THE CALL Reckless brother, you inhabit blank, damp winter a beardless airy beauty who moves along my spine but through what space does your thought flicker, lost light to my ear? Ann McGlinn has published short stories and poems in a variety of journals, including Art/Life, Poem, […]
My brother had claimed once that he had held his breath for a full twenty-four hours. If it was true, it was quite a feat. He had bested the German record holder by over twenty-three hours. When he was asked his secret, he said it was about getting […]
She was a funny girl, Denise. People all over the world, she used to say, like it when you smile and laugh. And she tried to keep them laughing through their empty temples. When I first met her she’d returned from the gulf, and she had a bloody […]
She covered her walls in post-punk flyers and ironic unicorn drawings in suggestive poses. In a “sexy yeti” costume she carved pumpkins in the basement and left the seeds and innards to dry on the floor.
A breeze blows through the window in the middle of the summer night. Jean-Michel, lying awake beside Brigitte, raises both hands, feels the air against his palms, closes his fingers into fists.
Every other Sunday night, dad manned the rudder while we rowed the one-eighth replica Viking ship east across the bay.
I meet my boss for lunch at Kaya Sushi House in Mar Vista. It’s not quite Venice Beach and not quite Culver City either, somewhere in between the two. I’m in a plaid skirt and a grey muscle tee with my leather jacket. I’m trying out the badass LA look, which I feel confident enough today to pull off.
No peppermint candy filled stockings or pine scented candles to mask the smell of her mother’s Marlboro Lights. Boys crept into her window and fondled her pubis, twisted her tits.