bald spot

I always make a joke about my very prominent bald spot on the first day of the semester to endear myself to the students. Usually i say something about how they need to be careful because the light from the halogen bulbs in the ceiling might reflect off of the bald spot at the perfect angle and damage their eyes and maybe even blind them. They always laugh awkwardly and i know that i've got them. But today there was one student in class who was totally bald, and clearly not bald by choice, and while i don't know much about cancer, it seemed obvious that she was bald from chemotherapy. Her head  just had that look to it. It was too late once i noticed her because i had already started the joke and couldn't stop. I told the joke, and all the students shuffled in their seats and most of them looked at her, and after a couple seconds she alone laughed 

sex scene

They asked me what i liked to write and i said violence. They said the market wasn't good for that right now, but what they could really use was a sex scene. I told them i really didn't know how to write sex scenes, but i'd be willing to try and fake it. They said that would be fine, and so i faked it for them right then and there. They liked my fake sex scene very much, i could tell. They were sweating and becoming excited right from the very start. I saw hands groping legs and hair being flung back and chests becoming flush and i just kept on faking it. I wrote the climax and they all appeared to orgasm. When i finished they all clapped and told me i was excellent at faking it, that the scene would work brilliantly. I asked them if they meant it and their heads nodded and some of them snickered. They said they'd let me know when they need me again  


The first time anyone ever bought smokes for us we were 12 and shoulder tapping outside the York Hill convenience store. We'd been out there for over an hour, asking everyone that walked by if they'd take our five bucks and get us cigarettes, and most passersby just looked at us funny and shook their heads and one woman with a stroller even yelled at us. Finally one woman said yes, and she must have been about 80 and looked just like my grandmother. She had brownish-orange stains on her fingers and walked with one of those wheely baskets. I didn't want to ask her but Barry called me a pussy, and then he took the coins out of my hand and went right up to her and popped the question. She stared off into space for a solid minute before she said alright and took the money and went in. She was in there for god knows how long, and i was sure she just plum forgot what she was doing in the store at all. But sure enough she came out with two packs of Matinees, one for her and one for us, and i was pissed cause those are old-lady cigarettes. She said here's your goodies when she handed us the pack, and she even gave us the receipt. It was probably the greatest moment of my life up till that point and still ranks up there. We went to the park and smoked three cigarettes each until i felt sick and told Barry he could take them home, even though we had split the money. The next day my mouth felt gross and i was happy i gave them all to him. The day after that i wanted one and called Barry, but he'd left to go to disneyland with his folks


TJ told me that his sister Angela always misses her flights. Just about every single time she has to fly, he said, she misses her flight. I asked why and he just shook his head. I asked if she left enough time to get to the airport and check-in and he said he wasn't sure, because she lived in Oregon and he didn't see her much, but he said that she was very impulsive by nature and was usually late for things and often didn't show up to engagements. I got very angry and said that she was probably the kind of person that leaves their house less than an hour before their flight is scheduled to take off, and that i always get to the airport at least 24 hours in advance and sometimes i  bring a small tent and several books and even a typewriter. i started to shake and told TJ that he had made me very angry by telling me about his sister, and that hearing about her airport behavior was giving me terrible anxiety and that i might throw up. I left his house early and threw up when i got home, and i threw up three more times that night, and i pictured myself in my warm tent at the airport 

if you mention david foster wallace, they'll shoot you

if you mention david foster wallace, they'll shoot you

if you mention kathy acker, they'll smile but deep down they'll feel uneasy

if you mention matthew barney, they'll blink

if you mention jk rowling, they'll praise jesus

if you mention james baldwin, they'll pluck your eyes out

if you mention bell hooks, they'll commend you, but dubiously

if you mention gilles deleuze, they'll ask about the other one

if you mention angela carter, they'll force you to masturbate

if you mention phillip k dick, they'll roll their eyes

if you mention james joyce, they'll change the subject

if you mention haruki murakami, they'll pause the interrogation

if you mention orlan, they'll inject you with truth serum

if you mention junot diaz, they'll know 

if you mention richard ford, they'll kill their spouses

if you mention judith butler, they'll debate your future

if you mention gabriel garcia marquez, they'll commence the apocalypse

if you mention jonathan franzen


Sherry is retired and spends her days having tea with gravestones in the cemetery near her house. She always brings her green teapot and two mugs and saucers, and sets up a picnic in front of a different stone each day. She pours the tea, always for her guest first, and then pours for herself, and proceeds to chat excitedly with the gravestone, gossiping about this and that, sometimes throwing her hair back and laughing. Yesterday she had tea with Margaret Cavill's stone. The day before that it was Edison Smith. Today, Maurice, the old security guard that watches over the grounds, asked her if she would ever offer him some tea. She looked at him very seriously and said no. He told her she had to leave and she said in time she would  


