Monthly Archives: July 2014

“Avocado” by Amy Dusto


It was so terrible when I asked that nice guy with the Bluetooth who I always see heating up his lunch in the kitchenette, I asked him if there were any extra spoons around. I wanted to eat this avocado half I had in a baggie that I was kind of hiding behind the coffee maker while I asked, because it was kinda gross, but you know, so delicious.

And, as I’m asking, this cute guy—cute like he’s young and fit, and seeing him in a tie and collar doesn’t make my neck itch (he wears it well)—and of course he’s suave, all “I have a spoon. Let me get it.” Continue reading


“Nile in the Snow” and “A Photograph in Los Angeles, 1987″ by Jack Caswell

Jack Caswell - Nile in the Snow

Jack Caswell – Nile in the Snow

“A Photograph in Los Angeles, 1987″

When poets and prostitutes speak of the glory and freedom of the road, my heart explodes in summer showers of fiery passion. The dancing dream of leather and rubber grinding the gravel sends songs to my soundbox and bakes my beating breast piping hot.

But the parents’ eyes cut a black hole in the world, raging with forgotten dreams and ancient aspirations, every hopeless hope endowed on their children, whose spines already creak from months sleeping in a twisted heap in the back seat. The father’s arms clutch desperately around his bride’s worn, pale shoulders as his gaze pleads for shelter.

I stand here on the ledge, gazing down as a god. The portal remains closed, and, giving up, I turn to run. My palm across my face, I try vainly to remove the skin of a war-torn infant. The gravel itches my feet. Bleeding blisters slither against one another, as they did that night we lost our car, gambled away by my father’s monstrous beard, a universe to parasites.

And all at once I stutter and stop, silent, still, like stepping on the moon for the first time. And I see myself. I am my own, I swear, because tombstones gasp from the soil, waiting on names much like mine. I am my own, I swear, because my old back seat companion fucks a stranger, and a fountain springs out of her riches. I am my own, I swear, because the pale, worn shoulder hides in the mud, and it slowly ceases. Because I am still brave, and I am still compassionate, and I am still a man, I think.

The has been “Nile in the Snow” and “A Photograph in Los Angeles, 1987″ by Jack Caswell.

Jack Caswell is a playwright, screenwriter, and photographer living in Brooklyn, New York.

More from Jack here:

“Distractions” by Corey Deiterman

She lightly brushed against the bedside table as she exalted herself from the bed, post-coitus, post-cuddle, post-caring. He still lied there with his matted, sweat-soaked hair resting uncomfortably against the cold, misshapen pillow, and he was rubbing his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the lamp beside him. It burned hot near his still heaving body. The ceiling fan swung above him around and around like a hypnotist’s watch and he allowed his mind to wander, free from the confines of carnal desires.

It seemed in those moments that he was able to truly think. It was one of the few times. He asked her if it was alright for him to smoke a cigarette inside, and she nonchalantly obliged, tossing him one of her own American Spirit light cigarettes. He fumbled around the table next to him for a lighter and gently lit the ember, the flame quivering in his hand underneath the fan’s rustling winds. He took deep drags off of it, ashing off the side of the bed into a cup of water he’d probably be better off drinking if he wanted to avoid a hangover in the next few hours. Continue reading


Steven Markow’s Flash Fiction

“Birthday Clown”

Although a birthday clown for thirty years, this time Gumpo blanks on the words to the third line of the song. When the time comes, he mumbles something that sounded like, “It’s your birthday Mr. Fun Kid.” No one notices.

“Secret Depths”

Standing at the edge of an opening in the earth, of secret depths, of what at the bottom, a town, the body of a dead something? His nose drips.

“Author at the Mall”

The author of the book is at the mall. His book lies in his room, unfinished. He is twirling in the food court, clicking his tongue, trying to decide. His book lies in his room, unwritten. An obese man falls. Help is on the way. The book lies in his room, empty.

Steven M. Markow is a mixed media artist active in the Nothing Space art collective in Brooklyn. You can find more from Steven at and Steven had two pieces published in The Insomniac Propagandist Vol. I Ruminations of Expatriates. 


“Heaven, 1969″ by John Henry Williams

They WILL get past Neptune someday. Then we’re done. It doesn’t matter when. A thousand of their years is barely a day. I made them lesser beings, but they’re lucky and I can only deceive them up to a point. I should have done things differently. This time tomorrow, they will know everything. 

John Henry Williams is an extremely talented renaissance man and New York lifer, with a weird streak five miles wide. *

*Bio by Editor Allison Fabian.