23rd September 2014
Read MASTERWORKS: THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS by Simon Jacobs
I am doing something lewd with a grape. You’ve created two enormous papier-mâché blueberries molded on oversized party balloons that we’re meant to put over our heads and stumble blindly around in—there are no eye-holes and absolutely no light gets in.
Sign up for our biweekly e-news to get Simon’s serialized flash fiction (and other sweet stuff). Read MASTERWORKS: THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS by Simon Jacobs
I am doing something lewd with a grape. You’ve created two enormous papier-mâché blueberries molded on oversized party balloons that we’re meant to put over our heads and stumble blindly around in—there are no eye-holes and absolutely no light gets in.
Sign up for our biweekly e-news to get Simon’s serialized flash fiction (and other sweet stuff).

Read MASTERWORKS: THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS by Simon Jacobs

I am doing something lewd with a grape. You’ve created two enormous papier-mâché blueberries molded on oversized party balloons that we’re meant to put over our heads and stumble blindly around in—there are no eye-holes and absolutely no light gets in.

Sign up for our biweekly e-news to get Simon’s serialized flash fiction (and other sweet stuff).

18th September 2014
Two poems by Christina OlsonIllustrated by Meghan Murphy
So one day you’re in the yard,and this poem pulls up at the curb.This poem wants to do you in the backseatof the first car you ever owned,which it just happens to be driving.This poem will stick its tongue in your ear,call you baby. In its backseat, you’ll twistlike a white snake, aroused by the sightof your own pale calves, when did they getthat muscle tone, you’ve still got it, oh yesyou do. Later, you smoke a cigarettewhile the poem names all the NorthAmerican ducks it can…

Two poems by Christina Olson
Illustrated by Meghan Murphy

So one day you’re in the yard,
and this poem pulls up at the curb.
This poem wants to do you in the backseat
of the first car you ever owned,
which it just happens to be driving.
This poem will stick its tongue in your ear,
call you baby. In its backseat, you’ll twist
like a white snake, aroused by the sight
of your own pale calves, when did they get
that muscle tone, you’ve still got it, oh yes
you do. Later, you smoke a cigarette
while the poem names all the North
American ducks it can…