I have never been worried about being murdered by the other passenger in the elevator, but i am constantly worried about becoming bored to death or being suffocated by awkwardness. I do, however, worry that every person i ride with in the elevator thinks i'm a serial killer. They know that it can't just be a coincidence that we are there at the same moment. They look at me for one second and they know that i've tracked them there, and when i get in behind them they know i'm watching them, analyzing how they move, and when they press the button for the 20th floor, it's obvious that i'm going to press the button for the 21st floor just so i can be in there long enough. I know they know that when i spend the whole ride looking at the floor, it's because i'm really trying to look disinterested on purpose. Sometimes i can see them reaching deep into their jacket pockets, maybe for their keys or a knife. Sometimes they have their phone in their hand, their thumb firmly placed on 9. When they get off and mutter "take care," or "have a good one," i know that their squeaky whisper is coming from a throat choked by the fear of imminent death. Their super-quick saunter out of the elevator and down the hall is the fastest they'll move all day and the hairs on their neck are standing prone until they hear the elevator door close and they look back and i'm not there, in the hall, behind them


Here is the recipe for the perfect cocktail:

3 parts alcohol, 2 parts something fermented from the jungle, 

1 part fevered dream about leading her country to revolution, 16 parts sediment of a nation, 

1 part image of a determined, if not idealistic, heroine

some ice, some sweetness, something palatable to take it with


1 part clever deception, 1 perfectly fitted fake guerrilla outfit, 1 shared fireside tea, 1 sly smile, 1 part cyanide

it's supposed to go down easy at this point


1 part hospital, 1 code blue, 4 parts surgery, 1 part rehab, 1 part walking again, 1 part galvanizing the resistance, 1 part stone-faced gaze with a raised fist, 1 part vengeance, 1 part magazine cover, ripped shirt, photoshopped extra cleavage

many parts Kalishnikovs, many parts molotovs, many parts militarized response, assorted bullets, explosions, limbs, blood

1 part ricocheted bullet, 1 part wrong place wrong time, 1 part martyr

some time later, after appropriate dust has settled, a drink will appear in every local bar and restaurant, and everyone will know it is named after her, and it will be called La Revolucion, or something like that, and it will be sold for a moderately high price. It will wipe away troubles; it will dull stresses of everyday life; It will bring things back to way they were 

the greatest

We were drinking from a bottle of Speckled Hen in the park when Antoinette asked me who I considered the greatest author of all time. Christine and Ola gawked at me, interested in what i had to say, but Johnny kept fiddling with his lighter, his mind elsewhere. I said it was a tough call, but ultimately Faulkner deserved the number one spot. Christine and Antoinette looked annoyed, but Ola said at least you didn't say Hemingway. Then she offered Jane Austen as a retort. Antoinette and Christine laughed and Christine bopped Ola on the head, and said that Emile Zola was the greatest of all time, hands down. Antoinette seemed very angry at Christine, and we were all quiet for some time. Then she announced that Carson McCullers was her pick, and said this couldn't be disputed. Johnny picked that moment to chime in, right after he had lit a cigarette and he batted the smoke away from his eyes, and said that the greatest author of all time was Gramercy Orbort. He said that Orbort had won The Pulitzer, the National Book Award, and The Nobel Prize. He wrote what many critics considered the greatest novel of all time, which was called Fold The Laundry Properly and was 1800 pages long. We all looked at each other, puzzled, and said we'd never heard of him. Johnny spat and said we were a bunch of uncultured idiots, and then he stamped his cigarette out in his hand and ran away as fast as he could. Antoinette said fuck him, he's a weirdo anyway

make it a thing

Robbie told Crumbs that he was tired of always being the last egg on the shelf. Crumbs said that's not a thing. Robbie said so make it a thing. Crumbs threw his hands up and said you can't! you can't just do that, it doesn't work that way! You can't just make something a thing like that! Robbie didn't like this, and he said to Crumbs you're a rat punk with no balls. Crumbs said i don't give a shit, it's not a thing, learn some real expressions. Robbie kicked him to the ground and pulled out his knife, and, holding it half an inch from Crumbs' eyeball, he muttered make it a thing. And Crumbs said ok. And he made it a thing  


