the thing in my hand. I don’t tremble but my eyes shake.
I am so afraid.
Look at it. She doesn’t speak but I hear the command.
by Jacob Futhey
I threw on jeans, buttoned up a shirt, and crept towards the door. The T.V. was blaring from the living room. My mom saw me from the couch, a cloud of smoke hung over her, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Liz from high school invited me out, it’s her birthday.”
She came shuffling towards the door; her robe half-open, exposing a constellation of moles and blotches, “You don’t need to be worrying about girls.”
“Mom please. She’s a lesbian. I’m just going to say hi. Maybe have a few laughs.” Liz always had sexually promiscuous friends around and I needed to prove my dick still worked.
Her hands perched on her hips showing more stars, “You don’t need to go out with anyone, even if they are lesbians.” I had been home almost a month after dropping out of college after a year and a half. Read more
by Keith Ebsary
A mountain of steak, a bombardment of bovine, meaty, majestic, marbled and magnificent. And it’s all for my wife, the wafer-thin gorger in thong and bra picking at the slabs of flesh with slow and lazy fingers as she coyly telegraphs the imminent feast. Meat smells fill our bedroom—salt, char and blood—and the lights play over the sharp strake of her shoulders and wild lines of her ribs. She looks into my eyes, and the look is hungry, as my fingers drop one by one in a silent countdown.
Then the camera is on and the feast begins.
The first steak disappears in wolfy bites, jaws chomping in frenzy on tissue and gristle. I watch her throat bobble and gulp as her lips and tongue click in robotic harmony to the animal sounds mumbling through the juices inside her mouth.
The second steak is gentle, a quiet dinner in a riverside café, a bottle of wine with candlelight and fire. She fondles the meat with a lover’s touch, nuzzling the seared muscle with playful nips of her teeth. Meat juice precomes down her chin and she licks it away, eyes drilling through the camera to the unseen faces beyond.
The third steak is wild, ripped and shredded like the carcass of a woodland beast. She growls and barks as her fingers plunge into the wet muscle and tear off chunks that are swallowed whole. Her lips curl in predatory rage and her body hunches over the kill, a prize for her alone.
The other steaks become a smacking blur. She eats and eats and I watch in fascination as her gut bulges from the banquet packed within. The camera catches it all, every throat-swelling swallow, every satiated grunt. I try to fade from the scope of her hunger, become the shadow behind a plant. Finally the eating ends and she collapses onto the pillows behind her. I turn the camera off and join her on the bed where she lies with eyes half-open and stomach distended, glutted on cow like a sullen lioness digesting her kill. She crooks her finger, Come and I do what she says because she reminds me of everything beautiful.
Her kisses taste like meat and she is the sun inside me.