Andrew Wayne Adams
Beet-Red Lingams
V. Ulea
J. A. Tyler
Steve Sommerville
Flying Morsels
Orlo Yeahblip
Milk Handshake
Andrew S. Taylor
The 4th Room
Philip Kopel
Personal Ad

Novel Excerps
Gary Shipley & Kenji Siratori
Jeremy C. Shipp

Creative Nonfiction
Daniel Dominowski
Esteban Canal
M. V. Montgomery
My Celebrity Dreams

Matthew Warner
Now the Moral

D. Harlan Wilson
Interchangeable Diegeses

The Overwhelming Urge
The Bizarro Starter Kit (Blue)
Adolf in Wonderland

Flash Interviews
Mike Arnzen
Donna Lynch

Alan M. Clark
Steve Aylett

Milk Handshake
Orlo Yeahblip

With five and pure and clean and stiff or silk and welcome to customs and the shape of our famous. They will all become clear, for the benefit of the newly arrived: the immigrant.

Listen to an object and you destroy it with desire. Therefore, we must aim deaf and stupid for an accident that smells like athletes and ripples across the dateline. It is under such terms that we present a series of slurs from up and down the country, from inside the tapered throat. Please prompt and nod where possible. Close up, our teeth are yellow, and the celebrities are leaking slow amounts of pus. A better light might arrive. Until then, learn to hide away, like we do, in whatever makes us feel at home.

Capital One. Electricity. As in all developed countries, electricity is denoted by the feminine article. And sockets sometimes sympathize with the plight of the patriarched: the burnt-out, the over-shampooed. So, in order to make a cup of tea, vigorous, mechanical intercourse should take place during the hours of unconsciousness or recent death. Wave a flag with your free hand and penetrate until the kettle whistles.

For each new member of society, there is a number. The harness fits, but may begin to shrink after washing. It tightens if you spit on the street, and out comes code and powder. They can find you anywhere, just by sniffing and clicking.

Over the second. Many of your partners might complain about your foreignness during sleep. Snoring is the common language of guilt and is nothing to become anxious about; it merely squeezes regret into short syllables. A pouch of burps can slow down the output for note-taking. Word clusters form when the day has been unsuccessful. Often these messages seem surprisingly poetic. "Take me home," they say. "The utopia smells like kitty litter."

Centerpiece. I can't hear anything. That is to say, I have not been listening. I was busy cleaning my father's lies. They shine again.

Lower your head. Lower. Dear Lord, bless the low tables with magazines. Let the foundation be strong and conceal us from imperfections. Give us the grace to prosper with illusions. Deliver us with perfect storage.

Epilogue the third. The inside of this room should contain one house, pre-packaged and ready to live in. Please be sure to assemble the wife last, so any leftover items can be inserted. Houses are pleasant places to grow mold, accidents take time to prepare. The lift has a new button for nostalgia. Do not press.

In our land, men commit the crimes (see section five: responsibility). They spread vices over the landscape and make the carpet sticky. They will blame anything that dangles. They sniff and slaver when forbidden to use the pump dispenser. Look over there—he can do no harm. Don't mistake him for a feminist. It is only because his hands have been replaced with sausage flesh. When hating becomes addictive, pulling on their wrinkles and loosening the teats is all that can be done. This gentleman's gentleman will blacken like a turd. His ears will fold and those arms will loose their fearsome grip.

A Fifth. Can I ask one question before we go? I have been waiting here all day for them to take the stitches out. But now, seeing you, I don't suppose they will ever come. It was them I had hoped for, and then it was less, and now it is mine. Mine only. Could you pull?

Orlo Yeahblip lives in Sweden. He works for Sijis Records, the home of music with a limited appeal and helps out at The Journal of Feminist Speculation.