There's something down here. I can smell it breathing on me. The air tastes different when it's close. It's mostly black down here but I can feel a strange warmth when it's near me. It never makes a sound.  I asked them if i was crazy or if there really was something down here, and they scoffed and said that i should be better at using my imagination. I sat at my tiny desk in the pitch dark and tried to use my imagination as hard as i could, but i felt certain it was there, behind me. It's breath was hot, making the air sticky and unbearable. And it stunk, like rotten eggs and partially consumed flesh. I turned around but couldn't see anything beyond the black space surrounding me. When i asked them again about the thing down here, they said that if i asked one more time, if i refused to use my imagination properly, then it was all over for me. A day or two later (it's hard to be precise with time in the dark) they brought someone else down here, but because of the dark i can never see them. When the time is right, i will ask them if they think there is something down here, with us


Henry dared me to stick my dick in the electrical socket, so i did. The electricity flowed through me and i saw god and the heavens. I saw the end of times, and the cosmic rebirth. I understood the purity of existence, and every nostalgic longing i had ever had made perfect sense. I no longer had desire or need. Time ended. Transcendence was achieved. In the hospital my parents asked me why i did such a stupid thing and i said cause Henry dared me to. My mom said if Henry dared me to jump off a bridge would i do that too? and I said no, no way, there's just no way it would be as good    

none of this is fiction

There's a Cuban heavyweight boxer named "Irish" Mike Perez, which is strange because Cuba isn't particularly well known for producing heavyweights. He defected from Cuba so that an Irish trainer could take him under his wing and turn him pro, and in order to do defect he had to dive into the ocean at night and swim onto a Mexican cartel boat, and then his Irish trainer paid the cartel so he could have his future champ. "Irish" Mike was undefeated when he took on a huge Russian named Magomed Abdusalamov in a 10-round fight. The bout went the distance, but Mike had beaten him so badly that Abdusalamov ended up in a coma after; he probably won't walk or talk properly ever again. "Irish" Mike's undefeated streak ended shortly after that; he's never been the same since almost killing Abdusalamov. Rumor has it he's changed his nickname so maybe he isn't Irish anymore. None of this is fiction   


She asked me if i wanted to be committed to her and i told her that i did. She said she had been hurt in the past and wanted to know that i wouldn't hurt her or flake out if things got rough. i suggested we sew our skin together to show that we were both committed and as a sign that we wanted to be together always. She clapped and jumped for joy and agreed that that was a wonderful idea. She took out her needle and thread, and we did it right away. It took a while and did hurt a bit, but it was successful. We went to the movies that very night, sewn together and in love. Some people became annoyed with us, if we bumped into them in line or while trying to squeeze down the aisle into our seats, and we did get blood on some customers and on the floor and i think a little got in an older gentleman's popcorn. But we felt so close, and we knew that we would feel this way forever  


My clone is sitting next to me in the car, as i drive. He's staring at me. This is weird, i say. You don't know what that word means, he says. We keep driving, and as we pass a decrepit, burnt-out farmhouse, he lights a cigarette. I tell him that it doesn't make sense, that i quit smoking ages ago, which should mean that he did too. He just shakes his head and blows smoke everywhere. The sun is setting. Black birds fly off into the dusk as we approach the horizon. He blows smoke in my face and says, you wanna know something? I fucked your mother. Did you know that? I tell him that that doesn't make any sense, since we have the same mother, and she would obviously never do that. He tells me that i don't understand anything. We sit in silence for a while, and all we hear is the hum of the tires on the pavement. The place is coming up soon, he says. There are no more cars on the road. There are no more birds. He says we're almost there. I close my eyes and let the road take us. He asks me why i agreed to this and i tell him that i don't know. He laughs. Quite the thing to be unsure about, he says. I put my hand up, signalling for him to be quiet. He says it's pretty naive of me to really think we have the same mother. I see the farmhouse now. It looks black in front of the sinking sun. I've never seen a building so ominous and rotten. My clone gets nervous. I'm happy to see him show some kind of a soul, finally. What are they gonna do to me in there? I say. He puts his hand on my shoulder. You'll be ok, he says   

