Secondary Living by Adam Kelly Morton

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Secondary Living

by Adam Kelly Morton


"Last Call at RedStar", Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

“Last Call at RedStar”, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015


The Oyster Shack is closed and Bob is drunk, upstairs doing his cash. With the lights out and the front door locked, the cops won’t be able to see Carole and me having a few nightcaps after hours. Not that they come around on Tuesdays anyhow. Or ever.
We’re on to whiskey with our beers. Bob’s iPod is playing Exile on Main Street. Carole is beside me smoking Next Reds, ashing into a conch as Mick belts out “Loving Cup”. Bob might join us later. It’ll be all right if he does, because there’s no way I’m going to fuck this bitch tonight. Tomorrow morning is another story. I’m hungry for it when I’m hung. It’s the best cure.
“D’où tu viens, exactement?” Carole asks through her brown teeth; when we first met, a few days ago, she told me they’re because of a calcium deficiency from when she was an infant. But I’m pretty sure it’s nicotine too. Dentists nowadays can fix brown teeth. Otherwise, Carole’s not bad. Her hair is greasy, but blonde when she washes it. She’s skinny, but she’s got a fine ass. I’ll tap that shit first thing, with her lying on her side. Just the way I used to with June.
For now, Carole wants to know where I grew up. I light up another Players and take a pull of my pint while staring up at the fisherman’s net. “Doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “Montreal.”
“Ouais, mais d’où?” She wants to know if I’m from the suburbs. Fucking downtown whores are all the same: French or English, they want to get an edge on you, so they can fuck you over. Why can’t they just be sweet?
Fuck it. I’ll tell her. “West Island,” I say.
“I knew it,” she says, in that nasal, whiny, Quebecker drawl — smoke pouring out of her dragon’s maw. “One time, I think about moving out there, for my two boys. But it too far from downtown without a car.”
I don’t say anything, and throw back my whiskey. Carole picks up our Cutty Sark and pours me another thick one, clanking the bottle back down on the blue tiles.

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Tenacious Wriggler by RM Graves

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Tenacious Wriggler

by RM Graves


"Foster City, Crowne Plaza", Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

“Foster City, Crowne Plaza”, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

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Smiles and Serenity and Other Things Plumbed from the Depths by Paul-André Betito

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Smiles and Serenity and Other Things

Plumbed from the Depths


by Paul-André Betito


"The Wet Secrets, February 2015", Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

“The Wet Secrets, February 2015”, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

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Overexposure by Erica Anzalone

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by Erica Anzalone


“Hi. I’m Melody. Charmed, I assure you.” Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015.

“Hi. I’m Melody. Charmed, I assure you.” Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015.

There, where her face is blotted out by the sun, in this overexposure, we will make love for the first time. We will not call it making love or even refer to it at all, not as fucking, or doing it. Even though you texted me, I will do you hard, like a stampede of horses up the side of a building running into the sun, like a line of flower girls in white dresses that become a stampede of horses suspended for a moment over the sharp, red noise of traffic.
You will not mention your metamorphosis or mine, how our insides will become our outsides and when this happens, you will become a dragon on my back and I will become a white cow. You will not mention how you will bite my neck and blood will spurt out, each bead making a necklace of fantasies I will never say out loud.
There is a rape fantasy turning an emerald green slither by your feet, and over here by my hand with your hand pressing it against the wall, the colors keep changing. I want to fuck everything alive and dead and inanimate. A fuck rainbow made of furniture and banisters and doorknobs. Dinner plates with roses on them shoot past our heads and wedge into the wall. They are too high for me to fuck so I make a footstool of you. Read more

Misfits by Tim Beckett

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by Tim Beckett


he camp was at the end of a dusty logging road, a hundred kilometers up from the highway. The only other settlement was a tiny Indian reserve, just visible through a stand of trees from the road. The camp consisted of four portable trailers, each a city block long, and two smaller trailers, one for the administrative office, the other for the cook shack, the whole lot plunked down in the middle of a clearing shorn of all vegetation down to bare earth.
It had been a tough season, the worst I’d had in the four years I’d gone tree-planting, and I thought the camp would be a good place to go into myself, read the books I’d been meaning to read since I’d gone into the bush, prepare myself for the transition back to the city. The loggers weren’t due back for a few weeks, and we were all given our own rooms in one of the long trailers. The rooms were bare but comfortable, and the steady hum of the generator out the window blocked out the sound of my fellow tree-planters yelling back and forth in the hallway, or playing guitars in their rooms. I found the camp beautiful in a way, an echo of the Northern towns I’d grown up in and almost totally forgot about when I was in the city. The smell of oil and exhaust mingled with the sylvan-sweet scent of fresh-cut timber, and broken logs stuck out of the mud like the remains of a building after an earthquake. Next to the railway cars, a tractor with a claw the size of a small house shifted logs in and out of a twenty foot pile, while fully-loaded logging trucks appeared regularly at the opposite ends of the clearing, sending up plumes of dust, their tottering loads of freshly-skinned trees glistening in the sun. It was like a giant factory dropped in the middle of the woods.

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