The Fiction Issue 2008
I texted some pretty mean shit from someone else’s phone to author Amelia Gray and she punched me in the face.
The Gaudifingers contagion is no longer contained. It results in rapid aging and painful terrifying death within minutes. Anyone you know could at any time be Gaudifingers.
Mostly it’s no-accounts and old ladies that ride the bus in this city. Most are fat. You never see these kinds of people on television.
William was a puker. His expulsions—the color, consistency, and volume of a baby's—occurred after every sentence he spoke.
The less the poet wrote, the more books he bought. He was building a library for the person he wished he was. Or so he told himself.
Some books make us smile, others make us vomit.
I did not talk to my father for most of the last year he was alive. It was a form of self-preservation.
Sherlock Holmes was really a trigger-happy neighborhood watch member, kind of like George Zimmerman with an obnoxious accent.
The story of a writer writing a live-narrative of his Bolt Bus experience that involves writing about writing and writing about reading a story that might have been written about him.