good will hunting

I opened the door to Barry's room and found him bent over on the bed with his pants down around his ankles trying to shove a cigarette up his ass. I said what the hell are you doing? and he said that in the movie Good Will Hunting Robin Williams tells Matt Damon it'd be healthier to shove his cigarette up his own ass rather than smoke it, and he wanted to see if Robin Williams was telling the truth. I asked him how he would know, and he said that if he got really sick or died of a bowel obstruction then he would know Robin Williams was lying. So as he got ready i said wait, you have to light it first. In the movie, Matt Damon lights the cigarette and then Robin Williams says it would be healthier shoving it up his ass, so he was referring to a lit cigarette. Barry said what! I'm not doing that! And then we heard his mom call us down for supper. He pulled his pants up and he said fine, i'll light it and try again after supper, it'll be a more accurate test then anyway   


Janine started boxing when she was seven years old. In the early days she was the only girl in her gym so she had to fight the boys, and she whooped their asses over and over again. Angry parents called in, complaining that their sons were getting emasculated by a girl. Coach Sommerset told them that their sons were sissies and that little Janine was going to be a star. She became a Golden Gloves medalist at age 15, knocking out Ashley Winburger with one massive right hook. Coach sommerset told her she could turn pro and become a world champion. On her 17th birthday, she found out she was pregnant. Her parents were furious. She told them that it didn't make sense because she was still a virgin. They didn't believe her, but she swore to them and to god that it was true. She told coach Sommerset the news and when he asked her what she wanted to do, she said she wanted to fight; she said she wanted to be a world champion. Her parents had a meeting with coach Sommerset and he recommended they let her continue, and they said that this was a gift from god, that their daughter had been blessed with an immaculate conception, and that the divine child growing inside her would bring them glory. She had a few fights before she was showing, all of which she won by first-round knockout. When the time came to take on the champion, Wynona Rockman, Janine was seven months pregnant. Everyone at the event made faces when they saw Janine's round belly. Her parent's kissed it for good luck and she went into the ring. She paced back and forth with murder in her eyes, and Wynona Rockman looked uncomfortable. The ref gave them the last instructions, and Janine rubbed her belly, kissed her right glove, and stared hell into Wynona's eyes 


Gilda sat down at the bar at Anguish, somewhere deep in the fifth layer of Hell. The surroundings were all ablaze, which made it hard to see through the fiery blur around her; the temperature must have been somewhere around 200 degrees. She wiped the sweat from her brow and said Goddamnit i could use a drink! A bartender materialized; he was scrubbing a glass with a filthy rag, and had a long ponytail and an eyepatch. I can help you with that, he said. Were you a pirate when you were alive? Gilda asked. What? Fuck no, he said. I got this cause i got in a fight with Esmerelda a few months ago. She's the lead bartender for all nine layers. She insists on serving one thing and one thing only: Fireball, straight up. I told her she was a hack and couldn't bartend worth shit, and she broke the bottle in half and attacked me. We had a good scrap, but, well, as you can see she and her stupid broken bottle won and i lost my damn eye. As if things weren't hard enough down here. Gilda nodded as if she were paying attention and asked if she could have a drink, and the bartender put down his filthy rag and his unclean glass, and poured her a healthy shot of Fireball. You don't have anything else, eh? she asked, and the bartender shook his head. Gilda took it down in one gulp, which made her clench her fists and stick her tongue out. Do you have any ice? she asked. Only on level nine, he said. She shook her head and pointed at the empty glass, and he poured again 

suit with sandals

Gonzales sat down at the bar at Hydrogen, atop the Global Bank Building. He wore his favorite brown corduroy suit, and his brown sandals. He ordered an orange juice, and the bartender made a face and poured it for him. The patrons beside him glanced over their shoulders with disdain. Eventually the manager approached, and said sir, i'm sorry but you cannot wear sandals in here. This is a fashionable place, and we have a dress code. Gonzales ignored the manager and sipped his orange juice. The manager opened his mouth to speak, but Gonzales stopped him and in his deep voice asked am i not fashionable? The manager, dumbfounded, said look at the people in here! Do you see anyone wearing a suit with sandals here?? Gonzales stood up, and the manager was taken by his height. He said, if i am the first person to do this, am i not an innovator? Am i not the very definition of fashion? Am i not a god, good sir? The manager stared at him, and for several minutes neither of them spoke or moved, as if both were transfixed by the presence of a higher power. The manager fell to his knees and said forgive me lord! I am not worthy of you! Gonzales touched his head and the manager began to cry. Everyone near the bar applauded with polite, dignified claps. Gonzales took his seat and sipped his orange juice 


I bought a muffin at Groucho's Coffee over on Blimp Street, and after i paid, the nice cashier asked me if i wanted a receipt. I said no thank you and her demeanor changed instantly. She got very nervous and started to shake. She said you have to take your receipt, sir. I said really? Why? Who needs receipts in this day and age? And she said that her manager was a psychotic maniac who will yell and beat the employees if they don't ensure that the customers get their receipts. She said that once he even put poison on the computer keyboard, and one of the other employees' skin flaked off from her fingers and one of her lungs collapsed and she was in the hospital for a week. She shook the receipt in my face and i took it. I walked outside and bit into my muffin, getting crumbs on my face, and when i was almost at my car i looked back and she was laughing with the other cashier. On the drive home i thought long and hard about poisoned keyboards. I got home and  opened my sock drawer and pulled out my bundle of receipts. I counted them; I had over two thousand now. I stacked my new one on the very top of the pile, wrapped my elastic band around the stack, and put it back in the drawer carefully

the writer

It's brilliant! The Editor said. Maddingsly was happy to hear it. You're a real writer! A one of a kind talent! We've slept on you too long! The Editor got on the phone and dialed three or four numbers and waited. Pick up, goddamnit! Ah, Henderson! Get in here! I've got this country's next great genius in my office, the Maddinglsy kid! Get in here and lets give him a deal! The Editor hung up and lit a cigar. You want one? Maddingsly said no thanks. Get ready to be happy kid, The Editor said. Let's just say if Henderson likes you you'll be laughing all the way to the bank! Henderson came in and stared at Maddingsly. He nodded and said mhmm three times. You must be Mr. Maddingsly. I'm Mr. Henderson. We've read your novel, and it's quite the feat, quite the feat indeed.  Yes, I think we can get you quite the deal, quite the deal indeed. Maddingsly smiled for the first time in a while. There is one catch though, Henderson said. This book is very dark. Very very dark. The public will feel that no sane person could have written this. What we're saying, Mr. Maddingsly, is that in order to publish your book, we would require you to kill yourself. Maddingsly looked at The Editor, who nodded uncontrollably. He looked back at Henderson. I know that's a big ask. Take a day to think about it. Take two days, Henderson said. Maddingsly left, thinking about the offer. The fall wind was brisk; he zipped up his thin jacket. The Editor popped outside and said Maddingsly! Be rest assured that if you take our deal, your whole family will be taken care of. Your whole family! He puffed on his cigar and nodded before closing the door. Maddingsly stood with the wind beating against him, thinking about the deal


          Ivan limped from the hangar. His hips would break. His forearms would tear off. His knees would crumble into dust. He sat at the table, still dripping sweat. He twisted his arms out of his spandex suit. He had even forgotten to take off his lifting belt. 

          Coach Bonn removed a pre-wrapped bowl from the fridge. Ivan hadn't heard him come in. He popped the bowl in the microwave for one minute, and watched Ivan with his steely eyes as the bowl circulated. He put it in front of Ivan and removed the plastic wrap. Ivan recoiled as the initial wave of steam struck his face. He was used to the smell of the meat by now, but the initial shock of that strange smell always shocked him. He ate in silence. 

          Bonn sat across from him at the table and watched. Ivan looked at the fridge. The original white had become yellow; rust flaked off the door handle. He looked down at the bowl of meat and contemplated.           What is it, boy? Bonn said. 

          Who was this one? Ivan asked. 

          Bonn hesitated.  I don't like when you ask. It removes focus, Bonn said. Ivan looked at him with the pleading eyes of a child. Henrik, Bonn said.  

          Who lived down by the creek? With the Rottweiler? Ivan asked. 

          Yes, Bonn said. He was happy to give himself for us. He believes in you.  

          Ivan sat in silence. He stared at the meat. Bonn's look intensified and Ivan forced down another mouthful. Who is going to look after the dog? Ivan asked. 

          Focus, my boy. Focus. Don't concern yourself with details. Focus. On the bar. You lift. I'll take care of the rest, Bonn said. He got up and put his hand on Ivan's shoulder. His grip was powerful, and Ivan began to eat with vigor. You almost broke the snatch world record today, in training, Bonn said. You are going to win gold. There is no doubt. Focus. Eat. And Lift. I will handle the rest   

two sentence horror story

she turned off the wifi, and cut the iPhone cord in half, dropping it at his feet. He let out a horrible gurgling sound and fell to his knees, as he began to bleed from his eyes 

helga the toronto fuckboi hexer! (W/ Julia Monson)

          "I noticed the little bell isn’t above the door anymore. There's no ding ding when you walk in now," Charlotte said.  

          "Too old fashioned, I've been told," Helga said. "I don't want people to think I'm looking at tarot cards or reading palms, or any other such nonsense in here." Helga lit the candles. Charlotte scratched the cross tattoo on her knuckle. 

          "Your finger, it bothers you?" Helga asked. 

          "It always tingles when I'm in here. Are you ready?" 

          "Yes. Show me what you have." 

          Charlotte put her purse on her lap and began to rummage inside. "His name is Dave," she said. 

          "Tinder?" Helga asked. 

          "No. At a bar actually, if you can believe it. My god, I'm so old." 

          "Nonsense dear. Our youthfulness is a gift to cherish. But do continue." 

          "He's a drummer, and he also works in one of those modern, hip barbershops, where everyone is young and they have man-buns. Yes, he has one." 

          "Has it gone as you expected?" 

          "Yeah. We did it the night of the date, and I haven't heard from him since. It was almost a week ago. He was kind of a weirdo. He asked me to shave his pubes right before. I was drunk so I guess I was into, but now it seems ridiculous. Wanna know why?" 

          "Tell me." 

          "To show me his Supreme tattoo. He has it on that part right above where the cock starts. In the proper red colour and everything. Too bad for him, swiping this was easy," Charlotte said, as she took a small baggie of pubic hair out of her purse and put it on the table. She also extracted a dented, empty Ace Hill can, and a Blue Jays baseball hat. "Will this do?" she asked. 

          "Oh yes," Helga said. "This will do just fine."     

Check out Julia Monson's corresponding drawing at or


Sheila raced home in anticipation. When she got home, Warren was sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. So? she said, how is it? does it work? Warren put his hands in the air and said it's a total failure! All it does is masturbate all day long! It's been in there all day, frigging itself off! It's done it 40 times today already! I built this robot to help do chores! To mow the damn yard! My back! My back! I can't mow the damn yard! I'm no spring chicken anymore! It's a total failure! Sheila rubbed his back. Oh honey, it can't be all that bad, she said. Here, why don't i go in there and take a look at this thing. She went into the bedroom and closed the door. Warren sat there, huffing and puffing. Sheila didn't come out after several minutes, and Warren went over to the door and put his ear to it. He could hear the bed rocking back and forth. You're supposed to do the damn yard, he muttered, and hobbled into the garage to look for the lawnmower 


I move my hand against the suture marks that run the length of my body. It has been a year since she left, but the scar still hurts to touch. And yet, i can't help but touch it. Usually i do so several times a day, sometimes nonstop. Sometimes the urge to touch it is so strong that if i am out in public, i will run to the nearest bathroom and strip down just so i can feel those hard ridges of calcified skin. One time an older gentleman in the bathroom helped me get undressed, because he could see how desperate i was; i showed him the mark and let him touch it. The separation had hurt, even more than when we had sewn ourselves together, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the pain of her leaving. Every time i touch the wound, i wonder to myself, can she feel this? Every now and then, out of nowhere I'll get a shudder that will shoot up my entire body; it is an intense feeling, like an electrical shock, and nowhere does it feel more present than in the wound. Every time it happens, i tell myself it is because in that moment, she is touching her scar


Samantha stood on the cramped streetcar on her way home during rush hour. She barely held on to the bar above her head to keep her stable, gripping it with her fingertips. She tried to adjust her position but there were too many other passengers around for her to move at all. A very dirty, stinky man tapped her on the shoulder. She took her earphone out and said yes? He said can i use your sleeve? He had a younger woman clutching at him from behind. They both looked at Samantha pleadingly. Yes, go ahead, Samantha said. The dirty man pulled out a little phial and sprinkled white powder on Samantha's sleeve. He took out a $100 bill and snorted the powder up his nose. His ladyfriend behind him started to jump up and down as she clutched at his shoulders, nearly smacking the other passengers around her. The dirty man then turned, spun his ladyfriend around, pulled her leggings down, and started to fuck her from behind. They bumped and knocked the passengers around them, and she began to moan louder and louder. People made subtle, annoyed faces; people looked out the windows, or up at the ceiling. Samantha brushed the remaining powder off her sleeve; she put her earphone back in and turned the volume way up


They brought me upstairs, out of the cellar. I hadn't seen natural light in weeks, maybe months. They sat me down and said you haven't written anything in six weeks. What's the reason for this? I said because i am working on a big project but the idea takes time to form in my head before i can write it. They looked around the room at each other and they all shook their heads. You're not taking this seriously enough, they said. Do you know what that is? they said, pointing to a giant slab of rock in the middle of the room. That's our trusty writer's block, they said. When there's a problem, we use it to take parts off the writer that aren't working or aren't necessary. Sometimes we use it to put other parts back on, they said, but in the wrong place, to encourage creativity. All we need is an axe or a sewing machine. I can do better, i said. They nodded; they were happy to hear it. They led me back down into the cellar. Get to work, or it's the writer's block for you, they yelled from the top of the stair


S1 and S2 waited silently outside the apartment door. They heard pots and pans clanging within. S1 put his ear to the door. He put his index finger to his mouth, which was partially obscured by a balaclava, and whispered ssshhhhh. Wait for the sink, he whispered. S2 nodded. Remember, he said, you don't have a name. S2 nodded again. He heard the sink turn on and then pulled his gun out. S2 pulled out her iPad, and S1 kicked the door open. The woman at the sink screamed, dropping a pan, spilling water everywhere, and S1 forced her to the ground. He held the gun to her head. What's your name? he said. J..Josie! she cried. What's your full name? Josie Ravchuk! S1 looked over at S2, who typed something on her iPad. She nodded, and S1 nodded back. You have a reservation at Earth and Soil Restaurant on January 18 of next year, is that correct? Josie looked puzzled. Y..yes, I do, she said. S1 knelt down beside her, and spoke quietly. Not anymore, he said. She is Josie Ravchuk now, he said, pointing at S2. It is her reservation now. Do you understand me? You will not go to that restaurant on January 18. Do you understand? Josie began to panic. What? What! No! It took me two years to get that reservation! She cried. S1 put his index finger to his lips. We know who you are. We know where you live. It's our reservation now, he said. He held the gun in front of her face. Understood? Josie shook with terror and nodded that she understood. S1 and S2 backed out of the apartment, closing the door behind them    

earth and soil

I was in the thick of it, serving a big section on a Saturday night at Earth and Soil Restaurant. I had it under control until the couple at table 34 ordered the bottle of Chateau Trepanier. I played it cool when they gave me the order, but i was shaking when i told Magritte, our sommelier, that they had ordered it. Oh mon dieu, she said. Ok, i guess i'll go get it. I said that i wanted to be the one to open it. Are you crazy? she screamed in my face, that is the most expensive bottle of wine in the entire world! I said it was my table and that i insisted that i be the one to do it, and that i had opened countless bottles throughout my life and this one would be no different. She got it for me, from the secret cellar in the basement, and told me to treat it like my first-born child. I brought it to the table and showed it to the gentleman, and he said no no, Josie will taste it. I began to cut the foil off the top, but that foil was sharp as hell and it cut me deep on the index finger, and the bottle slipped out of my hand and exploded on the floor. Everyone went white with shock. Magritte and the other servers were aghast. A drop of the wine landed on my tongue; it was the most glorious moment of my life. Without even considering an alternative i got down on my hands and knees and sucked the wine off the floor. Magritte fainted. One of the other servers crossed herself and ran away. Some of the guests shouted things that i couldn't make out. Someone stood on his chair and applauded. The couple at table 34 was silent; they watched in horror. I kept sucking and sucking. I licked the beautiful juice off the floor like a cat. Broken glass got in my mouth and sliced my gums. It brought the wine closer to my heart. I licked until the floor was almost dry, until my entire uniform was stained red. One of the other guests tapped me on the shoulder and asked if she could join me before i finished it all. With a drunken slur i said by all means, mon amour, and together we licked the floor clean